Sierra Carlton was the very last woman with whom he should be spending time.

Yet here he was. Again. She was getting to be a bad habit that he couldn’t seem to control. Yet, the evenings that he and the girls didn’t spend here with Sierra and her daughter, Tyree, seemed strangely flat and incomplete now.

He tried to think of her as his business partner, maybe even a friend. Instead he kept dreaming about putting his hands on her, laying his mouth against the long, graceful column of her throat.

Oh, man. What was he doing? And why couldn’t he stop?

Dear Reader,

It’s that time of year again—when every woman’s thoughts turn to love—and we have all kinds of romantic gifts for you! We begin with the latest from reader favorite Allison Leigh, Secretly Married, in which she concludes her popular TURNABOUT miniseries. A woman who was sure she was divorced finds out there’s the little matter of her not-so-ex-husband’s signing the papers, so off she goes to Turnabout—the island that can turn your life around—to get her divorce. Or does she?

Our gripping MERLYN COUNTY MIDWIVES miniseries continues with Gina Wilkins’s Countdown to Baby. A woman interested only in baby-making—or so she thinks—may be finding happily-ever-after and her little bundle of joy, with the town’s most eligible bachelor. LOGAN’S LEGACY, our new Silhouette continuity, is introduced in The Virgin’s Makeover by Judy Duarte, in which a plain-Jane adoptee is transformed in time to find her inner beauty…and, just possibly, her biological family. Look for the next installment in this series coming next month. Shirley Hailstock’s Love on Call tells the story of two secretive emergency-room doctors who find temptation—not to mention danger—in each other. In Down from the Mountain by Barbara Gale, two disabled people—a woman without sight, and a scarred man—nonetheless find each other a perfect match. And Arlene James continues THE RICHEST GALS IN TEXAS with Fortune Finds Florist. A sudden windfall turns complicated when a wealthy small-town florist forms a business relationship—for starters—with a younger man who has more than finance on his mind.

So Happy Valentine’s Day, and don’t forget to join us next month, for six special romances, all from Silhouette Special Edition.

Sincerely,

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor

Fortune Finds Florist
Arlene James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ARLENE JAMES

grew up in Oklahoma and has lived all over the South. In 1976 she married “the most romantic man in the world.” The author enjoys traveling with her husband, but writing has always been her chief pastime. Arlene is also the author of the inspirational titles Proud Spirit, A Wish for Always, Partners for Life and No Stranger to Love.

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

Sam shined the toes of his boots on the backs of the legs of his starched, dark blue jeans and tugged at the open collar of his freshly ironed, maroon-plaid shirt. Smoothing the sides of the boxy cattleman’s coat that he wore for protection against the cold north wind, he sucked in one more deep breath. He was as ready as he was ever going to be.

It felt odd preparing to talk business with a woman. Farming was usually a man’s province, but like he’d told the banker who’d put him onto this setup, “The times they were a-changing, and a wise man realized when he couldn’t stand against a tide.” Besides, he’d done his research, and Sam wasn’t as convinced of the folly of her plans as the bankers were. Farming flowers might be unusual in West Central Texas, but it was entirely possible, provided a man—or woman—had access to all the necessary resources. He did not, but neither did Sierra Carlton. Together…ah, now that was another proposition altogether, and one he’d come prepared to make. Couldn’t be all that different than talking his way into an equipment loan.

Sam looked up at the crisp brick front of the Lorimer building. Like Sierra Carlton, Avis Lorimer was one of the famed Puma Springs heiresses. They, along with a third woman named Valerie Keene, had each inherited a cool million from an old man whom everyone around town had assumed was a pauper, including the old man’s nephew, Heston Witt, who just happened to be mayor, a position ripe for embarrassment when people learned he had pretty much gotten left out of the will. Heston’s nose had been out of joint since because of it, much to the amusement of most of the town, although that didn’t stop anyone from repeating the gossip he spouted.

Sam didn’t have the foggiest idea what Valerie Keene had done with her money. All he knew about her was that she was rumored to have been quite the party girl before she married the town’s fire marshal.

He’d heard worse about Avis Lorimer. Some said she was a home wrecker and possibly even a “widow-on-purpose,” but she’d stepped in and used her money to erect this fine new building on the Puma Springs town square after the old one had burned and left an ugly, gaping hole in the block.

As for Sierra Carlton, it was rumored that she was the disinherited child of a wealthy Fort Worth businessman. Some said she was divorced, and some said she had never been married, though she had a daughter. Sam, however, was the last man to judge another. God knew that he lived with his own enduring scandal.

Sam pushed open the heavy glass door to the florist’s shop and stepped inside to the sound of muted chimes. Warmth and a wave of flowery perfume washed over him. He glanced around the large, attractively arrayed showroom. A moment later a short, heavy woman with a mannish haircut appeared from a doorway on the right. Assuming that she was Sierra Carlton, he introduced himself.

“I’m Sam Jayce.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jayce. I’m Bette Grouper. How can I help you?”

“Oh. Uh, I have an appointment with Ms. Carlton.”

The wide woman motioned to a flight of stairs on the left. “It’s at the front of the building. Just knock and go on in.”

Feeling foolish, Sam nodded his thanks and moved to the staircase. He started climbing. About halfway up, he paused, wiped his palms on his thighs and checked his hair with both hands. He’d been cursed with a cowlick right in front, so he’d taken to spiking his short, thick hair, not that it needed much help to stand up on end. Frowning, he dropped his hands and took the remainder of the stairs two at a time, keenly aware that if he’d been meeting with a man he’d have just worn a cap and said to hell with it. Dealing with females—adult females, anyway—always changed the equation, and that woman downstairs had unnerved him. For a moment he’d thought he was going to be doing business with someone who put him in mind of his grandma. That could still happen.

At the top of the stairs he turned left, toward the front of the building and strode down the hall to the last door. Rapping sharply, he put his hand on the knob, but felt himself freeze. The old girl downstairs had said to just go on in, but before he could convince himself to do that, the door swung open and a tall, leggy redhead in a short khaki skirt and a tan silk blouse with the collar turned up stuck out her hand.

“Samuel Jayce, I assume.”

For a moment, Sam couldn’t quite find his tongue. This woman definitely did not put him in mind of his granny. What she put him in mind of was a million bucks, and with just that one look he felt like the lowliest plowboy in the county. Why hadn’t he worn a suit? Maybe because he didn’t own one. Duh. Sure enough, though, he should’ve worn something other than jeans. Well, it was too late for that now. Shaking himself, he belatedly clasped her hand. It felt long and smooth and delicate in his own much rougher one.

Only a few inches shorter than his own six feet, she had long, slender arms and legs and a neat little waist that called attention to the thrust of her high, firm breasts, while the graceful length of her neck led the eye upward to her face. Though a little square, the symmetry of her high cheekbones and the crisp line of her jaw, accentuated by the stubborn thrust of her chin, nevertheless struck Sam as amazingly feminine. She had a perfect nose, very delicately arched brows a couple shades darker than her bright, curly, upswept hair and big, round eyes of green hazel spoked with a soft blue. Her mouth was neither too full nor too thin, elegantly shaped and painted the same shiny pinkish-orange as her short, oval fingernails, like strawberries mixed with crushed coral. Her skin, a pale, flawless gold, literally shined with health and vigor.

By appearance alone, Sam would have put her at about his own age of twenty-four, but the cool perfection of her makeup and the graceful assurance with which she handled herself pegged her as older. Sharp interest, accompanied by an equally sharp sense of disappointment, momentarily blindsided him.

