Dear Reader,

I really can’t express how flattered I am and also how grateful I am to Mills & Boon Books for releasing this collection of my published works. It came as a great surprise. I never think of myself as writing books that are collectible. In fact, there are days when I forget that writing is work at all. What I do for a living is so much fun that it never seems like a job. And since I reside in a small community, and my daily life is confined to such mundane things as feeding the wild birds and looking after my herb patch in the backyard, I feel rather unconnected from what many would think of as a glamorous profession.

But when I read my email, or when I get letters from readers, or when I go on signing trips to bookstores to meet all of you, I feel truly blessed. Over the past thirty years I have made lasting friendships with many of you. And quite frankly, most of you are like part of my family. You can’t imagine how much you enrich my life. Thank you so much.

I also need to extend thanks to my family (my husband, James, son, Blayne, daughter-in-law, Christina, and granddaughter, Selena Marie), to my best friend, Ann, to my readers, booksellers and the wonderful people at Mills & Boon Books—from my editor of many years, Tara, to all the other fine and talented people who make up our publishing house. Thanks to all of you for making this job and my private life so worth living.

Thank you for this tribute, Mills & Boon, and for putting up with me for thirty long years! Love to all of you.

Diana Palmer

DIANA PALMER

The prolific author of more than a hundred The prolific author of more than a hundred books, Diana Palmer got her start as a books, Diana Palmer got her start as a newspaper reporter. A multi–newspaper reporter. A multi–New York Times New York Times bestselling author and one of the top ten bestselling author and one of the top ten romance writers in America, she has a gift for romance writers in America, she has a gift for telling the most sensual tales with charm and telling the most sensual tales with charm and humor. Diana lives with her family in Cornelia, humor. Diana lives with her family in Cornelia, Georgia.

Visit her website at www.DianaPalmer.com.

Connal

New York Times and USA TODAY Bestselling Author

Diana Palmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Cover

Letter to Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Copyright

Chapter 1

Because of the date, Penelope knew she wouldn’t find him at the barn. That was where he usually was at this hour of the day. Any other time, C. C. Tremayne was always two steps ahead of his men in feeding the animals, especially with the drought that had turned the grass brown and brittle these past few weeks. The drought had been a bad break for her father. Even with the Rio Grande only a few miles away, water was a precious commodity and wells kept going dry, leaving the tanks they filled empty.

West Texas was usually hot in mid-September, but the wind was up and it was unseasonably cold this evening. Penelope had worn a jacket outside, and now she was glad she had. She shivered a little in the late afternoon chill.

It was just beginning to get dark, and Penelope knew that if she didn’t get to C.C. before her father did, it was going to mean another nasty quarrel. Ben Mathews and his foreman had been at each other’s throats enough in recent weeks and Penelope didn’t want any more arguments. Her father always got bad-tempered when money was tight. Things couldn’t be much worse right now.

C.C. was drinking. She knew it; it was that time of year again. Only Penelope knew the importance of that day in September in C.C.’s life. She’d once nursed him through a flu and a raging delirium and he’d told her everything. She didn’t let on that she knew, of course. C.C.—he was called that, although nobody knew what the initials stood for—didn’t like anyone knowing private things about him. Not even the girl who loved him more than life.

He didn’t love Penelope. He never had, although she’d worshiped him since she was nineteen and he’d been hired as foreman when her father’s oldest hand retired. It had only taken one long look at the lithe, lean, dark-eyed man with the hawkish features and unsmiling face for her to fall madly in love with him. It was three years later, and her emotions hadn’t undergone any changes. Probably they never would. Penelope Mathews was pretty stubborn. Even her dad said so.

She grimaced when she saw the light on in the bunkhouse, and it was not even dark. The other men were out riding herd, because calving was in full swing and everybody was in a mean temper during calving. It meant long hours and little sleep, and it wasn’t normal for any of the men to be in the bunkhouse at this hour of the day. That meant it had to be C.C., and he had to be drinking. And liquor was one thing Ben Mathews wasn’t about to tolerate on his ranch, not even when it was being abused by a man he liked and respected.

