“Your offer is generous as hell, Susannah.”

Trent shook his head. “But money isn’t what I want.” He angled her even closer, close enough to feel the heat that throbbed through him. “You know what I want.”

“But what you want—you can’t…What about the paper?” She seemed to be struggling to catch a breath. “You won’t…sign it?”

“No, I won’t sign it, Sue, but there are other ways.”

“Other ways to…what?”

Her lips were half-open, peach-pink, wet and glimmering in the sunlight. And he remembered exactly how they had tasted. How they had felt, on him, around him. For eleven long years, even in dreams, he had been haunted by the memory of their warmth, their hidden strength….

She might hate him, but he had to have this. He refused to go on burning and wanting, and being forever denied. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she burned, too.

“Trent. Tell me what you mean.”

He let his body answer her.

Dear Reader,

For those of you who read Texas Baby and saw the sparks between Trent Maxwell and Susannah Everly, it won’t be a surprise to learn that I struggled to find a happy ending for this star-crossed couple.

They have such an emotional history…years of love, followed by years of bitterness. They’ve spent a decade denying their deepest feelings. How on earth could I move them toward truce, forgiveness and, finally, back to love?

Sometimes it seemed impossible. One thing kept me searching: the letters and e-mails I got from readers, asking for Trent and Susannah’s story. Those eager notes reminded me that we all want to see love triumph over anger and pain.

We don’t just want it. We need it.

All our relationships face challenges. Somehow we must have faith that we can rise above our failures. We must hang on to the hope that we can forgive, and be forgiven.

So to all my wonderful readers, thanks for the inspiration—and for waiting. I hope you enjoy watching these two find love again. And please stay in touch. Visit me at KOBrienonline.com, or write me at KOBrien@aol.com. Your messages mean more than you’ll ever know!

Warmly,

Kathleen O’Brien

Texas Wedding
Kathleen O’Brien

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathleen O’Brien was a feature writer and TV critic before marrying a fellow journalist. Motherhood, which followed soon after, was so marvelous she turned to writing novels, which could be done at home. She’s an unapologetic sentimentalist, with an iPod full of corny music, a den full of three-hanky romances and an address book full of lifelong friends. She loves reading in her backyard bower, though she struggles to keep even the ferns alive, and could never, ever manage a thousand acres of peaches!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

SUSANNAH EVERLY MAXWELL had been hiding in the bathroom for half an hour. For a bride on her wedding night, that was at least twenty-nine minutes too long.

She’d left the shower on, hoping Trent would assume she was still bathing, and the cascade of warm water had turned the room into a sauna. The towel knotted at her breasts hung heavily, saturated with moisture. Steam smothered the mirror, forming a blank screen of mist.

She knew she should go out into the bedroom, where her new husband was waiting, but she couldn’t force herself to do it.

Her new husband…

None of this seemed real. Reaching out one fingertip, she began to write on the glass.

Mrs…. Trent…Maxwell…

She’d penned the name a thousand times, in the turquoise ink she’d loved back in high school. But before she could finish the last syllable, the condensation pooled and began to run. It was like trying to write with tears.

Her reflection appeared in the open spaces, fractured into a collection of mismatched parts. Ironically, this stranger draped in the white towel, wreathed in clouds of steam, looked more like a bride than she had this afternoon at the courthouse.

But not a happy bride. A broken Picasso bride, or maybe a ghost bride from some terrifying urban legend—a confused wraith who would never find her way out of the mist.

She touched her damp cheek, as if she needed to confirm that she was made of solid flesh. Her new diamond ring sparkled in the mirror.

After all this time, she was really Trent Maxwell’s wife. For one year, anyhow. Not exactly the “forever” she used to dream of.

Suddenly, hard knuckles rapped against wood.

“Susannah?”

Staring at the door, she put her left hand against her heart, which once again thump-jogged in place.

Stop that, she commanded it. But her heart ignored her.

“Susannah? Are you all right?”

He didn’t turn the knob. He probably knew it was locked. Not that the flimsy button would have kept him out if he’d really wanted to come in. And he would come in, sooner or later, if she didn’t emerge. The Fates had blessed Trent Maxwell with a lot of gifts, but patience wasn’t one of them.

She’d fallen for Trent when she was just a kid—not all that much younger than her little sister Nikki was now. Susannah had thought she was so grown-up, ready to be in love. Now, watching Nikki struggle with hormones at the oh-so-mature age of sixteen, she knew better.

It had all been dreams. She’d fantasized about standing at the altar beside him. She’d dreamed of cooking him spaghetti and darning his socks, though she had no clue what that meant.

But those dreams had gone up in flames—quite literally—eleven years ago. Since then, she and Trent had barely exchanged fifty civil words.

Now here she was, a thirty-year-old woman, embarking on a one-year marriage of convenience. How dry those words sounded! They didn’t capture any of the heart-skittering anticipation. He was only ten yards away, and waiting for her to come to bed. This would be a real marriage, he’d insisted. And, because she needed a husband, she had agreed.

But maybe she wasn’t trapped. She had one last hope—a piece of paper hidden in her nightstand that somehow might miraculously save her.

She tried to imagine handing it to him. Tried to visualize his face as he read it. What would he say? They’d been so close once that they could finish each other’s sentences. But the bitter years lay between them now like a continent of ice. Her new husband was a stranger to her, and she had no idea how he would react.

“Susannah?”

His voice wasn’t angry. Not yet. That would come later. Later, when he read the paper. When he found out what her plans were for this, the first of their 365 nights of married life.

Her gaze returned to the pieces of woman reflected between the finger-written letters. Mrs… Her eyes shone. Trent… Her lips were parted, vulnerable.

Who was that woman? Suddenly horrified, she drew her eyebrows together. That woman looked like a victim.

Ridiculous. No one had abducted her, tricked her or sold her into wedlock. The bargain had been her idea, the only sensible escape from an impossible situation. It was just that marriage to Trent had seemed so much more manageable when it was weeks, days, even hours in the future, instead of right here, right now.

But she could handle it. She wasn’t weak. Ask anyone, from the lowliest fruit picker on her payroll to the richest buyer on the market. You could even ask her grandfather’s ghost, which was probably still prowling the halls of Hell, carrying his favorite switching strap.

They’d all tell you. Susannah Everly faced her problems. She took her medicine. And she did it with her chin held high.

“I’m coming.”

She reached in and punched off the shower. Enough. She wasn’t weak.

She unknotted the towel and let it slide to the ground. Then she plucked her gray, shapeless nightgown from the counter and tugged it over her head.

Hideous.

Perfect.

She wrapped her fingers around the warm doorknob and twisted.

Showtime.

“I’m sorry, Trent. I…”

Her voice dwindled off. The silent shadows of the bedroom momentarily disoriented her. Was he gone? Instead of the hot voice she’d expected to hear accosting her, demanding an explanation, she was met only by quiet currents of dark air and the faint smell of roses.

That must mean Trent had opened the east window—the roses had climbed as far as the second-story sill this spring and seemed to be trying to nudge the glass open with their pink-and-yellow faces.

She took a deep breath. She adored those flowers, just as she cherished every inch of Everly. She mustn’t forget that. She might have grown to hate Trent, but she’d never stopped loving this beautiful ranch, set like a jewel in the middle of a thousand acres of peach orchards.

She was doing this to save Everly.

As her eyes adjusted, she finally saw Trent. He leaned against the window frame with his back angled to her, staring down into the side yard, though she knew he couldn’t see much except the grapevine trellis that covered the wicker patio loungers.

Half his body was in shadow. He wore no shirt. Moonlight turned one muscular shoulder and arm to marble, then glimmered against the silver tip of his belt buckle before being swallowed up by the black of his pants.

Her heart tried once again to escape, but she squared her shoulders and forced it into submission. She had made promises. Maybe he’d let her out of them, and maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, this had to be faced.

“Trent?”

He tilted his head toward her. “Well, hello,” he said with a smile that just caught the moonlight. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d climbed out the bathroom window.”

“No.” She tried to match his sardonic tone, and she was glad that he probably couldn’t see her flush. “Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

“You think it’s silly?” He moved toward her with a lazy confidence, as if he knew he had all the time in the world. As if he owned this night. As if he owned her, which, in a way, he did.

“Why silly? Are you trying to tell me you’ve really been in the shower all this time?”

