Heartache? He could write volumes on it.

Conner crossed to the highboy, his gaze snagging on a grouping of three framed photographs. He picked up one, his chest tightening as he studied the picture. It was a snapshot of Abby, one he had taken years ago. She was laughing at him, the wind molding the soft folds of her dress against her protruding belly. When that photograph had been taken, she was pregnant with Cody, and everything that Abby was, was captured in that picture.

Yeah, he could write a book on heartache, all right. And secrets? He had ’em by the truckload. Most of them were stored up in a whole lot of pain. But there was one that gave him comfort. And it was a secret he would take to his grave without ever giving it up.

He touched the face in the snapshot, the hole in his chest getting bigger. No one would ever know that the baby she carried in this picture wasn’t his brother’s.

It was his.

Dear Reader,

Once again, we’ve rounded up six exciting romances to keep you reading all month, starting with the latest installment in Marilyn Pappano’s HEARTBREAK CANYON miniseries. The Sheriff’s Surrender is a reunion romance with lots of suspense, lots of passion—lots of emotion—to keep you turning the pages. Don’t miss it.

And for all of you who’ve gotten hooked on A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY, we’ve got The Way We Wed. Pat Warren does a great job telling this tale of a secret marriage between two SPEAR agents who couldn’t be more different—or more right for each other. Merline Lovelace is back with Twice in a Lifetime, the latest saga in MEN OF THE BAR H. How she keeps coming up with such fabulous books, I’ll never know—but I do know we’re all glad she does. Return to the WIDE OPEN SPACES of Alberta, Canada, with Judith Duncan in If Wishes Were Horses…. This is the kind of book that will have you tied up in emotional knots, so keep the tissues handy. Cheryl Biggs returns with Hart’s Last Stand, a suspenseful romance that will keep you turning the pages at a furious clip. Finally, don’t miss the debut of a fine new voice, Wendy Rosnau. A Younger Woman is one of those irresistible stories, and it’s bound to establish her as a reader favorite right out of the starting gate.

Enjoy them all, then come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around—only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

If Wishes Were Horses…
Judith Duncan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JUDITH DUNCAN

is married and lives, along with her husband, in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. A staunch supporter of anyone wishing to become a published writer, she has lectured extensively in Canada and the United States. Currently she is involved with the Alberta Romance Writers Association, an organization she helped to found.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Chapter 1

The sun blazed in the bright blue cloudless sky and beat down on the rolling rangeland, the relentless heat shimmering up in waves. The hills and gullies lay like enormous, heaving wrinkles in the earth’s surface, the folds held in place by the sharply defined mountains rising up in the west. A vast cloud of dust hung in the air, forming a golden aura that cloaked the landscape and distorted the horizon. Overhead, two red-tailed hawks circled, watching for unwary gophers.

The bawling of calves and the shouts of cowhands carried in the thin mountain air, echoing in the crystal clarity. Hundreds of white-faced cows and their spring calves plodded onward through the rolling terrain, marshalled into a long meandering column by watchful riders. The cloud of yellow dust hung suspended above the undulating herd, the fine grit coating the newly unfurled leaves of the cottonwoods and wolf willow, finally settling on the new shoots of grass struggling through last year’s thatch.

It was spring roundup on the Cripple Creek Ranch, and it was a scene that had been played out over a hundred times before. Nothing much had changed, except the faces of the riders. It was a scene that was as much a part of the rolling country as were the great cottonwoods standing tall along the winding creek.

Conner Calhoun pulled up his mount at the crest of the small hill, giving the reins a light jerk as the big buckskin gelding danced and tossed his head. With his gaze fixed on the rim of a far-off ravine, he reached down and flipped open the case strapped on his belt and removed a cell phone. Not taking his eyes off the dark shapes, he hit the redial button, waited, then spoke into the mouthpiece. “Jake, there’s four or five strays heading for the south ravine. Send Bud with one of the dogs to bring ’em in.”

Conner watched a rider and one dog break from the main herd, then replaced the phone in the case. His horse threw his head again and impatiently tugged at the reins, and Conner gave him a second command, then settled back in the saddle. The slant of the late afternoon sun angled beneath the brim of his Stetson, and he squinted against it, the taste of dust drying in his mouth as he surveyed the state of his grassland.

It was dry—too damned dry—but thick cumulous clouds were racking up behind the jagged ridge of the Rocky Mountains, and Conner could almost taste the rain in that cloud bank. There had been very little snow during the winter, with one Chinook after another drying out the soil. It was the first of June, and they hadn’t had one really good rain since the snow-pack had melted. There had been just enough to keep the grass going, but his grazing land needed a good soaking, and soon. Unless he missed his guess, one was on the way—even the animals could sense it.

A series of shrill whistles pierced the din, and Conner’s attention shifted as the point man gave the signals to two hardworking Border collies to move up and turn the lead cows into a narrow draw. Three other riders also moved up, hazing the outside stragglers back into the ranks and crowding the herd into the gully, forcing them through the natural funnel. The lead cows, heads swinging, calves crowded against their sides, lumbered through the wide gate, while other riders flanked the herd, trying to prevent any of the range-wary animals from bolting.

The move today was the last stage of the roundup. Over the past couple of weeks, the Cripple Creek cowhands had collected cattle from the winter range. The steers and bulls had been driven onto the summer range and the remaining cows and calves were driven here, onto the home pasture for spring branding. Beyond the gate and hidden from view in a natural holding area, additional Cripple Creek hands were making the final repairs to the vast network of corrals, preparing for the job ahead. Today was the final drive. The cut would take place the following day, when the calves would be separated from their mothers. Then the day after that, the backbreaking work would begin. Tagging, vaccinating and branding each spring calf, and dehorning and castrating those that needed it. A rancher’s entire year and the viability of the herd revolved around that operation. And Cripple Creek’s future and fortunes depended on it.

And had for over a hundred and twenty years.

A strange feeling unfolded in Conner’s chest as he considered the history behind him. He surveyed the herd, his gaze snagging on the ragged line of old cottonwoods snaking through the valley below.

Sometimes he felt a real kinship with those big old trees. They had stood tall along Cripple Creek for decades—big, indestructible, able to withstand any storm. He respected their tenacity and durability. It was as if they were the silent sentinels, watching over Calhoun land. As if they were a fundamental part of it all.

Just as he was. For forty years, he had breathed this clean mountain air and tasted Cripple Creek dust. Yeah, this land was as much a part of him, as he would, eventually, become a part of it.

He had been born in the huge old Victorian ranch house, and he had spent his entire life in this part of southwestern Alberta, rooted in this ranching country. In fact, the Calhouns had been one of the original settlers in these parts, one of the American families who had been given huge land grants by the British Crown as an inducement to settle the rolling uncharted land. And there were many descendants of the settling families who still ranched in the district—the McCalls, the Ralstons, the Stewards, the Calhouns.