“Just call me Sam,” he managed with what he feared was a frown and added too late, “ma’am.”

Her mouth quirked at that, but she merely beckoned him into the office with a movement of her head. He let go of her hand, realizing suddenly that he’d held it too long, and tried not to gulp as he followed her through what looked like a sitting area furnished with castoffs which were probably in reality expensive antiques, not that he’d know a genuine collectible from fire kindling.

“You can leave your coat on the chair there,” she said, turning in to an inner room. He shucked his coat, draped it over the back of a threadbare easy chair and walked into the other room. Pale wood file cabinets topped with an array of potted plants lined one rust-colored wall, and two tweedy, upholstered chairs stood before a sleek modern desk set at an angle to the front window. A bright floral carpet covered the floor and pale green curtains looped and draped about the windows. The executive leather chair behind the pale desk carried the cool green from the windows into the room.

Sierra Carlton performed a smooth little pirouette on the pointed toe of one high-heeled, tan leather shoe and walked behind the desk, dropping down into that high-backed chair. She couldn’t have framed herself more perfectly. The contrast of that vibrant hair against the calm green was breathtaking.

“Won’t you have a seat, Sam?”

“Thank you.” He stepped in front of an armchair and sat, trying not to be dazzled by the bright, vibrant woman across the desk. Telling himself that it was time to take charge of this situation, he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “Ms. Carlton, I’m told—”

She lifted a slender hand, halting the flow of his words. “Sierra, please. Only seems fair if you’re going to insist that I call you Sam.”

Nodding, he got back to business. “I’m told, uh, Sierra, that you’re planning to farm flowers on that hundred and sixty acres you bought northwest of town.”

She stiffened, pulling her shoulders back. His gaze fell instantly to the thrust of her breasts, and suddenly he had a problem of a different sort.

“What of it?” she demanded.

Jerking his gaze back up to her face, he willed himself to relax and lay out his cards. “Well, it’s like this. You’re wanting to do some farming, and I’m a farmer. Custom farming, it’s called. See, usually I hire out to the landowner to perform any or all of the farming disciplines from field prep to harvest. I have a full line of equipment, ample experience and I’ve been reading up on flower crops. Once I get a good look at your property I’ll be able to devise a planting program.”

“A planting program,” she echoed.

He spread his hands, warming to his subject. “Yeah, see, farming is organized, high-tech business now. We’re still dependent on Mother Nature, but we don’t leave any more to chance than we must. Now, most farming around here is being done on established fields, but that’s ranch land you’re sitting on out there, which isn’t to say that it can’t be farmed, because I believe it can, but it’s going to take a lot of soil preparation and hard work.”

She sat back, picked up an ink pen and began turning it end over end with her fingers. “I hope you’ll pardon me for saying so, but you seem awful young for this.”

“Yes, ma’am. Twenty-four last month, but I have a degree in agriculture from Texas A&M and plenty of personal references.” He fished a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and began unfolding it. “I’ve been in business for myself nearly four years, and I first hired out as a farmhand at fourteen, so I have nearly ten years experience.”

She took the sheet of paper that he offered her and looked it over. “There are addresses here from Longview to El Paso. You’ve been around some.”

“From the Piney Woods to the Rio Grande and the Red River to the Gulf of Mexico, but I’ve got to say as far as farming, this is the place to be. No other reason I’d come back here.”

She blinked at that, and he realized with a sudden flush of heat that he’d said too much. Trying desperately to deflect her attention, he stumbled on.

“That and my baby sisters. Kim and Keli, they’re seven. Twins. I understand you’ve got a little girl, too.”

Sierra Carlton smiled and laid aside the sheet of references. “Yes. Tyree. She’s eight, going on nine, as she’d be quick to remind me.”

He nodded, praying he’d found ground common enough to allay any hint of doubt he might have inadvertently stirred. “Maybe they know each other, our girls.”

“Could be. I’ll ask Tyree.”

He resisted the urge to swipe a hand over his face and instead tried to steer the subject back to business. “So, what do you think? Are you interested in taking me on? I’m convinced we could pull a profit at this if we go about it right.”

She tapped the capped ink pen against her chin, eyes narrowed in thought. “May I ask how you became aware of my intentions, Sam?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I heard about it down at the bank. Mr. Ontario’s been real good to me. Gave me my first loan so I could buy equipment, helped me pay for it by referring me for work, and just recently we’ve established a line of credit for me so I can expand.”

A bright smile lit her face. “Mr. Ontario told you about my plans? Frankly, I didn’t think he approved.”

That smile had the power to dazzle, and for a moment Sam was tempted to foster it, but one thing Sam believed in wholeheartedly was honesty, especially when it came to business dealings. He cleared his throat. “Um, well, to be honest, ma’am, he didn’t exactly tell me what you were planning. I sort of, like, overheard him talking about it to someone else.”

That amazing smile dimmed. “Oh?”

Sam shifted in his chair once more. “Yes, ma’am. I was sitting in his office when some fellow named Dinsmore called. I’m sure Mr. Ontario didn’t mean to be indiscreet, but I couldn’t help overhearing what was being said.”

Disappointment stamped all over what remained of that smile. “I see.”

For some reason he wanted to get up, go around that desk and hug her, or at least pat her on the shoulder. Instead, he sat forward and said with quiet conviction, “For what it’s worth, ma’am, I disagree with Mr. Ontario on this. I mean, just because a thing hasn’t been done in a certain area before doesn’t mean that it can’t be done or that it’s foolish to try.”

She smiled again, but this time it was a warm, seemingly personal connection that did strange things inside his chest. “What would you charge me for an undertaking such as this, from scratch, as you say?”

So there it was, the moment of reckoning. Sam eased forward in his seat and splayed his elbows on the edge of her desk, reaching forward to cup his hands together over the flowered border of her desk blotter. “Well, there’s the thing, ma’am. Sierra. This looks to be a very labor-intensive operation, and I’m guessing, frankly, that we’re pretty evenly matched here. You’ve got the land, the funding and, I’m hoping, the market connections, while I’ve got the equipment, the know-how and the strong back. I’d say that makes for a pretty equal partnership.”

“Partnership?” she repeated warily, and suddenly it was do or die.

“That’s right,” he said, forcing calmness into his voice though his insides were jumping like a bucket full of crickets. “A clean fifty-fifty split. I don’t see it working any other way.”

She blinked and huffed a long breath in and out. “Hmm.” She bit her lip, displaying the smooth, clean edges of her straight, white teeth, reminding him that the dentist had said the girls were going to need braces by middle school. Seconds ticked by. It was all he could do to sit back in his chair and wait without jiggling something. Finally she tossed down the pen and spread her hands.

“I hadn’t thought of taking on a partner,” she told him. “This isn’t a decision I can make on the spur of the moment, you understand.”

Defeat stabbed at him, but he fought it off with nonchalance. “Oh, sure, sure. I completely get that. You take a few days to think it over and let me know. Meanwhile, you might want to check out those references.”

She pulled the paper toward her and glanced at it. “All right. I’ll do that.”

“You have my number,” he said, sliding to the edge of his seat.

“Yes.” She got to her feet and stuck out her hand. “Thank you for coming. This was…enlightening.”

He took her hand in his and gave it a good shake. “Thank you for hearing me out, Sierra. I hope you’ll decide soon because there’s lots to do if we’re going to have a crop this summer.”

Smiling wanly, she placed both hands on her hips, glanced down at the desk and nodded. “You’ll hear from me next week.”