She’d never been a good liar. The only person she’d ever needed to lie to had been her grandfather, and her pride had forced her to battle it out with him, toe-to-toe, instead. So now she hesitated just a moment too long.

Trent reached her just as she was opening her mouth to say yes, yes, of course I’ve been in the shower.

One eyebrow rose in that classic, mocking arch as he shook his head slowly. He laid his finger against her lips.

“No,” he said. “Don’t bother to fib. If you’d been under water all this time, you’d be as wrinkled as a raisin.”

Instinctively, she folded her hands into fists. He glanced down at them, and his grin deepened. “Shall we look?”

Damn him…he was so cool, so amused by her discomfort. When he touched her hand, she had to resist the urge to slap him. He hadn’t bought the right to mock her.

But he had bought the right to touch her. He’d been very clear about that. No way in hell was he going to sign on for a year of chastity. “I’m no saint,” he had said, with that maddening smile that made it impossible to tell how he really felt. “So you’d better decide whether you can deal with sharing my bed for a whole year.”

He took one of her hands, gently pried open the fingers and held it up for inspection. Her fingers were warm and damp, but smooth. No wrinkles. She’d been in the shower a total of maybe five minutes, just long enough to scrub off her makeup.

“So what were you doing in there?” His gaze flicked across her wet hair and bare face, then skimmed the lumpy contours of her overwashed nightgown. “Not primping, apparently. Although…it might have taken a while to dig up anything as unflattering as this rag.”

“If I’d had enough money to buy a trousseau, Trent, I wouldn’t have needed a husband in the first place.”

He chuckled. Could this really be funny to him? Surely he, too, remembered how often they had dreamed of their wedding night. That fairy-tale dream had sparkled with magic, with lace and music and romance and roses. The reality was going to be so different….

But perhaps the fairy dust had been her dream, not his. Though they’d been close, she hadn’t ever completely understood him, with his cryptic smiles and his elegant indifference. Perhaps, for him, it had just been about the sex.

“What exactly are you trying to accomplish with all this, Susannah?”

“All what?”

He tugged at the sleeve of her nightgown. The neckline was shot, so even that light pressure caused it to slip over her shoulder. She felt suddenly half-naked.

“This plain-Jane costume. Were you hoping it would turn me off? Did you think you could make yourself so ugly I’d run screaming from the marriage bed?”

“No.”

“Good. Because that really would be silly.” He set her hand free and put his forefinger under her chin. “The chemistry between us has nothing to do with packaging. It never has.”

She couldn’t deny it. Back when they were little more than kids, this fire between them had erupted like one of her grandfather’s oil drills hitting a pocket of natural gas. Nothing had been strong enough to put it out. It had overpowered pimples and puberty, flus and hangovers, bad moods and bad hair, and even the day the skunk sprayed her right in the face.

It had even outlived love.

She still felt it, arcing between them now. A primal force. Blind and fierce and involuntary.

And dangerous. At least to her.

“Susannah.” His voice was a whisper. He moved her wet hair from her shoulder and bent his head toward her bare skin. She made a small, trapped sound, knowing he was going to kiss her.

She couldn’t let it happen. Her heart tripped on itself merely at the sound of his voice. The touch of his lips would cause it to explode.

Mumbling something meaningless, she jerked away from him, toward her nightstand. She couldn’t breathe, but somehow she kept moving. That piece of paper was her last hope. Like the cyanide pill issued to soldiers, in case of capture.

She flicked on the bedside lamp. Then, her hands shaking only a little, she slid open the top drawer and felt around the stacks of papers inside. It should be on top. She’d written it hastily, only this afternoon.

“I have something….”

She glanced at him, hoping she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt. To her surprise, he was smiling. Not a genuine, warm smile, of course—those were rare—but his one-dimple teasing grin was pretty dazzling, too.

“Ah.” He glanced at the drawer. “The practical princess strikes again.”

“What?” He and Chase had always called her that, back when they were teenagers, and she’d been one inch less reckless than the two boys. But why now? Could he possibly guess what she’d written on that paper?

His dimple deepened. “I think I brought plenty, thanks, though it’s nice to know you’ve got extra. Just in case.”

“Extra what?” Then she realized what he meant. Condoms. Her breath came shallowly as she tried not to imagine the tumbled bed, the discarded silver wrappers littering the floor, their sweaty bodies braided together in the moonlight. “No. It’s not that. I have something I want to show you.”

Finally her fingers closed around the long white envelope. She pulled it out and extended it toward him. “It’s something I’d like you to read. Something I’d like you to sign.”

He didn’t look at the envelope. The smile stayed in place, but it lost any hint of humor. Above it, his gaze held hers, cool and unblinking blue inside a thick fringe of black lashes. Oh, even when he was angry, he was lethally attractive.

“Sign?”

The word was even colder than his eyes.

“Yes,” she said, too quickly. “I got to thinking about things, today after the wedding, and I realized we hadn’t really considered…everything.”

“No? It seemed to me the prenup your lawyer drew up was pretty damn thorough. He made it quite clear that I’ll be shot if I’m caught crossing the Everly threshold with so much as one pillowcase from your mother’s needlepoint collection.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Which wasn’t very likely in the first place, was it?”

“No. It was silly, but Richard’s careful. He wanted to protect me—”

“Was the medical certificate his idea, too?”

She felt heat crawling up her throat toward her cheeks. The medical certificate had almost scotched the whole deal. But when Trent had insisted on a physical relationship, she had insisted that he prove he was healthy. With his Don Juan past, it would have been insane not to.

“No, that was my idea. Richard doesn’t know we—that we agreed to—”

“Consummate the marriage?”

“Right. So when he wrote the prenup, of course he wasn’t thinking about…things like that. That’s what occurred to me today. That we hadn’t provided for every contingency.”

She felt foolish, still holding out the envelope. She pushed it a few inches closer, till its crisp edge almost touched his bare, bronze chest, like the tip of a sword.

He glanced down at it dismissively, those long eyelashes dusting his cheeks. “It’s a little late to try to glue conditions onto this deal, don’t you think?”

Of course it was too late, technically. She knew that. He had the moral right to tear this piece of paper into a dozen pieces and fling it in her face. Many might think he had the moral right to shove her onto the waiting bed and force her to do whatever he wanted.

But surely he wouldn’t. Surely even the volcano of anger that had been simmering between them for more than a decade wouldn’t blow that high. Surely it hadn’t taken the laughing boy who used to dance with her down by Green Fern Pool and turned him into a monster.

“Put it away, Susannah. I’m not signing anything.”

She lifted her chin. “Just read it.”

She was pleased to note that, though her insides were twisting as if she had a bellyful of snakes, her voice sounded strong. In spite of the hot cheeks and the damp palms, somehow she projected confidence.

She sent a mental thank-you to her grandfather, the bully who had taught her how to face down fear.

Trent tilted his head. “Sue, don’t do this,” he said. His voice was quiet, but held an undercurrent of warning.

“Please. Just read it.”

She saw his chest expand as he took in a deep breath. His rib cage brushed the edge of the envelope.

He reached out, finally, and took it. She hadn’t sealed the envelope. She hadn’t had time. Chase and Josie, who had no doubt meant well, had brought over a few friends to toast the newlyweds this afternoon, and Susannah had found it difficult to steal away long enough to scrawl the words onto the paper.

Trent unfolded it and began to read.

Her heart thumped in her ears, but not loudly enough to drown out the quavering inner voice that read along with him.

In the event that a child is conceived between me and Susannah Kate Everly during our marriage, I, Trent Anderson Maxwell, do hereby relinquish all legal rights to said child. I will not attempt to gain custody, partial or full, of any child of this union. I will have no financial obligations toward said child, nor will I have any right to be involved in decisions involving the child.

He must have read it three times, his handsome face impassive, his black hair falling over his forehead. At least, that was how many times she could scan it in her head—and each time it sounded more ridiculous, with all that fake legalese mimicking wills and contracts she’d seen over the years.

And each time it sounded more damning. More unfair, and insulting. More like the dishonest swindle it was.

His knuckles were white. So were hers.

Breathe… Though her lungs felt like rusty bellows, she had to remember she needed air. Her head swam, and her ears rang. But she refused to do anything as pathetic as fainting.