Because of that inducement, his forefathers had come here and put down roots, just like those old cottonwoods. His ancestors had been running huge herds of cattle when that part of western Canada was still a territory. And the Calhouns had been there ever since. Still ranching, still running huge herds of cattle, still part of the never-ending landscape. And although he would never admit it to a living soul, Conner considered it both an honor and a privilege to carry on that heritage—as had his father before him, his grandfather before that, and his great grandfather before that. He felt he had a responsibility to all those who had gone before him, to provide good stewardship of this land.

Impatient with his rider’s stillness, the big gelding pranced and yanked on the bit, his hooves striking against a rocky outcropping. A small twist of humor lifted the corner of Conner’s mouth, and he reached forward and patted his mount’s neck. “Getting antsy, are you, old boy?” Big Mac tossed his head and pranced again, and Conner responded with another half smile. He got the message. Big Mac had been on enough roundups to know his owner had picked one helluvah time to go woolgathering, when a year’s crop of calves and their mommas were heading toward the home pasture.

Picking up the reins, Conner cued his mount forward, and Big Mac instantly responded, lunging down the hill, stirring up more dust as he headed toward two stragglers grazing down by a ring of willows. Conner grinned. Right on the money. He’d had cowhands who weren’t as smart as this horse.

By the time Conner was ready to pack it in for the day, the sun had settled behind the horizon, setting the gathering clouds on fire. He had been in the saddle since dawn, and he was feeling every second of it. It had been a very long day, and he’d had his fill of range-ornery cows, heat, dust and, most of all, the new saddle he was using. A damned stupid thing to do—to use a brand-new saddle on a cattle drive. But his foreman had a bad hip, and his favorite old roping saddle suited Jake better. The good thing was that Conner’s butt had gone numb hours ago.

Turning Big Mac in a pivot, Conner did another pass of the herd, narrowing his eyes in the fading light as he surveyed the cattle, relying on his years of experience to detect anything amiss. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he turned his mount toward the lone figure of his foreman hanging over the pole gate at the north side of the pasture.

The effects of a fourteen-hour day in the saddle and some hard riding immediately piled in on him, and Conner wearily rolled his shoulders and glanced toward the western horizon. From the fading colors of the sunset, he figured it had to be after 9:30 p.m., maybe even later. Damn. Another day gone.

He shifted against the stiffness and rested his free hand on his thigh, thinking how the time had disappeared. There just weren’t enough hours in the day this time of year. It had been the better part of a week since he had made it into Bolton to visit his stepmother, and there was just no excuse for that. Although she tried not to show it, he knew that Mary worried if she hadn’t heard from him in awhile. And worrying about him was the last thing she needed.

She was only in her late sixties, but she had been fighting arthritis for many years, and a couple of years ago, she had decided to move into an assisted-care facility in Bolton. He had wanted to get home care for her so she could stay on the ranch, but Mary had been adamant.

And even though it was her decision to move into Bolton, Conner knew that she missed Cripple Creek, especially at this time of year. She had played an active part on the ranch for a lot of years, and had gone on more than her fair share of cattle drives. A skilled and fearless horsewoman, she could ride with the best of them. Though the choice to leave had been hers, he knew her heart was still here, planted in Cripple Creek soil.

Beginning to feel as if he’d gone a few rounds with a bucking bronc, Conner pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped the dust and sweat from his face, then jammed it back in his pocket. He recalled a bright yellow patch of buffalo beans he’d seen at the edge of the driveway, and he made a mental note to pick Mary a bunch of the flowers the next time he went to town. They were particular favorites of hers— “spring sunshine,” she’d always said.

The fiery sunset reflected off the windshield of the pickup parked alongside the fence, and the sound of country music blared from the radio within. A bantylegged man stood at the gate, one booted foot propped on the lowest rail, his arms hooked over the top one. His battered Stetson was tipped low over his eyes, and he had a piece of straw stuck in his mouth. As horse and rider approached, the Cripple Creek foreman undid the rope hitch and swung the gate open, leaving a space just wide enough for Conner to ride through. A grin split Jake Henderson’s weathered face, and he spit out the straw he’d been chewing. “Took you long enough. What was you doing out there? Picking posies?”

Experiencing a twist of humor at how close his foreman had come to the truth, Conner guided the gelding through the gate, giving Jake a firm reprimand. “I thought I sent you to the house two hours ago, with specific instructions to get into that hot tub of yours.”

Jake swung the gate closed and fastened it. “Hell, Conner. The wife would skin me alive if she knowed you was still aworking out here, and I was lazing in the tub. She just might turn up the heat and cook my hide for me.”

Backing the horse away from the fence, Conner watched the older man, another flicker of amusement surfacing. Jake had been telling the same tale about Henny for over thirty years—ever since he’d come to work for Conner’s father at the Cripple Creek Ranch. Jake and his stories were an institution.

Hunching over, Conner stacked his forearms on the saddle horn and narrowed his gaze at the older man. His tone was stern when he spoke. “I don’t want you out here again tonight, Jake. You get one of the hands to check the herd.”

The foreman looked a little peeved. “I ain’t an old woman yet, boss.” He smacked the hood of his truck. “Me and ol’ Bessie here will do that check on our own, thank you very much. I don’t trust that bunch to find their butts with a road map, a spotlight and both hands, let alone check this here herd.”

The laugh lines around his eyes creasing, Conner continued to watch as Jake Henderson climbed into his truck. “You never listen to a damned thing I say, do you?”

Jake grinned and gunned the engine to life. “Not if I can help it.” He pointed to the big, muscled, high-spirited buckskin Conner was riding. “Now you take that puny little horse of yers to the barn and give him his sissy bath. His feelings will get all hurt if he don’t get his bath.” Throwing the vehicle into reverse, the foreman gave Conner a two-finger salute and roared backward toward the buildings, trailing another cloud of dust.

Conner watched his foreman skillfully maneuver up the rutted trail; then he picked up the reins, cueing his mount forward, a wry smile appearing. He wondered if Jake was ever going to let up on Big Mac. Probably not.

True, most working horses preferred a good roll in the dirt after getting rid of their saddles after a hard day. Not Big Mac. Big Mac liked a good, long hosing down, and the longer the better. His shower habits had become the butt of some well-thought out Cripple Creek Ranch pranks. Like bath mitts and shower caps.

Once again aware of the numbness in his rear, he turned his horse toward the trail that led up to the barn. He didn’t know about Big Mac, but for him, it was definitely time to call it a day.

By the time they reached the crest of the hill, dusk had settled and a mountain breeze had blown up, carrying the clean smell of rain. The light wind rustled through the leaves, making shadows dance under the high, bright quartz yard lights.

Swinging down from the saddle, Conner pulled the reins from around the horse’s neck, then led his mount toward the darkened barn, unbuckling his chaps as he went. He paused briefly outside, straightening the horse’s mane as Big Mac took a long noisy drink from the watering trough. Having drunk his fill, the horse tossed his head, flinging water and making his bridle jingle. Noticing the first glimmer of stars overhead, Conner led Big Mac through the wide barn door, reaching for the switch mounted on a panel.