He had to be satisfied with that. She walked him out into the sitting room where he collected his coat, then all the way down the stairs to the front door of the shop. They chatted about the weather, bemoaning the gray skies and frigid winds with which they were beginning the new year and wondering if they would soon get precipitation and in what form. It was all very polite and formal. As soon as he stepped out onto that cold sidewalk, a feeling of doom descended on him, and he was suddenly very sure that he’d somehow blown it.

Well, he’d give it a week, anyway. He could afford to do that and still have plenty of time to make other arrangements if she didn’t go for the deal. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been refused, but something about this meeting rankled deep within him. He couldn’t have said why, but as he walked along the street to the battered double-cab, dually pickup parked in a lot behind the city hall, Sam felt his stomach churn with failure.

Sierra slid along the shop window, watching Sam Jayce stride down the street with a long-stepping, shoulder-rocking swagger, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. She didn’t really know what she’d expected to find in Sam Jayce, but she sure hadn’t expected such a supremely confident and accomplished young man.

Moments after Sam left the building, Bette came into the showroom in answer to the door chime in case they had a customer. Sierra didn’t turn around as she asked, “So, what do you think?”

“I think I wish I was at least fifteen years younger and fifty pounds lighter.”

Sierra glanced around with a wry smile. “He is pretty cute.”

“Cute!” Bette snorted. “Honey, you’ve been alone too long if those shoulders and that butt don’t strike you a little harder than cute.”

“He’s just a kid,” Sierra said dismissively. And he just might be the answer to her prayers.

A partnership, though. Pride rebelled at the notion. She was determined to make a success of herself, no matter what her father or anyone else thought, but Frank McAfree already believed that his daughter was completely incapable of handling her own finances, let alone her life. She could just imagine what he would say if she took on a partner, especially such a young, attractive partner, because no one could deny that Sam Jayce, whatever his age, was a very attractive man.

He’d put her in mind of a robust young Julius Caesar, even with that spiked, sandy brown hair. It was the shape of his head, from the perfect oval of his skull to his high forehead and prominent nose down to the square, blunt strength of his chin, which gave him that calmly powerful air. He had dimples that gouged into the lean planes of his cheeks, sleepy, pale green eyes thickly fringed with gold-tipped lashes and a perfectly sculpted mouth that added an almost feminine counterweight to the harshly masculine proportions of his face. But the rest of that package contained nothing even remotely feminine.

He wasn’t a huge man, maybe six feet tall and long and lean with broad shoulders and compact muscles that bunched and elongated with fluid power as he moved. She couldn’t help noticing the size and strength of his hands, the way his well-rounded thighs filled out his jeans, and yes, the rear view was enough to make a woman look twice. She just wished he was about ten or twenty years older.

On the other hand, perhaps his youth was in his favor. All the older men to whom she had proposed farming flowers had treated her like a foolish child. Maybe Sam Jayce was just young enough to still believe in dreams and brash enough to try to make them come true. But how could she know?

She would check his references, of course, but any name listed there would have been chosen because it guaranteed a glowing report. Better to speak with someone with no vested interest, someone in a position to know the scuttlebutt. It was time to pay a visit to an old friend.

The January wind cut like a knife when she got out of the sleek foreign luxury car that had been her first real indulgence after receiving her unexpected inheritance from dear old Edwin Searle. To say that finding herself among Edwin’s heirs had been a shock was a serious understatement, but the kind of money that he had left her, Avis and Valerie was the stuff of which dreams were made. It was also an awesome responsibility, and one with which Sierra was having a difficult time coping, though she wouldn’t have admitted it even to her own shadow.

The wind tugged at her jacket as she sprinted across the parking lot toward the coffee shop in the strip mall where she had originally opened her floral business. If anyone could tell her about Sam Jayce, it would be the coffee-shop proprietor Gwyn Dunstan. Sierra shoved through the heavy glass door and came to a halt just inside as the welcome fragrance of hot coffee and fresh-baked goods warmed her.

“Hey!” Gwyn greeted her cheerily, moving across the floor with steaming mugs and plates of oozing cinnamon rolls balanced in her hands.

The place was fairly busy, the cold Texas wind having driven folks indoors for a hot, fragrant cup and warm roll. Nevertheless, Gwyn quickly deposited the cups and saucers at a table of four men and called her teenage daughter from the back. “Molly!” Gwyn came toward Sierra with her arms open wide. “Looking good there, girlfriend. How’s life treating you?”

“Good. How about you?” Sierra returned the hug. Though known for her cynicism and caustic tongue, Gwyn was a warmer creature than many suspected, and lately she seemed softer, cheerier. She still retained that core of inner toughness that made her Gwyn, however.

“Same old, same old,” Gwyn said lightly as Molly appeared from the kitchen.

“Hi, Sierra.” Blond, pretty Molly had her mom’s same thin, taut, muscular build but with a nubile softness that drew boys like flies to honey. She occasionally baby-sat Sierra’s daughter. “How’s Tyree?”

“Looking forward to her birthday, which isn’t until the very last day of March. And we just passed New Year’s, for pity’s sake.”

“Kids,” Gwyn said. “They live from holiday to holiday.”

“Well, let us know when you put her party together,” Molly said.

“Absolutely,” Sierra promised, then she turned to Gwyn. “Can we talk?”

“Sure thing. Let’s snag a cup and head back into the office.”

Two minutes later, they were seated around the small metal table that Gwyn used as a desk in the cubbyhole behind the kitchen. “So what’s up? Dennis still giving you a hard time?”

“Perpetually, but I’m not here to talk about the magic reappearing ex.”

Dennis had turned up after a three-year absence—just as soon as the news of her inheritance had reached him—and he’d made her life miserable ever since. His influence had turned her formerly sweet, loving eight-year-old into a greedy demanding brat that Sierra sometimes didn’t even recognize.

“What do you know about a young man named Sam Jayce?”

Gwyn’s eyebrows went straight up. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m thinking about going into business with him.”

Gwyn sat back and folded her arms. “You remember that woman who was murdered a few years back?”

Sarah Jayce. No wonder Sam’s name had sounded familiar. “She was that woman beaten to death by her husband.”

Gwyn nodded. “She was also Sam’s mother.”

“Ohmigod.”

“Jonah Jayce was a brutal drunk. He beat her to death because she hid their baby girls from him.”

“Twins,” Sierra remembered.

“That’s right. Sarah was afraid, apparently with good reason, that Jonah would hurt them. Sam himself was long gone by the time they were born. He left home at fourteen, went to foster care at his mother’s insistence. A neighbor boy to the west of me was best friends with Sam. I remember that Sam’s foster mother used to drop him off so the boys could spend time together. He was always very polite, Sam was.”

“He still is,” Sierra murmured.

“Not surprised.” Gwyn shifted forward in her chair. “I heard that Jonah used to get drunk and show up at his foster home spoiling for a fight, and that’s why Sam dropped out of high school at sixteen and disappeared. He was twenty when his mom died. They must’ve been in contact because he showed up, assumed guardianship of his baby sisters and disappeared again. A year later the three of them moved back into the Jayce house about six miles west of town, and somehow that boy convinced old Zeke Ontario down at the bank to take a chance on him and started buying up equipment. Calls himself a ‘custom farmer.’ I hear he’s got a college education and a keen business sense. You could do worse.”

Sierra sat back with an expelled breath. “Wow. Gwyn, if your customers ever knew you retained this much about them… Sounds like life gave Sam lemons and he got busy making lemonade.”