Thank God she’d sent Nikki away for the summer. Nikki didn’t like Trent and, with the judgmental absolutism of the young, she’d made it clear that she thought the whole marriage-of-convenience idea was disgusting. Knowing it would be impossible to fight on two fronts, Susannah had found the cash for a special art school, managed to wrangle permission to take Nikki out of school a bit early to attend, and, just yesterday, had packed her little sister off.

Barely in the nick of time! Nikki acted tough, especially when she locked horns with Susannah, but it was a facade. No sixteen-year-old was tough enough to handle the hell that might break loose at Everly tonight.

It seemed an eternity before Trent raised his eyes again. When he finally did, the look she saw in them terrified her.

“Tell me this is your idea of a joke.”

“Of course it’s not.” She knew a dignified silence would be more powerful, but she suddenly couldn’t seem to stop talking. “It’s just common sense. No matter how careful we are, everyone knows that birth control isn’t one hundred percent reliable. We can’t allow our lives to be tangled up forever, with custody battles and court cases, just because we bought a faulty condom, or because—”

“Don’t pretend you’re stupid.” He held the paper between two fingers, as if he meant to flick it away at any moment. “You know this…this juvenile chicken scratch would never hold up in court.”

She raised her chin. “I disagree.”

“No, you don’t. You know it’s absurd. They’d laugh you out of court. But it won’t come to that, will it? Because you know damned well I’d never sign any such ridiculous document. Never.”

“You have to.”

“The hell I do. You made your deal with the devil, Susannah. You can’t renegotiate now.”

“I can.” She met his glacial blue gaze, but it made her shudder inside, as if she’d swallowed a stomachful of chipped ice. “I am renegotiating. I have had second thoughts. If you don’t sign that document, there will be no…no consummation.”

For a minute, he just stared at her. And then, with a sudden oath, he did flick the paper away. He moved toward her, roughly, all six-foot-two-inches of hard, half-naked muscle bearing down.

Every primitive instinct told her to run, but he blocked the way. She backed up on clumsy legs, knocking against the dresser, sending her earrings and wristwatch clanking to the wood floor.

He didn’t even seem to hear it. He just kept coming. Finally, she ran out of room, and her shoulder blades met the wall. He slammed the heels of his hands onto the plaster, just inches from each side of her head. His face was so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek.

“This is what you’d planned all along, isn’t it? What a fool I was, to think even for a minute that…” He set his jaw into a right angle of fury. “Right from the start, this was just a nasty game of bait and switch.”

“No. No, I just realized this afternoon—”

“The hell you did. Don’t give me that crap, Susannah. You’re not a fool, and neither am I. You never intended to keep your end of the bargain.”

She tried to deny it. But she couldn’t. Consciously, she’d meant what she said. But somewhere, deep inside, she had always been praying that she wouldn’t have to do this.

“Right.” He loaded the syllable with disdain. “But did you ever consider the possibility that your game might just backfire on you?”

“No—it wasn’t a game—how could it—”

He lowered his lips to her neck and spoke his next words against her skin. “Did it ever occur to you that I might decide not to just slink away with my tail between my legs? That I might decide to claim what’s due me?”

“No, that never occurred to me,” she lied, swallowing hard. “I trust you to be sensible, and—”

“You trust me?” He threw his head back, laughing harshly. “That’s a good one, sweetheart. According to that prenup, you don’t trust me with the dinner forks. And obviously you didn’t trust me not to bring a bucket of STDs to the marriage bed, either.”

He bent his elbows slightly, and tilted his body toward her, just close enough that the heat and the pressure reminded her how powerful he was. He’d always been tall, even as a teen, with the promise of potency to come. But this was a man’s body, with all the promises fulfilled.

She tried to go numb. She didn’t want to feel the angles of his hips against hers. She didn’t want to be aware of the muscles in his legs, rippling with tension. She didn’t want to remember how this same body had once covered hers with tenderness.

“You obviously believe I’m an immoral bastard—and eleven years ago you told me I was a murderer, too.” His rough voice scraped her nerves. “What would stop a man like that from asserting his conjugal rights…with whatever force it required?”

“Nothing.” She pressed her head against the wall, struggling to create distance. “You’re obviously stronger than I am, Trent. Nothing can stop you except your own conscience.”

But did he have one? And what about her conscience? She had agreed to a sexual relationship, in exchange for this marriage. If she could anesthetize her conscience, perhaps he could do the same.

For a minute, she thought he might. He let his body press forward even farther, until the granite of his chest met her breasts. His heat scorched through her nightgown. Too fast for her to react, he thrust his knee between her legs and cocked it up, pressing it hard against the aching spot at the apex of her thighs.

She twisted against the wall, trying to escape both him and the hot desire that traitorously shot through her. Perhaps she wasn’t strong enough to prevent this, but she could fight. She didn’t have to make it easy for him. She pushed against his chest with her palms, but she might as well have been trying to move a mountain.

He let her squirm for a moment, just long enough for her to realize how helpless she truly was. And then, without warning, he stepped away.

If she hadn’t been propped up by the wall, she might have fallen. Her breath was coming so fast, it was as if she’d been running for hours.

He, on the other hand, looked as cool and contemptuous as ever. He picked up his shirt and began walking toward the door.

When he put his hand on the knob, he turned.

“It’s not my conscience stopping me,” he said, looking her over with a cool appraisal that somehow managed to be as insulting as if he’d spit in her face. “It’s my standards. I don’t much care for liars, or frigid, manipulative bitches. The truth is, sweetheart, you’re not worth it.”

CHAPTER TWO

YEARS AGO, Trent had learned that there’s no frustration, no pain or fury, no mental monster of any kind, that can’t be tamed by a treadmill—assuming you go fast enough and stay on it long enough.

This morning, with Susannah’s double cross less than twelve hours behind him, he’d logged about ten miles on the gym’s machine before he felt even semi-normal. He started Mile One with his cell phone in his hand, fingers itching to call a lawyer, any lawyer, and file for a quickie divorce.

Instead, he dialed up the treadmill speed and jogged till he sweated out some of the poison. Somewhere along the repetitive rubber highway, he found enough sanity to remember why he’d agreed to this marriage in the first place.

It hadn’t been just to help Susannah. It hadn’t even been just because he’d been fool enough to dream that this might be their second chance.

He’d also done it for Chase.

Originally, Chase had been Susannah’s chosen temporary husband. It had made sense. Chase was her best friend. He was unattached and, even more importantly, he was a born saint. The original Mr. DoGood. So he had been perfectly happy to marry her with no demands, no strings attached.

But then Josie Whitford had come along and hit Chase like a bolt of lightning. The poor guy’s dilemma had been painful to watch. Love or loyalty? Passion or past promises?

Trent had to say one thing for Susannah: though she was as cold as a meat locker toward Trent, she did seem to have a soft spot for Chase. When she’d realized the problem, she’d come to Trent and laid out a deal.

The way she figured it, Trent should marry her. If he hadn’t screwed up their relationship eleven years ago, she said, she wouldn’t be in the market for a husband in the first place. So Trent owed her. If he’d help her meet the husband clause in her grandfather’s will, she’d consider the debt paid.

Trent knew she was desperate, even to suggest it. He knew she would have exhausted all other options, sane or crazy, before coming to him.

Everyone knew she’d tried to break the will legally, of course. But though old man Everly had been mean as a snake and the biggest male chauvinist in Texas, he’d also been clever and controlling, and he’d apparently found a lawyer who was his match.

The resulting will was apparently ironclad. Arlington had left Everly tied up so tight Susannah couldn’t sell a single peach tree, not one pebble on the property, no matter how much she needed money. Not till she got married, and stayed married, sleeping under the same roof with her husband for a full year.

Trent was surprised the will hadn’t required a check of the honeymoon bedsheets, to prove all marital obligations had been met. The nasty old bastard.

It had been tempting all on its own, to think of thwarting old man Everly.

But what really made Trent agree to the deal was his own soft spot for Chase, his childhood friend. He’d agreed to take Chase’s place. Minus the saint and celibacy stuff, of course. He was willing to help Susannah by presenting himself at the altar, not on it.

And look where he’d ended up anyhow. Lying right on that slab. Staring at the longest, coldest year of his life, beside a marble-hearted bitch who just happened to look like a girl he used to love.

But at least Chase was happy. And that was still worth protecting.