Light sprang from four bare bulbs quartering the long alleyway between the big box stalls, casting the cavernous structure in murky light. The sudden burst of illumination startled a flock of barn sparrows in the rafters, and Big Mac raised his head and paused, pricking his ears as three birds darted through the open door. Responding to a tug on his bit, the horse started moving again, his shod hooves making a hollow clip-clopping sound on the thick plank flooring, the sound echoing in the stillness of the barn.

Conner led his horse past the row of stalls to the far end of the barn, where he looped the reins through an iron ring mounted on the wall. Bone weary, he undid the buckle at his waist and stripped his chaps away, hung them on a hook, then stripped the horse of his tack.

By the time he led Big Mac into the wash area, most of the vibrant color had faded from the sky, and a deepening darkness pressed against the open door. He picked up the hose and turned on the tap, the sound of running water percolating loudly through the silence. For some reason, that sound made Conner very aware of how alone he was, and he didn’t like it much. He should be used to that by now; it was a feeling that had become his shadow over the years. And one he did his damnedest to ignore.

Trying to focus on what he was doing, he hosed his horse down. Satisfied that there wasn’t a trace of sweat left anywhere, he turned off the water and picked up a lead shank. Then he looped the rope around the horse’s neck and led him back to his big box stall, the horse’s hooves repeating the hollow clip-clop on the heavy planks. There was a fresh flake of hay and a measure of oats ready and waiting. Removing the lead, he gave the horse a smack on the rump; then he dragged the heavy door shut, shooting the bolt as he hung the lead shank on a hook by the door. He was feeling so damned beat up, he wasn’t sure he had the energy to make it to the house.

At the doorway, he paused, resting his hand on the frame as he stood staring out. Through the row of trees, he could see the darkened shape of the big old Victorian ranch house, the windows black and empty. Not even a glimmer of light to call him in. Knowing his mood was heading into a dark, empty place, Conner pushed away from the door, set his jaw and turned back toward the lighted shed row. He wasn’t ready to face that empty house just yet. And there was always tack to fix.

A big old gray tabby cat was already curled up on Big Mac’s saddle blanket, and she rose up and arched her back in a mighty stretch when he turned on the light in the tack room. He scratched her neck, then unsnapped his cell phone and set it on the ledge as a reminder to put it on the battery charger.

Selecting three new, unused headstalls from wooden pegs on the bare plank wall, he carried them to the workbench in the corner, then reached for the brown bag containing new snaffle bits and new reins. He always had extra tack on hand during branding—and getting these assembled was a job he should have taken care of days ago.

Turning on the dust-covered radio, he reached for the tray that held his leather tools. Above the soft country music coming from the radio, he could hear the wind change outside, and the fresh smell of rain spilled into the barn. A few moments later, the first raindrops spattered against the small window over the workbench. And Conner could tell by the way it was coming down that it was going to be a steady, all-night rain. Just what his grassland needed.

As he turned his head, his gaze caught on the old faded picture that hung above the workbench, the glass and frame also covered in dust. It was a picture taken of his father and stepmother years ago, shortly after Mary had come to live at Cripple Creek. She was astride a black horse, the wind ruffling through her dark hair. And she was laughing down at his father, who stood with his hand braced on the neck of the horse looking up at her. That dusty, faded picture had hung there for well over three decades—and was identical to the one that Conner’s father had always carried in his wallet. It was, in an odd way, a significant marker in Conner’s own life. He sometimes wondered how he and his father had gotten so lucky. Because Mary McFie had changed both their lives.

Conner had no recollection of his natural mother. She had died when he was just a baby, and John Calhoun, a taciturn, reserved, unsmiling man had raised his son alone. Then when Conner was four, a pretty district nurse had come to Bolton, and within weeks, Mary McFie and John Calhoun were married, setting the entire district on its ear. And not only had John Calhoun found a woman who changed his life, Conner had gotten the only mother he had ever known. She had fought John over the raising of his son, treating the somber little boy as if he were her own, and she had made a home for both of them. Once Mary came, it was as if a light had been turned on in their lives as she taught John Calhoun how to laugh. And then when Conner was five, Scotty was born, and Conner had learned what being a family was all about. He could understand why his old man had always kept a copy of that picture close by. It marked the beginning of a whole new life.

He was just replacing the screw in the last bridle when his cell phone chirped. Conner glanced at the clock on the radio. Ten-thirty. Strange time to get a call.

He reached for the phone, flipped down the mouthpiece and hit a button with his thumb. Bracing his arm on the top of the workbench, he put the phone to his ear. “Cripple Creek.”

There was a brief pause before a tiny voice spoke. “Uncle Conner?”

Going very still, Conner glanced at the clock again, an uneasy feeling unfolding in his gut. It was a Tuesday, a school night. And his eight-year-old nephew was calling from Toronto, which would make it half past midnight there. He straightened and turned to face the door, his hand tightening on the phone. Keeping his voice quiet and easy, he spoke. “Hey, Chucker. This is pretty late for a call. How come you aren’t in bed?”

There was another brief pause; then the boy spoke, a funny catch in his voice. “Remember how you told me—remember after Dad died and when I was only six, you said that if I ever was…um…was…um, you know, worried about anything, I was to call. Do you remember saying that?”

The uneasy feeling turned to something sharper, and suddenly Conner’s heart felt too big for his chest. His whole body tensed, he licked the sweat off his lips and spoke, forcing himself to use the same quiet tone to answer. “Yes. I remember.” He hesitated, looking for the right words, then spoke again. “Maybe you should tell me what’s got you worried, all right, sport?”

“Just a minute. I hafta close the door.”

There was the sound of a door closing, then a rattle as the boy picked up the receiver. “I’m in the kitchen and I don’t want Mom to hear,” he whispered into the phone.

Conner made himself relax his jaw. “Where’s your sister—is she there with you?”

“No. She’s asleep in bed, Uncle Conner. It’s only me.”

The anxiety in Conner’s gut intensified, and he walked over to the tack room door, then rested his hand on the overhead frame. Bracing himself, he asked the question he dreaded asking. “Is something wrong with your mom, Cody?”

“Yeah,” came a soft whisper. Then louder. “I think so. I think something’s wrong. I sometimes hear her crying at night, and she’s acting funny and she doesn’t go to work anymore. And she forgets things and she yells over dumb stuff.” He hesitated, then spoke again, a definite wobble in his voice. “I’m kinda scared.”

A cold sensation spread through Conner’s middle and his insides bunched into a hard knot. When he had told the kid to call if he was ever scared or worried, he had done it to offer the boy some reassurance. And he had meant what he’d said. Only this call couldn’t have come at a worse time. Cattle rounded up for branding, everything ready to roll—it wasn’t as if he could snap his fingers and shut down the entire operation. And with the two new hands he had just hired, he wasn’t sure his crew could manage on their own—not with Jake half crippled with that bad hip. His mind racing, Conner considered alternatives. Tanner McCall’s spread was just a couple of miles down the road. And it wouldn’t be the first time they had stepped in and helped each other out. Maybe if he asked Tanner to help pick up the slack…

Making a snap decision, Conner positioned the phone closer to his mouth and spoke, keeping his tone easy. “Tell you what, Chucker. How about if I come down there and check things out. Do you think that would be okay?”