Gwyn nodded. “I’ll tell you something else. He’s utterly devoted to those two little girls. I don’t think he has any sort of social life apart from them, and they’re happy, well-adjusted children, which is surprising, given everything they’ve been through. I know that for a fact because Molly baby-sat them for a couple weeks last summer. She had a killer crush on Sam for a while after.”

“I can imagine,” Sierra muttered, and Gwyn laughed.

“Yeah, he’s the sort to make the girls’ hearts go flitter-flutter, all right, not that he seems to notice.”

Sierra smiled, deliberately ignoring that, and picked up her coffee cup. “Thanks, Gwyn. I knew I could get the straight dope from you. Now tell me how you’ve been doing.”

Gwyn chatted about the recent improvement in her business and her concerns about Avis, who had been keeping mostly to herself. Genuinely interested, Sierra listened and nodded, sipping her excellent coffee. But in the back of her mind, she felt a little “flitter-flutter” of her own. Not because of Sam’s masculine, clean-cut good looks, of course—she wasn’t a teenager—but rather with the possibility that she might have found the means to making her dreams come true.

At least that’s what she told herself.

Chapter Two

Sierra glanced at the clock on the wall for the tenth time in as many minutes. She felt ridiculously nervous, and telling herself that she had nothing to be nervous about didn’t help. Her doubts about Sam Jayce as a business partner had been completely put to rest by her attorney, Corbett Johnson, who had confirmed everything that Gwyn had told Sierra about Sam Jayce and then some.

Not only had Sam put himself through college, taken on the responsibility of rearing his little sisters and convinced the notoriously conservative local banker to back him in business, he’d paid off the mortgage on the small house and forty acres that he and his sisters had inherited from their mother. In Corbett’s opinion, it was only a matter of time before Sam turned up a blinding success, fulfilling the expectations of apparently everyone who’d dealt with him. At the attorney’s urging, Sierra had let him draw up the partnership papers, which she intended to present to Sam today as a fait accompli subtly designed to assure her the upper hand. She doubted he’d go for it, but the papers left room for compromise, while still guaranteeing her the majority of control.

By the time Sam arrived—precisely on time and looking even more breathtaking than before in dark, heavily starched jeans, a simple white T-shirt and a fitted black corduroy jacket—Sierra’s heart was flittering and fluttering again. Maintaining a cool facade, she neatened the lay of her sophisticated surplice blouse, greeted him through the door she’d left standing open and waved him on into her office. His gaze flickered over her, and she felt her pulse quicken.

“Thank you for coming, Sam. Please be seated.” Sierra noticed a large gold college ring on his right hand.

He tugged at the sides of his coat and sat. “I guess you’ve thought it over.”

“Yes, I have, and I’ve decided to accept your offer.”

The smile that elicited crinkled his eyes at the corners, cut deep grooves into his dimpled cheeks and flashed an impressive expanse of strong, white teeth. Suddenly her heart wasn’t just flitter-fluttering; it was beating madly inside her chest like a wild thing trying to break free. Alarmed by her own reaction, Sierra forced herself to get down to business, sounding brusquer than she’d intended.

“I took the liberty of having papers drawn up, so if you’ll just sign, we can get on with planning our new venture.” As she spoke, she pushed two sets of stapled papers toward him, placed an ink pen on the desk between them and sat back, aware of his deepening frown.

He began thumbing through one set of papers. “You had papers drawn up? No discussion? No negotiation?”

Her confident smile faltered. “What’s to discuss? You spelled out the particulars yourself, fifty-fifty on the profits. You provide expertise, equipment and labor. I provide land and financing.”

He looked up, nailing her with a direct look launched from beneath the jut of his brows. “Says here that you get final approval on all expenditures.”

“I am providing the funds.”

“What about unexpected expenses—fuel, tools, research material, mechanical failures? They happen, you know, even with new machinery.”

She shrugged. “We’ll work out some sort of system.”

“Over which you get final approval.”

“Someone has to.”

He got to his feet. “Right, and since you’re the older one, that’s naturally you.” He shook his head bitterly. “No matter how hard I work, how much I know, how many times I’m proven right, I can’t change the date of my birth.” He pointed a finger at her, adding, “And don’t you dare tell me time will take care of it.”

He was right, of course, but this was business, and she would be foolish in the extreme not to try to take the upper hand. Wouldn’t she? “Sam, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just trying to protect my investment.”

“Well, that goes for both of us,” he said, swiping one set of papers off the desk and rolling them into a tube in his hands. “I’ll just let my attorney look these over and get back to you.”

“Yes, of course,” she said softly, feeling slightly ashamed and uncertain.

He turned and walked out without another word, the rigid lines of his back making his anger obvious.

Evidently she had miscalculated. She’d assumed that his youth would naturally compel him to follow her lead. Instead, she’d let him know that she considered his age a tool to use against him. Brilliant.

Sierra dropped her head into her hands. She had just insulted her best hope of proving herself as a businesswoman. So much for her future as a flower producer. Biting her lip, she considered running after him, but in the end she didn’t bother. If she let him walk out, chances were he’d just phone in his refusal and that would be that. On the other hand, if she ran after him, he’d demand more than she could give. Either way, the partnership seemed doomed. And, as usual, she had no one to thank but herself.

Sam yanked open the shop door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, executing a sharp right turn. As he stalked down the street he slapped the rolled papers against his thigh. So she was gorgeous, stylish, self-assured, wealthy and older than him—did that give her any right to treat him like a stupid, wet-behind-the-ears kid? He’d been beating himself up for days because he was sure he’d blown the best opportunity ever to come his way, and all along she’d just been waiting to cut him down to size.

Well, it was probably for the best. Hooking up in any way with Sierra Carlton would undoubtedly be a very bad mistake; an uneven partnership always was. Besides, she was too good-looking for comfort. The last thing he needed was a business partner who could distract him just with the blouse she chose to wear.

Hadn’t she realized that little wrap thing wasn’t conducive to a business meeting? Or was that the point? He could’ve stripped her with just the pull of that string tied at her waist. Didn’t she realize that? Maybe she’d intended to distract him, or maybe she wasn’t as smart as she looked. Just because she was older didn’t mean she knew everything. If she did, she’d know that anything personal between them was never going to happen. Not in his business. Who needed her anyway?

Unfortunately, he did.

The sad truth was that Sierra Carlton and her flower farm were still the best opportunity that he had found to get out from under his equipment payment and make some sort of stable future for himself and the girls.

Mouth thinning into a compressed line, Sam slowed his asphalt-eating strides and blew out an agitated breath. Dismay rose up and threatened to choke him, but his pride still stung so sharply that for a moment he couldn’t let himself feel the other. Then, gradually, the cold air began to clear his head.

Surely there was room for compromise. She had to know that he’d expect some leeway. She wasn’t an airhead, despite evidence to the contrary from that slinky, formfitting, crisscrossed little top.

He briefly squeezed his eyes shut. Why couldn’t she have just approached him as an equal? They could’ve hammered out an agreement in no time. It probably wouldn’t have looked a lot different than the one in his hand, but at least it would have been a mutually made agreement. He’d handled negotiations before, after all. He knew how they worked. Mentally reviewing past negotiations, he tried to enumerate the ways in which Sierra had screwed up this one and, therefore, deserved his scorn.