She brushed back her light reddish-brown hair and nibbled on her full lower lip. She had her long, wavy hair in a ponytail and it was tied with a velvet ribbon that just matched her pale brown eyes. She wasn’t a pretty girl, but she had a nice figure even if it was a little on the plump side. Not overweight, just rounded, so that she filled out her jeans nicely. Her hair was almost red-gold when the sun hit it, and she had a line of freckles over her straight nose. With a little work, she could have been lovely. But she was a tomboy. She could ride anything and shoot as well as her father. Sometimes she wished she looked like Edie, the wealthy divorcee C.C. dated frequently. Edie was a dish, all blond and blue-eyed and bristling with sophistication. She seemed an odd choice for a ranch foreman, but Penelope tried not to think about it. In her mind, she knew the reason C.C. dated Edie and it hurt.

She paused at the door of the bunkhouse and rubbed nervously at her jeans, tugging her nylon jacket closer against the cold wind. She knocked.

There was a hard thud. “Go away.”

She knew the curt, uncompromising tone and sighed. It was going to be a long day.

Her gloved hand pushed open the door and she stepped into the warmth of the big common room where bunks lined the wall. At the far end was a kitchen arrangement where the men could have meals cooked. Nobody stayed here much. Most of the men were married and had homes on the ranch, except C.C. But during roundup and calving, the new men who were hired on temporarily stayed here. This year there were six, and they filled the building to capacity. But they’d be gone within a week, and C.C. would have the bunkhouse to himself again.

C.C. was leaning back in a chair, his mud-caked boots crossed on the table, his hat cocked over one dark eye, hiding most of his dust-streaked dark hair, his lean hands wrapped around a whiskey glass. He tilted the hat up, peered at Penelope with mocking derision and jerked it down again.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked in his curt drawl.

“To save your miserable skin, if I can,” she returned in equally cutting tones. She slammed the door, skinned off her coat to reveal the fluffy white sweater underneath, and went straight to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

He watched her with disinterested eyes. “Saving me again, Pepi?” he laughed mockingly, using the nickname that everyone called her. “What for?”

“I’m dying of love for you,” she muttered as she filled the coffeepot. It was the truth, but she made it sound like an outrageous lie.

He took it that way, too, laughing even louder. “Sure you are,” he said. He threw down the rest of the contents of his glass and reached for the whiskey bottle.

Pepi was faster. She grabbed it away, something she’d never have managed if he’d been sober, and drained it into the sink before he could stagger to his feet.

“Damn you, girl!” he said harshly, staring at the empty bottle. “That was the last I had!”

“Good. I won’t have to tear the place apart looking for the rest. Sit down and I’ll make you some coffee. It will get you on your feet before Dad finds you,” she mumbled. She plugged in the pot. “Oh, C.C.,” she moaned, “he’s combing the hills for you right now! You know what he’ll do if he finds you like this!”

“But, he won’t, will he, honey?” he chided, coming up all too close behind her to take her shoulders and draw her back against the warm strength of his lean body. “You’ll protect me, like always.”

“Someday I won’t be in time,” she sighed. “And then what will become of you?”

He tilted her worried eyes up to his, and little shudders ran through her body. He’d never touched her except in amusement or at a dance. Her heart had fed just on the sight of him, from a distance. He was very potent this close, and she had to drop her eyes to his lean cheeks to keep him from knowing that.

“Nobody ever gave a damn except you,” he murmured. “I don’t know that I like being mothered by a girl half my age.”

“I’m not half your age. Where are the cups?” she asked quietly, trying to divert him.

He wasn’t buying it. His lean fingers brushed back loose strands of her hair, making her nerves sit up and scream. “How old are you now?”

“You know very well I’m twenty-two,” she said. She had to keep her voice steady. She looked up deliberately to show him that he wasn’t affecting her, but the smoldering expression in those black eyes caught her off guard.

“Twenty-two to my thirty. And a damned young twenty-two,” he said slowly. “Why do you bother with me?”

“You’re an asset around here. Surely you know how close we were to bankruptcy when you got hired?” she asked on a laugh. “Dad owes a lot to your business sense. But he still hates liquor.”

“Why?”

