Will his secret be safe?

Sol Beecher returned home from serving in Afghanistan a changed man. Closed off, he hasn’t opened up to anyone in years, and he certainly has no intention of doing so with EmmyLou Creighton. She, however, seems determined to get under his skin…and into his bed. Any other man would be thrilled to have the enticing EmmyLou pursue him, but a relationship with her means exposing his prosthetic leg. They’re thrown together at every turn, and keeping the truth from her becomes increasingly harder—as does hiding his attraction. How can Sol trust his biggest vulnerability with someone who’s obviously hiding her own secrets behind that alluring smile?

“Here I sit, not an arm’s length away, all but begging you to kiss me, and you want to argue about it.”

“I’m not arguing about it. I just can’t imagine that you’re being sincere.” Sol pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes. “I don’t want to be toyed with, EmmyLou.”

He threw the truck into Drive and pulled back onto the road, fuming. The heat and their silence made the air in the truck hard to breathe. He turned onto her lane, then brought the truck to a stop in her driveway and cut the engine. Without a word, he got out, determined to walk her to the door so she couldn’t throw not being a gentleman in his face.

But she was already out before he closed his door. She came around and met him at the front. “You’re right. I do toy with guys sometimes. It’s called flirting.” She stepped against him and slid her arms around his waist. And then her lips were pressing his, warm and inviting.

The jolt he felt was strong enough to shake the dust off his libido. Without a thought or a consideration, he held her to him and answered her mouth with the fervor it demanded.

Being toyed with might not be so bad…

Dear Reader,

When I first introduced EmmyLou Creighton as Maggie Russell’s best friend in My Way Back to You, the question started showing up, time after time: When will EmmyLou get her own story?

For those of you who’ve met her, it might seem strange that a character as flamboyant and “out there” as EmmyLou would be reticent about sharing anything. But we all have our public side and our private side, and EmmyLou is no different. It took some time to earn her trust to the point that she was willing to open up because EmmyLou isn’t just another pretty face—she has a deeper side…a crippling secret that many who read this will readily identify with.

Of course, EmmyLou’s hero had to be her equal in every way, which included her depth and level of intrigue. Sol Beecher—once Taylor’s Grove’s most eligible bachelor but now its most mysterious recluse—was the perfect one to coax Emmy’s secrets out of her and perhaps even share his own.

Have I caught your attention? I hope so! And I hope you enjoy EmmyLou and Sol’s story—In EmmyLou’s Hands.

Until next time,

Pamela

In EmmyLou’s Hands

Pamela Hearon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PAMELA HEARON grew up in Paducah, Kentucky, a place that infuses its inhabitants with Southern values and hospitality. Here she finds inspiration for her quirky characters, her stories’ backdrops and her narrative voice. Pamela was a 2013 RITA® Award finalist and a MAGGIE® Award finalist for her first Harlequin Superromance story, Out of the Depths. The Summer Place was a 2014 National Readers’ Choice Award finalist. Visit Pamela at pamelahearon.com, and on Facebook and Twitter.

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To Camden, Taj and Quincy.

If you read this many, many years from now, perhaps you’ll smile and feel that you know Gigi a little better.

Acknowledgments

It takes so many people to bring a book from its inception to the printed page, and I’d like to take this time to say thank you to a few.

Thank you to my editor, Karen Reid, for teaching me so much about romance writing. I’ve worked with you on six books now. Each has been pure pleasure.

Thank you to my agent, Jennifer Weltz of The Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency. You are quite simply The Best.

Thank you to my critique partners at WriteRomance—Maggie Van Well, Angela Campbell and Sandra Jones.

Thank you to my family for your encouragement, your understanding of my time commitments and your love.

And thank you to my husband, Dick, whose hands forever hold my heart.

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

INTRODUCTION

Dear Reader

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

“MY FAMILY HAS a beach house in Gulf Shores, Alabama.”

No sooner were the words out of EmmyLou Creighton’s mouth than she knew she’d spoken too soon. Of course, that was nothing new—her mouth had a tendency to stay several strides ahead of her brain most of the time. Grabbing her phone in one hand, she held up a finger on the other to put the conversation with her two friends on hold while she texted her mom.

Beach house taken June 23-30?

No, came the reply.

Pencil me in.

Seriously?

I’ll explain later.

She tossed her phone down and drummed the table with her long fingernails to signal that speech could once again commence.

Bree Barlow and Audrey Dublin looked at each other and shrugged, oblivious to the amazing feat EmmyLou had just accomplished.

“Don’t you see?” She directed her comment toward Audrey. “You can use a week at the beach house as the grand prize.”

Audrey’s gray eyes, which had been pinched with worry two minutes ago, widened. “For the raffle? Oh, Emmy! You can do it just like that?” She snapped her fingers.

Emmy laughed and snapped hers in answer. “Just like that.”

Even Bree, who was enjoying her first girls’ night out since the birth of her second child, came out of her exhausted lethargy to gasp her approval. “That would be such a fabulous prize! Taylor’s Grove has never had anything like that.”

“Taylor’s Grove, Kentucky, never had anything like me.”

“Are you sure about this? I mean, a text and it’s done?”

Emmy laughed at the skepticism in Audrey’s voice. “It’s done, sugar. Trust me. Everybody in the family gets a week in the summer if we want it, but we have to claim the week, which I just did. We also get weeks during the rest of the year if it’s not rented, but it almost always is.”

Their server showed up with another tray of drinks. “Guy at the bar sent these over.”

“Again?” Bree groaned at the third bottle of sparkling water set in front of her. “Would you please tell him to save his money and just send her a beer?” She indicated Emmy with a nod, and then wagged a finger between her and Audrey. “I’m nursing and she’s a newlywed, so we’re off the market.”

The server grinned. “Different guy. But I’ll tell the next one.” She replaced the empties in front of Audrey and Emmy with full bottles.

Emmy’s glance drifted down the bar until she found the young man looking expectantly their way. “Kind of cute, but way too young. Twenty-five, maybe. Still wet behind the ears.” She raised her beer bottle with a nod of gratitude but broke eye contact immediately.

Having done this for far more years than she liked to acknowledge, Emmy was the go-to expert on all the subtleties of pickups. At thirty-five, although everyone guessed her to be eight to ten years younger, she could fill a book about turnoffs, turn-ons, tune-ins, tune-outs and tone-downs.

Years of experience, however, had brought her no Mr. Right—no one to settle down with and have the family she wanted so badly. She hadn’t lost hope, even though her close friends were now happily married with kids.

“I’d think you would like younger guys, Emmy.” Audrey took a sip of her rum and Coke. “More stamina.”

“Jackrabbits.” Emmy shivered in mock disdain. “My preferences lean toward the ones who are...slower, you know? Not like those giant tortoises that take forever. Have you ever seen those shows on the National Geographic Channel? About the huge ones that live on the Galápagos Islands? My God, you know she just wants to turn around to him and say, ‘Will you get on with it?’” She placed her hands on the table and pushed slowly out of her chair, opening her mouth and dragging out a grunt before plopping back in her chair and repeating the action.

Bree and Audrey giggled at her imitation.

“I’m looking for one of those cute turtles that plods along all efficient-like at a nice steady pace but starts to scurry when he hits the beach. And once he plunges in, he just paddles along with that smooth stroke until the tide goes down.” She fluttered her eyelids and gave a dreamy smile. “Mmm!”

Her friends exchanged knowing glances and nodded in agreement. “Mmm!”

“Hey, wait a minute. What’s wrong with this picture?” Emmy slapped the table with her palm. “Here I am, offering my family’s beach house to raise funds for a school I never attended in a town I’ve only lived in for a couple of years, but said town’s not taking care of my needs in return. Y’all snatched up the last two good turtles Taylor’s Grove may ever hatch.”

“True, we got the best ones,” Audrey agreed. She shook a finger in Emmy’s direction. “But Sol Beecher’s still available...and he’s your closest neighbor.”

The name caused Emmy’s teeth to clench. “Yeah. Thank God that translates as a quarter mile away.” She snorted. “Try raffling off that snapping turtle and see how much you get for him. I wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for a night with him.” She doubted the present company was aware she’d had a night with Taylor’s Grove’s most eligible bachelor fourteen years ago, shortly after she and her friend Maggie Wells had started the hair salon in Paducah, Kentucky—just outside of Taylor’s Grove.

Maggie, a Taylor’s Grove native, had introduced Emmy to her friend—handsome and oh-so-sexy Sol Beecher. Three dates in, they’d ended up in bed, and he’d never called again. She could still feel the sting if she thought about it...which she didn’t.

But Audrey’s and Bree’s husbands, Mark and Kale, were Sol’s best friends. And Kale and his dad had just purchased the local marina from Sol at a hefty price if word on the street was correct. Emmy could sense a lecture coming on from Bree about her teasing of Sol.

Bree squinted as if trying to remember something difficult to recall. “He’s different than he used to be in high school. He was Mr. Popular then. Outgoing...fun. Of course, he chased anything that wore a skirt.”

“Until it came off...um... I’ll bet.” Emmy covered her slip of the tongue.

“Something happened in Afghanistan.” Audrey stared into her drink as if the answer could be found there. “He came home with that limp—”

“Caused by the weight of that chip on his shoulder,” EmmyLou interjected.

Audrey leaned back and crossed her arms, tilting her head and turning a studious eye Emmy’s direction. “I’ve never heard you come down on anybody the way you do him. What’s he done to you?”

Emmy had said too much, so she pulled out her humor to cover, like always. “I’m just wondering how long I’d have to bang that shell with these hammers—” she put a hand on the outside of each breast and pushed, making her generous cleavage mound up even closer to her chin “—before it would finally crack.”

“You’re cracked.” Audrey’s giggle was a bit too loud, and Bree laughed around a yawn, both signals it was time to go home.

But Emmy couldn’t let the subject of Sol Beecher go without a last dig. “Now that Mr. Beecher’s come into a right good sum of money, it’ll be interesting to see how much he’ll pony up for good ol’ Taylor’s Grove Elementary.”

She raised her beer in the air, loudly da-dumming her way through a college football fight song she’d picked up somewhere.

* * *

“IT’S SMALL COMPARED to your grandparents’ old place, Sol. I mean...tiny. After living in that big, rambling house, wouldn’t you feel cooped up in a space like this?” Regina Dallas wrinkled her nose as she glanced around the modest two-bedroom she’d put at the end of the list of properties to show him today.

Sol leaned on the kitchen counter and gazed out the window into the backyard, pretending to ponder her question. What he really did was get the weight off his leg so he could answer without gritting his teeth. “It’s more like what I’m looking for, although I can’t convince you of that.”

He’d allowed the friend of the family, a real estate agent, to drag his ass in and out of houses for the past three days and was frustrated with her choices. Anybody else he would’ve fired for not listening to him after the first two showings.

Behind him, Regina gave a motherly sigh. “I just don’t understand why you’d want to downsize at your age. One of these days, you’ll get married...have kids...”

Sol ignored how her words made him feel like he’d been kicked in the chest by a mule.

“And then you’ll wish you’d taken the money from the marina and fixed up the old home place.”