By the time he reached his heavy-duty truck, he’d worked his way around to a distasteful but honest conclusion. If a man had presented him with that contract he wouldn’t have been nearly as offended. Men always tried to one-up each other in a negotiation. It was expected. Moreover, if it had been grandmotherly Bette Grouper who had presented him with such a proposal, he probably would have signed without a quibble as a matter of respect. But it had been Sierra Carlton who’d drawn up that contract without input from him. Sexy, delicious Sierra Carlton.

He didn’t like where that conclusion inevitably led him. He wasn’t upset because Sierra hadn’t shown the proper and expected respect for him as a business partner, but because she’d treated him “man to man,” not as a man, and an attractive one to boot.

Disgusted with himself, he unlocked the door and got into the truck. Unrolling the paper against the steering wheel, he carefully read every word. It wasn’t a bad deal, all told, with one or two exceptions that could be easily fixed. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days to have his attorney look this over and offer a few suggestions. It would mean swallowing his pride, but he’d choked down worse. That’s what a real man would do, and nobody—but nobody—would ever be able to say that Samuel Ray Jayce wasn’t the real deal. Meanwhile, he’d make sure that he got his business sense out of his pants.

Sierra looked up from her desk a couple days later to find Sam Jayce hanging his elbows in her doorway. The sides of his cattleman’s coat were pulled wide, highlighting the powerful depth of his chest and the slimness of his hips. The cold, breezy weather had reddened his face and brought a sharp clarity to those unusual sage-green eyes. For a moment he said nothing, merely stood there, hipshot, regarding her implacably. Then abruptly he dropped his arms and strolled toward her desk, one hand reaching around behind him.

Time slowed to a crawl, affording her fanciful mind space to conjure impossible scenarios. He would walk to her desk, skirting it to reach her side, reach down, pull her up out of her chair and slam his mouth down over hers. No. He would skirt her desk, circle behind her chair, tilt it backward with his big hands and slowly lean in for a melting kiss. Or perhaps it would be a combination of the two. He would pull her to her feet, cup her face in his hands and deliver that melting kiss erect.

Her heart was pounding by the time he slapped a folded packet of papers onto her desk. She jumped, and the spell was broken. Color flamed in her cheeks.

“S-Sam.”

“Page three,” he said, pointing at the papers.

With trembling fingers, she unfolded the papers and peeled back the top two. An addendum had been typewritten in the space between the paragraphs indicating that a special account for expenses would be set up, the sum of which would be determined by an accountant furnished with estimates by Sam himself. Sierra could name the accountant. Scrupulously fair. Relief swam through Sierra as she reached for a pen and scribbled her initials in the space provided.

“Is this it?”

“Page four.”

She lifted the page and scanned the words. He had added four hundred dollars a month to the modest salary she had proposed, the sum of which would be taken from his year-end profits. She had expected him to double it but realized that she couldn’t very well make that proposal herself. He’d think she was patronizing him. She would have to make certain that the expense budget was generous.

She inscribed her initials again and, without comment, flipped over to the final page to sign her name in the space provided. He produced a second set of papers, and she memorialized those while he made good on the first set. When the second set was fully formalized, he folded the first and slid them into a coat pocket before sinking down onto the corner of her desk.

“Okay. Now that that’s out of the way, I need some idea from you about what you’re hoping to plant.”

She leaned back in her chair and tried not to look at those hard thighs on her desk. Inches from her hand. “Annuals tend to provide the showiest single-stem blossoms for flower arranging, but there are a number of perennials useful in arrangements, as well. I’ve put together a list of about a dozen plants.” She opened a drawer and extracted the paper she’d been working on. “I hope you can read my writing.”

He glanced at the sheet, nodded and said, “I’ll manage.” Folding the paper, he stowed it with the partnership agreement. “I’ll need to do some more research and get back to you.”

“When would you like to meet next?”

“Saturday work for you?”

“I don’t usually work on Saturdays, but the shop is open, so it’s no problem.”

He shook his head. “Not here. Out at the farm. I need to get a close look at the fields.”

“Of course. All right. Just come on up to the house whenever you like.”

“It’ll be early,” Sam warned. “There’s lots to do.”

“Really? At this time of year? I thought the real work wouldn’t begin until early spring.”

He stood. “You thought wrong. It’ll take pretty much every daylight minute between now and planting time to get the planning done and those fields ready.”

Surprised, Sierra nodded. “I see. Um, how early?”

“Daylight,” Sam said cheerily. She didn’t quite manage to keep the dismay off her face, and he chuckled. “Okay, eight.”

“Not much better,” she muttered.

He moved toward the door, tossing a wry smile over his shoulder on the way. “You’re the one who wanted to be a farmer. Of course, daylight comes a lot earlier in spring and summer, which is when the real work is done.”

Completely willing to humiliate herself in order to foster the easygoing banter, she made an exaggerated face of distaste.

Laughing, Sam reached into his coat pocket, extracted the agreement and saluted her with it. “See you Saturday. Partner.”

Partner. It sounded even better than she’d imagined.

Sam gazed around the high-ceilinged, octagonal foyer without expression. Sierra watched him take in the little artistic setbacks displaying vases of fresh flowers, naturally, and the open, sweeping staircase before he looked pointedly at the mug in her hands.

“Coffee smells good.”

Sierra tried not to show her surprise, though why she should be surprised by the fact that Sam enjoyed a cup of coffee early of a morning she didn’t know. Coffee was “in” with the younger generation these days. Funny, the longer she knew him, the older Sam seemed.

“Come on in, and I’ll get you a cup,” she said, turning down the central hall.

Glancing over her shoulder, she caught him looking from room to room as they passed, but her smile of pride died when she saw the frown he was wearing. So, he didn’t approve of her house, either. For Pete’s sake, it wasn’t as if she’d built a replica of the Taj Mahal. A quarter-million dollars happened to buy a lot in their corner of Texas, but not that much. The house was only 3,500 square feet, with three bedrooms and a study upstairs, where Tyree and Bette’s teenage daughter, Chelsea, now slept, and the living areas all downstairs.

The house looked elegant and expensive, much like the house in which she’d grown up, but with contrast-colored picture-framing on the walls and lots of arches and display niches and plenty of ceramic tile and lush carpeting on the floors. She’d put her money into the infrastructure, believing that it was best to build to last, and cut some corners on the fixtures, going for unique rather than expensive, but still she’d caught major flak from her father and bankers for spending too much.

She led Sam into the bright, white-tile-and-natural-woods kitchen with its cheery yellow-and-orange accents, took a cup from the cabinet and filled it with the best freshly brewed coffee that money could buy. “Take anything in it?”

“No, thanks.” He gestured toward the breakfast nook, pulling papers from his coat pocket. “Why don’t we sit and take a look at what I’ve come up with?”

“Sure.”

While he shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the back of a chair at the table, she placed his mug in front of him and sat down on his right. He sat, unfolded the papers and reached for his cup.

“Mmm, excellent. Now these are planting guides for the dozen blooms you stipulated and about ten more that lend themselves easily to our climate.” He shifted a specific paper toward her and added, “These are the bestselling exotics, but we’ll get into those later.”

“How many acres do you propose we plant?”

“I’ll know better when I get a look at the fields, but I suspect we’ll only want to put about a third of our—that is, your—acreage into cultivation.”

Sierra frowned. She’d envisioned the whole 160 acres ablaze in summer blooms. “Why is that?”

“It’s just good land management. Flowers and vegetables take lots of soil preparation. They require lots of nutrients. By rotating our fields, we can protect the viability of the soil and the quality of our crops. We’ll plant some cover crops and plow those under in order to feed the soil, but a third of the fields will simply lie fallow year to year. Fortunately, flowers are a high-yield, high-return product, so our acreage is more than sufficient. In fact, it’s quite abundant.”