“My mother died in an automobile accident the year before you came here,” she said. “My father had been drinking and he was behind the wheel at the time.” She tugged against his disturbing hands and he let her go.

She looked through the cabinets and found a white mug that wasn’t broken or chipped. She put it down by the coffeepot and filled it, and then she took it to C.C., who had sat down and was rubbing his head with his lean hands at the table.

“Head hurt?” she asked.

“Not nearly enough,” he said enigmatically. He took the mug and sipped the thick black liquid. He glared at it. “What in hell did you put in here, an old boot?”

“Twice the usual measure, that’s all,” she assured him as she sat down beside him. “It will sober you up quicker.”

“I don’t want to be sober,” he said shortly.

“I know that. But I don’t want you to get fired,” she returned, smiling pertly when he glared at her. “You’re the only person on the place except Dad who doesn’t treat me like a lost cause.”

He studied her smooth features, her soft dark eyes. “Well, I guess that makes us two of a kind, then. Because you’re the first person in years who gave a damn about me.”

“Not the only one,” she corrected, smiling in spite of her feelings as she added, “Edie cares, too.”

He shrugged and smiled faintly. “I guess she does. We understand each other, Edie and I,” he murmured quietly, his eyes with a faraway look. “She’s one of a kind.”

In bed, she probably was, Pepi thought, but she couldn’t give herself away by saying so. She got up and brought the coffeepot to refill his cup.

“Drink up, pal,” she said gently. “The vigilantes aren’t far away.”

“I feel more steady now,” he said after he’d finished the second cup. “On the outside, anyway.” He lit a cigarette and blew out a thick cloud of smoke, leaning back wearily in the chair. “God, I hate days like this.”

She couldn’t admit that she knew why without incriminating herself. But she remembered well enough what he’d said, and the way he’d screamed when the memory came back in a nightmare delirium. Poor man. Poor, tortured man. He’d lost his wife and his unborn child on a white-water rafting trip that he’d had the misfortune to survive. As near as she could tell, he’d blamed himself for that ever since. For living, when they hadn’t.

“I guess we all have good ones and bad ones,” she said noncommittally. “If you’re okay, I’ll get back to my cooking. Dad’s reminded me that he’s due an apple pie. I’ve been baking half the afternoon.”

“You’re a domestic little thing, aren’t you?” he asked strangely, searching her eyes. “Is Brandon coming to see you tonight?”

She blushed without knowing why. “Brandon is the vet,” she said shortly. “Not my boyfriend.”

“You could use a boyfriend, tidbit,” he said unexpectedly, his eyes narrowing, his frown deepening as he fingered the empty mug. “You’re a woman now. You need more than companionship from a man.”

“I know what I need, thanks,” she replied, rising. “You’d better stick your head in a bucket or something and see if you can get that bloodshot look out of your eyes. And for heaven’s sake, swallow some minty mouthwash.”

He sighed. “Anything else, Mother Mathews?” he asked sarcastically.

“Yes. Stop getting drunk. It only makes things worse.”

He stared at her curiously. “You’re so wise, aren’t you, Pepi?” he asked cuttingly. “You haven’t lived long enough to know why people drink.”

“I’ve lived long enough to know that nobody ever solved a problem by running away from it,” she returned, glaring back when his eyes started flashing black fire at her. “And don’t start growling, either, because it’s the truth and you know it. You’ve spent years living in the past, letting it haunt you. Oh, I don’t pretend to know why,” she said quickly when he began to eye her suspiciously, “but I know a haunted man when I see one. You might try living in the present, C.C. It’s not so bad. Even at calving time. And just think, you have roundup to look forward to,” she added with a wicked grin. “See you.”

She started out the door without her jacket, so nervous that she’d given herself away that she hardly missed it until the wind hit her.

“Here, you’ll freeze,” he said suddenly, and came toward her with the jacket in his hand. “Put this on.”

Unexpectedly he held it for her and didn’t let go even when she was encased in it. He held her back against his chest, both lean hands burning through the sleeves of the coat, his chin on the top of her head.

“Don’t bruise your heart on me, Pepi,” he said quietly, with such tenderness in his deep voice that her eyes closed instinctively at the tone. “I don’t have anything left to give you.”