The fact that she was thinking about him personally and not the money she would make in a business transaction softened his response. He didn’t growl back that a wife and kids weren’t in his future. Instead, he shrugged. “Maybe. But for now, downsizing to something more manageable seems the smartest move.” He still faced the window, but he was certain her eyes had dropped to his bad leg.

Everybody’s did.

Managing anything very long with this damn bad leg was a struggle, but keeping the secret all these years that it was a prosthesis was even harder.

The pity he saw in people’s eyes now made him want to spit. Being thought of as an amputee would have been more than he was able to bear.

He swiveled around to face her using the spin technique he’d perfected. “Washer and dryer hookups?”

“Basement.”

He nodded like that was no big deal rather than acknowledging it as a definite no. Stairs were a problem with both hands free—impossible with a laundry basket. He’d been forced to turn the formal dining room in his current house into a makeshift bedroom. Oh, he was definitely capable of getting up the steps to bed. But the thought of trying to get out in the event of a fire would have kept him awake.

“This leads to the garage.” Regina headed toward the door at the west end of the kitchen, and Sol followed. When they stepped through the opening, the sight of the small garage almost made him smile with relief. He’d found his reason to decline this house without admitting that the basement laundry was the real problem.

“I need at least a two-car garage for the car and boat. Preferably a three. I’d like to garage the truck, too.”

Regina rolled her eyes and made a noise he recognized as annoyance. “One bedroom, one bath, a three-car garage on several acres. You’re asking for something that doesn’t exist. At least not around Taylor’s Grove.”

“Just keep looking, okay?” He hit the button that raised the overhead door. “Give me a call when you find something.” He made his exit, leaving lockup duties to Regina.

Since selling the marina, he didn’t have a whole lot pressing on him these days. Finding a job would be a necessity come fall—mentally if not financially. Sitting around doing nothing wasn’t an idea he relished. But he was treating himself to this one summer off. He’d never had one, even as a kid. Summers were a time to work from sunup to sundown when you owned a marina.

The next four months were his. He would fish Kentucky Lake and swim in the warm water after dark when nobody could see him. He knew that was dangerous, but he didn’t give a rat’s ass. Hell, he might live even more dangerously and give up these damn blue jeans for a pair of shorts every now and then. Sit in the backyard in the sunshine. Get a little bit of a tan on his pasty white leg...and the pasty white stump alongside it.

Maybe a tan would help him remember the bronzed kid with the great physique who had girls hanging all over him...help him remember a time when he wasn’t a pitiful freak.

“Get off the damn pity pot,” he admonished himself in his rearview mirror as he arrived in Taylor’s Grove. “Some never made it back at all.”

The circular park at the center of town was the local gathering spot. Today a small crowd had gathered in a knot around what looked to be a lemonade stand.

Sol would’ve preferred to drive by without having to interact, but his friend Mark Dublin’s wife, Audrey, and her daughter, Tess, were working the stand. They spotted him, flagging him down with friendly waves.

Guilt got the best of him. He groaned an “Oh hell” under his breath as he parked.

Nell Bradley met him at the curb as she headed to her car. She insisted on a hug, as always. And Johnny Bob Luther stopped him to share a joke that he’d heard maybe thirty times before from the old man. He laughed in appreciation of Johnny Bob’s skillful telling rather than the punch line. And then there was IvaDawn Carrol’s inquiry about how his parents were enjoying life in Florida. Even though they’d been there for five years now, IvaDawn always made it sound as if they’d just moved. Audrey’s mother, Helen, sat on the bench in the gazebo—silently nodding to the voices in her head that her early-onset Alzheimer’s provided.

By the time he got to the lemonade stand, the crowd had moved away. And surprisingly, it turned out not to be a lemonade stand at all.

“We’re selling raffle tickets,” Tess informed him. “Ten dollars apiece.”

Sol gave a low whistle. “What happened to three for five dollars?” That had been the going price for as far back as he could remember.

Audrey flashed him an apologetic smile. “We’ve got a grand prize this year that’s a real bargain for ten dollars.”

“Better than Patti’s pie a week for a year?” The owner of the diner across the street was notorious for her decadently delicious pies.

“A week at a beach house in Gulf Shores!” Tess fist-pumped the air with cheerleader enthusiasm and an infectious grin that showed off her new missing tooth.

“Man!” Sol was indeed shocked at the extravagant prize. “That put somebody back a chunk.” A zing of guilt flashed through him. He’d just gotten that huge amount of money from Kale in the sale of the marina, and he hadn’t yet given a dime of it to the school.

“The house belongs to EmmyLou Creighton’s family. Emmy’s donating her week to us.”

EmmyLou Creighton. The sexy-as-hell-and-didn’t-she-know-it bombshell who’d hit the local scene, what...maybe fifteen years ago? He’d gone out with her a few times when they were younger. Back then he’d been too full of himself to stay with anyone for very long. And now? If he thought about it too hard, he might think that EmmyLou intimidated the hell out of him with her grab-the-world-by-the-tail attitude.

The only thing he was up to grabbing most nights was the whiskey decanter.

“How are sales?” he asked.

Audrey gave a relieved sigh. “Really good. Better than we’d hoped for.”

“Tell you what, Tess.” He took his wallet out and handed the little girl a fifty. “Put my name on five of those suckers.”

Tess grabbed the pen and counted out five tickets. “How do you spell Sol?”

He winked at the little girl, who was the spitting image of her mom at that age. “S-O-L.”

Tess went right to work on her project.

Sol leaned closer to Audrey and lowered his voice. “And I’ll tell you what I’d like to do. When all the sales are finished, I want to match whatever you make. I’d like to have everybody in Taylor’s Grove’s name on at least one ticket. Can you do that?”

“You bet we can! Wow! Thank you so much, Sol!”

Audrey gave him a huge hug. The first time a good-looking woman had hugged him with happiness instead of sympathy in eight years.

It felt damn good.

* * *

“MATCH? AS IN give dollar-for-dollar everything you make?” Emmy grabbed the can of hair spray from her workstation at the salon and added the final touches to Audrey’s newly straightened locks. “Girl, you’ve got the most gorgeous natural color I’ve ever seen. You need to let me go wild with the teasing someday. And then you could put on a crop top and short shorts and look just like one of those models in the Guess ads. Mark would get an erection so hard he’d pole vault over the bed.”

Her friend’s face turned as red as her hair, and she did a quick glance around to see if anybody else heard. The quietest of her friends, Audrey was easy to shock, so of course Emmy tried every chance she got. “You’ve got weird thought processes, Emmy,” Audrey observed. “We were discussing Sol’s raffle contribution. How you went from that to Mark’s erection—” she whispered the last two words “—is beyond me.”

“You want me to explain?” Emmy made eye contact with Audrey in the mirror. “It just occurred to me that Sol’s doing this nice thing, which seems totally out of character for someone who goes around with a sneer on his face ninety-nine percent of the time.” Audrey opened her mouth, probably to take up for him, but Emmy wouldn’t hear it. “Don’t give me all that but he’s crippled crap. Everybody’s got stuff they have to deal with, and yeah, he took a bullet or something and I hate that for him, but he doesn’t have to act like the whole world’s his enemy.” She used the end of the comb to lift the hair at Audrey’s crown to form a perfect bump. “Soooo, I was thinking that he’s got a hard-on for the world, but it’s totally different from the hard-on Mark would have for you if you dressed up like one of those models in the Guess ads.”

Audrey dropped her head back and winked. “God, you are such a freak. But I love you anyway.”

“What’s not to love?” Emmy propped her hands on her hips and thrust her chest out, eyeing herself in the mirror. She worked hard at staying fit and doing everything humanly possible to fight the years. But it was Saturday, and while Audrey was going home to a husband who loved her, EmmyLou Creighton would be spending the night alone.

With a show of the innate closeness the two of them had developed, her dog Bentley came to her then and nudged her hand with his nose. He’d gotten too big to pick up, but she squatted and gave him a tight hug as Audrey stood up and stretched.

“It’s hard to believe Bentley and Bandit came from the same litter.” Audrey scratched Bentley behind the ears.

“What’s hard to believe is that anybody would’ve dropped off a precious mama dog like Cher and her puppies. Some people are just too ornery for words.” Emmy kissed Bentley several times around the eyes. “I think Cher showed herself to you on purpose, knowing you’d take her in and find good homes for her babies. Probably even knew you’d keep one, they were so stinking cute. I know I was a goner for Bentley as soon as I saw him and those big puppy eyes. That’s why he’s so big. Nobody can resist him, so everybody feeds him.” He licked her nose, which made her laugh. She wasn’t going home alone tonight after all. She’d be in the company of Bentley, who adored her. “Sol Beecher’s one of those people who are too ornery for words, too. The man needs a dog to get his mind off himself.”

Audrey laughed and shook her head as she laid her payment on Emmy’s workstation. “And the conversation has come full circle back to Sol.”

“So he’s gonna match the funds, huh?” He was doing a good deed, but it made her peevish just the same. Everything about the man made her feel that way.

“That’s what he said.” Audrey nodded. “I even called him later in the week to see if he wanted to change his mind. I mean, this could turn out to be pretty expensive for him. But he insisted that he wants to match dollar-for-dollar.”

An idea popped into Emmy’s mind, no doubt borne on peevish wings—a way she could raise more money for the school and aggravate the hell out of Sol Beecher in the process.

“Give me a stack of those raffle tickets, Audrey.” She smiled innocently at her friend. “I’ll bet I can sell jillions of them here at the salon.”

* * *

EVERY SEAT WAS filled in Taylor’s Grove Elementary’s gymnasium/cafeteria on raffle drawing night. The cacophony rivaled that of a basketball game, and the crowd of bodies had heated the temperature at least fifteen degrees since Sol had arrived—reluctant, but here nevertheless.

Audrey’s plan to thank him publicly for his donation made him as uncomfortable as wearing a wool suit in July. In fact, he’d initially refused to attend when she first brought it up. But then they’d sent in the big guns in the form of little Tess, whose pleading gray eyes had been his undoing. So here he was, having given up his seat to Miss Beulah May Johnson, with his leg aching so badly he had to smile through clenched teeth, speaking to people and pretending to be enjoying himself when all he wanted to do was get the hell out of there and go home where he could gnash his teeth in private.

His checkbook was hollering louder than his stump, though. This event was about to set him back twenty-three hundred twenty dollars. When he’d told Audrey he’d match whatever they made, he’d expected the usual thousand or so, maybe less since they were charging ten dollars a ticket. He’d never have guessed Taylor’s Grove residents would give up tens so readily. Apparently a week at the beach was a hotter commodity than he’d realized. The kids had even set up tables around the squares in nearby towns and sold the hell out of tickets in places where Taylor’s Grove Elementary was considered a rival.

The donation was for a worthy cause—as many new computers as the money would buy—so it was hard for him to be too disturbed about the high amount.

What did disturb him, though, was the wicked grin EmmyLou Creighton shot his way just now as she entered. It was as though her eyes had sought him out of the crowd when she walked into the gym even though she wasn’t usually prone to smile at him at all. Her high heels announced her approach to Audrey, who looked surprised but thrilled to see her. Actually, every man in the place looked thrilled to see her in the tight lime-green skirt that pulled the eye straight to her ass no matter how hard you tried to look away.

