he Buckhorn Bar was the oldest surviving establishment in Gospel. Rebuilt after the fire of ‘32, and erected several years before Our Savior Jesus Christ Church, it also held within its rough-timbered walls a devout following. Wednesday nights were “twofer” nights until ten, and there weren’t many in the Buckhorn congregation who could pass up two beers for two bucks.

Perhaps the Buckhorn was so popular with the locals because, like them, it never pretended to be something it wasn’t. The Buckhorn was simply a place to tip back a few, play some pool in the back room, or two-step to Vince Gill. During the summer months, the regulars put up with the tourists the best they could, but no one was blamed if a flatlander had to be forcefully removed from a favorite stool.

The choice of music pouring from the new juke was country, strictly country, and loud enough to drown out the rattle of the swamp cooler. Last year, some smart-ass had sneaked into the bar after hours and switched George Jones with Barry Manilow. Barry had no more sung half of “I Write the Songs” before Hayden Dean picked up a barstool and put the old juke out of its misery. Now the stools were nailed to the floor.

The owner of the Buckhorn, Burley Morton, had never had a real keen eye for decor, but he did kind of like the way the new juke blinked to the sound of steel guitars and coordinated with the big Coors light behind the bar. Except for the poolroom in the back, walking into the Buckhorn was like walking into a dimly lit cave. The denizens who called it their second home liked it that way.

Hope stood in the entrance, giving her eyes a moment to adjust. Although she could see little beyond shadows and glowing neon bar signs, the place reminded her of the bar in Las Vegas where she’d first met her inspiration for Micky the Magical Leprechaun, Myron Lambardo. It smelled strongly of beer, decades of cigarette smoke, and rough timber. That probably should have warned her to turn and run, but she was a bit desperate these days. She shoved her headphones into her fanny pack and took a few steps to the right so a big cowboy could squeeze past. Her shoulder came into contact with a large bulletin board, and she lifted her gaze to a flyer pinned to the cork. It was a sign-up sheet, inviting people to participate in the:

ANNUAL FOURTH OF JULY

ROCKY MOUNTAIN OYSTER-EATING CONTEST

AND TOILET TOSS

Of course she’d heard of an oyster feed. When she was growing up, her family had often hosted seafood barbecues. A toilet toss? That was a new one, but, considering what she knew of the town, not all that surprising. In the five days she’d been in Gospel, she’d discovered some pretty strange things. Like the number of guns on open display. It seemed there was some rule that if you owned a truck, you had to have at least two rifles in the rear window. If you wore a belt, it had to have a buckle the size of your head, and if you had a pair of antlers, they must be nailed to your house, your barn, or your truck. The prevailing bumper-sticker sentiment could be summed up in one sentence: If you’re not a cowboy, eat shit and die.

Hope glanced at her sports watch and figured she had an hour before it turned dark outside. She hadn’t planned on coming into the Buckhorn at all, but she’d been jogging past and thought she should check it out. She hadn’t been able to write a decent article since the chicken-bone story. Walter had e-mailed her this morning and wanted something big. Preferably something to do with Bigfoot, or aliens, or Elvis. He was losing patience with her, and she hoped she might find a Bigfoot Elvis impersonator hiding inside the Buckhorn.

Once Hope’s eyes had adjusted to the light, she made her way to a vacant booth along the far side of the building. She was very aware of the stares that followed her, as if the people had never seen a pair of black spandex jogging shorts and a midriff sports bra. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and she wore very little makeup.

She ordered a Corona, settled for a Bud Lite, and listened to the pool game in the rear. Over the whining of steel guitars from the jukebox, she could hear the couple in the booth behind her discuss something about flatlanders. The longer she eavesdropped, the more she gathered there was some sort of betting pool going on. It seemed that with the latest accident, Otis Winkler was now ahead with three cases of poison oak, two torn ankle ligaments, a broken thumb, and a cracked rib.

Hope listened carefully, then begged a pencil from the waitress. As she poured her beer into a red plastic cup, she grabbed a napkin and began to write:

ALIEN SABOTEURS HIDE WITHIN

THE HIGH MOUNTAINS OF IDAHO

In a sleepy town somewhat reminiscent of that television classic, Mayberry, aliens trick unsuspecting tourists...