“You’re my friend, C.C.,” she said through her teeth. “I hope I’m yours. That’s all.”

His hands contracted for a minute. His chest rose and fell heavily. “Good,” he said then, and let her go. “Good. I’m glad that’s all there is to it. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

She opened the door and glanced back, forcing a smile to her lips even though he’d just destroyed all her dreams. “Try some of Charlie’s chili peppers next time you feel like a binge,” she advised. “The top of your head will come off just as fast, but you won’t have a hangover from it.”

“Get out of here!” he grumbled, glaring at her.

“If I see Dad, I’ll tell him you’re getting a snack, before you feed the livestock,” she returned, grinning. She closed the door quickly and she heard him curse.

Her father was already home when she got there. He glared at her from the living room, her mirror image except for his masculinity and white hair.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

“Out counting sheep,” she said innocently.

“Sheep or one black one named C.C.?”

She pursed her lips. “Well…”

He shook his head. “Pepi, if I ever catch him with a bottle, he’s through here, no matter how good a foreman he is,” he said firmly. “He knows the rules.”

“He was making himself a snack in the bunkhouse,” she said. “I just poked my head in to ask if he’d like some of my…excuse me, your…apple pie.”

He scowled fiercely. “It’s my pie. I’m not sharing it!”

“I made two,” she said quickly. “You old reprobate, you’d never fire C.C. You’d shoot yourself first and we both know it, but save your pride and say you’d fire him if it makes you feel better,” she told him as she stripped off her jacket.

He finished lighting his pipe and glanced at her. “You’ll wear your heart out on him, you know,” he said after a minute.

Her back stiffened. “Yes. I know.”

“He’s not what he seems,” he continued.

She turned, eyeing him warily. “What do you mean?”

“You tell me.” He stared at the window, where snow was touching the pane under the outside lights. “He drove in here without a past at all. No references. No papers. I gave him a job on the strength of my instinct and his very evident ability with animals and figures. But he’s no more a line-riding cowboy than I am a banker. He’s elegant, C.C. is. And he knows business in an uncommon way for a poor man. You mark my words, girl, there’s more to him than what shows.”

“He does seem out of place at times,” she had to admit. She couldn’t tell him the rest—that she knew why C.C. was out here on a ranch in the middle of nowhere. But even she hadn’t learned from her involuntary eavesdropping during his delirium why he’d left that shadowy past. He’d come from money and he’d suffered a tragic loss, she knew that, and he was afraid to risk his heart again. That didn’t stop Pepi from risking hers, though. It was far too late for any warning.

“He could be anything, you know,” he said quietly, “even an escaped convict.”

“I doubt that.” She grinned. “He’s too honest. Remember when you lost that hundred-dollar bill out in the barn, and C.C. brought it to you? I’ve seen him go out of his way to help other cowboys who were down on their luck. He’s got a temper, but he isn’t cruel with it. He growls and curses and the men get a little amused, but it’s only when he’s fighting mad that they run for the hills. And even then, he’s in complete control. He never seems to lose it.”

“I’ve noticed that. But a man in that kind of control, all the time, may have a reason,” he reminded her. “There are other men. Don’t take chances.”

“You old faker,” she muttered. “You’re always pushing me at him.”

He threw up his hands. “I like him. But I can afford to. You understand what I mean?”

She grimaced. “I guess so. Okay. I’ll let Brandon take me to the movies, how about that?”

He made a face. “What a consolation prize,” he grumbled. “The poor man’s a clown. How he ever got through veterinary school is beyond me, with his sense of humor! He’s the kind of man who would show a stuffed cow at a championship cattle show.”

“My kind of man, all right,” she said fervently, smiling. “He’s uncomplicated.”

“He’s a wild man,” he countered.

“I’ll tame him,” she promised. “Now let me get those apple pies finished, okay?”

“Okay. But I’ll take C.C.’s to him,” he added gently. “I want to see for myself if he’s eating.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and went to the kitchen, sighing her relief once she was out of sight.

Chapter 2

Brandon Hale was a carrot-topped maniac, and in his spare time, he was a veterinarian. Pepi adored him. Probably if her heart hadn’t been appropriated by C.C., she might have married Brandon one day.