“You’ve really done your research,” she observed.

He nodded, drank from his cup and went on. “We’ll need help initially. Flower farming, like vegetable farming, is a labor-intensive operation. Bear that in mind when you look over the cost estimates. Overall, the amount of soil preparation needed this first year will dictate how much initial profit we make, but I think a conservative estimate is twenty to twenty-five thousand.”

Sierra tried not to gasp in dismay. “That’s all?”

“Per acre.”

“Oh.” What she really meant was “Wow!”

“That’ll rise after we get over the hump of initial investment and figure out exactly what our soil will best support,” he went on. “The worst areas should probably go into lavender. It’s hardy, practically grows itself and is useful for sachets, perfumes, dried flowers and filler. Sunflowers are another hardy pick with multiple uses. The showier blooms are the more profitable, of course, so our best fields will go to those. We’ll be planting strips of rye and wheat around the perimeters of those fields to protect the blooms from the wind and get those nice, straight stems that you floral designers are so crazy about.”

“I never even thought of that,” she admitted.

He just shrugged and went on, his enthusiasm positively infectious. “We may have to do some irrigating, but I actually own a few sections of aboveground irrigation equipment that I took in trade for some work I did last year, and we have our own well here, so that’s not a major concern.”

Sierra sat back and regarded him frankly. “I have to say, I’m impressed.”

“Good,” he said. “That means you’ll listen while I make this next proposal.”

She would’ve listened to him read the weather report, but then realized that was very likely to happen, considering the business they were now in. “Let’s hear it.”

“Greenhouses. They’ll add to the initial outlay, but not as much as you may think. We’ll need two for start. One we’ll use to germinate seedlings. The other will allow us to grow the more exotic blooms that our general climate prohibits. I can design and build them myself. They’re very simple structures, actually, but I won’t lie to you. They could be expensive to operate. We’ll have to keep the lights on sixteen hours a day, control the climate 24/7 and do lots of watering. But the returns can be very substantial.”

Sierra bit her lip, excited but leery. One thing she’d learned the hard way was that money spent fast. “Let’s take a look at the cost estimates.”

They put their heads together over the numbers, and Sierra found herself dismayed. “Sam, that’s nearly all of my capital.”

“Surely you weren’t thinking of pouring cash into this,” he said.

“Why take out loans when you have cash?” she demanded.

“Because it’s smarter,” he explained. “Look. If you take out a loan and the proposition fails, you’re going to lose some property and some money, but you’ll also have money left. Once money’s spent, though, it’s gone. Yours should be tied up in long-term investment.”

“Most of it is.”

“It should stay that way.”

“But you pay interest on borrowed money.”

“And you make interest on invested money, which you use as a kind of collateral to secure your loans.”

“Tell that to the bankers,” Sierra retorted. “They won’t loan me money.”

“Well, that doesn’t make any sense.”

She glanced around her uneasily and admitted, “It’s this house.”

He hooked an elbow over the back of his chair and looked around. “It’s quite a house, but I don’t see the problem unless you owe more against it than it’s worth.”

“That’s the thing,” she said warily. “I don’t owe anything against this house, and I absolutely refuse to use it as collateral.”

He stared at her for a moment. “You actually paid cash for this house?”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “Yes. A quarter of a million dollars. And I’d do it again.”

He just shook his head. “Women!”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Don’t get your shorts in a twist, er, panties.” He waved that away, too. “What I mean is that women seem to have a peculiar anxiety about the security of their homes. My mom was the same way.”

At the mention of his mother, his voice became wistful. It completely destroyed whatever resentment his earlier exclamation had dealt Sierra.

“What happened to your mother was a truly awful thing, Sam.”

His light green eyes met hers. “She stayed married to him because she was afraid to be without a home and, I guess, because he convinced her that she deserved what he dished out.” He looked away, and a muscle flexed in the hollow of his jaw. “Nothing I could say or do seemed to make any difference.”

She reached out instinctively and curled her fingers around his. “I’m so sorry, Sam. That’s such a tough thing you and your sisters have had to go through.”

He gripped her hand and smiled thinly. “The only good thing my father ever did in his whole miserable life was give us those girls.” His grin broadened, and the light of genuine affection and pride lit his eyes with a warmth she hadn’t seen before. “Seeing them happy, it makes up for so much.”

Sierra thought of Tyree and said, “I know what you mean.” The problem was that Tyree didn’t seem happy anymore.

“I see so much of Mom in them,” Sam was saying, “and no matter how screwed up her head was about Jonah, she protected them with her very life.”

“Oh, Sam,” Sierra heard herself saying even as she watched her hand rise and settle gently against the curve of his jaw. Their eyes met again. And held. Awareness flared in those fascinating green eyes, like miniature sunbursts, and Sierra realized with jolting certainty that this was no boy sitting here next to her. This was a man, very much a man, and a rare one at that.

As amazing at it seemed, she may have picked the right man at the right time. For once.

Chapter Three

Sam sat back, aware that he’d nearly made a very bad mistake. He’d actually thought about kissing her. Even in the best of circumstances, Sierra Carlton was not the sort of woman with whom he could afford to fool around. She was his business partner. Business and romance never mixed well. The repercussions could be fatal, at least to the enterprise. Only a fool would jeopardize a financial setup this good, even if she hadn’t been so smart with her money in the past.

Quickly retreating to the safety of business, Sam said, “We’re burning daylight here. I’d better get out and take a good look at those fields.”

Sierra set down her coffee cup as she rose from her chair. “Finish your coffee while I grab my coat, and we’ll take off.”

He gulped. “You don’t have to go.”

“Oh, I want to. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

He tried not to sound panicked when he asked, “What about your daughter?”

“She’s taken care of. I had Chelsea Grouper stay over last night.”

Sam smiled weakly as she spun out of the room, then hunkered down over his cup. What was wrong with him? He knew how a man had to behave in a business situation. The fact that his partner was a woman shouldn’t make any difference.

Maybe he should start paying some attention to his social life. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. Shoot, he’d never been with a woman. He’d been with his share of grownup girls, but not in some time, and he’d never been with a real woman, at least not one the caliber of Sierra Carlton. Somehow, she had a way of making him supremely aware of that fact. He rubbed his brow and chugged back the remaining brew in his cup.

Sierra reappeared wearing a bright yellow down jacket over her long-sleeved knit top and jeans. She was a woman who looked as good in jeans and boots and a fat, bushy ponytail as designer suits and more elaborate hairstyles. He wondered if she permed her hair and suppressed the urge to wrap a corkscrew curl at the nape of her neck around his finger as he followed her to the back door. They stepped down into a three-car garage that was empty except for her expensive sedan.

“We should take my truck,” he pointed out belatedly.

“Oh. Right. Should’ve thought of that. This way, then.” She led him through a side door and around the house to the front, where he’d parked his truck at the top of the graveled, circular drive.

He hadn’t bothered to lock up, and she was inside before he even had the chance to go for her door, which irked him mildly, though he told himself that equals didn’t bother opening doors for one another, even if one of them was female.

“Where’s the gate?” he asked, settling behind the wheel.

“Gate? The property’s only fenced on two sides. Is that a problem?”

“Naw, not really. Barbed wire will only keep the big critters out, anyway. We may want to string some chicken wire, though.”