Finally resigned, Trent showered and headed back to Everly.

The house had seen better days—it could definitely use a coat of paint—but the fancy gingerbread Victorian looked its best on this cloudless spring morning, with roses bunched up everywhere, and the trees finally back in leaf.

The minute he opened the door, he heard voices. Susannah was here, but she wasn’t alone. He listened a second, and recognized Chase.

He scanned the large honey-pine foyer. The guest powder room door was open, the frilly area empty. No sign of Josie. So Chase had come alone.

Had Susannah sent out an SOS? Needed, one shoulder to cry on, because my husband is a beast.

“Hey!” Chase stood up from the table as Trent entered the kitchen. He grinned. “You owe me one, buddy. I just barely managed to keep Pastor Wilcox from coming over here. I told him I’d bring his present along, since I was going to stop by anyhow.”

Trent was surprised to discover how much the sight of Chase’s easy smile annoyed him—especially since he’d just been waxing sentimental about honoring the bond of friendship, taking one for your mate, all that band of brothers nonsense.

But he’d just gotten married last night, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t your band of brothers be willing to back off for at least one day? Give you time to…

Time to what? To break promises and fling insults? To call each other names and rip open old wounds? Maybe, when he thought about it, he and Susannah had already had all the togetherness they needed.

Trent glanced at her now, standing at the stove. In her usual outfit of sharp khaki slacks and white oxford-cloth shirt, with her hair in a glossy braid down her back, not a strand out of place, she looked utterly serene.

She turned gracefully and held out a blue mug, smiling. “Cup of coffee, Trent? It’s fresh.”

Her voice was angelic, smooth, as if she’d just this minute set aside her golden harp and stepped down from her cloud. He hesitated a beat before accepting the coffee, sorting the clues.

One thing was clear. She hadn’t invited Chase over. She was improvising, pretending that there was smooth sailing in the newlywed world. They weren’t going to tell Chase about last night’s nosedive into the emotional swamp.

“Okay, thanks,” Trent said, playing along. He turned to Chase. “Yeah, we owe you.”

But he wasn’t sure what to say next. Chase knew them both so well. He wasn’t going to be easily fooled.

Trent took a sip of coffee, though it was technically still too hot. Then he reached across the table for the present, wrapped in its flocked silver paper, and picked it up.

“So what did Pastor Wilcox send? I hope it’s not one of his wife’s samplers. I’ll never forget the one in her living room that said ‘Enquire not what boils in another’s pot.’ I swear the thing gave me nightmares.”

Chase and Susannah both laughed politely, which in itself was stilted, since this was an old joke. The three of them had made fun of that sampler for years, rewriting it into a hundred vulgar variations, like “Enquire not what rots in another’s boils.”

He pulled off the white bow and began to rip away the paper, just as if he gave a damn what was inside. They watched him, pretending to be equally transfixed.

It was a picture frame, arranged facedown, so that all he could see was the velvet backing and little gold clips. He flipped it over and readied himself to make some joke about Jenny Wilcox’s nutty quotations.

The joke died on his lips. It wasn’t a sampler, after all. It was a photograph of Susannah and Trent, standing out in one of the Everly peach orchards. It must have been taken a long time ago. At least eleven years, in fact, because Susannah was laughing, something she hadn’t done in Trent’s presence since the night of the fire.

She wore a flower-sprigged gypsy dress, and her skirt was full of peaches. She held the fabric up in both hands, just high enough to expose her knees.

Trent was staring at her, goofy and love-struck, peaches littered around his feet. He had been juggling them, and when Susannah lifted her dress, they’d all come tumbling down.

For an aching instant, just looking at the picture, he was there again, at the church picnic, with Pastor Wilcox taking snapshots. Trent could feel the summer sun on his cheeks, and he could taste the sweet, sticky peaches on his tongue. He had made love to Susannah that night, lying under the moonlight on the cooling grass, and she had tasted of peaches, too.

He glanced up at her now, to see how she had reacted. The past had been so alive that it shocked him to see how different the real Susannah was. Not much older, amazingly, and not any less beautiful, but somehow muffled. Empty, as if whatever spring had fed the laughter had dried up and turned to dust.

Though she, too, stared at the picture, she hadn’t reacted at all. She still wore that lovely robot smile. The eyes above it were as empty as a doll’s.

He held the picture out. It was cruel, perhaps, but he wanted her to touch it. He wanted her to say something, anything, that proved she was still a real human being.

She took it in her hand. “What a lovely thought,” she said blandly, looking down at it without blinking. “That was nice of them.”

Then she set it on the table gently. “I’m sorry to leave you, boys, but I’ve got to talk to the foreman about some new hires. Several of my best workers had a terrible car accident last weekend, and I’m going to be shorthanded.”

Obediently, Chase stood up and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled, and waited for Trent to do the same. Still part of the charade for Chase’s benefit. Trent kissed her, surprised to find that her cheeks were still soft and warm, not firm plastic like a mannequin’s.

Then she was gone.

The silence in the kitchen held a million unasked questions—and a million unspoken answers. Trent didn’t rush to fill it. Between the two men, words were often unnecessary.

Chase pulled open the cabinet door that hid the trash can. Then he wadded up the wrapping paper and tossed it toward the container. He missed. Trent retrieved it and tried again. He missed, too.

“Pathetic,” Chase said. They both stood staring at the misshapen ball of glittering silver paper on the tiled floor.

“Look, Trent. Maybe I should stay out of this but…don’t give up on Sue, okay? It’s early days, you know. Things could get better, with a little time.”

Trent grunted, then went over and stuffed the paper into the trash can and kicked the cabinet door closed. “Yeah, and you could get drafted by the Mavericks, but I’m not holding my breath.”

Chase shook his head. “What the hell happened? I was hoping I’d find you two still in bed. But I get here, you’re gone, and she’s doing her bookkeeping like it’s just any other day. Damn it. I honestly thought that, once you guys were married, she might—”

“Well, she didn’t. And she’s not going to. I was an idiot to think she ever would. She was always strong, Chase, but it’s different now. She’s changed. Maybe her grandfather did it to her. Hell, maybe I did it. But she’s turned…tough.”

“No, she hasn’t.” Chase chewed the inside of his lip. “Or if she is tough, it’s tough like an avocado. Just on the outside. You’ve got to remember that, you know. She can still be bruised on the inside. Are you sure you didn’t do something, say something that might have made her feel—”

“No.” Trent took his coffee cup to the large stainless steel sink and tossed the dregs down the drain. “I didn’t say a damn thing. And, frankly, I’d prefer not to get lectures from you on this. Why don’t you go home and take care of your own wife?”

Chase smiled. One of his best traits was his easy nature. He rarely took offense at anything.

“Gladly,” he said. “But I think you’re passing up some pretty useful advice. After all, I do have an embarrassingly happy marriage.”

Trent made a harsh sound. “Then your advice is no use to me. Last night made one thing perfectly clear. Susannah and I aren’t married.” He felt his shoulders tighten. “We’re at war.”

AS SUSANNAH SAT with her foreman in his cluttered office just off the barn, listening to him sputter indignantly about the young slacker they’d just interviewed, she really was trying to focus. Every time her mind or her gaze wandered toward the house, she dragged it back.

She had been more relieved to see Trent show up this morning than she wanted to admit. When she’d awakened and found him gone, she hadn’t been sure whether he was ever coming back.

But he had come, and that’s all that mattered. As long as her plan to break her grandfather’s will was safe, she didn’t care what Chase and Trent were saying now. Trent had undoubtedly already spilled all the gory details, and they’d begun bashing her, employing the usual macho insults for women who promise things they refuse to deliver.

But so what? That wasn’t important. This was. The peach crop was going to be good this year, and, even if she wasn’t sure she had buyers for the fruit, she’d still need as many skilled workers as possible to bring it in.

Even the worker she’d just interviewed. Eli Breslin.

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw the cheeky little son of a gun.” Zander was so outraged he sputtered. “He has the nerve to walk in here? As if you’d hire that one to shine your shoes!”

She smiled. “I can’t afford to have my shoes shined by anybody. But I do need someone to pick peaches. And he’s the only one who showed up, right?”

“Well.” Zander shuffled papers on his desk. “There were a few calls.”

“Yes, but those men weren’t good enough, either.”