He came by just as Pepi and her father were sitting down to the supper table.

“Oh, boy, apple pie.” Brandon grinned, staring at the luscious treat Pepi had made. “Hello, Mr. Mathews, how are you?”

“Hungry,” Ben said shortly. “And don’t eye my apple pie. I’m not sharing it.”

“But you will, won’t you?” Brandon leaned down. “I mean, considering that you need your new calves inspected and that sick bull treated, and those inoculations given, with roundup on the way…”

“Damn, boy, that’s hitting below the belt,” Ben groaned.

“Just one little slice,” Brandon said, “the size of a knife blade…”

“Oh, all right, sit down.” The older man sighed. “But I hope you know I wouldn’t share it with just anybody. And if you don’t stop coming over here at night without a reason, you’ll have to marry Pepi.”

“I’d be delighted,” Brandon said, winking at Pepi from his pale blue eyes. “Name the day, honey.”

“The sixth of July, twenty years from now,” she promised, passing the corn. “I expect to live a little before I settle down.”

“You’ve already lived twenty-two years,” her father remarked. “I want grandchildren.”

“You have them yourself,” Pepi invited. “I’ve been thinking about joining the Peace Corps.”

Ben almost dropped his coffee cup. “You’ve what?”

“It would be something to broaden my horizons,” she said. Not to mention getting her away from C.C. before she slipped up and bared her aching heart to him. Today had been a close call. He seemed to be suspicious of all the attention she gave him, and worried that he couldn’t return her affections. It was getting too much for her. A year away might ease the pain.

“You could get killed in one of those foreign places,” her father said shortly. “I won’t let you.”

“I’m twenty-two,” she reminded him with a grin. “You can’t stop me.”

He sighed angrily. “Who’ll cook and keep house and—”

“You can hire somebody.”

“Sure.” Her father laughed.

That brought home the true situation, and she felt instantly regretful that she’d brought it up. “I won’t go right away,” she promised. “And don’t worry, things will get better.”

“Pray for rain,” Brandon suggested between bites. “Everybody else is. I’ve never seen so many ranchers in church.”

“I’ve seen prayers work miracles,” Ben remarked, and launched into some tales that kept Pepi’s mind off C.C.

After they’d finished off half of Pepi’s apple pie, Brandon went out with her father to check the sick bull. “I don’t usually do night work when I can get out of it,” Brandon told Pepi. “But for an apple pie like that, I’d come out to deliver a calf at three in the morning.”

“I’ll remember that,” she said pertly, grinning.

“You’re cute,” he said. “I mean that. You’re really cute, and if you ever want to propose matrimony, just go ahead. I won’t even play hard to get.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep you in mind, along with my other dozen suitors,” she said lightly.

“How about a movie Friday night? We’ll run over to El Paso and eat supper before we go to the theater.”

“Terrific,” she agreed. He was loads of fun and she needed to get away.

“I won’t get back until midnight, I guess,” her father called out. “After we check that bull down at the Berry place, I want to look over Berry’s books before the tax man gets them. Don’t wait up.”

“Okay. Have fun,” she called back. It was a joke between them, because Jack Berry kept books that would have confounded a lawyer. It was almost estimated tax time, and Jack was the ranch’s only bookkeeper. They should have hired somebody more qualified, but Jack was elderly and couldn’t do outside work. Her father had a soft heart. Rather than see the old man on welfare, Ben had hired him to keep the books. Which meant, unfortunately, that Ben had to do most of the figuring over again at tax time. His soft heart was one reason the ranch was in the hole. He didn’t really have a business head like his own father had possessed. Without C.C.’s subtle guidance, the ranch would have gone on the auction block three years ago. It still might.

C.C. She frowned, turning toward the back door. She was worried about him. He hadn’t seemed too drunk when she’d gone to check on him earlier, and that was unusual. His yearly binges were formidable. She’d better give him another look, before her father thought to check him out at midnight.

The bunkhouse was filling up. There were three men in it, now, the newest temporary hands. But C.C. wasn’t there.

“He was pretty tight-lipped about where he was going, Miss Mathews,” one of the men volunteered. “But I’d guess he was headed into Juárez from the direction he took.”