The temperature in the gym rose another twenty degrees...

An astonished look swept over Audrey’s face when Emmy handed her an envelope, and then both women glanced his way. Audrey’s look was wide-eyed and apologetic, while EmmyLou’s smile oozed with smug.

Oh shit. The price has just gone up.

A trickle of sweat found the crease along the center of his spine, which he straightened as Audrey headed his way. His gaze locked with Emmy’s and stayed there. “I don’t care how much it is,” he whispered when Audrey got close. “I’ll match it.”

“But, Sol, it’s—”

“Dollar-for-dollar, Audrey. I gave my word.” He broke eye contact with Emmy and caught Audrey’s smile. The gleam in her eye elevated him to hero status—a place he hadn’t been in a long time. It sent a flicker of warmth through him. Of course, he didn’t dare look Emmy’s way again. The brunette had bested him and she knew it—and looking at her was what she expected every man to do.

But for the first time in a long time, desire flushed through him. Not a desire to get laid. A desire to get even.

The sassy siren needed to be taught that she couldn’t get her way about everything.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Emmy clicking her way toward him, hips swaying with more action than a tow sack full of cats in heat. His chest tightened with a breath that caught on an inhale. Thankfully she was merely taking the seat that Arlo James had offered.

It was at the end of the row where Sol stood, close enough that he caught the scent of her perfume once his breathing resumed. It was nice...light. Not at all the scent he would’ve imagined a woman like EmmyLou Creighton wearing. He would’ve pegged her as the kind whose perfume invaded your nose before she invaded your space and then hung around long after she was gone. And—

Why in the hell was he dwelling on the woman’s damn perfume? Wouldn’t she have loved that?

He swiveled to lean his back against the wall, shifting his weight to his artificial leg.

Emmy cast a sidelong look his direction that started at his knee and moved up slowly to his face. “You want to sit?”

“Naw.” The scowl he gave her came naturally, stemming from part pain, part anger and part embarrassment that a woman was offering him her damn seat. “I’m good.” He crossed his arms over his chest and pushed away from the wall. “But you keep traipsing around in those heels and someday you’ll limp worse than I do.”

She arched one cool eyebrow. “I’ll only limp worse than you do if one of them breaks off.”

Sol could swear he felt a vacuum as the people within earshot sucked in a simultaneous breath.

Nobody spoke to him like that. Nobody ever mentioned his leg. They treated it like the crazy cousin confined to the attic in years past. Everybody knew it was there, but no one was willing to bring it up. People kept their eyes averted, but he could feel the looks.

This woman had balls, although how she could hide them under that tight skirt was beyond him. He snorted a half laugh at the thought...just as Audrey approached the microphone.

Thank God this would all be over soon.

* * *

EMMY HAD NEVER been to one of these raffle nights and hadn’t realized it would go on for...forever, if the numbness of her butt was any indication.

She really needed to get up, and stubborn-ass Sol Beecher standing next to her obviously needed to sit. She heard his painful grunts every time his weight shifted. But she’d offered once, and he’d come back with one of his smart-ass answers uttered through that ever-present scowl. She wouldn’t offer again.

The man had major attitude problems. What had she ever seen in him? Besides the sculpted chest and broad shoulders that filled out those T-shirts he was so fond of wearing. And he did have gorgeous brown eyes that caught you by surprise because his hair was a golden, sun-streaked blond.

But that hair! She shivered in disgust. What used to be cute, sexy, surfer dude shaggy was now just flat-out unkempt and screamed I don’t give a rat’s ass. Oh, it was clean—she’d give him that. But just once she’d like to go at it with a pair of her shears.

The thought of running her fingers through his fresh, just-cut hair brought on the familiar sensation that curled low in her belly.

Seriously...sad sack Sol? Oh, please... She rolled her eyes at her overactive imagination.

But her butt tingled to life as the eighth graders started their skit.

Whatever it takes to get through this, she decided.

Ten nice prizes had been donated to the raffle from Taylor’s Grove businesses, so the committee had decided to space out the drawings by letting each class perform some kind of act. Emmy had loved the kindergartners’ rendition of “Old MacDonald” complete with animal costumes, and the first graders’ skit about the animals of the Serengeti had been cute and informative. But somewhere around the fourth grade’s recitation of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, her attention in the kids had waned and turned to the man standing beside her.

“And we finally get to the reason most of y’all are here.” Audrey’s voice boomed over the microphone, and a chuckle passed through the crowd. “But before we draw the ticket for the grand prize, there are a couple of people we need to recognize for their generous donations of both time and money. EmmyLou and Sol, would y’all come over here and stand by me?”

EmmyLou stood and smoothed her skirt as Sol stepped in front of her and crooked his elbow, offering his arm to her. She took his arm graciously, trying to ignore the masculine feel of him beneath her fingers. His gait was odd, his hip bumping hers as they walked, and she was much too aware of his tightening bicep every time he bumped her that told her he was straining hard to keep from limping.

She drew a relieved breath when they reached the center of the room, grateful that they hadn’t been called up on the stage, and then realizing that Audrey had chosen not to be onstage for Sol’s sake.

Audrey held her hand out, and Emmy felt herself being traded from Sol to her friend.

“EmmyLou Creighton hasn’t lived in Taylor’s Grove all her life,” Audrey said, “but she acts as if she has. Not only has she provided us with the biggest grand prize we’ve ever had but also took it upon herself to sell the largest number of tickets.” Audrey’s voice quivered with excitement. “Thanks to EmmyLou, we added three hundred eighty-seven more tickets to the drawing—” Audrey paused and gave a laugh “—which you may or may not want to thank her for.” A responding laugh moved through the audience. “But that translates to an additional three thousand eight hundred seventy dollars for the school!”

The audience surged to their feet in a standing ovation, and Emmy’s heart, which should have swelled with pride, instead flew into a panicked rhythm as Audrey pulled her into a hug.

After all these years, she’d thought the stage fright was gone. But here it was—the invisible fist that reached from her tonsils to her breastbone, the grip that crushed her airways until she was sure she would die.

She tried to breathe through the panic like always, but it seldom worked. Oh God...the hug was over...the applause was dying down...people were lowering back into their seats...and the freaking microphone was being held to her mouth.

She had to say something.

The crowd grew quiet. Everyone was waiting...listening for her voice.

“I...uh...” Crap! Her mind went blank. She couldn’t remember the words she was supposed to say. Nothing behind her eyes—her brain was just a big blank wall with nothing written on it. She shrugged and forced a smile. Tell the truth. “I...um...” Her voice vibrated with fear. “I just did it...um...to aggravate Sol.”

A roar of laughter met her admission, and some people rose to their feet as she strutted back to her seat, confident now that she was done speaking and feeling like she’d dodged a bullet.

When the crowd was again seated and quiet, Audrey continued. “It’s no surprise that the man of the hour is none other than our own Sol Beecher, whose generosity to Taylor’s Grove is unprecedented. He not only requested that every person in our community have a ticket in the drawing—”

“Yay, Sol!” A man’s voice boomed through the auditorium, followed by a round of applause in agreement.

“—but also allowed his name to go on a measly five tickets even though he agreed to match the total sales dollar-for-dollar. And in case you missed it, I offered him an out on that when Emmy showed up with her surprising last-minute addition. He refused.”

An astonished gasp came from the woman behind Emmy, and she felt the flicker of guilt in her stomach. She extinguished it quickly by reminding herself that she’d already confessed her sin in front of God and this whole crowd.

“And so, by doubling the amount collected from raffle ticket sales, we now have a new total of—” Audrey nodded to a kid in the band, who broke into a drum roll “—twelve thousand three hundred eighty dollars!”

Another roar went through the crowd, which was once more on its feet. The standing ovation went on and on, lasting even longer than the Gettysburg Address, by Emmy’s estimation.

Sol looked positively miserable, and for once Emmy empathized with him...until Audrey handed him the microphone, and his deep, clear voice rang through the auditorium with not a single bobble.

“Taylor’s Grove has always been there for me, and I’m grateful. Of course, I didn’t realize I was...” Emmy again saw the handsome twenty-something he’d once been shining through the gruff camouflage as he glanced at Audrey’s paper and grinned sheepishly. “Six thousand one hundred ninety dollars’ worth of grateful.” The audience laughed, and he waited for them to quiet. “But I love this town and all of y’all—except EmmyLou Creighton.”

Another wave of laughter and another standing ovation as he limped back to the wall beside her, never looking her way.

Emmy’s shoulders drew back as her spine stiffened in anger at the rebuff.

But an easy smile covered her wrath...and the knowledge that the jerk’s admission was exactly as truthful as her own.

CHAPTER TWO

June 22

EMMYLOU GRABBED TWO towels as she stepped out of the shower, wrapping her wet hair with one, drying herself with the other, briskly. She should have been dabbing her skin gently rather than scrubbing it like a potato, but she was much too jittery. As she turned, her eyes dropped to the reflection in the full-length mirror of the skin on her thigh just below her butt cheek.

Oh Lord...is that the beginning of cellulite?

“No...no,” she whimpered. “Cellulite isn’t allowed. Not today.”

But sure enough, on closer inspection, there were indeed a couple of small dimples. Why, oh, why hadn’t she been proactive and gone ahead and splurged on that miracle cream while QVC had it on sale? “Now it’ll cost me an arm and a leg,” she huffed.

The mention of a leg brought her back to the reason she was jittery...

Sol Beecher would be here soon.

“Over six hundred tickets in that drawing.” She slapped the towel over the bar, spreading it out to dry. “The man has five and one of them gets picked as the winner. What are the odds?” She snorted at her reflection. “Why, those odds would be six hundred to five, I believe.” She tried to do the math in her head, but it got jumbled, so she gave up, satisfied to be in the neighborhood of correct. “Something close to one hundred something to one.”

Today Sol was picking up the keys to the beach house. She’d been planning what she’d wear for the event for two weeks and had finally decided on her gold bikini. She would be lounging by the pool—totally oblivious that this was the day they’d arranged. When he arrived, she wouldn’t have her cover-up available. In her own backyard? Of course not. She would invite him into the house, so he’d have to follow her—and no doubt check her out thoroughly—and he would be the sorriest man alive that he’d ever allowed her to slip away.

But now? Now his vision would fill with the sight of cellulite—two dimples of it, one for each eye. A much easier math problem than the other one.

What it added up to was that she was back to square one about what to wear.

She rushed to her closet, jerking hangers, searching for the new perfect outfit to show off her...assets. And make him sorry.

Geez, he could get her riled.

Since her first date at the age of fifteen, she’d never lost a guy she wanted. That wasn’t to say no one had ever broken up with her. Lots of them had. No, that was an exaggeration. A few of them had. But those breakups came at times when she was ready to call it quits.

Sol Beecher was the only one who ever walked away leaving her still wanting him.

Still she hadn’t completely admitted defeat, even after all these years.

Someday he would get through the self-absorbed funk he walked around in. He would see her...want her. And when that happened, she’d kick his bad leg out from under him and let him fall on his metaphorical ass.

The lime-green skirt had previously failed to catch his attention, and the gold bikini was out.