There was an odd sound, as if the boy was having trouble breathing, but the hope in his voice was unmistakable. “You mean like right now? Like tonight?”

One corner of Conner’s mouth lifted, and he hooked his thumb in the front pocket of his jeans. “I don’t think I can make it tonight, Tiger. But I could probably get there sometime tomorrow. And I’ll find out if your mom’s okay.”

“For sure tomorrow?”

A touch of real amusement widened Conner’s grin. “Unless the planes stop flying—yes, tomorrow.”

Another hesitation. “Uncle Conner?”

“What?”

There was an anxious quiver in the boy’s voice. “Will you have to tell Mom I called?”

Conner turned and stared down the shed row to the open barn door. “I can’t promise not to, Cody. But I won’t unless I have to, okay?”

“Okay.” Conner could hear him fidgeting with the phone, then his nephew spoke again, another wobble in his voice. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

Trying to ignore the sudden tightness in his throat, Conner forced a smile into his voice. “I’m glad I’m coming, too. Now you go back to bed and go to sleep. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Good night, Uncle Conner.”

“Good night, Tiger.”

His expression set, Conner pressed the End button, then stared into space, a hole the size of Texas in his gut. Abby. There couldn’t be anything wrong with Abby. Not Abby.

Turning back to the workbench, he stared at the picture of his father and stepmother; then he roughly massaged his eyes. Hell. This was a bad, bad space for him. A very bad space. And one he couldn’t get into. Shutting down his emotions, he mentally listed what all he had to do to clear the decks.

Straightening, he lifted the phone and punched in another set of numbers, then walked over to stare out the window. The steady drizzle created misty halos around the yard lights, distorting the illumination.

A voice answered, and Conner moved the phone closer to his mouth. “Hi, Kate. It’s Conner. Is Tanner around?”

“He just came in. Just a minute. I’ll get him for you.”

A man’s voice came on and, as briefly as possible, Conner explained the situation to the other rancher.

Tanner McCall’s immediate response was, “Let me know what time your flight leaves, and I’ll drive you to the airport.”

For the first time since he had gotten his nephew’s call, the knot in Conner’s gut relaxed. “Thanks, but no. I have no idea when I can get a flight, so I’ll just leave the truck at Park and Fly.” He rubbed his eyes again. “But I’ll give you Abby’s number and my cell phone number.”

It took five minutes to give Tanner the necessary instructions. As soon as he got off the phone with his neighbor, he placed a call to his stepmother. He wished he didn’t have to tell her, but above all else, he respected her right to know. Still, it didn’t make the call any easier. Not after everything she had been through in the past few years.

But he didn’t want to unduly worry her either, and he did his best to minimize it. He told her he was going down to reassure Cody. He could never admit to anyone that he was also going to reassure himself.

After his call to Mary, he called Jake. There were never any embellishments required with Jake. Just the facts and specific instructions. Jake was worth his weight in gold.

Deliberately keeping his thoughts focused on what he had to do, rather than thinking about the phone call, Conner finished up in the barn. He shut off the light and dragged the door shut, then put his head down against the steady drizzle as he headed for the house. He didn’t want to acknowledge the sick feeling churning in his belly, or the fear that was fighting to surface. A long time ago, he had learned not to cross bridges, especially those that weren’t his to cross.

It wasn’t until he’d had a long hot shower, after he’d draped a towel around his neck and pulled on a clean pair of jeans that his mental stockade failed. Knowing from experience that when that happened, there was no easy way out for him, he went over to the casement window and opened it. Then he stood staring out, his own history piling in on him.

He had loved his brother, and right from the time Mary had placed the tiny baby in his arms, he’d had a feeling in his chest that never went away. And he knew it was the same for John Calhoun. Right from the beginning, that baby could do no wrong in his father’s eyes. Even when Scotty got into more scrapes than any kid had a right to, John Calhoun would bail out his youngest son. Conner had always been well aware of how the townspeople reacted, shaking their heads, wondering where the boy was going to end up.

When Scott got older and his dad’s health started to fail and his mother got fretting, it was Conner who would quietly untangle whatever mess the kid had gotten himself into, then take him home.

But the funny part was that no one ever seemed to hold any grudges against the youngest Calhoun. Everybody liked Scotty. He had been one of those kids born with a special brand of charisma, a personable, good-looking kid full of down-home charm, and probably the best natural athlete within a thousand miles. There hadn’t been anything that Scotty didn’t excel at, and at the age of eighteen, he had been scouted by one of the big baseball clubs in the States. By the time he had turned twenty-four, he was a star.

The whole district had been proud of Scotty Calhoun, but Conner suspected there were a whole bunch of people who figured that Scotty moving to the U.S., and being accountable to a major league owner and coach, would save his parents a whole passel of headaches. Scotty might have been a talented young man, but even Conner knew he was trouble just waiting to happen.

Some folks openly wondered how Conner could put up with Scotty’s shenanigans, but he never made any comment. He had always been the solid, sensible, levelheaded older brother—and it was clear to everyone that Conner was the one person who Scotty wanted to impress, the only one he looked up to. About the only thing the Calhoun brothers had in common was their size, their dark curly hair and the looks they had inherited from their father. Other than that, they had been as different as night and day.

But that was really only part of the history.

Conner knew there was still a certain amount of speculation about him in the small town of Bolton. Pretty well anybody who had roots in the community knew that he’d just turned forty and never married. There had been a time when folks figured he might make it to the altar. Then all of a sudden the pretty little teller at the local bank was seen in the company of other men. And about a year later, she left for the east. And no one ever knew what happened.

Conner wasn’t deaf or blind. He knew that in places like the hairdresser’s in Bolton, the women still occasionally speculated about the breakup, and what a pity it was that another young thing hadn’t come to town to rescue Conner, just like Mary McFie had rescued his father. He knew all of them were convinced the bank teller was the love of his life, and that she had broken his heart.

Yeah, he had been well aware of what had been said over the years, but he had turned a blind eye to the sympathetic looks and the not-so-subtle attempts at matchmaking. The truth was that he preferred to let them think what they did, rather than anyone having an inkling about the truth. And the truth was something he kept to himself.

Rain spattered through the open window, the cool gush of air intruding on Conner’s thoughts. He gouged at his eyes, his head congested with old memories. There was a whole lot of stuff that had gone under the bridge, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever put it all behind him. Slipping his right hand into the back pocket of his jeans, he leaned against the wall, his expression turning bleak as more old memories surfaced.

The secret he harbored had its roots a long time ago—eleven years to be exact. Scotty had been twenty-four and had made it to the “show,” earning more money than was good for him. It had been close to Christmas when he announced out of the blue that he was bringing home the girl he was going to marry.