“I’m beginning to realize how much I don’t know,” she muttered, reaching for her safety belt.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

He slid the key into the ignition and started the truck, but before he could put the transmission into gear, she reached across and clapped a hand over his forearm.

“Put on your seat belt first.”

The admonition flew through him. Before he could think, certainly before he could reason, he had shaken off her hand and snapped, “You may be my partner, but you aren’t my mother!”

Her mouth dropped open, and matching ire flashed in her blue-green eyes. “I’m not trying to be!”

“Aren’t you?”

“No! You’re in the car, you put a belt on.”

“You have to get over this age thing, Sierra, or we just can’t work together.”

“What has this got to do with age?” She threw up her hands. “You’ve spent the morning proving how invaluable you are. Is it so surprising that I don’t want you taking unnecessary chances with your personal safety?”

“We aren’t going to drive on the interstate.”

“If your sisters were in this truck, wouldn’t you expect them to buckle up?”

That set him back. If the girls had been in the truck, he’d have buckled his seat belt without even thinking about it, because he always did when they were with him and because he always insisted that they do the same. Maybe he’d gotten in the habit of not fastening the thing when he was working on the farm, but that was no excuse. He tamped down his unreasonable anger and felt embarrassment rise in its place. He closed his eyes, set his jaw, then made himself relax it again.

“You’re right.” He pulled the seat belt across him and shoved the hasp into the clip next to his hip, then he yanked the transmission into gear and set off down a track alongside the house, probably worn down during construction.

“You’re the one who has a problem with your age,” she grumbled.

“Well, if I do,” he retorted, “it’s because so many other people have shown me that it’s a problem for them.”

“I understand that,” she told him, “but I’m not one of them. So far you’ve demonstrated great maturity—despite that little outburst just now.”

He pointed a look at her. “And you didn’t have a little outburst just now?”

She looked away, one hand going to a curl that had worked its way free in front of her ear. “Well, yeah, I did.” She turned an impish smile on him. “But nobody’s ever accused me of demonstrating maturity.”

He laughed, resentment waning. “I like honesty in a woman.”

She cut her eyes at him. “I’ll try always to be honest with you, Sam.”

Desire slugged him straight in the groin. He jerked his gaze forward, then hunched over the wheel, silently cursing the restrictions of that belt. “Th-that’s good. Partners should be honest with one another.”

“We’re going to be good together. I know we are.”

He nearly burst his zipper. Abruptly, he guided the truck off the trail to the left, hoping that the buck and bounce of crossing rough ground would prove an adequate distraction for both of them.

Sierra pushed back into her seat. “What are you doing?”

“Just trying to get the lay of the land.”

So much for honesty.

“I’m not sure I should’ve let you talk me into this,” Sierra murmured, stepping up into the bank lobby with Sam at her side.

“The door swings both ways,” he reminded her succinctly. “I don’t know what you’re carping about, though. It’s my credit.”

“But I’m supposed to provide the capital.”

“You are. You’re securing my credit with your capital and reestablishing your own in the process. Without risking your precious home, I might add.”

Sierra sighed, convinced again but still not liking it. He was taking a huge chance by putting his own credit rating on the line like this. For her dream. She wasn’t entirely persuaded that it was going to work out, though. Surely no one would loan such a young man the kind of money they were seeking.

Zeke Ontario came out of his office and strode toward them, hand outstretched. “Sam. Sierra. I’m surprised to see you two here together.”

Sam spoke up before Sierra had a chance to do so. “Sierra and I have entered into a partnership, Zeke.”

“Not that flower thing,” the banker said impatiently.

“That very promising flower thing,” Sam confirmed, nodding at Sierra, “and we’ve got the figures to prove it.”

Sierra held out the large envelope that contained their papers and lifted her chin. “What would you say to an initial profit of twenty-five thousand per acre?”

Zeke Ontario’s bushy gray eyebrows went straight up, but to Sierra’s irritation, he looked to Sam for confirmation. “Is this true?”

“You know I like to err on the conservative side, Zeke,” Sam drawled.

“Well,” the elderly banker said, sweeping an arm toward his office, “let’s have us a little chat then.”

“Thought you’d say that,” Sam teased, laying his hand in the small of Sierra’s back and ushering her forward.

Sierra felt a little thrill of victory. Or was it something else?

She tried to push that aside as she preceded the men into the office. To her deep personal embarrassment, she was beginning to feel too much attraction to her young partner, and she could just imagine what her father would say to that if he should ever learn of it. He still hadn’t forgiven her for eloping with Dennis Carlton ten years ago, and it didn’t help that he’d been right about Dennis, either.

She’d been a foolish nineteen-year-old, at odds with her father since the death of her mother some seven years earlier. She’d been so sure that Dennis would give her the affection and approval that her father hadn’t, but she’d been nothing more to Dennis than his ticket to the easy life. By the time Dennis realized that marrying the boss’s daughter had actually achieved the opposite of what he’d hoped, Sierra had been pregnant with Tyree. When it had become apparent that not even the birth of his granddaughter would soften Frank’s intractable disapproval, Dennis had split for greener pastures and only kept in contact with Tyree intermittently until news of Sierra’s inheritance had reached him. Now both her father and her ex were tugging at her again. Her father was trying to dictate her life while Dennis was doing his best to squeeze money out of her via their daughter.

Sam seated her in front of Mr. Ontario’s desk and dropped down into the chair next to her while Zeke made his lumbering way to his own place. Sierra removed papers from the portfolio, placed them on the desk and explained each one. The banker studied the papers, listened attentively, then looked to Sam. Again.

“Did you put this together, Sam?”

“Yes. They’re solid figures, Zeke. I’ve cited my sources carefully.”

“Of course. Hmm.” He studied the papers a few minutes longer, then hit the intercom on his desk and asked for a loan officer to be sent in before kicking back in his chair. “I had no idea flowers could be so profitable. You’ve put together a good business plan. We’ll check your sources, and if they pan out, which I’m sure they will, I don’t see any problem, especially with Sierra’s backing.”

Sierra stiffened, but she’d barely gotten her mouth open before Sam said firmly, “Sierra’s not ‘backing me,’ Zeke. I told you already. We’re partners. This whole thing was Sierra’s idea, as you well know.”

The old banker had the good grace to look chagrined. He actually tried to smile at Sierra. She looked down her nose at the old chauvinist, then flashed Sam a grateful smile. He winked, patiently awaiting the loan officer.

Sam was feeling pretty good when they walked out of the bank. The sun was shining, the ambient temperature had risen to almost forty degrees, and the first installment of a considerable sum of money had been deposited into his and Sierra’s joint business account—S & S Farms. They’d pulled the name out of thin air on the spur of the moment, joking about whose initial should come first. Zeke had suggested that they look into incorporation, and they’d agreed to discuss the idea with her attorney, Corbett Johnson. This thing was coming together. He had a good feeling about it, and from the way Sierra was smiling at him, he’d say she did, too.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, surprised.

“Zeke Ontario would never have given me that loan.”

Sam shrugged negligently. The truth was that he hadn’t much liked the dismissive manner in which the man had treated Sierra. So she hadn’t done the smartest thing when it came to her house; she could’ve done worse. Besides, he figured it was understandable. A single mother with a child to raise would do almost anything to secure her home. Maybe she need not have spent so much, but the shock of all that money must’ve gone to her head. Heck, he’d spent that much and more on farming equipment.

“Zeke’s a good guy, but he’s pretty old school,” Sam told her.

“Meaning that he thinks women make good tellers and not much more.”

Sam chuckled. “True, but he gave me a break when I needed it most, and I have to be grateful for that.”