Wonder Woman costume? Nah, too obvious.

The chime alerted her that a vehicle had pulled into her driveway. She sprinted to the bedroom window and let out a groan at the sight of Sol’s black truck. “Early? Noooo!” She snatched her watch from the vanity and examined it. Sure enough, the stem was pulled out. She’d thought it was ten-ten, when in reality it was ten fifty-five.

Sol Beecher was only five minutes early.

Bentley woke from his nap in the middle of her bed. He jumped down and headed to the door as she threw the towel from her hair and ran back into the closet, grabbing the first top and bottom her hands touched. No time to dry her hair...or even run a comb through it. No time for makeup. The shorts were old jeans she’d cut off—ragged and frayed at the edges—while the T-shirt was one a friend had brought her. Bright purple, it sported a picture of Chewbacca on the front with MILWOOKIE above him in green block letters.

The sound of the doorbell mixed with Bentley’s bark of greeting.

Emmy rammed her toes into some flip-flops and her fingers through her hair on her way to the door. Bentley loved being out in the yard, but he didn’t have on the collar that went with the underground fence. So she grabbed the collar he was wearing as she turned the doorknob. Excited by the company, Bentley jumped back, causing her to jerk the door open with a swoosh.

Sol’s brown eyes widened in surprise...and then squinted. “EmmyLou?”

Go ahead, buster. Rub it in.

“Yeah.” Embarrassment made her insides cringe, but she refused to let him see her discomfort. “Just got out of the shower.” Bentley danced with excitement, hopping up and down like a deranged kangaroo. “Come in, would you? He’s going to rip my arm out of its socket.”

“I’m a little early. I figured I’d just stop by on my way into town.” Sol stepped inside and closed the door. “But I see I should’ve called first. This is obviously a bad time.”

The way his eyes raked over her went through her like a tack into corkboard. “Not a problem,” she snapped, releasing her hold on Bentley.

The dog made straight for the man’s bad leg...and began humping it.

“Oh good Lord!” Emmy scrambled to disengage the two, but Sol lost his balance and stumbled back against the door, luckily catching himself. “Oh crap, I’m sorry. Really. I’m so sorry.” She was overdoing the apology. “Get down, Bentley. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Would you just get me the damn key?” Sol forced the words out. “Please.”

She pulled Bentley along and closed him up in her bedroom, then hurried to the kitchen to grab the key and the list of rules for the use of the beach house. She paused there to catch her breath and give her brain time to come up with something humorous to alleviate the awkward moment.

She and Sol didn’t get along, but that didn’t make it okay to humiliate him.

Aggravate? Yeah. Humiliate? No.

She looked down the rules, stopping as number six caught her eye...and gave her an idea. A true EmmyLou-ism.

She sauntered back to the living room, handing him the key when she got within arm’s reach. “That’s the key.” She then held out the paper and he took it, his eyes scanning it. “Just a list of rules for the house,” she explained. “Common sense mostly. Don’t put cans down the garbage disposal. Don’t start a campfire in the living room. Don’t pick the lock on the family’s private suite.”

He met her gaze, his eyes hooded.

“That’s where we keep our private stuff.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want you knowing my secrets...or going through my drawers.”

Most people would’ve laughed. Not Sol Beecher.

He shook his head as he opened the front door. “No worries, then. Been there. Done that.”

He must have sensed she was about to kick his ass, because he moved outside faster than she would’ve thought him capable of.

She slammed the door behind him.

Damn him! If humiliation was what he was about, she could be all over him like ugly on an ape.

This game was on.

* * *

NOW, THIS IS LIVING.

Sol dug his toes deeper into the sand and took another sip of his bourbon, reminding himself that he’d almost allowed his anger to get the best of him yesterday and let this opportunity pass him by.

He was glad he hadn’t, even if he’d had to endure EmmyLou’s obviously planned slight. Or perhaps, unplanned was the better way of thinking about it.

She would’ve been dressed to the nines with her makeup and hair done for any other adult male on the planet. But not him. She had to prove just how low he rated on her scale of men. If he was a gambler, he’d wager that, apart from family, he was one of the few men who’d ever seen her without makeup.

Of course, the joke was on her. With her dark brown hair and smooth olive complexion, she was more beautiful without all that makeup, but you’d never convince her of that. She was one of those women who wanted you to believe she got out of bed with everything in place.

As a matter of fact, the one night they spent together, she did sleep with her makeup on...and got up early the next morning to fix herself up before he woke.

Crazy-ass woman.

He shouldn’t let her get under his skin, and he shouldn’t have made that parting comment. But the woman had a way about her that made him want to... He took another sip of bourbon, letting its slow burn uncover the truth. Made him want to...

Don’t go there. Ms. EmmyLou Perfect may have prettied up for you years ago, but now she doesn’t even view you as a man.

It was difficult for anybody else to see him that way, he guessed, when he could hardly see it himself. The man he’d used to be, the cocksure man about town who’d played the field like an all-star...that guy got blown away, along with his lower leg, his hopes and his dreams, by a rocket-propelled grenade.

But he wouldn’t dwell on that this week.

The beach house was a perfect combination of comfortable family home and convenient guesthouse just steps away from the Gulf of Mexico with only a stretch of sugary white sand in between. According to the fire escape diagram on the kitchen wall, there were two suites downstairs and two up, though he couldn’t confirm that since he’d elected not to attempt the stairs yet. The nice, wide balcony on the second level would be the perfect place to catch the sunset, though. So sometime over the next week he’d make the climb.

Difficult, but worth it.

EmmyLou’s laughing brown eyes flashed into his mind again. As she’d warned, the family suite was locked. One of those boxes hung on the door handle—the kind with the combination that opened a compartment that held a key. The locked door piqued his curiosity, especially because it was directly across from the suite he’d claimed. But he doubted the room contained any deep family secrets.

The way EmmyLou’s mouth ran, no secret could remain safe with her for very long.

The beach had been crowded when he arrived this evening, but it was deserted now. The gentle, phosphorescent waves lapping at the sand called to him. He detached his prosthesis and grabbed the despicable but necessary crutches.

Walking in the sand was tricky, but there was no one around to mark his awkward, slow progress. He understood how those newly hatched baby sea turtles must feel—drawn innately to the water...determined to make it or die trying.

The sand cooled the closer he got to the lacy edge of foam, so the first touch of water across his foot surprised him. It was warm and so inviting. He wished to hell he had a prosthesis suitable for use in salt water.

But he didn’t, and wishes were about as helpful as tits on a boar.

He eased out another couple of steps until the water hit his calf at the midpoint, letting the peacefulness seep through his—

“Damnation!” A branding iron seared the skin on his leg. His gaze dropped to the water, where the moonlight caught the opalescent glow of the army of jellyfish. They had him surrounded! Knowing it was a mistake didn’t keep his brain from encouraging him to run, so he sprinted...but only for one step. And then he fell. One of the little sons of a bitch washed into the leg of his cargo shorts on the next wave and proceeded to sting him on the stump. Another came to the first one’s defense and attacked the top of his foot.

Sol scrambled for the sand—the baby sea turtle with his gears in Reverse—somehow managing to keep a grip on his crutches while trying to keep the sand out of his artificial knee socket by holding the half leg out at a ninety-degree angle. With dry sand beneath him, he was safe. He stopped on all threes and caught his breath, wondering if anybody had seen his absurd antics. If they had, they must have pegged him for deranged. In his present position, he looked a lot like a dog trying to take a piss.

A laugh rolled out of him, released from a storage hold he hadn’t opened much lately, while the icy hot tendrils still irritated the places where they’d made contact. Rolling over onto his back, he lay there until his laughter subsided and he closed his eyes and breathed in the salty air, feeling...alive.

Happy to be here.

He should call EmmyLou and thank her. The thought spurred him to action.

Maneuvering onto his knee, he used the crutches to get back to a standing position and moved at a much smoother pace across the sand this time. As soon as he reached the deck, he grabbed his prosthesis and walloped his butt a good lick.

The best thing about having an artificial leg was being able to kick yourself in the ass when ridiculous ideas popped into your brain.

* * *

“OH JOE WAYNE...oh Joe Wayne...oh Joe Wayne.”

The woman beneath him sounded like a CD with some lint that caused it to stick, and Joe Wayne Fuller found it mighty distracting. Maybe if he changed things up a bit...rolled over to his side...

The room whirled as he eased to the left, but Ramona’s sturdy thigh shoved him back into place. Her legs locked tighter around him, and she began to buck harder, drumming his ass with her heels. “Oh, yes, baby. Just like that. Give me more of that.”

“You like this?” he panted, trying to stay focused and not think about how much his head was spinning and how much pain her heels was inflicting. He’d have bruises, for sure...and a helluva hangover. “You like—ow! Sunshine, you got to—oof!...take it easier. You’re making me lose—”

“No! Don’t stop!” Her teeth sank into his shoulder.

“Shitfire! No more biting. You promised.” A week with Ramona had left his neck and shoulders looking like he’d been to a damn vampire convention.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Just don’t stop. Don’t stop.” The last word came out on a snarl that sounded like a rabid dog.

He hoped to hell when this was over, he didn’t have to put her down like they did Old Yeller.

“Oh Joe Wayne...oh Joe Wayne...”

Speaking of “yeller”...

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

Joe Wayne squeezed his eyes shut, reminding himself to keep Ramona far away from the Wild Turkey tomorrow night...if there was a tomorrow night...if he lived through this beating.

“Don’t stop. Don’t. Stop! Stop!” Ramona sucked in a gulp of air and hurled him off of her and the bed.

“What the hell?”

A car door slammed.

“My husband!”

“Husband?” Joe Wayne scrambled to his feet. “You never told me you—”

“Oh, shut up and leave.” She was out of the bed now with a wild look in her eye, and Joe Wayne’s gut told him this wasn’t a good time to argue. Ramona snatched clothes from the floor and shoved them into his arms as she pushed him toward the bathroom.

The front door opened slightly, wood cracking as it slammed against the chain lock, followed by a man’s roar. “Ramona! Get your ass out of bed and let me in!”

“Your only chance to make it out alive is through that window,” she whispered and then let out a yell. “I’m coming, baby!”

Joe Wayne pushed it open and sized up the opening...a mighty small chance, by his way of thinking.

“Don’t stop to dress.” The warning in her tone sent prickles up his spine.

“What about Patsy?” He threw the clothes out the window and climbed onto the toilet to hoist a leg through. Ow! He ground his teeth to keep from crying out as his private parts scraped across the rough wood. “I can’t leave without my bike.”

“Get it tomorrow.” Ramona gave him a helpful push, sending him tumbling to the ground, then closed the window behind him. A second later, the window opened again, and his boots thumped him in the head.

Joe Wayne grabbed the clothes and boots, gripping them to his chest, and took off behind the neighbors’ houses, his heart chugging for all it was worth. He ran like a jackrabbit under the cover of darkness until his lungs felt like they was gonna bust. When he couldn’t take a breath without a hot poker stabbing his side, he finally gave up and stopped to dress. Leaning on the side of a garage, taking in huge gulps of air, he rammed one leg into his jeans and then the other and jerked hard.