No one had known what to expect—not Conner, not his mother, not his father. And when Scotty announced he was bringing Abigail Allistair Arlington home to meet the folks, Conner braced himself. With a name like Abigail Allistair Arlington, she could have come from one of the snooty, upper crust areas of Chicago, or she could have been an exotic dancer in a strip bar. With Scotty, either was a possibility.

It had been left to Conner to drive into the city, to pick them up at the Calgary Airport and, as if it were yesterday, he still remembered that night with stunning clarity. His brother coming through the frosted doors of Canada Customs, followed by a tall, natural blonde, with cover-girl good looks, sharply styled hair, wide hazel eyes and an air of sophistication about her. She had looked cool, composed and aloof—until she smiled.

Without even realizing what she had done with that one smile, Abigail Allistair Arlington had altered the course of Conner Calhoun’s life. All it had taken was her greeting of a big, warm hug, and within a space of a few seconds, he knew that his life would never be the same.

He had known that Doreen, the bank teller, had marriage on her mind, but there had been no way he could ever consider marrying her. Not then. Not ever. She was a sweet girl who deserved a whole lot more than second best.

It had nearly killed Conner when Scotty and Abby got married, and it was made twice as hard because he had no choice but to stand up for his brother.

It had been one hell of a ride, all right. Heartache? He could write volumes on it. That constant ache had become part of his life. And that was why sometimes, like tonight, he just could not face an empty house. And it was why he’d spent more nights than he could count out in the barn, fixing tack, mending saddles, braiding new reins. A flicker of grim humor lifted one corner of his mouth. Hell, he had the best tended tack in the entire country.

Turning from the window, Conner crossed to the highboy, his gaze snagging on a grouping of three framed photographs arranged on top. His expression softening, he picked up one, his chest tightening as he studied the picture. It was a snapshot of Abby, one he had taken years ago on a South Carolina beach. She was wading in the surf, the wet hem of her full, ankle-length dress plastered against her legs, and she was holding her hair back from her face with both hands. She was laughing at him, the wind molding the soft folds of her dress against her protruding belly. When that photograph had been taken, she was pregnant with Cody, and everything that Abby was was captured in that picture.

Yeah, he could write a book on heartache, all right. And secrets? He had ’em by the truckload. Most of them were stored up in a whole lot of pain. But there was one that gave him comfort. And it was a secret he would take to his grave without ever giving up.

He touched the face in the snapshot, the hole in his chest getting bigger. No one would ever know that the baby she carried in this picture wasn’t his brother’s.

It was his.

Chapter 2

A gust of wind rattled the shades, sending more drops of rain spattering through the screen of the open window. The framed photo still in his hand, Conner tipped his head back against the wall and clenched his jaw. It was not a good night for memories. Or for remembering. But that didn’t stop the emotions piling up in his chest.

Forcing himself to let go of the air jammed up in his lungs, Conner turned, his gaze going to the remaining two pictures sitting on top of his bureau. He set the third one beside them, then turned back to the window, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

It had been one helluvah ride, all right. One that took him places he’d never expected to go. There had been times when his aloneness got so big, he felt buried by it. And he had figured he would go to the grave with that awful hole in his chest. Then something happened to change all that. Something that gave him a place to put everything he felt for his brother’s wife.

Abby and Scott had been married two years—and Conner had gone out of his way to keep his distance. It had been safer and easier that way. Then they had come home again for Christmas. Which meant that Conner had been pretty well trapped. Because as far as Mary was concerned, there was just no good reason for either of her sons to be away from home at that time of year. So for Mary’s sake, he had stayed.

There had been something different about Scotty—he was more quiet, always watching Conner, trying his best to be accommodating. Then on Christmas Eve, long after everyone else had gone to bed, Scotty tracked Conner down in the tack room of the barn, where he was restoring an antique saddle. And he had told Conner what was on his mind.

They had found out that Scotty was sterile, and they wanted to have kids—Abby was desperate for kids. And Scotty made it clear that there was no way he wanted to adopt—to raise some stranger’s kids. After coming at it from the long way around, Scotty got to the point, and dropped a bomb that rocked Conner’s world. He wanted to know if Conner would consider fathering a baby for them. He figured that they looked enough alike that no one would ever know any different, and Conner was the only man alive he would trust with this—the only man he would ever consider as a sperm donor.

It had knocked Conner for one hell of a loop. And he was never sure how long he’d sat there, staring at his brother, feeling as if solid ground had been blown out from underneath him. It was as if his mind had locked on Scotty’s words, and it had seemed like forever before he’d been able to get his mind in gear, to ask his brother how Abby felt about this. Scotty had assured Conner that Abby was fine with it.

Feeling as if his whole existence had been turned upside down, Conner had told Scotty he needed some time to think about it. And he had stayed up all that night, thinking what it would be like, knowing she was carrying his child, knowing that a part of him was lodged deep inside of her. It nearly killed him at first.

Then slowly, so slowly, the possibility of his being able to give her his child began to ease that awful hole in his chest—that hole that had become a part of him. And he had realized that part of the burden of loving her was that he could never do anything to validate it. And now he had been handed his chance. He could give her the baby she wanted so much. And slowly everything changed, and the thought of his child growing inside of her gave him the first peace he’d had in a very long time.

It had been as if Abby knew he’d spent the night wrestling with the request. Because long before anyone was up, she had come down to the kitchen, where he was hunched over the table, working his way through yet another cup of coffee. Her hair had been wild around her face, and she’d worn a fuzzy blue housecoat with the belt pulled tight around her. She had sat down across from him, and they had talked. And she had told him, with tears in her eyes, how badly she wanted a baby, and why. If he hadn’t already made up his mind, he would have taken one look at the desperate longing in her eyes, and he would have made it up then. With emotion cramping his throat, he told her he’d be honored to do it.

It had been one hell of an experience—when he flew to Chicago to visit their fertility clinic. And no one would ever know what it had been like, shut in that tiny room, doing what he needed to do, everything he felt for her spilling out in that single donation. He had been such a damned mess afterward, he had gone straight to the airport, phoning Scotty from there. John Calhoun had already been diagnosed with bone cancer, and Conner had used that as a cover, making an excuse that some problems had cropped up at the ranch, and he had to get right home. He hadn’t been able to face his brother. And he sure in hell hadn’t been able to face her.

Ten months later, Cody John Calhoun was born, and sixteen months after that, Sarah Jane Calhoun had arrived. And it had been as if those two kids had given Conner somewhere to place all the emotions he had been carrying around inside of him. He would have gladly laid down his life for either one of them, and somehow their existence made everything right. He had never permitted himself to think of them as his. They were Abby’s kids. Always Abby’s. They had been his gift to her, and because of that, he’d never allowed himself to think of them as anything but his niece and nephew.

And along with that acceptance came something he had never expected. The hole in his chest had healed over. It didn’t mean that he didn’t get damned lonely at times, to the point where he would make trips out of town to find a little temporary companionship. And it sure in hell didn’t mean he had gotten over her. He would love her until the day he died. But it made a huge difference, knowing that he had given her the two babies she had wanted so much. It meant he could get through one day after another, almost content with his life. Almost.