Dylan hit the door of the Buckhorn Bar with the heel of his hand, sending it crashing against the wall. He was absolutely not in the mood for this shit. Two of his deputies were dealing with a nasty two-car accident south of Banner Summit, another was on vacation, and Lewis was still half an hour away. That left it up to Dylan to strap his duty belt over his Levi’s, pin his star to the pocket of his plaid shirt, and come deal with the idiots at the Buckhorn.

The combined sounds of fists hitting flesh, shouts of bets being placed, and Conway Twitty’s “Hello Darlin‘ ” filled the bar.

Dylan pushed his way through the spectators and barely missed a roundhouse punch intended for Emmett Barnes.

Someone pulled the plug on Conway and flipped on the lights just as the other contender, Hayden Dean, delivered a blow to Emmett’s jaw that connected and sent him staggering into the crowd. Dylan wasn’t surprised to see Emmett involved. On a good day, Emmett was a mean son of a bitch with a little man’s complex, and this didn’t look like a good day. He stood five-seven in his custom-made boots and was built like a pit bull. Add alcohol into the mix, and Emmett was just one big beer muscle waiting to be flexed.

Dylan signaled to the owner of the bar, who grabbed Hayden in a big bear hug. Burley Morton hadn’t come by his nickname because he’d born small.

Dylan stepped in front of Emmett and put a restraining hand on the man’s chest. “Fight’s over,” he said.

“Get out of my way, Sheriff!” Emmett hollered, his eyes glazed with anger. “I’m not through kicking Hayden’s bony ass.”

“Why don’t you just calm down?”

Instead, Emmett smashed his fist just beneath Dylan’s left eye. The impact rocked Dylan’s head back, knocked his hat off, and shot needles of pain through his head. He blocked the next shot with his forearm and punched Emmett in the belly. The air whooshed from the other man’s lungs, doubling him over, and Dylan took full advantage of his position and slammed an uppercut to Emmett’s face that sent him to the ground. Without giving Emmett a chance to recover, he rolled him onto his stomach and cuffed him behind his back. “Now, you just lie there and exercise your right to be silent,” he said as he patted down Emmett’s pockets and found them empty.

He stood, placed his booted foot in the middle of Emmett’s back, and threw a second set of cuffs to Burley, who had no problem slapping them on the much skinnier Hayden.

“Okay,” Dylan addressed the suddenly silent crowd, “what happened here?” He raised his hand to his cheekbone and winced.

Several people talked at once.

“Emmett bought her a round.”

“She said something to him and he started hassling her.”

“That’s when Hayden stepped in.”

Emmett squirmed and Dylan pressed his bootheel into his spine until he quit moving. “Who?” He looked at his fingertips. He wasn’t bleeding, but he’d have a brilliant shiner in the morning.

Everyone in the bar pointed to a booth several feet away. “Her.” And there, standing on top of the table, frozen to the wall like a deer caught in a headlight, was Ms. Hope Spencer. Her eyes were huge, her top small, and there was beer spilled everywhere. She clutched a fistful of napkins to her chest.

“Get up, and I’ll hogtie you,” he told Emmett, stepping over him. He knew from past experience with Emmett that once he was down, the threat of getting his hands and feet shackled together usually subdued him.

Dylan walked toward Hope and held out his hand. “Why don’t you hop on down from there, ma’am?” She took three hesitant steps to the edge of the table and shoved the napkins into a fanny pack she had strapped around her hips. She placed her palms on his shoulders, and his hands reached up and curved around her bare waist. As he looked into her blue eyes glassy with fright, his thumbs just naturally brushed her soft skin and pressed into her flat stomach. He lifted her from the table and slowly set her on her feet before him.

“Are you all right?” he asked. His gaze lowered from her face to his hands resting on her waist. The heat of her bare skin warmed his palms, and he kept them there, right there against that soft, soft skin. She smelled of beer, and of the Buckhorn, and of flowers, too. Lust rolled through his belly and curled his fingers, and he finally dropped his hands to his sides.

“I thought he was going to hit me,” she said, tightening her grasp on his shoulders. “Last year I took self-defense classes, and I thought I could take care of myself. But I froze. I’m not the Terminator.” Her breathing was shallow, and with each little gasp, her breasts rose in that little top.

He looked into her face, absent of cosmetics and color, her normal cool facade gone. “You don’t look like the Terminator.”