“Oh, boy,” she sighed. “Did he take the pickup or his own car?”

“His own car—that old Ford.”

“Thanks.”

It was a good thing she drove, she thought angrily. One of these days she’d be gone, and who’d take care of that wild-eyed cowboy then? The thought depressed her. He wouldn’t have any trouble finding somebody to do that, not with his looks. And there was always Edie.

She turned off on the road that led to the border. The official at the border remembered the big white Ford—there hadn’t been a lot of traffic across, since it was a weekday night. She thanked him, went across and drove around until she found the white Ford parked with characteristic haphazardness in a parking space. She pulled in beside it and got out.

Fortunately she hadn’t taken time to change. She was wearing jeans and a checked shirt with a pullover sweater and boots, just the outfit for walking around at night. She was a little nervous because she didn’t like going places alone after dark. Especially the kind of place she was sure C.C. was going to be in. Too, she was worried in case her father came home and needed to ask her anything. Her closed bedroom door might fool him into thinking she was just asleep, but if he saw the pickup missing, he might get suspicious. She didn’t want him to fire C.C. He liked the man, but if C.C. didn’t tell him why he was drinking—and C.C. wouldn’t—then her father was very likely to let him go anyway.

There was a bar not a block away from where she parked. She had a feeling that C.C. was in it, but when she looked inside, there were mostly Mexican men and only one or two young Americans. She walked the streets, peeking into bars, and almost got picked up once. Finally, miserable and worried, she turned and started back to the truck. On the way, she glanced into that first bar again—and there he was, leaning back in a chair at a corner table.

She walked in and went back to the corner table.

“Oh…” C.C. let out a word that he normally wouldn’t have. He was cold and dangerous looking now, not the easily handled man of a few hours ago. She knew that her old tactics wouldn’t work this time.

“Hi,” she said gently.

“If you’re here to drag me back, forget it,” he drawled, glaring at her from bloodshot eyes. There was a half-empty tequila bottle on the table and an empty glass beside it. “I won’t go.”

“It’s hot in here,” she remarked, feeling her way. “Some air might help you.”

He laughed drunkenly. “Think so? Suppose I pass out, tomboy. Will you throw me over your shoulder and carry me home?”

That hurt. He made her out to be some female Amazon. Perhaps that was how he thought of her—as just one of the boys. But she smiled. “I might try,” she agreed.

He studied her with disinterested brevity. “Still in jeans. Always wearing something manly. Do you have legs, tomboy? Do you even have breasts—?”

“I’ll bet you can’t walk to the car by yourself,” she cut him off, trying not to blush, because his voice carried and one or two of the patrons were openly staring their way.

He stopped what he was saying to scowl at her. “The hell I can’t,” he replied belligerently.

“Prove it,” she challenged. “Let’s see you get there without falling flat on your face.”

He muttered something rough and got to his feet, swaying a little. He took out a twenty-dollar bill and tossed it onto the bar, his hat cocked arrogantly over one eye, his tall, lithe body slightly stooped. “Keep the change,” he told the man.

Pepi congratulated herself silently on her strategy as he weaved out onto the street. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead hesitantly.

“Hot,” he murmured. He shook his head, his breath coming hard and heavy. He turned to look at Pepi, frowning slightly. “I thought we were going for a walk.”

“Sure,” she said.

“Come here, then, sweet girl,” he coaxed, holding out his arm. “I can’t let you get lost, can I?”

It was the liquor talking, and she knew it. But it was so sweet to have his arm around her shoulder, his head bent to hers, his breath against her forehead. Even the scent of the tequila wasn’t that unpleasant.

“So sweet,” he said heavily, walking her away from the car, not toward it. “I don’t want to go home. Let’s just walk the night away.”

“C.C., it’s dangerous in this part of the city,” she began softly.

“My name…is Connal,” he said abruptly.

That was faintly shocking, to know that he had a real name. She smiled. “It’s nice. I like it.”

“Yours is Penelope Marie,” he laughed roughly. “Penelope Marie Mathews.”

“Yes.” She hadn’t known that he knew her full name. It was flattering.