They’d already discussed this. One candidate used to work for the Ritchie spread, which was notoriously badly run, and the second applicant had been on the wagon for only six months, which wasn’t long enough in Zander’s eyes, and…well, the bottom line seemed to be that most of the callers failed to meet the foreman’s standards.

Eli Breslin wouldn’t have made the cut, either, except that he hadn’t bothered to phone first. He’d just knocked on the office door, and Susannah, despairing of getting anyone past Zander’s gauntlet, had insisted on interviewing the kid.

Zander leaned back in his ancient, squeaking leather chair and tapped his pencil against his knee. “He’s got zero experience with peaches.”

“He can learn,” Susannah said. She moved her hand and almost overturned a teetering stack of paperwork. Ironic that Zander required perfection of everyone but himself. “Things are desperate right now. We may have to lower our standards a bit.”

Of course, that was the wrong thing to say. The big man sat up straight and puffed out his chest. “I’m glad your grandfather isn’t around to hear you say such a thing. He never abandoned his standards, no matter what. Not even when the Alzheimer’s laid him low.”

Sighing, Susannah stood and walked to the window, where she could see the east forty, which looked beautiful in May, with all the trees wearing full green. The sight calmed her a little.

She and Zander had been through this a dozen times in the two years since Arlington H. Everly had died, and she didn’t feel like hashing it out again.

Her grandfather’s “standards” were, in her view, simply mule-headed stubbornness and excessive pride. His refusal to face economic facts had brought Everly to this current disaster, and she and Zander both knew it.

When Susannah was a kid, before her parents died, Everly Industries had owned ten thousand acres of fertile land here near Austin, and almost as many in West Texas, where the land was so rich the oil just boiled out of the ground. Today, they had one tenth that, only one thousand acres, a mere three hundred of them producing. Oh, and a dried-up two-acre plot in West Texas that looked like Swiss cheese from all the useless holes Arlington had kept drilling after Alzheimer’s had claimed his brain.

“I need hands,” she said, trying to stick to the topic. “Lots of hands to prune and thin, and then, in a few weeks, start bringing in those peaches before they rot on the trees. Eli Breslin is a healthy, willing worker with two excellent hands. Hire him.”

The silence behind her was full of disapproval. Finally Zander spoke, his voice a deep, censorious rumble in his chest. “You can’t mean that. What about Miss Nikki?”

She bit her lower lip. That was the big question, of course. When Eli Breslin had worked next door at Chase’s Double C quarter horse ranch, Nikki had fallen for him like a too-ripe peach dropping from the tree. In fact, Eli Breslin was one of the main reasons Susannah had decided to spring for Nikki’s expensive art school. It had simply been too hard to keep the two from sneaking off together into the orchard late at night.

And Susannah knew all too well what could happen in the orchard, under a milky moon, on a warm spring night.

On the other hand, Nikki was gone, and during his interview Eli had apologized with a lot of grace and maturity. Maybe, without her wild little sister to distract him, Eli Breslin could be a good worker.

Or maybe Zander was right. Maybe Eli was just too iffy….

She pressed her hand over her eyes. She’d been staring out into the sun too long, and she was getting a headache.

She heard someone open the office door behind her, and then the sound of Zander levering himself out of his squeaky chair.

“Trent! Thank God you’re here! Maybe you can help me talk some sense into Ms. Susannah!”

Oh, great. She needed this right now.

Susannah turned to see Trent moving into the office, his lean height dominating it more thoroughly than even Zander’s bulk could ever do. He shut the door behind him, then came over and shook the foreman’s outstretched hand, simultaneously slapping him on the shoulder. They were old friends, and suddenly she felt outnumbered.

“No one needs to talk sense into me.” She included both men in her scowl. But damn it. What was it about Trent’s lazy, amused grin that made her feel like a kid stamping her foot? “I make my own decisions. I know what I’m doing.”

Trent raised his eyebrow, as if she’d said something cute, and transferred that annoying grin to the foreman. “Come on, Zan. You know her. When she makes a decision, you and I and Hell’s army couldn’t talk her out of it. Save your energy for a battle you can win.”

“I would. God knows, I usually do. But this is different. She’s getting ready to hire Eli Breslin.”

Trent’s eyebrow went up even farther. “Really?” He glanced at Susannah. “Why?”

“Because I need workers, that’s why. Because Eli applied, and he sounded sincere about needing the job. He went out of his way to apologize for everything that happened with Nikki. He explained that he was just lonesome. Homesick. That’s why he wants a second job now, to save up to buy a plane ticket back home to El Cajon.”

Trent chuckled. “He actually said that?”

“You should have heard the little weasel.” Zander grimaced. “Kid should be an actor. He spread honey on her like she was his own personal biscuit. Ninety-three percent of it pure baloney, if you ask me.”

“But I didn’t.” Susannah tightened her voice. “I didn’t ask either of you. It’s my decision.”

Zander growled under his breath, like a fussy old hound. “You do remember what he did at the Clayton place, don’t you? You remember he walked away from a sick horse, didn’t care whether the animal lived or died? You remember Trent had to fire him?”

“She remembers.” Trent’s smile was gone. In its place was cool speculation. “Is that part of the appeal, Susannah? Do you think it would be fun to tweak my nose a bit?”

It might be fun, she thought, to see if she could slap that insufferable arrogance off his face. But she gritted her teeth and braided her hands behind her back. Her famous self-control was the only thing that kept Zander from quitting. She’d heard him say it was beneath him to work for a woman, but Ms. Everly didn’t really act like one, so he didn’t mind too much.

She lifted her chin. “As I’ve pointed out before, Trent, not everything I do is about you.”

But he just grinned again, and her palms itched. How did he do this to her? Why couldn’t she learn to be immune to his snarky comments and his laughing eyes?

She had been vacillating about Eli, but suddenly her mind was made up.

She moved to the door, opened it, then turned to her foreman. “Hire him. Ask him if he has a brother, an uncle, a dog. Hire them all.”

“Dumb decision,” Zander muttered. “You’ll regret it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Trent said pleasantly. Susannah had let the door begin to fall shut, so she almost missed the rest of the comment.

But his words were loud enough to follow her, like a dart finding its bull’s eye.

“Our Susannah’s a clever woman, Zan. Trust me. If she regrets it, she can always find a way to wriggle out of it.”

CHAPTER THREE

AT THREE O’CLOCK that afternoon, Trent knocked at the baby blue door of a little white cottage over in Darlonsville.

“Trent!” Peggy Archer held out her hand. Her eyes were wide, and she seemed momentarily speechless. “I didn’t expect to see you today. Shouldn’t you be with…her?”

Trent sensed the trembling in her fingers and squeezed them reassuringly. “I’ve had a date with you every Saturday afternoon for five years now, Peggy. Marriage isn’t going to change that.”

She nodded slowly. “Especially that marriage.”

“Not any marriage. You told me your satellite dish is broken. I know you can’t live without your Sunday night football.”

He smiled, aware that Peggy never watched sports on TV, but hoping to distract her from the subject of Susannah. It was a sore one in this house.

Long ago, when they were kids, Peggy’s son Paul had been part of the inseparable quartet, the Fugitive Four. Trent, Chase and Susannah had all been Peggy’s surrogate children, eating her corn dogs and hot chili every summer afternoon at the Bull’s Eye ranch, the ten-thousand-acre Archer homestead.

But then, eleven years ago, a quarrel between Trent and Susannah had escalated into tragedy, and Peggy’s son, Paul, had ended up dead. It had been about ninety-nine percent Trent’s fault, and it had taken him years to find the courage to come back to Texas and face what he’d done.

Facing Peggy had been the toughest. But little by little, she had forgiven him and let him slip into the role of surrogate son once more. Oddly, as the years had gone on, she had ended up blaming Susannah the most.

When Trent had told her about the one-year marriage, the news had seemed to distress her out of all proportion. Trent had assumed it had been because of Paul, but he wondered now if Peggy had simply feared she’d lose Trent’s weekly visit.

Darn it. Foolishly, he’d taken for granted that she would understand. He’d never stop coming to see her, not as long as she needed him.

His debt to her was eternal. It would never be paid.

He tightened his grip on her hand. “Hey. Don’t I get invited in?”