The waistband stopped its upward movement at the top of his thighs, pinning his legs together and not letting them move. “Shitfire!” He gritted his teeth as his right hip connected with the ground.

Jerking the jeans off, he examined them. Not his. Ramona’s. And even though she was a curvy woman, there was no way his ass was gonna fit into her jeans. A snatch of color caught his eye. Her orange thong hung on his foot.

Dread filled his gut as he grabbed the T-shirt. Yep. Just as he’d ’spected. Hers, too—the black V-neck with pink sparkling letters that proclaimed A Hard Man on the front and Is Good to Find across the back.

He took a deep breath, running his hands through his hair. No keys. They were in his jeans, which he hoped to hell she’d somehow managed to hide. He couldn’t even get into the compartment on his bike where he kept his stuff. His only hope was to get to the beach house.

He stood and pulled the T-shirt over his head. It was tight, and the shoulder and sleeve seams groaned under the pressure. It was also just a couple of inches shy of keeping him from getting arrested for indecent exposure if he happened to be seen, which he didn’t plan on.

He’d been pondering ways to get some publicity shining on his almost nonexistent career, but being arrested roaming the streets, half-drunk and half-dressed, in women’s clothes wasn’t the image he was going for.

A hefty punch of self-loathing hit his gut as he slipped on the thong.

But thank God for his boots.

He glanced down, shuddering at the sight—just another weirdo roaming the streets in the middle of the night.

He remembered that EmmyLou had booked renters into the beach house for the week.

He hoped to hell they had a sense of humor.

CHAPTER THREE

THE SHOWER IN Sol’s bathroom was difficult though not impossible to navigate as long as he held on to the hand bar. But the water wasn’t helping the jellyfish stings. If anything, it made them worse. The intense stings had morphed into an intense itch.

Sol had searched the kitchen cabinets for meat tenderizer—wasn’t that supposed to be the go-to miracle cure?—but found none. He’d remembered hearing somewhere that urine would ease the sting, also, but he wasn’t that desperate.

He turned off the water and dried inside the shower, then got out and reattached his prosthesis. The itch was annoying enough that sleep would be an absent friend, which really didn’t matter because he could spend the entire day tomorrow in bed if he wanted. So instead of slipping into pajamas, he pulled on a clean pair of cargo shorts. After so many years in long pants, he’d forgotten how cool, loose and unfettering shorts could be.

Without meat tenderizer, bourbon was sure to be the next best thing for his stings, provided it was applied internally. He went to the bar in the large common room and found a new bottle because he’d finished the dab that was left in the old one.

The first sip went down smoothly. The second caught in his throat when a sound caused him to flinch. A cough sent the bourbon several places where it shouldn’t have been—onto the bar, down his bare front and, most irritating, up his nose. It burned up into his sinuses making his eyes tear. Great! Between the jellyfish and the bourbon, he was literally burning and itching from head to toe, inside and out. And the fact that someone was knocking on his back door...at two-thirty in the morning...did not bode well for this situation improving.

But he chose to ignore the knock. Probably just some drunk anyway.

Coughs continued to wrack his system until the liquid cleared from the passages it wasn’t meant to come into contact with.

Whoever was at the sliding glass door must have heard, because the knocking grew more persistent.

“Hey!” A male voice. “I need help.”

The word help called Sol to action. He grabbed his phone in case he needed to call 911...or the police...and hustled toward the hallway.

The kitchen light gave him a fairly good view of a man standing at the door that led to the deck on the beach. The guy needed help all right—but not the kind Sol could give.

Some kind of crazy-ass, scantily clad cross-dressing dude.

But he broke into a smile when he saw Sol. “Hey, man! Oh, thank God.” He dropped his head back in a relieved gesture. Then he straightened and pressed his forearms and face against the glass. The gesture pulled his T-shirt up, revealing an orange lace thong that basically covered nothing.

The man wasn’t bloody. He stood upright. He obviously wasn’t hurt. And he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get away from anybody.

“Go on.” Sol yelled from several feet away. “Get out of here.” He started to turn.

“Wait!” The nutcase pounded the door with his palms. “No, man! Hey! Don’t go!”

Sol moved closer, but only to flip the light switch on the wall. The deck light remained on, putting the visitor in a spotlight. Someplace he was used to being, no doubt.

“Look, I’m Joe Wayne Fuller. My family owns this house.”

Sol pulled up straight, pausing to study him a moment.

“My sister, EmmyLou Fuller, arranged your stay. Ain’t that right?” The guy’s head bobbed up and down, answering his own question.

EmmyLou Fuller? Sol had never heard her use that last name, but the name EmmyLou was too distinct not to refer to her. If this joker was her brother, she’d probably put him up to this.

The woman had already proven she’d go to great lengths to try to best Sol Beecher.

“Call her. She’ll tell you I ain’t dangerous or nothing. I just got into a situation.” He crunched his fingers in the air, forming imaginary quotation marks around the word. “I...uh... I lost my clothes, and, oh hell, man. Just call EmmyLou. She’ll vouch for me.”

“I’m not calling her. It’s two-thirty in the morning.” Sol put his hands on his hips and stood his ground.

Joe Wayne—if that was really his name—pressed his forehead against his arm and took a deep breath. “Well, would you at least get me some clothes from the family suite? I can’t go nowhere else like this.”

So he knew about the family suite.

Sol blew out an angry breath and jerked his phone up to find EmmyLou’s number.

* * *

A CALL AT two-thirty was not a rare occurrence in Emmy’s world.

Her two younger brothers, both single, were forever calling her when they came in after a night of drinking and carousing. And even the two older ones, both married, called after spats with their wives or when they needed help understanding the female gender.

But a call from Sol Beecher at this time of night hadn’t occurred in fourteen years. She blinked at his name on the caller ID, and her heart did a strange triple beat. But then she remembered he was at the beach house—he was probably calling to complain about something that didn’t suit him.

She fumbled with the button and pressed the phone to her ear. “If you’ve stopped up the plumbing, you’ll have to wait until morning. Just think of the beach as your private litter box for the night.”

“Yeah, well, the plumbing’s held up so far. But the litter box is going to come in mighty handy for your brother, who’s standing on the deck.”

Emmy shot straight up in the bed. “My brother? Which one?”

“Says his name is Joe Wayne Fuller.”

The edge of a groan seeped out. “Oh good Lord.”

“He’s wearing a black woman’s T-shirt—”

Oooo, that could be good news. “Is she with him?” She hadn’t realized she’d fisted the sheet in her hand until it relaxed.

“Who?”

“The black woman, because it’s probably my friend Shirley, and—”

“A black woman isn’t with him.” There he goes getting snippy. “He’s wearing a woman’s black T-shirt, an orange thong and cowboy boots...nothing else. And he’s beating on the door to the deck, saying I need to let him in to get some clothes.”

Emmy plopped back into her pillow, pressing a finger and thumb against her eyes. “Let me talk to him.”

“I’m not opening this door.” She could visualize Sol shaking that stubborn, shaggy head of his. “He looks crazy.”

“Is he drunk?”

Sol’s voice grew louder. “Are you drunk?”

“Not no more. But I wished to hell I was,” came the reply, slightly muffled, but she’d recognize that drawl anywhere.

“Listen, tell her me and this friend was having a little fun.” Emmy strained to hear her brother’s story. “But her husband came home and I hauled ass out of there and I got the wrong clothes and no money and I had to sneak all the way across town in the dark half-nekkid and I need some damn clothes!”

A loud smack told her he’d hit the glass door.

“So there you have it.” Sol again. “Straight from the crazy-ass’s mouth.”

“You could use a few lessons in anatomy.” She’d left herself wide open for another one of those been there, done that quips, so she hurried on. “Look...would you mind letting him in long enough to grab some clothes? And maybe loan him a few dollars? I’ll pay you back when you get home.” God, she hated asking him for a favor. But when it came to her brothers, she’d grovel if she had to. Besides, she owed Joey. He was the one she’d let down the most. Well, him and Mama. Always Mama. “Joey’s harmless. Even when he’s drunk, he’s a lovable drunk.”

She heard the door slide open and drew an easier breath.

“Thanks, man.” Joey’s voice kicked up a notch. “Thanks, EmmyLou. Love you.”

“Okay. He’s in,” Sol growled, and the sexy sound caused a flutter in her belly. “You can go back to sleep.”

“Sol...um... I’m sorry about this.” Emmy chewed her bottom lip. “But...thanks. I owe you.”

“Yes, you do.” He didn’t sound like he was kidding. “Hey, by the way, do you know if there’s any meat tenderizer in the house?”

Emmy’s brain stuttered at the abrupt change in topic. Sheesh! People said she had strange thought processes! “I...don’t...know. But if you buy your steaks at Campbell’s Meat Market—it’s only a couple blocks away—you won’t need tenderizer.”

“Oh man!” Emmy heard the shock in Joey’s voice. “What happened to y—”

“Okay, EmmyLou. Thanks. G’night.”

The phone went dead, and for a brief moment, emptiness surrounded her bed before the familiar voice chided her. “Why would you buy such a big house? You’re probably never going to get married now. All your friends married a long time ago.

“Boys are so much easier than girls. If you ever get pregnant, pray for a boy. Of course, it’s getting too late for you to have any children now.”

“Shut up, Mama.”

Emmy folded the pillow around her head as if that would silence the voice.

“Your brother’s down there with no money and probably no place to stay except with one of his no-account friends. He needs help, missy, and you more than anyone else owe him...”

Emmy threw the pillow on the floor and climbed out of bed. It was a nine-hour drive to Gulf Shores. Probably more like ten with stops to gas up and stretch.

“We’re not gonna stay, but we’ll need a few things.”

Bentley drew a long sigh as she pulled the overnight bag from her closet.

* * *

“...YOUR LEG?” JOE WAYNE finished his sentence, wishing he hadn’t as he watched the guy’s face turn the color of a pomegranate.

“Shark bit it off while I was surfing.” He leaned down and scratched a red welt on his foot.

“No shit? Hot damn!” Joe Wayne had always admired surfers. They looked so cool, riding waves like bull riders of the sea. He’d never been able to keep his balance on one of the suckers. Probably because the only time the urge hit him to try was after he’d had a few. “You still surf? You one of those guys they show on TV who suck it up and go ahead and do everything they did before?”

“Nope. Shark might be wanting dessert.” The houseguest pounded his fist on the cuff above his prosthesis before performing an about-face and heading toward the front of the house. “Get some clothes on, will you? You look like a damn fool.”

Joe Wayne followed him toward the front as far as the family suite. Then he let the guy go on ahead to the living area...or, more probably, the bar, where he’d surely been when Joe Wayne showed up. Joe Wayne was ready for another drink or two himself, but getting rid of this string between his legs was the first priority. How did women stand the things?

He punched the code in, fumbling the keys out of the container. When it opened, he let himself into the large set of rooms, sighing at the mess he and Ramona had left when they’d vacated and moved to her house. His intentions had been to come back and clean it up. But he hadn’t found the time yet to work it into his schedule. Not that his schedule was full—he had zero gigs this week—but cleaning house wasn’t his thing.