“Yes, of course you do. And so do I since you’re my partner now.”

He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Can’t wait to get started, frankly.”

“When do you intend to start breaking ground or whatever it is you do first?”

Sam looked up at the bright winter sky, then down at the even brighter woman strolling along at his side. “Now seems like a pretty good time.”

Sierra stopped in her tracks. “You mean this very minute.”

He squinted at the sun overhead. “I think I can get a load of fertilizer and most of the equipment out to the farm by dark.” Impulsively, he tapped her on the end of her nose. “By the time you get home tomorrow evening, I might even have that little bottom patch tilled.”

“It’ll be a real farm then.”

“So it will.”

She laughed and shook her head, and for one heart-stopping moment he thought she might actually throw her arms around him, but then she just clapped them on her sides and laughed some more. He laughed, too, as he walked her the rest of the way to her storefront, and somehow the sun seemed to shine even brighter, as bright as the future. Their future.

Frank McAfree dumped his coat on the living room sofa and brought his hands to his hips in what Sierra thought of as his classical “rant” pose.

“What the devil is going on?”

“Well, hello, Dad, nice to see you, too. Glad you could drop by.”

“Don’t change the subject, Sierra. I asked you a question.”

Sierra folded her arms protectively. His carrot-red hair had turned yellow-white in the last few years, and his square face was sagging a bit at the jawline, but he’d lost none of his imposing authority. He’d always seemed larger than life.

“I assume you are referring to the plowing and the greenhouse.”

“Please tell me you haven’t sunk your funds into some harebrained scheme.”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”

“Then why plow up all that ground? And just how big of a greenhouse do you need, anyway?”

“My partner and I have decided—”

“Partner?” he interrupted sharply. “Oh, for the love of Mike!”

Sierra clamped down on her anger. “Sam is a well-respected custom farmer.”

“Farming is a very risky business, Sierra,” Frank said disapprovingly.

“I understand that, but Sam knows what he’s doing, and so do our backers.”

Frank blinked at that. “Backers? This project actually has investors?”

“Not exactly. We took out a loan.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “You’re going to lose Tyree’s whole future. Why can’t you be reasonable? If you’d sell this place and move in with me, you could reinvest and make your money really grow.”

“I’m not selling my home.”

“Why do you need this house? Mine is large enough for all of us.”

“I’m not selling my home.”

“Fine. Lose it, then. That’s what’s going to happen.”

Sierra put a hand to her head, where a dull ache had begun. “Dad, did you come here just to scold me, or was there another reason for your visit?”

He scowled, rammed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I’m concerned about my granddaughter. I called earlier, and Tyree said Dennis is taking her to lunch.”

“Yes.”

“He has no right to see her.”

“He’s her father.”

“He doesn’t pay his child support. He’s just using her.”

“I know that, and you know that, but Tyree doesn’t.”

“Then she needs to be told.”

“For pity’s sake, she’s eight years old!” Sierra erupted. “An eight-year-old cannot understand that her father isn’t capable of loving her.”

“Then keep him away from her! Take him to court if you have to.”

“He’s her father,” she repeated forcefully. “All that will happen if I take him to court is that he’ll be forced to pay his child support and my daughter will be even more angry with me than she is now when they also restrict his visits.”

“Well, you have to do something!”

“I am! I’m doing my best to maintain my relationship with my daughter so if and when her manipulative jerk of a father shows his true colors I’ll be able to help her overcome her disappointment and see that it has nothing to do with her.”

Frank made an exasperated sound, “That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard. Keep him away from her.” He shook his finger in her face. “If you had listened to me, none of this would be happening!”

Sierra hugged herself and said nothing, wondering if it never occurred to him that if she had listened to him, they wouldn’t have Tyree to worry about or to love.

It was a difficult morning. Tyree had been glad to see her grandfather at first, but he made so many derogatory comments about Dennis that she was in a surly mood by the time he left, so she argued with Sierra about cleaning up her room before her father came. Sierra wound up threatening Tyree with losing television privileges for the evening if she didn’t get her room straightened by the time Dennis arrived. Tyree was still up in her room banging things around and grumbling about having to do chores on Saturday when Dennis drove up to the house.

Sierra stepped out onto the front porch to have a word with him about the importance of him having Tyree home at the appointed time. The weather held bright and mild. The buzzing of a circular saw filled the air with the sound of progress. Sierra glanced toward the building site perhaps thirty yards away and saw that Sam had stripped down to his undershirt. He finished the cut just as Dennis got out of his car. Sam put aside the electric saw and brushed sawdust from his forearms and hair before peeling off the undershirt and shaking it out.

Sierra smiled. One thing she’d noticed about Sam since he’d started working here was his natural penchant for cleanliness and order. He never put away a tool without wiping it down, and he kept himself and his work site as clean as possible.

Footsteps crunched on gravel. Sierra turned to face Dennis and caught a disparaging look on his face.

“So that’s the plowboy.”

Sierra glared at him. Once Dennis had been handsome. Tall, dark, powerfully built, he had seemed manly and strong, someone who could stand against her father. Soon enough, however, his true weakness had been exposed, and now he seemed to wear it in every tired line on his face and the sag of muscles gone soft. She wasn’t surprised that he’d heard about Sam, but he had some nerve speaking of him in that contemptuous manner.

“Don’t call him that. He happens to be my business partner.”

“Yeah? What’s he plowing besides the field?” Dennis sneered.

Sierra’s mouth fell open. “That’s a filthy thing to say!”

“Oh, come on, Sierra. Everyone knows you’ve bought yourself a boy-toy.”

“That’s a lie!”

“You think I care if you’re getting down and dirty with that kid? All that concerns me is what you’re paying for it.”

“That really is all you care about, isn’t it, Dennis? The money. You can’t bear the thought that someone else might get his hands on it!”

“I’m thinking about Tyree,” he insisted. “It’s her inheritance.”

“Funny, you sure weren’t concerned enough about Tyree to pay your child support when it was all I could do to keep a roof over her head. You weren’t concerned about our daughter at all until I inherited a million bucks.”

“That’s not so. I just haven’t been as lucky as you. I’ve had hard times.”

“So have I.”

“Well, I’m still having a hard time, but you just don’t give a flip, do you?”

“Not even a little one.”

“You are one cold b—”

“Don’t think you can stand here and call me filthy names on my own doorstep!” she interrupted hotly.

“And some doorstep it is, too!”

“This doorstep is mine, Dennis. What does yours look like?”

“Oh, yeah, rub it in, why don’t you? Money gets dumped in your lap, and I’m living hand-to-mouth. I get that, believe me!”

“Stop it!”

Sierra whirled around to find Tyree in the open doorway, her face contorted, tears streaming from her eyes.

“Stop it!” she screamed again. “Stop fighting! I hate you fighting!”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” Sierra began.

At the same moment, Dennis accused, “Now look what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done?” Sierra exclaimed.

At that, Tyree tore across the porch and ran around the corner.

“Well, that’s just terrific!” Dennis shouted, throwing up his hands.

“Get out of here!” Sierra told him angrily. “I mean it, Dennis. Go!”

Dennis yanked open his car door. “Fine. You’ve ruined the whole day, anyway!” He dropped down behind the wheel and slammed the door. He was mouthing angry words as he drove away, but the window was up and the engine was running, and she didn’t really care to hear it, anyway. She felt physically ill as she swung off the porch and around the house to go in search of her daughter. This was one day that surely couldn’t get any worse.

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