“Of course, but—” She glanced over her shoulder as she backed away from the door. “I thought you weren’t coming, so—”

Just at that moment, her ex-husband, Harrison Archer, ambled in from the kitchen, muttering under his breath and studying the bracket that ordinarily held the satellite dish up on the roof.

Harrison was a balding, Texas-sized good old boy with a chest as round and barrel-shaped as any of his steers. At his heels trailed his son Sean, who at eight years old already looked shockingly like Paul. Both sons from Harrison’s second marriage did. It was the red hair, mostly. Harrison’s new wife, Nora, was half Peggy’s age, but otherwise could have been her clone—same fiery hair, petite body and smart hazel eyes.

Everyone knew what Harrison was doing when he married Nora, only two years after Paul’s death. He was doubling back to square one and starting over. Or trying to. But in spite of the healthy new sons and the pretty wife, there was still something dead in his eyes that made Trent uncomfortable whenever their gazes met.

“Trent. Thank God you’re here.” Harrison held up the bracket. “I can’t figure this blame thing out to save my life. And Sean has a game tonight. All right if I let you take over?”

“Sure.” Trent smiled at Harrison and then at Sean, who was a cute kid, gangly in his miniature polyester Red Sox uniform. “Hi, kiddo.”

“Sean is pitching today,” Harrison said in his deepest proud-father voice, his chest expanding subtly, stretching the buttons of his five-hundred-dollar denim shirt.

Trent wasn’t sure how to respond. For starters, he couldn’t believe the man had brought Sean here suited up like this, like the ghost of Paul. Mentioning the pitching was almost unbelievably insensitive.

But the kid looked excited, so Trent couldn’t just ignore it. “Oh, yeah? Cool.”

Sean grinned. “I’m working on my knuckleball. Dad says I’m getting pretty good.”

Instinctively, Trent shot a glance at Peggy. Once, Paul had pitched for the high school team. He’d been good—almost great. A&M had offered him a full scholarship. But at the very moment when he should have been reporting for practice, he’d been lying in a hospital bed.

Burned over seventy percent of his body.

Dying.

And now Harrison was teaching the famous Archer knuckleball to this freckle-faced replacement son. Peggy stared at the wall, apparently determined not to look at Sean. Her cheeks were pale, her hazel eyes ominously glassy. Trent’s shoulders tightened. It was like torture, rubbing salt in a wound that already refused to heal.

“I need to sit down.” Peggy let go of Trent’s hand and led the way into the small blue-and-white living room.

Her limp was worse this week, Trent noticed. She must be in a lot of pain. Though only in her early fifties, she moved like a woman of ninety. Her hip replacement surgery was scheduled for July, a long six weeks from now. She was dreading it, but Trent privately hoped it would give her a sort of fresh start, too.

Harrison set the bracket down on the coffee table, not bothering to hide his eagerness to escape. “So, you can handle this alone, right? It’s not that big a job, and we probably should hit the road. Nora gets out of Pilates at four, and she needs to shower before the game.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Trent repressed the urge to shake the older man. Was he doing this deliberately? Why would he mention Nora’s daily exercise class, when his ex-wife could barely walk?

As if Peggy didn’t already know that a heartbroken, postmenopausal arthritic could never hold a candle to the buoyant young wife who waited for Harrison at home.

“Good. Well, then, we’ll be going.” Harrison looked over at Peggy, who had lowered herself into a white rocker and picked up her knitting, as if to say, Yes, I’m a middle-aged woman, and I don’t care. “Goodbye, then, Peg.”

“Bye, Peggy,” Sean echoed politely. “Thanks for having me.”

She didn’t look up from her yarn. “Goodbye.”

The word was so cold it sent a small gust of frigid air out into the room. Bristling, Harrison drew his eyebrows together. He handed his son the car keys and whispered something. Sean nodded and headed toward the front stairs.

As soon as the door shut behind the boy, Harrison turned and glared at his ex-wife. “None of this is Sean’s fault, you know,” he said gruffly.

She kept knitting. Her fingers looked almost as white as the yarn.

“Damn it, Peggy. You could be a little nicer to him.”

She finally looked up. “No. As a matter of fact, Harry, I couldn’t. Don’t ever bring that boy into my house again.”

Harrison made a sharp move forward, but Trent threw out his arm. He’d seen the Archer temper all too often in the old days. Back then, he’d been too young, too intimidated by the Archer acres, to know what he should do about it.

But he knew now.

“Hey,” he said. “Easy.”

The older man’s chest pushed against Trent’s forearm, as if he might put up a fight. His breath came harsh and heavy. They stood that way about ten seconds, with Harrison clearly struggling for composure.

Finally he eased back an inch or two. He transferred his glare to Trent. “I need to talk to you, son,” he said. “Outside.”

Trent didn’t much like the autocratic tone, but he very much liked the idea of getting the agitated man away from Peggy. He nodded and followed Harrison through the door and onto the front porch.

“Bitch,” Harrison muttered as the door shut behind him. Trent ignored it, but he placed himself between the older man and the entry, just in case.

“You said you wanted to talk to me?”

Harrison took one last deep breath, and ran his hands through his thinning brown hair. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. It’s just that even after all these years, she can still get my goat. She’s stuck in the past, Trent. Damn it, I loved Paul, too, but I have to get on with my life, don’t I? And she hates me for it.”

“Maybe she just hates having your new life thrown in her face.”

Harrison’s fleshy cheeks reddened. “Thrown in her face? Look, I didn’t choose to come here. She called me. She said she needed help. And look what it turned out to be! The damn television set!”

Trent didn’t bother to try to make Harrison understand how important television could be to someone as lonely as Peggy. Empathy wasn’t the man’s strong suit.

“Well, I’m here now, so you’re off the hook. Take Sean to the game and forget about it.”

“It’s ridiculous, anyhow.” Harrison glanced toward the house with distaste. “Why the hell didn’t she just hire someone to fix it? God knows the allowance I give her is big enough.”

Trent’s jaw was so tight he could hardly get words out. “I think she likes the company. Half the time when I come over, she tells me to forget the repairs. She just wants to sit and talk.”

Harrison laughed. “What? You think she just likes to hang out with you? Don’t kid yourself, son. She’s using you. She knows you’ve got a guilty conscience, so she plays on it.”

Trent had heard enough. “You know, I think it’s time for you to go.”

To his surprise, the edict didn’t seem to inflame the older man’s tinderbox temper. Instead, Harrison’s face softened, as if swept by a sudden and rare compassion. “You really care about her, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Poor kid.” Harrison rested his meaty hand gently on Trent’s shoulder. “I know you think you can make it up to her. But you can’t. It’s too big, what happened.”

Trent shrugged. “Maybe. I come because I like to. That’s all.”

“Okay.” Harrison nodded, but he chewed on the inside of his cheek as if something troubled him. “Still…you need to watch your step, son. Because I promise you this. Deep down inside where nobody sees, that woman hates you.”

THOUGH MONDAY was only Eli Breslin’s first day, by midafternoon Susannah was guardedly pleased with his performance. During the lunch break, when Zander and Susannah had gone over business in the foreman’s office, even the older man had grudgingly admitted that, so far, the boy took instruction meekly and worked hard.

Maybe too hard. Mid-May in Central Texas could be cool, but summer was sneaking in early this year, and temperatures were already hitting eighty.

When Susannah drove the flatbed out to see how the tree thinning was coming along, she caught a glimpse of Eli, leaning against the bright yellow shaking machine, dirty and sweaty and shirtless. He held a plastic water bottle above his head and was letting its contents pour over his upturned face and run glistening down his sunburned chest.

For the first time, Susannah could sort of see why Nikki had fallen for him. He did have that hunky blond surfer boy thing going on big-time.

And that had always been Nikki’s type.

Susannah, on the other hand, had always been fatally drawn to the black-haired, blue-eyed dangerous devil thing. So when this sweaty young sexpot smiled wetly over at her, the only thing she felt was mild anxiety. He was so fair-skinned…would that mean he was susceptible to heatstroke?

A sudden pang pierced just under her ribs. She wished that things could have been different. If only she and Nikki could have been normal sisters. If only they could have laughed about boys, shared secrets, conspired to hide mischief from their parents. Instead, because their mother and father had died when Susannah was fifteen, and Nikki only a toddler, Susannah had been forced into the role of surrogate mother.