A pile of his dirty clothes still lay in the bottom of the closet where he’d left them. Dirty had never smelled so good. He slipped out of his boots—damn, his feet were tired—and into a pair of his jeans and his own T-shirt. And thank God he’d left his guitar here...a precaution after Ramona had picked it up one night and threatened to smash it across his head if he didn’t fix her another drink. Damn mean woman when she was drunk. But then, he’d never seen her totally sober, either.

All the way to the beach house, he’d pondered how he could retrieve Patsy and the rest of his stuff without getting his ass whipped.

No stroke of genius had hit him yet. Maybe what’s-his-name would have an idea.

He shuffled down the hall and found his new best friend with a whiskey—no, that was clearly a bottle of Four Roses, so make that a bourbon. “You get into Dad’s private stash? He’ll skin us both.”

The stranger shook his head. “Brought this myself.” His tone said he wasn’t sharing, either.

Joe Wayne considered going back to the room for the keys. One of them unlocked the liquor cabinet. But he’d left some beer in the fridge, and right then, a cold one sounded okay. “Dad drinks Four Roses, too. Says anybody who drinks it must be a Southern gentleman.”

No response, but the former surfer shifted his weight onto his artificial leg and rubbed the top of his good foot against it.

Joe Wayne attempted to pry him into conversation again. “What’s your name, anyway?”

The stranger squinted like he was figuring on whether or not to give out that information before he finally answered. “Sol. Sol Beecher.”

“Joe Wayne Fuller.” Joe Wayne held his hand out.

Sol cocked a half grin before shaking. “Yeah. We’ve already met.”

Joe Wayne rounded the bar to get to the refrigerator. “So you’re a friend of EmmyLou’s?” He grabbed a beer and popped the top, guzzling half of it in one gulp.

Sol snorted. “I wouldn’t say that. I won a raffle. A week here at the house was the prize.”

“You know her, though? EmmyLou?”

“Yeah. I know her.”

Not much of a conversationalist, this Sol Beecher. But he finally broke the silence. “You her half-brother? Or...has she been married?

Joe Wayne finished the beer. “Nope.” He grabbed another.

“Her last name is Creighton. Yours is Fuller.”

Joe Wayne took only a sip this time. “Creighton’s her middle name. Fuller’s her real last name. She started using Creighton ’cause she didn’t want people to...” Shit! Running his mouth off—giving up his sister’s secrets to someone he didn’t even know. “Oh hell, just ignore me. I’m drunk.”

Sol looked him squarely in the eye. “And you’ll need to be hitting the road soon.”

“Yeah, about that. Seeing as how you seem to be here all by your lonesome...” Joe Wayne glanced around but saw no evidence of anyone else. “You’re here by yourself, right?”

“Right.” Sol set the glass on the bar harder than necessary. “And I like it that way.” He leaned down and scratched the top of his foot again.

“You’re doing a powerful lot of scratching.” Joe Wayne steered the subject away from his sleeping place for the night. Figured he’d approach it again later. “You get wasp stung or something?”

“Jellyfish. Three places. They’re not stinging anymore, but the itching’s driving me crazy.”

Joe Wayne gave a sympathetic shake of his head. “You showered before you treated ’em. Don’t ever do that—makes ’em worse.”

“Yeah. Thanks for that.” Sol gritted his teeth and hit the bar with the end of his fist. “Got me on the cheek of the ass, too.”

Joe Wayne’s laugh earned him an angry glare.

“I went through the kitchen looking for meat tenderizer—”

“That ain’t what you need. You need—” Joe Wayne stopped. “Tell you what. You agree I can stay here tonight and I’ll tell you how to get rid of the itch. It’s three o’clock now. A few more hours can’t be so bad, can it? You’re gonna sleep through them anyway.” He gave Sol a huge grin. “Unless that damn itching keeps you up all night.”

A look came into Sol’s eyes that Joe Wayne recognized. Defeat. “All right,” Sol snapped. “Just tell me what to do.”

“I’ll do better than that. Wait here and I’ll get you the cure.”

Joe Wayne went to the kitchen and retrieved one of the giant bottles of vinegar they kept under the sink just for jellyfish stings. He trotted back up the hall and presented the bottle to Sol. “Get in the shower and pour this on the spots full strength. Let it stay on for a few minutes and then soak in a hot tub for twenty minutes. Itching’ll be gone.”

Sol grabbed the bottle of vinegar and his refilled glass of bourbon. “Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Joe Wayne waited until the door to the downstairs guest suite closed. Then he got a glass out of the cabinet. “Twenty-five minutes alone with a bottle of Four Roses?” He poured a hefty couple of shots into his glass. “Don’t mind if I do.”

CHAPTER FOUR

SOL BANGED ON the door of the family suite. “Joe Wayne!” He bellowed the name. “Time for you to get up. Rise and shine.”

“Go ’way,” came the muffled grumble.

Sol had slept with the windows open, lulled into deep relaxation by the sound of the waves, and hadn’t woken until after eleven. He could never live here because he’d become a beach bum, for sure. Obviously, that’s what had happened to his uninvited guest.

He opened the door and barged in. “That’s my line. Time for you to get up and get out of here.”

Joe Wayne lay sprawled on his back in the same position Sol had left him when he half carried him in here, much too inebriated to make the journey from the bar on his own.

The young man covered his eyes with his hand. “Turn off the damn light!”

“That’s the sun. It’s after one o’clock.” Sol moved to the window and jerked the curtains wider, filling the room with sunshine.

Joe Wayne groaned. “Shark took your heart, too, didn’t it?”

The unexpected intrusion into Sol’s week had been an aggravation, but getting out of the shower last night to find his bottle of Four Roses half-gone was unforgivable. He opened the window to allow fresh air in—and the body odor out. “Get your ass out of bed. Now. And take a shower. You smell like a sewer.”

A gecko crawled onto the screen and Sol paused to watch it, relieved to hear movement behind him that indicated Joe Wayne was finally sitting up.

Sol turned from the window and started toward the door, clapping Joe Wayne on the back as he passed him. “Lunch is almost ready.” The plan was to feed him and send him on his way...as quickly as possible.

Last night in the dark, Sol had missed the photographs that covered the wall to the right of the private suite’s door. He stopped now to look, his eyes drawn to a grouping of EmmyLou at different ages, decked out in over-the-top frills—sashes crossing her torso, declaring her Fairest of the Fair.

A beauty queen. No wonder she’s so self-absorbed.

He guessed her to be around sixteen in the last one. Beautiful—but not as beautiful as she’d looked when he’d picked up the key at her house.

The memory of that humiliation propelled him out of the room with a quick call over his shoulder. “Fifteen minutes.”

A disgusted sigh followed by a shuffling sound told him Joe Wayne was on the move at last.

Sol returned to the kitchen, where he had the beginnings of a couple of Monte Cristo sandwiches lying on the cutting board. He heated the butter in the skillet as he whisked the eggs and milk together, then dipped the sandwiches and let them brown slowly.

He’d just flipped them to the other side—smiling at the perfection of the golden color—when Joe Wayne made his appearance...obviously clean, but still wearing the same damn dirty clothes.

Sol wrinkled his nose. “Don’t you have something else you can put on?”

Joe Wayne ran a hand through his wet hair and tucked it behind his ears. “Nope. Everything in there—” he threw a thumb over his shoulder “—is dirty. All my clean stuff’s in the compartment of my motorcycle.”

Shock rolled through Sol. “You left your motorcycle behind?”

Joe Wayne rubbed the back of his neck. “Had to. It was a near-death experience. I was hoping—” he drifted toward the sliding glass door, looking out on the beach “—that maybe you and me could figure out some way to get it back.”

Sol lifted the sandwich with the spatula to check its progress as he shook his head. “Sorry. You’re on your own.”

“Come on, man.” The sound was as close to a man-whine as Sol had ever heard. “Ramona’s husband’ll kill me if I get anywhere near that house. He’s probably already done something horrible to Patsy—that’s my cycle.”

“And what makes you think anyone else would be safe?”

“I thought...” Joe Wayne shrugged, cutting his eyes in Sol’s direction and downward. “Maybe he wouldn’t do nothing to a guy with a fake leg.”

“Use the cripple to garner some pity, huh?” Sol tossed the plastic bowl into the sink, sloshing the remainder of its egg-and-milk contents up the sides.

“If gardenin’ pity’ll get Patsy back...hell yeah.”

“Hell no.” Sol found the plates in the cabinet and took two down. “Get us each a bottle of water.” He used the spatula to point at his companion. “Only water.”

EmmyLou’s brother did as he was told, slinking to the refrigerator like a whipped puppy, as Sol plated the sandwiches and cut each one in half, adding a dollop of strawberry jam for dipping.

“Let’s eat on the deck,” he suggested. “I can’t stand it in here with...” He paused. “This fresh air and sunshine is too nice to miss.”

Joe Wayne followed him out, and they settled into the chairs at the table. His companion wolfed a fourth of his sandwich down without saying a word, but grunting often with approval.

“What do you call this? Some kind of fancy French toast?” Strawberry jam oozed out the side of Joe Wayne’s mouth.

“Use your napkin.” Sol scooted one across the table. “And it’s a Monte Cristo.”

Joe Wayne snorted with his mouth full, sending crumbs onto his plate and the surrounding area. “Like those funny British movie guys? Dad used to love their stuff. Thought they were hilarious.”

“That’s Monty Python. This is Monte Cristo—as in the Count of...”

Joe Wayne shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

Sol took another bite to block the sarcasm poised on his lips.

“Gonna be hard for me to leave—” Joe Wayne shook his head and gave a regretful sigh “—till I get Patsy back. But once I do, her and me’ll hit the road quicker’n a frog on a june bug.”

“Forget it. You’re on your own.”

Joe Wayne took another giant bite. “Have it your way. But seeing as how you and I are going to be hanging out together for a while longer, why don’t you tell me what really happened to your leg?”

“I don’t talk about my leg,” Sol responded.

“Well, maybe you should. Might make you less of a turd.”

* * *

“HELLO?”

That was not Joe Wayne’s voice on the other end of her brother’s cell phone.

“Sol?” Emmy crossed her fingers and hoped not as she tossed her luggage onto the hotel bed.

“Who is this?” The threatening edge sharpened, going beyond the aggravation of Sol’s normal tone with her. This was...mean.

“It’s EmmyLou,” she said.

“Well, when you get ahold of your friend, tell him...”

Oh good Lord. This wasn’t Sol, either.

“...that if he ever comes sniffing around my wife again—”

The husband!

Emmy ended the call.

The guy still had Joey’s phone. Not a good sign. Where was her brother?

Her thumb scrolled through her recent calls and pressed the number from early that morning.

“Hello, EmmyLou.” Definitely Sol. Her toes curled at the sound no matter how hard she tried to stop them.

“Hi, Sol. I was trying to reach Joey, and—”

“Hey, sis.”

So Joey was still alive. That neither the husband nor Sol had killed him after last night’s fiasco was a pleasant surprise. Her brother might not have fared so well if she’d been the one staying at the beach house. But if he thought that friendly tone would get him out of a lecture, he had another think coming.

“Don’t you ‘hey, sis’ me. Acting like everything’s all hunky-dory after making an ass of yourself in front of my friend last night. What in the cornbread hell did you think you were doing? And with a married woman? Shame on you, Joe Wayne Fuller.”