The midnight chime of the old grandfather clock in the hallway brought Conner out of his somber reverie, and he pulled the towel from around his neck and tossed it on a chair, then raked both his hands through his hair. It was going to be a damned long night.

Leaving his bedroom, he went out into the hallway, to the wood panelled closet under the stairs, and located a very expensive monogrammed leather garment bag. It always gave him a hollow feeling in his chest when he used it. And the only time he used it was when he went to Toronto—because Abby had been so adamant he have it. It had belonged to his brother, and it was the one Scotty had always carried on road trips.

Picking up the bag, Conner turned off the light and closed the door, his expression grim. Sometimes he wondered about the legendary luck of the Calhouns—it had definitely gone astray in this generation, that was for sure.

He took the garment bag back to his bedroom and tossed it on the king-size bed, then unzipped it, that same old feeling of grief unfolding in his chest. Ah, Scotty, he thought, you didn’t even know you had it all. And once again the history piled in, taking him down the path to old, painful memories.

The only good thing that had happened that year was wee Sarah’s arrival. The rest had all been bad. Abby’s parents had been killed in a car crash, then John Calhoun had died two months after his granddaughter was born. And shortly after that, Mary’s health took a turn for the worse, and the arthritis she had been fighting for years had finally taken hold. It was as if John’s dying had depleted her resources, and she got considerably worse. They hadn’t seen much of Scotty and the kids—Scotty was always on the road, and Abby, with a degree in business management, started working part-time, certainly not for the money. Mostly, Conner had suspected, to compensate for Scotty’s absences.

It wasn’t until Scotty got traded to the team in Toronto that the cracks in their golden life began to show. Inferences on sportscasts that Scott Calhoun was not performing up to snuff, rumors of trouble with the club. And when Conner had taken his mother to Toronto for a brief visit, there was something frenetic in Scott’s behavior. As if he were wired all the time.

Scotty had been a season into a five-year contract when he was abruptly dropped from the roster, and Conner had started to wonder what was going on. But it wasn’t until he saw Abby on a trip through Toronto that Conner knew something was seriously wrong. She had started working full-time, and she had been so strung out and tense, it was as if she were fine crystal ready to shatter. Concerned about her, he had taken her aside, telling her that if she ever needed anything, she was to call. Unable to look at him, she had locked her jaw together and nodded. And that had been that.

Until two years ago, when Abby had called him. And he had found out what was really going on. The reason Scotty had been let go was that management found out he was heavily into drugs, and she didn’t know what to do. Conner had been in the process of throwing his kit together for an immediate trip to Toronto when he got the second call from Scotty’s agent, telling him that Scotty was on his way to the hospital, suffering from a major overdose. It was almost as if Scotty couldn’t face Conner knowing the truth about him.

That was one of the hardest things Conner had ever had to do, to tell his mother what was going on and why he was taking the red-eye to Toronto. But she hadn’t been in any shape to travel then. So it had been up to him. When he got to Toronto, he’d gone straight to the hospital. The first thing he had discovered was that Abby was barely hanging on. And the second thing he found out was that Scotty was in an irreversible coma. There was nothing they could do.

It had been equally hard, five days later, standing by her during the huge, media-driven funeral, the news of Scotty’s overdose plastered all over every sports page in the country.

But the hardest thing of all was leaving her behind when it was time for him to go home. If he’d had his way, he would have bundled her up and taken her and the kids with him. But he couldn’t do that. She was his brother’s wife.

After Scotty’s death, he had made a point of going to Toronto every three or four months, but Abby had totally walled up. That once vibrant smile was like an accessory she pulled out and put on whenever it was required, and she was so brittle, it was hard for him to watch. He had been concerned about her for months—damned concerned. And he had told her countless times that if she ever needed anything, all she had to do was call. But Abby had a whole lot of stiff, chin-in-the-air pride. Rooted, no doubt, in the public humiliation Scotty had put her through.

Conner had known all along things would have to get really bad before she would call. And the feeling of unease never left him. He knew something was wrong. But unless she came to him for help, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do. At least a couple of times a week he would call, and she was always very upbeat on the phone, but he could hear the edge in her voice. She would never talk long—instead she would take the first opportunity to pass the phone off to one of the kids. There were nights when he’d lay awake until dawn, trying to hatch some plan to get through to her. But he knew Abigail, and he understood that stiff-necked pride of hers. And unless she opened up and told him what was going on, he was stymied. It wasn’t as if he could play some damned white knight and ride in to rescue her, especially when she didn’t want to be rescued. So he had resigned himself to her silence.

Never once had he ever considered that the call for help would come from another source—like his eight-year-old nephew. Which meant it had to be far worse than he’d ever dreamt. It hurt like hell, knowing she was suffering through something all alone—and wouldn’t come to him for help. All along he had told himself the only thing he wanted was for her to recover enough to get on with her life.

But as he packed the last of his gear and zipped the garment bag shut, he faced the fact that he would go to his grave wanting a whole lot more.

The sun had not yet reached high noon when the cab passed through a security gate and turned onto a heavily treed cul-de-sac in a very exclusive area of Toronto. His best Stetson settled squarely on his head, Conner took his billfold out of the breast pocket of his western sports coat, removed two bills and replaced the billfold, then stared down at the toes of his freshly polished boots. He felt as if he had an entire rock pile in his gut. He had been awake all night, trying to figure out the best way to handle this. But he was no closer to an answer than he had been ten hours ago. He’d debated phoning first, but then decided against it.

Disconnecting from that line of thought, he looked out the window as the cab pulled in front of his brother’s large and very pricey home. Somehow he was going to have to keep his personal feelings out of this. Somehow.

His face impassive, he handed the driver the two bills, then climbed out of the taxi, hitching the strap of the leather garment bag over his shoulder. He watched the cab disappear down the long curved driveway, then he climbed the steps to the ornate front door. Steeling himself, he pressed his thumb against the doorbell.

His jaw taut, he turned his head, watching a robin harvest worms in the lawn. Finally he heard footsteps from within, and the door opened.

He almost didn’t recognize her. Her thick blond hair was pulled back in an untidy ponytail, and she had a tea towel draped over her shoulder. With her skin free of makeup and dressed in jeans and a faded Blue Jays sweatshirt, she didn’t even come close to the put-together woman he was familiar with.

Her hand on the door, Abby went dead still; then her face lit up with a spontaneous smile. “Conner! For heaven’s sake, what are you doing here? And why didn’t you let us know you were coming?” Her hazel eyes bright with genuine pleasure, she stepped closer, reached up and welcomed him with her customary hug. Conner swallowed hard and closed his eyes, permitting himself the brief luxury of hugging her back.

His voice gruff, he relinquished his hold on her and forced himself to smile. “I had some business I had to take care of, and figured now was as good a time as any.”

She laughed and grasped his arm, pulling him inside. “Well, this is the best surprise. The kids are going to be wild when they get home.”