“Suppose we change it to Tremayne?” he asked, hesitating. “Sure, why not? You’re always looking after me, Penelope Marie Mathews, so why don’t you marry me and do the thing right?” While she was absorbing the shock, he looked around weavingly. “Aha, sure, there’s one of those all-night chapels. Come on.”

“C.C., we can’t…!”

He blinked at her horrified expression. “Sure we can. Come on, honey, we don’t have to have any papers or anything. And it’s all legal.”

She bit her lower lip. She couldn’t let him do this, she thought, panicking. When he sobered up and found out, he’d kill her. Not only that, she wasn’t sure if a Mexican marriage was binding; she didn’t know what the law was.

“Listen, now,” she began.

“If you won’t marry me,” he threatened with drunken cunning, “I’ll shoot up a bar and get us landed in jail. Right now, Pepi. This minute. I mean it.”

Obviously he did. She gave in. Surely nobody in his right mind would marry them with him in that visibly drunken condition. So she went along with him, worried to death about how she was going to get him home. But she knew that he owned a Beretta and had a permit for it, and she couldn’t be sure that he didn’t have it on him. God forbid that he should shoot somebody!

He dragged her into the wedding chapel. Unfortunately the Mexican who married them spoke little English, and Pepi’s halting Spanish was inadequate to explain what was going on. C.C., she recalled, spoke the language fluently. He broke in on her stumbling explanation and rattled off something that made the little man grin. The Mexican went away and came back with a Bible and two women. He launched into rapid-fire Spanish, cueing first Pepi and then C.C. to say si and then he said something else, grinned, and then a terrified Pepi was being hugged and kissed by the women. C.C. scrawled his signature on a paper and rattled off some more Spanish while the little man wrote a few other things on the paper.

“That’s all there is to it.” C.C. grinned at Pepi. “Here. All nice and legal. Give me a kiss, wife.”

He held out the paper, took a deep breath, and slid to the floor of the chapel.

The next few minutes were hectic. Pepi finally managed to convey to the Mexican family that she had to get him to the car. They brought in a couple of really mean-looking young men who lifted C.C. like a sack of feed and carried him out to the parking lot. Pepi had him put in the pickup truck. She handed the boys two dollar bills, which was all she had, and tried to thank them. They waved away the money, grinning, when they noticed the beat-up, dented condition of the old ranch pickup. Kindred spirits, she thought warmly. Poor people always helped each other. She thanked them again, stuck the paper in her pocket, and started the truck.

She made it to the ranch in good time. Her father’s Jeep was still gone, thank God. She backed the pickup next to the bunkhouse, where it wasn’t visible from the house, and knocked on the door.

Bud, the new hand she’d spoken to earlier, answered the knock. Apparently the men had been asleep.

“I need a favor,” she whispered. “I’ve got C.C. in the truck. Will you toss him on his bunk for me, before my dad sees him?”

Bud’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve got the boss in there? What’s wrong with him?”

She swallowed. “Tequila.”

“Whew,” Bud whistled. “Never thought of him as a drinking man.”

“He isn’t, usually,” she said, reluctant to go into anything more. “This was an unfortunate thing. Can you do it? He’s heavy.”

“Sure I can, Miss Mathews.” He followed her out in his stocking feet, leaving the bunkhouse door open. “I’ll try not to wake the other men. They’re all dead tired, anyway. I doubt they’d hear it thunder.”

“Heavens, I hope not,” she said miserably. “If my dad sees him like this, his life’s over.”

“Your dad don’t like alcohol, I guess,” Bud remarked.

“You said it.”

She opened the pickup door. C.C. was leaning against it, sound asleep and snoring. Bud caught him halfway to the ground and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. C.C. didn’t even break stride; he kept right on snoring.

“Thanks a lot, Bud,” Pepi grinned.

“My pleasure, Miss. Good night.”

She climbed into the pickup, parked it at the back of the house, and rushed upstairs to bed. Her father would be none the wiser, thank God.