“So y’all are friends. The way Sol acts, I wasn’t sure. ’Course, it was a little weird that he had your phone number so readily available last night. And here you are, calling him again.”

“Don’t go trying to shift the attention away from your stupid-assedness. Just tell me you got out of Sol’s way as soon as you grabbed some clothes last night, and right now you’re there simply because you stopped by to apologize.”

The dead silence on the other end crawled up her spine and confirmed what she already knew.

“Joey, please tell me you did not...”

“I was too drunk to go anywhere last night. I passed out on the bed.”

“But you left first thing this morning, right?” Bentley whined in exasperation, eager for his walk.

“Noooot exactly.”

“You are not still staying there!” She took out her frustration on the luggage zipper, jerking open the compartment holding the dog’s gear, and took his water bowl to the bathroom sink to fill it.

“I got nowhere to go and no way to get there ’cept on foot. Patsy’s in Ramona’s yard, and I’m sure that pit bull husband of hers is laying in wait to bite me in the ass. Sol refuses to help me get her back—”

“Oh good Lord, do not drag Sol into this. I drove all night to get down here, and I’m checked into a hotel. Give me a few minutes to walk Bentley, and I’ll be by to pick you up. We’ll go get Patsy.”

“Forget that bullshit. You shouldn’t’ve come, ’cause you’re not going over there with me.”

“Oh hell no!” Sol’s voice, in its typical aggravated mode. “Give me that phone.” There was a shuffling sound of the phone being passed, and then Sol’s growl came over the line. “EmmyLou, this is Sol. Are you in Gulf Shores?”

“Yes, I am.” She lifted her chin defiantly to the reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I came to help Joey.”

“That’s completely uncalled for.” He was all Mr. Take Control. And while her head wanted to tell him to mind his own business, everything below her neckline tingled appreciatively. But his sigh was pure aggravation, reminding her who she was speaking with. “All I need is another Fuller down here...” Emmy stiffened at his use of her real last name. What had Joey told him? “...needing me to take care of her during my relaxing time at the beach.”

The last phrase was drenched in sarcasm, and she couldn’t let the cut-down pass without a comeback. “As I recall, taking care of my needs wasn’t one of your strong suits, Mr. Beecher.” A total lie—Sol had been fabulous in bed. But he’d never called her back, so he’d get no accolades.

“Aw shit.” Oh good Lord, Sol had handed the phone back to Joey. “See, I knew something had went on between you two. Don’t tell me no more, ’cause I don’t want to have to lay him out. I might need his help.”

Emmy’s reflection rolled its eyes. “No need to protect my honor, Joey. I’ll be there to pick you up in a few minutes. Just do me a favor, and please don’t tell Sol my history. I’m EmmyLou Creighton to everybody in Taylor’s Grove. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Your secrets are safe with me, sis.”

EmmyLou dropped into the desk chair with a groan, defeated. Joey could be totally clueless sometimes, bless his heart.

She was so screwed.

* * *

“AND ON THAT, I’m going to hang up. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Joe Wayne recognized his sister’s tone—the one that meant she had no confidence in what he’d told her, which was laughable considering it was her lack of confidence in herself that had spoiled everything. They could be making millions by now... He took a deep breath and let it go.

“See you in a few,” he answered. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“She’ll be here in a half hour.” He handed Sol the phone and turned his attention back to his sandwich. Or that’s what he pretended to do. In reality, he studied the man sitting across from him.

So something had happened between Sol and EmmyLou. Something neither of them wanted to admit to. Well, the guy was a bit of a strange bird—but likable in spite of that hard-ass bullshit he put on. Like right then. He was sitting there, chewing his sandwich all slow, staring out at the Gulf like the sight had his total concentration. But Joe Wayne had seen his reaction when he heard EmmyLou was here. Something deep-rooted surfaced for an instant...something akin to fear. And he perked up when the topic of her secret hit his ears, although he played it cool like he hadn’t really taken it in.

“Rocket-propelled grenade blew it off in Afghanistan.” Sol’s voice was low and even, like he was talking about that pelican he could see standing at the water’s edge.

But the impact of the statement caused Joe Wayne’s throat to close around the bite he’d just taken. He chugged half the bottle of water to wash it down. “I’m sorry, man.”

Sol closed his eyes as if the words hurt him, and Joe Wayne saw the muscle in his jaw twitch as he opened them again. “You don’t need to be sorry. You had nothing to do with it. I hate it when people are sorry.”

“I mean I’m sorry for your loss,” Joe Wayne explained.

“It’s a leg. Save your mourning for people.”

Joe Wayne understood his point, but he figured the best way of showing it was to not say anything.

He must’ve figured right, because Sol went on. “Nobody in Taylor’s Grove knows I lost my leg. They think I caught a bullet and just have a bad limp.”

“That’s a helluva thing to keep quiet about.”

“Can’t stand for people to be sorry for me—the way you were just now. I stayed in Texas the first year and went to physical therapy to get used to the prosthesis. After that, it was easy to wear long pants and keep it hidden. And I don’t ever talk about it.”

“Which is why you didn’t want EmmyLou coming down here.”

Sol looked at him directly, and the side of his mouth rose in a partial smile. “Your sister’s mouth is in constant motion.”

Joe Wayne laughed. “A common Fuller family trait.”

“So I’ve gathered.” Sol gave a disgruntled sigh. “And now that she’s coming over here, I’ll have to get back into my jeans.”

“How long’s it been...since you lost it?”

“Eight years. During my second tour of duty.”

Joe Wayne held his water bottle up in a salute. “I appreciate your sacrifice, man.”

Sol shook his head. “Half a leg’s a small a thing compared to what others gave.”

Joe Wayne drank to him anyway and then took another bite with the understanding that the subject was closed. He liked this guy. He had an honorable air about him. “What happened between you and EmmyLou?”

“None of your business,” came the answering growl.

Yep, honorable...with a heaping helping of ornery on the side.

CHAPTER FIVE

PARKING UP THE street in a black pickup truck with a pair of binoculars trained on Ramona’s house was not the smartest reconnaissance plan Sol had ever been part of, but the Fullers had collectively vetoed his suggestion to get the police involved. So the next best option seemed to be to watch the house for Ramona’s husband or both of them to leave and to hope for an unlocked door or window, which Joe Wayne seemed to think was likely.

Looking around the run-down neighborhood, Sol couldn’t imagine such a scenario. This was a far cry from neat and tidy Taylor’s Grove and his own house, which he’d bet had never been locked since the day his grandparents moved in. But it confirmed that his decision to follow Joe Wayne and EmmyLou had been the right move, despite her protests that she didn’t need his protection.

Damn stubborn woman.

Joe Wayne came into view, slinking around the side of the house, head darting back and forth, guilty as sin and looking every inch the part. He sprinted to the edge of the driveway and up the street toward EmmyLou’s car. Sol hurried from the truck to hear his report.

“She’s in the backyard.”

A break—finally! “Did you arrange to get your keys?”

Joe Wayne shook his head. “Not Ramona. Patsy. She’s around back. And I seen the legs of my jeans laying out by the garbage, too. My guess is Ramona made herself a pair of shorts to get rid of the evidence.” He caught his breath on a wistful sigh. “I heard her husband tell her they was out of baloney and somebody was gonna have to go get some. Maybe it’ll be him. And maybe it’ll be soon.”

The temperature was creeping up to the point of being uncomfortable, and Sol was itching to get back to the beach house and the breeze off the Gulf...and the prospect of solitude once EmmyLou and her brother were out of his hair.

“I have an idea.” EmmyLou’s breathless exclamation raised his body temperature—and his disgruntled attitude—even more. “Let’s call your phone, and when they answer, we’ll pretend you’re an undercover CIA agent.” The brown of her eyes deepened with excitement, sending Sol’s memory soaring back to the night they spent together, which, in turn, reminded him how far he’d dropped on her scale of desirability. “We’ll say there’s a bomb planted on the cycle and they need to move it to the road with the keys and the phone, and we’ll come by and pick it up.”

Sol mustered his most condescending snort. “That may be the most ludicrous idea I’ve ever heard.”

“That so?” If the convertible top had been up on EmmyLou’s car, she might’ve ripped it in her hasty exit from the driver’s seat. “I don’t hear you coming up with anything better. I drove all night to get here, and I’m going to have to do it again tonight to get home for work tomorrow. I’m ready to go back to my hotel room and get some sleep, but instead, we’re standing around, roasting in this heat all afternoon, waiting for an event that might not happen.” She slammed the door and leaned back on it, crossing her arms in a pose that was somehow beguiling in its belligerence.

“If you’d stayed home, you wouldn’t be having to deal with this.” Sol shifted his eyes to Joe Wayne. “Look, I’ll just go to the door, and when she answers, I’ll ask for the keys and your phone.”

The male half of the Fullers squinted a wary eye. “What if he answers?”

Sol shrugged. “I’ll ask to speak to Ramona.”

“And he’ll throttle you on the spot.” Joe Wayne’s shrug mocked his own. “No questions asked.”

EmmyLou didn’t say anything, only glared at Sol as she stomped around to the trunk of her car and got out a bag, slinging it across her shoulder.

“What’s in there?” he asked.

“Hair tools and makeup. I’ll tell Ramona she’s won a makeover. When I get her alone, I’ll tell her who I am and get the keys and the phone.”

Joe Wayne’s face broke into a pleased grin. “That just might work.”

“No!” Sol exclaimed. Didn’t the woman have any sense of danger? “You’re not going in there.”

“Watch me.”

She walked fast. Sol had to break into his awkward jog to catch up with her. When he did, she turned a scowl in his direction. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m not letting you go in there alone. I’m your assistant. Perry.”

“My assistant is Demitri.” Her scowl morphed into a smirk. “And he’d never let his hair look like that.”

“Today he does.” Sol couldn’t recall if he’d combed his hair this morning...or yesterday. It was one of those things that didn’t seem too important anymore.

The conversation stopped as they stepped onto the front stoop. EmmyLou rapped on the door as Sol let out a sharp breath.

* * *

THE WOMAN WHO answered the door had obviously been a real looker at one time, but her features had settled into a premature hardness that aged her maybe a decade, if Emmy was any judge...and she usually was. The husband hovered a few feet in the background, looking even meaner than he’d sounded over the phone.

“Hi there.” Emmy gave a warm smile and extended her hand. “Ramona?”

The woman didn’t return the smile or take her hand. Instead she scanned Emmy from head to toe and back. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Chloe Cramer from the Beauty Bar Salon, and this is my assistant, Demitri. Ramona’s name was drawn as the winner of a surprise makeover from our salon. Is she here?”

“A makeover? No shit?” Ramona’s smile softened her face and gave a glimmer of the pretty girl she used to be. “I’m Ramona. Come on in.”

Emmy shot Sol a triumphant grin. This was going to work. She stepped inside with him close at her elbow. Lifting her chin confidently, she covered the distance to the giant man in the Save The Squirrels, Eat More Possum T-shirt, whose tattoo-covered arm muscles bulged as he crossed them over his broad chest. “And you must be the lucky guy in this pretty woman’s life.”