She closed the door behind them, and he set his bag down in the wide, terrazzo tiled foyer. Keeping his face expressionless, he took off his hat and dropped it on top of his bag, then turned to face her. She was much thinner than when he’d seen her last. There were dark circles under her wide, hazel eyes, and there was a pinched look around her full mouth. But even dressed the way she was, she still had that air of class about her. And the same inner warmth. She grinned up at him, then slipped her arm through his, propelling him down the wide oak-panelled hallway toward the kitchen. “You’re one lucky camper, Mr. Calhoun. I just took a batch of blueberry muffins out of the oven, and they look as good as Grandma Mary’s if I do say so myself.”

Conner looked down at her, humor tugging at his mouth. He clearly remembered Abby and her first attempt at muffins. They had been so hard, Scotty had deemed them his very own cannonballs and made a big production out of pitching them into the creek. “Don’t try and kid me, lady. You make lousy muffins. You could use them for ballast.”

She grinned again and made a face. “Well, they aren’t as awful as they used to be. You can actually eat ’em now.”

He followed her into the bright spacious kitchen. This room was Abby through and through. There were splashes of bright colors and lush, healthy plants everywhere, and the granite countertops were comfortably cluttered. The stainless steel fridge sported an array of Post-it notes, notices and what looked like Sarah’s artwork, and the ceramic pot by the phone was stuffed with a variety of pencils and pens.

The aroma of fresh muffins actually made his mouth water, and Conner allowed himself to be engineered into a chair.

Abby went over and opened one of the cupboards. “I’ll wager you could use a good cup of coffee right about now.” She glanced over at him. “Yes? No?”

He stretched out his legs. Even flying business class, he felt as if he’d spent the past four hours in a sardine can. He gave her a wry half smile. “Coffee sounds great.”

Slouching in the maple captain’s chair, he folded his arms across his chest and watched her as she prepared a fresh pot of coffee, his mind absently registering what she was saying, the knot in his gut tightening. She looked like hell. Her hair, now slightly darker than when Scotty first brought her home, had lost its luster, there was a hollowness to her finely sculpted features, and there wasn’t a speck of color in her face. Her jeans practically hung on her, and he detected an unhealthy energy in her. There was no doubt about it; something was seriously wrong here. Abby wasn’t the type to fade away to nothing without a damned good reason.

Compartmentalizing his observations in another part of his brain, he responded to her small talk, his gaze fixed on her the entire time.

She set the table, getting coffee mugs for them both, keeping up a steady stream of chatter, which was unusual for her. Abby was not one to chatter. Turning in his seat, Conner rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together, trying to figure out what was going on. She wasn’t herself, that was for sure.

Setting a basket of still steaming muffins on the table beside him, Abby reached for the drawer at the end of the large kitchen island and took out two linen napkins. She passed him one, then sat down kitty-corner from him and propped her chin in her hand. Sunlight caught in her long lashes and brought out the gold flecks in her hazel eyes as she studied him. “So what kind of urgent business would get you away from Cripple Creek this time of year? Aren’t you getting close to spring branding?”

Conner held her gaze for an instant, then took one of the muffins from the basket, broke it open and reached for the butter dish. He had never been good at subterfuge; he always figured the most direct route was the best way to go. Buttering his muffin, he met her gaze.

He stared at her a moment, then spoke, his tone very quiet. “You’re the urgent business, Abigail. I’m here to find out what in hell is going on.”

Her expression froze and she went so still, it was as if she wasn’t even breathing. There was a long, electric silence, her agitation almost palpable. Then she abruptly picked up a muffin and broke it in half. Her face carefully arranged into a non-expression, she spoke, her tone artificially bright. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Conner. Everything is fine.”

Conner ate his way through half a muffin, then took a sip of coffee, considering how to play his hand. Finally he brushed the crumbs off his fingers and looked at her. There was a hint of a smile around his mouth when he finally spoke. “You’re a lousy liar, Abby.” He paused, then spoke again. “And an even worse actress. So cut the guff, okay?”

Her head came up and her gaze riveted on his face, her eyes as wide as saucers; then she looked down again, her movements jerky. “I don’t have any guff to cut, Conner,” she said, her tone just a little snippy. “I think you’ve fallen off one too many horses.”

She almost made him laugh—Abby had always been able to make him laugh. And he had to admit that he was amused by the way she was maneuvering away from his question, but he wasn’t that easy to lose. Hooking his thumb in his belt, he leaned back and considered her a moment, and he could almost feel her squirm. He was also very good at maneuvering. He indicated the muffins. “These are very good.”

She lifted her chin, and gave him one of her cool looks. “Thank you. I think.”

He smiled, then leaned forward, braced his elbows on the table and laced his hands together. He studied her, not liking the awful tension he sensed in her. He decided then that their little game was over. Under the circumstances, he figured his nephew would understand. Using that same quiet tone of voice, he spoke. “Cody called me last night.”

She went very still again, and he caught a glimmer of alarm in her eyes. Satisfied that he had gotten her full attention, he continued. “He was pretty worried. He said that he thinks something is wrong with you—that you don’t go to work anymore and he hears you crying late at night, and that you forget things.” He shifted his clasped hands, then fixed his gaze on her. “So why don’t you just tell me what’s going on, Abigail?”

There was an instant, just an instant, where she sat staring at him, almost as if she were paralyzed, then she abruptly covered her face with her hands, a low sound wrenched from her. Experiencing a fierce, painful cramp in his chest, Conner forced himself to keep his hands laced together, the need to touch her almost unmanageable. Sometimes it was damned hard playing big brother around her. Too damned hard.

Unable to watch, Conner looked away, his face feeling like granite as he ran his thumbnail down a pattern carved in the ceramic mug. The sounds coming from across the table were tearing him to shreds inside. But there was nothing he could do. At least not without crossing a line he’d sworn he would never cross.

He had just about reached his limit when Abby finally lifted her head and quickly wiped her face with the napkin, her face swollen and red. She let her breath go in a shuddering sigh, then she began fiddling with the napkin. Finally she lifted her head and looked at him, a depleted expression in her eyes. “I don’t even know where to begin,” she whispered. “It’s all been so awful.”

Resting his clasped hands against his jaw, he gave her a small smile. “Then why don’t you just start talking and we’ll see where it takes us.”

She managed a smile, then she pushed her plate away and began folding and refolding her napkin. “It was more than just a drug problem,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sensing that she was preparing herself for the telling, he waited, his gaze locked on her face. Finally she drew in a deep shaky breath and straightened, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I didn’t find out until months after he died just how bad it was.” She turned her head toward the window, her profile stark against the bright light. “I didn’t find out until then that he had a serious gambling problem as well—a very serious gambling problem. I knew he gambled, but I really thought it was strictly recreational.” She finally looked at Conner, her gaze bleak. “He owed hundreds of thousands of dollars. And when the people started calling his loans, I couldn’t believe it at first. He had borrowed from everyone. His teammates, his friends, the kids’ educational funds. I found records for all those personal loans in his safety deposit box. I used all our savings and his insurance money to pay off his friends, and I thought I had it under control.”