How Nikki had hated it, all these years. She had no idea that Susannah had hated it, too. But she did—she hated the injustice of it. They’d both been cheated of their parents. But they’d also been cheated of each other. Even after Nikki passed through adolescence, they would probably never have the tight friendship that real sisters should have.

Susannah squeezed her eyes, as if she could squeeze away the self-pity. She didn’t have time to lament tragedies that had happened so long ago. She couldn’t change the past. All she could hope was that maybe she could keep the present and future from capsizing, too.

Suddenly, Zander was at Susannah’s elbow, wiping a dirty rag across his own sweaty face. “Little brat broke the shaking machine.”

“What?”

Susannah looked again toward Eli and realized belatedly that the machine should not have been silent and still. It should have been roaring and grumbling away, moving among the trees, grabbing trunks with its tail-like pincers, and jostling dime-sized peaches from branches like a blush-colored rain.

She sniffed, and finally she smelled it—the stench of steam and burning rubber wafting through the orchard, a dark undercurrent below the sweetness of the fruit-littered ground.

Eli seemed to think she was staring at him, because he smiled again, carving dimples into his cheeks. He pointed the empty water bottle toward the shaking machine, then used it to draw an imaginary line across his throat.

The message was clear. The machine was dead. And Eli thought it was mildly amusing.

Well, he could afford to consider this a little gift from the go-home-early gods, but Susannah wanted to cuss. It could take days to get it repaired. And now that every fruit grower in central Texas was in the throes of thinning season, where would she be able to borrow another one in the meantime?

“I knew it was too good to be true,” Zander muttered. “I knew all this perfect employee crap was just an act.”

“It’s not Eli’s fault.” Somehow Susannah kept her voice cool. “It broke on you last year, too, Zander. It’s just old. We need a new one.”

“We can’t afford a new one.”

She slapped her work gloves into the palm of her hand, trying to hold back the retort that sprang to her lips. Of course she knew they couldn’t afford one. If they hadn’t been in dire straits, did Zander think she would have sold herself into a year of matrimonial bondage?

“Maybe,” she said, “Chase will loan us his.”

“Yes. You should ask Trent about it ASAP.” Zander frowned. “Where is he, anyhow? Haven’t seen him around all weekend.”

That was, of course, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Where was her brand-new husband? He had slept at Everly every night, she knew that. That first night he’d used the sofa, but after that he’d confiscated her grandfather’s bedroom. He came in late, then left again early in the morning.

Which was fine with her, of course. The less she saw of him, the better. Still, she couldn’t help wondering where he went. To Chase’s ranch? Maybe. Running a ranch that large could easily eat up your weekends, too.

But she couldn’t help wondering whether he might be going somewhere…softer.

To someone softer.

After all, he’d done it before.

She forced the image out of her mind. As long as he satisfied the will’s requirements by spending the nights under her roof, she didn’t give a damn about his days. And if she kept letting him disrupt her concentration, she was going to be in even bigger trouble than she was already.

Her gaze drifted to the other workers, who were still moving toward them, following the machine’s path, hand-thinning the small branches that hadn’t let go of their bounty.

So much to do…so many people to pay.

Her mind began performing calculations at warp speed. If this was a big repair, and it sure smelled that way, it would eat into the payroll, and then she’d be behind on the—

“Die, you bastard! Die!”

Her heart pounding, she wheeled quickly, just in time to see that Eli had grabbed a shovel and was violently slashing at the ground, just a couple of yards away from the shaker’s cab.

For a split second, as he jumped and hollered, she wondered whether Zander and Trent been right about Eli all along. Had she hired a madman?

But then she saw the rubbery-looking, writhing coils at Eli’s feet. A shiver sped down her spine.

He was killing a very large rattlesnake.

Though it seemed to be happening in slow motion, it probably was over in less than ten seconds, and the poor creature lay mangled in the dirt, thoroughly destroyed. Several other workers, including Zander, gathered to get a better look.

Eli’s cocky smile was gone, and his cheeks were pale beneath the sunburn. He stared down at his palms, bloodied by the pitted metal on the old shovel’s handle.

Then he raised a stricken face and glanced over at Susannah, as if he feared he might have done the wrong thing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, in a voice that belonged to a much younger boy. “I just saw him there, and I panicked.”

If she hadn’t been his employer, she would have put her arm around his shoulder, the same way she might have comforted Nikki after a bad day at school. She settled for offering a reassuring smile.

“You did great. Come on, let’s go back and get that blood cleaned up. Zander will take care of all this.”

She ignored the older man’s look of irritation. The boy’s hands needed tending. Besides, it was her fault he was hurt. That shovel should have been replaced years ago, like so many other things on this spread.

She sighed as she started the truck, hearing the hesitation of a battery about to go dead.

How many problems could she handle at once?

FIVE YEARS AGO, when Trent had accepted Chase’s offer to be the ranch manager at the Double C, he had worked twenty-hour days for more than a year, sleeping on a cot in the office, determined not to let Chase down.

He’d had so much to prove. He knew what everyone had thought when he’d left town six years earlier, after the fire, while Paul still lay dying in that hospital bed.

They’d thought he was a bad-tempered son of a bitch, who had been playing out of his league for years and finally got exposed as the loser he really was. He knew that’s what they’d thought, because that was what he’d thought, too.

So he’d run. He hadn’t known what else to do. The whole tragedy had been too much to stand. He was only nineteen, and he’d messed up everything he cared about in the whole stinking world. He’d cheated on Susannah, and then, in a fit of pique, he’d punched his best friend, and somehow rained disaster down on them all.

Sometimes, now, he could hardly remember how it happened. But sometimes it played over in his head, as if it were a videotape caught in a slow-motion loop.

He had been in a rotten mood that night, furious with himself for succumbing to Missy Snowdon’s cheap charms, and praying Susannah would never find out. They’d all gone to a bar for dinner, and he had unwisely let himself drink too much. Susannah and Paul had been flirting, and by the third beer, courtesy of friends older than the legal limit, Trent hadn’t been able to pretend he didn’t care.

He’d said some things, and Paul had said some things, and before he knew what was happening, his fist had been flying. That was when the nightmare took over. He’d expected Paul to punch him back. He even wanted him to. Somehow he felt that a little pain might make him feel less guilty for what he’d done with Missy.

Instead, Paul tilted back, his jaw hanging open. He waved his arms, trying to catch his balance, but he was already falling, falling, slamming into the bar’s picnic table seats, his arms still windmilling like a cartoon.

When he hit the ground, so did the kerosene lantern that had looked so kitschy and cute on the table.

The hay on the floor went up like a magician’s trick. Paul caught fire, too, rolling at first, trying to get to his feet, then toppling over like a fireplace log. Trent still heard him scream sometimes, and not just in his dreams. The echo of Paul’s pain could come out of nowhere, using the voice of everyday things. The cry of owls, the squeal of children playing. A rusty hinge on an old screen door, or the screech of tires on a dangerous road.

The doctors had tried. Paul clung to life for months, mostly because his parents wouldn’t disconnect the machines that kept him breathing. But everyone knew he was gone.

And everyone knew who had killed him. Trent might as well have put a gun to Paul’s head and pulled the trigger. In fact, it would have been a more merciful death.

So, as soon as he realized it was hopeless, he’d run as far and as long as his college savings would take him. He’d run until he’d hit the Pacific Ocean, chased by the memories of Paul’s mutilated body and the curse in Susannah’s cold eyes.

He’d run into another woman’s arms, and then another’s, and then another’s. He’d even married one of them, though thank God she was a smart, cheerful woman, who came to her senses before too long.

When Ginny realized her new husband was little more than a cardboard cutout, a shell of a man, she divorced him as cheerfully as she’d married him.

On his twenty-fifth birthday, he had decided to come home. To face all the ghosts, both the living and the dead. To make amends and, maybe, finally, make something of himself.

But that was five years ago, and he was through proving things. Maybe he could never completely silence Paul’s screams, but he had finally learned his own worth. Anyone else who was still unconvinced could just remain that way.

Which was why, when he found himself yawning at work and realized he’d put in about forty hours at this desk in the past two days, he decided that enough was enough.

He was going home. He didn’t care whether Susannah was hanging around or not. He was too damn tired to get all hot and bothered, not even if she was dancing on the kitchen table wearing a whipped-cream G-string.