“Naw, I’m her husband,” he snarled.

Emmy wasn’t sure if he’d meant that as a joke, but she kept her smile fixed. She hadn’t realized Ramona had moved to stand beside her, and she gave a startled jump when the woman’s hand squeezed her arm.

“Are you going to do it here? Right now? I never won nothing before. This is the best thing that ever happened to me!” The woman actually squealed with delight.

“I...uh. Well, actually, we usually try to do it when the husband isn’t home, so the final look is a surprise for him, as well.” Emmy’s mouth was moving so fast, she just let it go and prayed what she said sounded plausible. “If we can move somewhere more private and work out the details, we’ll figure out a better time for us to come back.”

“How long you need?” The husband threw a menacing look Sol’s direction that caused Emmy to shudder. “I don’t like leaving my wife with a strange man in the house any longer than I have to.”

Augh! She should’ve anticipated that Sol’s hotness would be a liability. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about Demitri. Does he, love?” She forced a giggle and patted Sol’s chest before turning back to the brute. “He’s head-over-heels in love with his husband, and they make absolutely the most adorable couple you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, making the grin he turned on Sol more threatening. “Yeah. I figured as much.” His eyes darted to Emmy. “So, how long you need?”

“An hour,” she said.

“And a half,” Sol added, his voice sounding an octave lower than usual. “We don’t want to have to rush.”

“I’m going for a beer.” The husband brushed past them, deliberately bumping hard into Sol, who stumbled against Emmy but quickly righted himself.

“Pick up some baloney while you’re out,” Ramona called before the door slammed, and then the questions bubbled out of her. “Are you gonna do color? And cut it? I’ve been thinking about going shorter. And will you do makeup, too?”

Emmy waited until she heard the vehicle start up outside, then held up her hand for Ramona to stop. “Ramona, I’m sorry. I’m actually Joe Wayne Fuller’s sister, and I’m here to get his phone and the keys to his motorcycle.”

Ramona pulled back, her face hardening into the old crone again. “You mean there ain’t no makeover? You lied about all this just to get the stuff from me?”

“Well, yeah.” Emmy shot a help me look at Sol, but he just smiled and crossed his arms over his chest. “I hate to do it, but we couldn’t think of any other way to get to you without making your husband suspicious.”

Ramona jerked her phone out of her back pocket. “I oughta call him back here right now and let him whip both your asses. Get out of here before I decide to do just that.”

“But Joey needs his phone and his keys.” If the woman had any affection for her brother, maybe this technique would work.

Ramona stomped her foot. “And I need a damn makeover.”

“Come on.” Sol pulled Emmy’s arm, but she stood firm.

“No.” She shook her head with a sigh, accepting what she had to do. “I am really a stylist with my own salon, so if a makeover is what it’s going to take, you’ll get a makeover.” She unzipped the bag and pulled out the box of color she’d picked up for a client yesterday. “The only color I have in my bag is Red Hot Red.”

“That’ll suit me just fine...probably.” Ramona grinned. “Make me happy, and you’ll get what you came for.”

* * *

SOL BREATHED IN a gulp of the afternoon heat, thankful to be leaving the place with all of his teeth intact. It had been touch and go for a while, but Emmy’s plan had worked.

She held up the keys and phone, flashing them in the sunlight. Joey let out a whoop and came running from the cover of the bushes.

“You did it!” He grabbed his sister in a tight hug. “Thank you. Thank you!”

“You know I’m here for you, sugar.” She swatted his backside. “Now go get Patsy. Husband’s due back any minute.”

“Whooeee, yeah! I’m coming for you, Patsy! Daddy’s here.” Joe Wayne darted around the corner of the house as Sol and Emmy headed back toward their cars at the end of the street.

She cast Sol a sidelong glance. “Gonna admit you were wrong? My idea turned out to be a winner.”

“I admit I was wrong.” Sol stopped and, covering his heart with his hand, gave a slight bow. “You’re a wizard. That woman looked like a different person by the time you got finished.”

EmmyLou raised her hands in front of her and flashed him a wicked smile. “Some people say I’ve got magic in these hands.”

His groin clenched with need at her comment, but before he could respond verbally, Joe Wayne tore out of Ramona’s backyard on Patsy, giving a war whoop and a thumbs-up as he passed.

Sol decided to let Emmy’s last comment go unchallenged and changed the subject. “So, did this flash of genius really come to you here? Do you always travel with your tools?” He pointed to the bag slung over her shoulder.

“I keep this one in my trunk because I go to homeless shelters and nursing homes pretty often. Sometimes the school there in town.”

Her kindness touched him, but the warm glow immediately turned to an irritated flare as he realized he seemed to be the only person in the world not on the receiving end of it. She was always bent on knocking him down, no matter the situation. “Playing me as a gay guy to those people was a bit unfair, don’t you think?”

Her laugh held no remorse. “He believed it, didn’t he?” They reached her car and popped the trunk, slinging her bag into it. “And now I’ll be on my way.”

Looking closely at her face, Sol could see the tired lines around her eyes. “You’re not heading home right now, are you? You’re in no shape to drive.”

“Nope. I’m going back to the hotel and sleeping until midnight. That’s a full eight hours, so I’ll be fine.” She pointed to the car parked too close behind her. “Will you watch me out?”

Sol directed her back slowly until she had room to pull forward onto the street. As she gave him a wave of thanks and goodbye, he ignored the fleeting feeling of regret that she wasn’t staying a little longer.

He stalked back to his truck and unlocked his door just as a pickup pulled alongside his.

Ramona’s husband.

“Hey, Demitri.”

Sol’s neck hairs rose with apprehension at the menacing tone. He jerked the driver’s door open but couldn’t get in quick enough.

For such a big guy, Ramona’s husband moved fast. He ran around his vehicle, and his fist connected with Sol’s nose before Sol could pivot out of the way.

Crunch!

Pain and a multitude of colored lights exploded behind Sol’s eyes. He lost his balance and staggered backward, coming up against the side of his truck. The metallic taste of blood coated his tongue, and the hand that he raised to his face soon dripped with red.

“We don’t like your kind around here. Go away and stay away, you hear?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Climbing back in his truck, he roared up the street.

Clenching his teeth shot pain through Sol’s cheekbone that drilled into the sinus cavity straight into the damn-this-is-excruciating center of his brain. He found a sweaty handkerchief in his back pocket and used it to catch the blood that poured from his nose like someone had turned on a faucet. Without a doubt, it was broken. He typed Hospital into his GPS and waited while the routing loaded.

“Thank you, EmmyLou Creighton.” He ground the words out through the pain.

The woman’s name had become synonymous with torture in his private lexicon. He would get even with her if it was the last thing he did.

And between her shenanigans and her brother’s, it very well might be.

* * *

NO MATTER THE story behind it, Sol had taken the punch meant for him, Joe Wayne learned when he stopped back by the beach house late that afternoon. He couldn’t let that pass without showing his gratitude. And so, despite Sol’s pretend anger and mock protestation, Joe Wayne had decided to stay an additional night at the beach house. He’d fixed a nice dinner from the provisions Sol had on hand—steak on the grill, baked potatoes, salad, and fresh fruit for dessert. He’d opened Dad’s wine cabinet and served one of the best reds in the house. And now, as they sat on the deck, he strummed his guitar and serenaded his new friend, who sported a swollen nose and two black eyes on his behalf. In between songs he filled their glasses—the good crystal stuff, not what they left out for renters—with Dad’s cherished Four Roses.

Yessirree, Sol Beecher was a helluva man. He walked taller on one leg than most men did on two. Fact was, he was exactly the kind of man Dad had always wanted EmmyLou to end up with. Too bad there was so much bad blood between them.

“That’s the night... I remember...best of all.” He strummed the final chord of the song and let it drift away on the warm night breeze from the Gulf.

Sol rested on a chaise with his head tilted back. His friend gave a grunt of approval, which Joe Wayne had already learned was about as complimentary as the stubborn mule got. “You ever think of trying to go professional?” Sol asked. “Being from Nashville, don’t you know people who know people?”

Joe Wayne took a sip of the bourbon to ease the tension that popped up in his jaw at the question. “I am a professional. Small-town bars and honky-tonks, mostly. No major gigs in a helluva long time,” he admitted. “But I make enough to eat on and to buy enough gas to move on to the next place.”

“You live out of motels?” Sol lifted his head and eyed him directly, looking like a raccoon with something on his mind.

“Not usually enough money for a motel room.” Joe Wayne shook his head, but he couldn’t hold back the grin. “There’s always a woman wanting to take the star home with her and take care of his needs.”

“Sounds like a lonely life.”

“Something else we have in common.” Joe Wayne strummed another chord, fleshing out a new song with a few plucks and the emotion weighing on his heart. “Lonely men...lonely women...settlin’ down...on Lonely Street. Not an end...not a beginnin’...just a hope...someday they’ll meet.”

“Never heard that one,” Sol said.

“Just made it up.” Joe Wayne fingered the tune playing in his head. It would probably be gone by morning. Alcohol was an effective eraser. He brought the song to a close.

Sol clapped a couple of times—high praise from Mr. Surly. “Ever play in front of a big crowd?”

That one took a swig to answer. “Ever heard of the Grand Ole Opry?”

Sol nodded and then hissed in pain and took another gulp.

“Eighteen years ago, me and EmmyLou shared that sacred circle.”

His companion sat up real quick-like and drew a sharp breath between clenched teeth. “You and EmmyLou performed at the Grand Ole Opry?”

“In the circle.” Joe Wayne couldn’t hide the pride even if he wanted to...which he didn’t. “Ever hear of The Fullers?”

He watched recognition dawn in his companion’s eyes. “Hell, yeah. I had some of their CDs.”

“Our CDs.” He tapped his chest with his finger. “Me and EmmyLou’s.”

Sol was all Mr. Interested now. He straddled the chair—maneuvering his artificial leg almost as well as his real one—and cradled his bourbon between his hands. “What happened?”

“Well, ya see, I was good, but EmmyLou was the draw.” Joe Wayne’s jaw was flapping loose as a goose now, his mind running through rationalizations that would justify giving up his sister’s story. “Hell, you saw the pictures of her in there on the wall. Beauty queen with the voice of an angel.” Sol would understand her better if he knew. And besides, EmmyLou... EmmyLou and Mama...had blown everything way out of proportion. What happened wasn’t that big a deal—hardly a deal at all, actually.

He tried to wash away the bitterness on his tongue with another sip. Nope, still there. He gulped, and the bourbon surrounded his anger, making it palatable and much easier to swallow. And it slowed him down. “But this ain’t my story to tell. Ask EmmyLou.” A few strums on the guitar, and the tension released in his arms and neck, his back and his hands. “What was that song I had going a minute ago?”

“Lonely men...lonely women,” his companion sang in a voice that wasn’t half-bad, but not half-good, either.

Joe Wayne’s fingers took off on a different tangent, the first tune lost in the marine fog in his brain. “Not half-bad...not half-good...life’s weird math just don’t add up. Not half-sad...not half-happy... ’less I’m sipping from a cup. Bourbon helps to fill the spaces...helps my mind to wander free. One good slurp and I’m expoundin’...on life’s geometry.”

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