She clutched her arms tighter, then tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling. “Then I started getting calls from a string of his bookies. And there was another huge loan from a loan company in the States— I found out later he’d borrowed that to pay off another huge drug and gambling debt.” She closed her eyes, the muscles in her jaw working; then she let out another sigh and looked at him. “To make a long story short,” she said, her voice devoid of any emotion, “I had to remortgage the house, and I sold off every piece of art we had, my jewelry, his cars—anything and everything that had any kind of value.” She held up her naked left hand. “Even my rings. But I got the bookies all paid off, and I had to cut a deal with the loan company for me to pay them back. Everything was gone—the equity in the house, all our investments…everything. Thank God the kids’ school tuition is covered by a trust fund from my parents’ estate, or I would have had to pull them out.”

As if everything was crowding in on her, she got up and went over to the patio doors and stood staring out, her arms still clutched in front of her. She didn’t say anything for a moment, then spoke, her voice barely audible. “I had managed to pay back most of the last loan, except there’s still twenty thousand dollars owing. I knew, given time, I’d get it paid off. Then I lost my job. The company I work for was part of a merger, and my position was eliminated. I got a decent severance package, but that was it. Kaput.” She lifted one shoulder in a small, defeated shrug. “When the loan company found out, they called their note.” She turned and faced him, giving him a wan smile. “Of course I couldn’t pay it, so now they’ve threatened to take me to court.” Her face ashen and her hands visibly trembling, she came back over to the table and sat down, not a trace of animation in her. She clasped her hands together on the table, rubbing one thumb against the other. Her attempt at a smile failed. “It’s been a bit of a bitch, Conner.”

He had forced himself to remain disengaged during her telling—not allowing any kind of feeling to surface. But now, as she sat there, her animation gone, the vibrancy beat right out of her, he experienced a rush of rage. She was out of a job, just about out of money, and her once-perfect life was a total mess. He wanted to kill somebody.

She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, and Conner could see tears gathering in her lashes. Her despair cut him to the quick. And something gave way inside him. He had only ever initiated touching her twice before—once when he’d kissed Scotty’s bride after the wedding. And then the night Scotty had died, when he’d pulled her onto his lap like a small wounded child, and held her as she wept for their awful loss. That time had been about offering comfort, and nothing more. This time, though, would be about something entirely different.

Knowing he was stepping across a very dangerous line, and sharply aware of how hard his heart was pounding in his chest, he reached across the table and grasped her cold, thin hands between his. The feel of her was almost enough. Almost.

His heart lumbering, he tightened his hold, rubbing her hands between his, trying to infuse her with his warmth. Then he drew in a deep, uneven breath and spoke, his voice very gruff. “You could have called me, Abby,” he said quietly.

She opened her eyes, tears catching in her long lashes. “I couldn’t,” she whispered. “You had lost him, too. I couldn’t dump this in your lap.”

Holding her gaze, he managed a lopsided smile. “Well, consider it dumped.” He gave her hands a reassuring squeeze. “Between us, we’ll straighten this whole mess out. But the first rule is that you’re not to worry anymore, okay?”

She stared at him, more tears damming up, and the look in her eyes almost did him in. Disconnecting from the feelings rising up in him, he gave her hands another squeeze, prompting an answer. “Okay?”

She managed a wobbly smile and nodded, and he rewarded her effort with a smile of his own. “Okay.” He gave her hands another reassuring little shake, then released her. Leaning back in his chair, he scrutinized her. “How much sleep have you had in the past couple of weeks?”

Some of the old Abby resurfaced. She managed an almost real smile. “Good grief, Conner. Don’t you know anything? No one sleeps when you’re lost in the swamp and up to your armpits in alligators.”

He rewarded her effort with a soft chuckle, then he stood up. “Well, I’m here to drain the swamp, lady. So go to bed and get some sleep.”

“I can’t. The kids are home early from school today, and…”

Conner broke his self-imposed rule for the second time that day. He grasped her hand, pulled her to her feet, then pushed her toward the front foyer and the stairs. “Damn it,” he said, trying to sound as if he meant it, “don’t start arguing with me already, Abigail. For the rest of the day, I’m the boss.”

She turned at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him, a faint glimmer appearing in her eyes. “All right. I’ll give you today, Calhoun. But tomorrow is mine, and don’t you forget it.” Catching him totally by surprise, she gripped his arm, then stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Conner,” she whispered unevenly. Then she turned and went up the stairs, and Conner watched her go, his lungs suddenly so tight it was impossible to get air into them.

A rush of emotion jammed up in his chest, and he anchored his hand on the heavy oak newel post. God help him, he had to keep his head on straight. And he had to do right by her. Because, in the end, that was all he could ever give her.

Beginning to feel the effects of a sleepless night, he returned to the kitchen and poured himself another coffee, then went out and stood on the raised deck, staring out over the expensively designed landscape. Right now a half-hour nap would do wonders, but he knew he’d never sleep with her trapped in his head. Clamping his jaw shut, he forced himself to concentrate on other things, like how he was going to get her out of this pickle without walking all over that damned pride of hers. But he really didn’t have a whole lot of options. Yeah, Abigail Allistair had put on a brave face, and she didn’t expect anyone to bail her out, but he could tell that she was damned near at the end of her rope. There was no way he could walk off and leave her in this mess. So that gave him only one alternative. He was stepping in whether she liked it or not. And it was too damned bad if he tramped on her pride.

His expression set, he went back into the house. For his own peace of mind, he needed to check on her—she was just too eaten up by stress and strain, and far too thin for his liking.

The master bedroom door was ajar, and Conner pushed it open with one finger. She was curled up on the bed, very soundly asleep, her hands tucked under her face. Resting his shoulder against the door frame, he hooked his thumb in the front pocket of his jeans, his expression fixed as he watched her sleep. She was far too thin, but what bothered him more than anything was that her special effervescence was gone—that rare kind of energy that could light up a whole room. It was as if her bright spirit had been extinguished, and she just looked so fragile. He’d give anything if he had the right to hold her, to wrap her up and keep her safe.

Ever since she’d appeared that long-ago Christmas, she had been his still center, and in spite of the emptiness in his life, he wouldn’t know what to do without her there. Just knowing she was alive fortified him somehow.

Abby stirred, curling up tighter, and Conner suspected she was cold. Careful not to make a sound, he went into the room, picked up a throw off the wing chair by the bed, then carefully covered her with it. Some of her hair had come loose from the ponytail, and he very gently lifted the strands away from her face and tucked them behind her ear. His throat cramping up, he let his hand linger just a moment—just a brief, perfect moment before he tucked the cover under her chin. Feeling as if he’d just got punched in the gut, he turned and left the room, soundlessly pulling the door shut behind him. Closing his eyes, he took a deep, uneven breath. He had let himself get far too close. But it wasn’t nearly close enough.

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