He almost made it back to Everly without getting snagged by work—it was the next spread over, no more than fifteen minutes away—but at the last minute his phone buzzed with a text message from Zander, something about a broken shaker. He was tempted to ignore it, but the old guy sounded stressed, so he made some calls.

By the time he rolled into the Everly drive, he had Chase’s extra machine lined up for the next two weeks. Still yawning, he walked to the stables, one end of which had been converted into the foreman’s office, to tell Zander the good news.

But Zander wasn’t there. Instead, Trent opened the door onto a cozy domestic scene, with Susannah and Eli Breslin sitting knee to knee on Zander’s guest chairs. The kid was half-naked and sweaty. Susannah was holding his hand.

Trent frowned, but then it made sense. The moron had managed to get hurt on his very first day.

Susannah was bent over Eli’s outstretched fingers, utterly focused on wrapping a bandage around his palm, and her braid fell over her shoulder. She had no idea that Trent had arrived.

But Eli did.

He gave Trent a small smile, which spread across his dirty face until it was a downright nasty grin. Everything Eli had probably heard from gossips about Susannah’s new marriage was written in that leer. Trent might have been able to fire Eli from the Double C, but Eli clearly knew that the “husband of convenience” had no power at Everly. He knew that Trent was as much a temporary employee here as Eli himself.

And he wanted Trent to know that he knew.

“Ouch,” Eli moaned softly as Susannah worked on the bandage. She murmured an apology for hurting him. The boy smirked down at her, then turned to Trent and slowly winked.

Obnoxious little bastard…

“There. That should hold.” Susannah held Eli’s hand up for him to inspect. “It looked worse than it was.”

Eli bent in close, so that his face was only inches from Susannah’s. “Thank you, Ms. Everly. You have mighty gentle hands.”

Clearing his throat, Trent moved into the small office, dodging a trophy that teetered on a bookcase, proclaiming Alexander Hobbin to be the 1978 Men’s Bowling Champ. If it had fallen over and beaned Eli on the head, that would have been fine with Trent.

“So,” he said. “You think your new hire will live to work another day?”

Susannah looked up. If she felt any embarrassment at being caught holding hands with a bare-chested teenage peach picker, she covered it well.

“Yes,” she said as she began to store her first aid supplies neatly away. “It was just a little mishap. Minor abrasions.”

“I killed a rattler,” Eli put in, stretching out his legs and leaning back in his chair nonchalantly, as if he performed such feats every day. “Nasty, big one. Five feet, at least.”

“Taller than you are, then?” Trent smiled. “Impressive.”

“No.” Eli flushed angrily. “I’m five ten and a half.”

“And a half!” Trent raised his eyebrow. “Also impressive. I wouldn’t have guessed.”

The boy’s face was a thundercloud. “Yeah, well, I hear that you—”

“Trent.” Susannah snapped the first aid kit shut and gave Trent a look that said enough already.

She was right, of course. It was ridiculous to get into an ego-tussle with a nineteen-year-old. But apparently, where Susannah was concerned, a part of Trent would always be nineteen. Ready to lock horns with any other young buck who tried to trespass on his turf.

“Did you need something, Trent? Were you looking for Zander? He’s still out in the orchard, finishing up the thinning.”

“He messaged me about the shaker. I wanted to let him know we’ve rearranged things at the Double C so that you can use Chase’s machine for the next couple of weeks.”

“You don’t need to borrow one,” Eli broke in eagerly, like the smarmy teacher’s pet everyone had hated in high school. “I’m good with machines. I bet I could fix ours.”

Ours? The kid had worked here one half of one day, and already he owned the equipment? Trent turned toward the brat, ready to let loose, but Susannah put out her hand and touched Trent’s forearm lightly.

“Thanks, Eli,” she said, “but unless you can actually raise the dead, I’m afraid it’s no use. We’ll be fine with the loaner. Please go let Mr. Hobbin know it’s arranged, okay?”

Eli was caught for a moment, wedged between his desire to avenge himself with Trent and his determination to impress Susannah.

Self-preservation won the day. He bobbed his head deferentially. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

After he was gone, the silence in the office was fraught with tension.

Susannah put the kit away, locked the cabinet and then finally turned to Trent. “Please tell Chase thanks. I appreciate the loan of the shaker.”

For some inexplicable reason, Trent was suddenly irritated. For one thing, Chase didn’t even know about the loan. Trent was in charge of all such details at the Double C. It was Trent who had made it possible.

But clearly there’d be snowball fights in Hell before Susannah would ever thank Trent for anything.

She lifted her chin. “Was there anything else you needed?”

That ice-cold tone was the last straw. “Yeah,” he said. “One other thing. I thought I’d just mention what a colossally bad idea it is to flirt with teenage boys who happen to be on your payroll.”

Her eyebrows dived together. “I wasn’t flirting with him.”

“Really? Are you sure he knows that?”

“I’m quite sure.” She stood ramrod straight, clearly offended. “Is that why you were being such an ass to him? Because you thought we were…flirting?”

Trent sat on the corner of Zander’s desk, the only spot not covered in files and papers and junk. “No, I was being an ass to him because he is a cocky little loser who hasn’t ever done an honest day’s work in his life, and I can’t believe you were dumb enough to hire him.”

She’d gone slightly pale, which he knew from long experience was a sign of fury. He braced himself for the storm, and as he did he realized that, in some strange way, he welcomed the fight.

At least it would be real emotion. A real connection.

And, God help him, he still craved that. All that crap about being too exhausted to desire her? He’d been sunk the minute he saw the curve of her back as she’d bent over Eli’s hand, and the way the sunlight created a halo around her head.

It had been enough to send the hunger raging through him all over again. He wouldn’t get what he really wanted, of course. But a good, rousing battle might at least siphon off some of this tension.

She took a couple of deep breaths, obviously determined to hold on to her temper. She placed herself behind the desk, as if she thought its scarred oak surface could provide the buffer zone she clearly needed.

But it wasn’t a very big desk.

“How I run Everly is none of your business.” She straightened some papers on the desk, a ridiculously futile gesture. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”

Her fingers trembled as they nudged another sheet of paper into line. The pause stretched until it shimmered in the room like ectoplasm.

“Oh, yes,” he said slowly. “The deal.”

She didn’t look up. But her grip tightened, crumpling the edge of the file she held.

“The deal,” he repeated. He reached out and took her wrist between his fingers. “We did have one, didn’t we?”

She tensed, though she didn’t try to pull back her hand. “Trent, I don’t think we should—”

“I do.”

She lifted her chin. “Look, I know you’re angry.”

He ran his thumb across the inside of her wrist, until he found the pulse, jumping and skittering between the delicate bones. “Am I?”

“Well, you’ve been gone all weekend. I’m not a fool, Trent. I know what that means.”

He thought of Peggy, of the secret trips he’d been making to Darlonsville for five years now. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know. He hadn’t wanted to look as if he did it only for the good public relations it might bring.

“And what do you think it means?”

“It means…” She bit her lower lip. “I know where you must have been, who you must have been with. Even though, when we agreed to do this, you promised me that there would be no other women, not while we were married.”

He tugged her wrist slightly. She either had to wrestle herself free or come around the desk to meet him. She chose to come around, though it brought her close enough that he could see the nervous twitch next to the corner of her mouth.

Ah…she felt more fear now than anger. In a perverse way, that pleased him. It proved he still had power.

And he saw something else, too. A physical awareness of him that heated the surface of her cheeks.

It made him ache, being so close to her, smelling her, hating her and wanting her all at the same time. It was as if someone had shoved a hot brand against the small of his back.

“I did promise I’d be faithful,” he said, careful to keep his tone lightly ironic. “But that was when I believed I’d be getting what I needed here at home…within the marriage bed, so to speak.”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, of course I see the difference. So that’s why I wanted to make you an offer. I understand that it’s a…a hardship to have to…to do without sex for a full year, and…”

He smiled. Her pulse had tripped on itself from the effort to even say the word sex.

“And?”

She swallowed, blinking as she tried to hold his gaze. “And I’d like to make it up to you. Financially, I mean. I was thinking ten thousand dollars for every month we’re married. That’s one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, when the year is up, when I can sell the acres I need, and—”

He tilted his head, chuckling softly. “You’re offering to pay me not to have sex with you?”

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