She undressed to get into her gown, and a piece of paper fell to the floor. She unfolded it, and found her name and that of Connal Cade Tremayne on it along with some Spanish words and an official-looking signature. It didn’t take much guesswork to realize that it was a marriage license. She sat down, gazing at it. Well, it wasn’t worth the paper it was written on, thank God. But she wasn’t about to throw it away. In days to come, she could dream about what it could have meant if it had been the real thing. If C.C. had married her, wanted her, loved her. She sighed.

She put the license in her drawer and she lay down on the bed. Poor man, perhaps his ghosts would let him rest for a while now. She wondered how much of tonight he was going to remember, and hoped he wouldn’t be too furious at her for going to get him or for leaving his dilapidated old Ford in Juárez. But with any luck, the old car would be fine, and he could get somebody to go with him to get it when he sobered up. Anyway, he ought to be grateful that she went after him, she assured herself. With winter coming on, it might be hard to get a new job. She didn’t want to lose him. Even worshiping him from afar was better than never seeing him again. Or was it?

* * *

The next morning, she woke up with a start as a hard knock sounded on her door.

“What is it?” she asked on a yawn.

“You know damned good and well what it is!”

That was C.C. She sat up just as he threw open the door and walked in. Her gown was transparent and low-cut, and he got a quick but thorough look at her almost bare breasts before she could jerk the sheet up to her throat.

“C.C.!” she burst out. “What in heaven’s name are you doing!”

“Where is it?” he demanded, his eyes coldly furious.

She blinked. “You’ll have to excuse me, I don’t read minds.”

“Don’t be cute,” he returned. He was looking at her as if he hated her. “I remember everything. I’m not making that kind of mistake with you, Pepi Mathews. I may have to put up with being mothered by you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll stay married to you when I’m cold sober. The marriage license, where is it?”

It was a golden opportunity. To save his pride. To save her flimsy relationship with him. To spare herself the embarrassment of why she’d let him force her into the ceremony. Steady, girl, she told herself. The marriage wasn’t legal in this country, she was reasonably sure of that, so there would be no harm done if she convinced him it had never happened.

“What marriage license?” she asked with a perfectly straight face and carefully surprised eyes.

Her response threw him. He hesitated, just for an instant. “I was in Mexico. In Juárez, in a bar. You came to get me… We got married.”

Her eyes widened like saucers. “We did what?”

He was scowling by now. He fumbled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. “I was sure,” he said slowly. “We went to this little chapel and the ceremony was all in Spanish… There was a paper of some kind.”

“The only paper was the twenty-dollar bill you gave the bartender,” she mused. “And if it hadn’t been for Bud whats-his-name helping me get you to bed last night, you wouldn’t still be working here. You know how Dad feels about booze. You were really tying one on.”

He stared at the cigarette, then at her, intently. “I couldn’t have imagined all that,” he said finally.

“You imagined a lot of things last night,” she laughed, making a joke out of it. “For one, that you were a Texas ranger on the trail of some desperado. Then you were a snake hunter, and you wanted to go out into the desert and hunt rattlers. Oh, I got you home in the nick of time,” she added, lying through her teeth with a very convincing grin.

He relaxed a little. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must have been a handful.”

“You were. But, no harm done,” she told him. “Yet,” she added, indicating the sheet under her chin. “If my father finds you up here, things could get sticky pretty fast.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he replied, frowning as if the insinuation disturbed him. “You’re only a little tomboy, not a vamp.”

Just what he’d said last night, in fact, along with a few other references that had set off her temper. But she couldn’t let on.

“All the same, if you and Dad want breakfast, you’d better leave. And your car is still in Juárez, by the way.”

“Amazing that it made it that far,” he murmured dryly. “Okay. I’m sorry I gave you a hard time. Do I still get breakfast?”

She relaxed, too, grateful that she didn’t have to lie anymore. “Yes.”

He spared her one last scowling glance. “Pepi, you’ve got to stop mothering me.”

“This was the last time,” she promised, and meant it.

His broad shoulders rose and fell halfheartedly. “Sure.” He paused at the open door with his back to her. “Thanks,” he said gruffly.

“You’d have done it for me,” she said simply.

He started to turn, thought better of it, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Pepi collapsed on the pillow with a heartfelt sigh. She’d gotten away with it! Now all she had to do was find out just how much trouble she was in legally with that sham marriage.

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