She shook her head and it didn’t appear like she was going to get over her panic any time soon. “That was my nickname in class. I was very fierce.”

“Are you going to pass out?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and take a deep breath anyway?”

She did as he asked and he watched her suck in several even breaths. She probably wasn’t aware that she held onto him, but he was very aware of the weight of her touch. He felt it all over, warming him as if they were more than strangers. As if the most natural thing in the world would be for him to lower his mouth to hers and kiss her until he made her eyes a bit more glassy, her breathing a lot more choppy. Dylan reached for her hands and removed them.

“You feeling better?” he asked, figuring it had been way too long since he’d been with a woman if a touch on his shoulders got him hot.

She nodded.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“I was just sitting there, minding my own business, and the shorter guy walked up and put another round on my table. I told him no thank you, but he sat down anyway.” A frown settled between her brows, but she didn’t offer further explanation.

“And?” Dylan prompted.

“And I tried to be nice, but he wouldn’t get the hint. So I figured I needed to make it really clear that I wasn’t in the mood for company. You know, so that there was no misunderstanding.”

Not that it mattered, but out of curiosity, Dylan asked, “What did you say to him?”

Her frown spread to the corners of her mouth. “I think I said, ‘Please remove your carcass from my booth.’ ”

“I guess he didn’t take that very well.”

“No. Then he got really mad when I suggested to him that he had a drinking problem and should enter rehab.”

“And?”

“I think that’s when he said I should fuck myself.”

“And?”

“And I said I’d rather fuck myself than a short man with a little penis.”

Dylan’s head suddenly ached like a bitch and his eye began to hurt a lot more. “Uh-huh.”

“That’s when he reached across the table and tried to grab me. I screamed and that skinnier guy grabbed the short guy and pulled him out of the booth. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know what would have happened.”

Dylan knew. Emmett probably would have smacked her around before someone put a stop to it. Dylan was going to hogtie him just for the fun of it.

“So he didn’t touch you?”

“No.”

“Threaten you with anything like a knife or a broken bottle?”

“No.”

Lewis Plummer finally entered the bar and moved through the crowd toward Dylan. “Did someone take a poke at you?”

“Yep. Go ahead and Mirandize Emmett Barnes, then charge him with aggravated assault and aggravated battery on a police officer. I didn’t find anything on him, but just to be sure, why don’t you frisk him again?”

“What about Hayden?”

Dylan returned his gaze to Hope. “Did you see who swung first?”

“The short guy.”

“Hayden can go home.”

“Are you going to come into the station?” Lewis asked.

“No. Adam is at home with a sitter, so I’ll do the paperwork in the morning.”

“See ya in the morning, then.” Lewis held up his hand in an abbreviated wave.

Dylan watched his deputy pull Emmett to his feet, then turned to look into Hope’s face. She was still a bit pale and her eyes still a bit glazed, but she didn’t appear too upset by her experience at the Buckhorn. “Do you want to go to the station and make a statement tonight, or would you prefer to come in tomorrow morning?”

“I just want to go home.”

Someone plugged the juke back in, the lights were once again turned low, and Deputy Plummer escorted Emmett Barnes from the bar. It was ten o’clock, two hours before closing time. Just enough time for those still around to polish off a few more beers.

“Are you okay to drive?” he asked Hope as Conway Twitty once again poured from the juke.

She glanced down at herself, and Dylan glanced, too. At her tight spandex shorts and sports bra. Light from a Coors sign flashed from across the bar and lit up her flat stomach. “I jogged here,” she said.

Dylan forced his gaze from the blue light shining on her belly button. “Let me get my cuffs from Burley and I’ll take you home.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

“Dylan,” he reminded her.

“Dylan.” Then it happened. For the first time since she’d driven her little sports car into town, she smiled at him. Her full lips curved upward and she flashed him the straightest teeth he’d seen since leaving L.A. He figured relief from her ordeal must have warmed her up. Most women tended to get real weepy or real grateful after an ordeal.

From behind, someone placed a caressing hand around Dylan’s arm, and he looked over his shoulder and down into the shadows hiding Dixie Howe’s eyes. “Here’s your hat, Dylan.”

“Thanks, Dixie.” He brushed his hair back and replaced his hat.

“You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Afraid so.”

“Can’t you stay for a game of pool? I heard you tell Lewis that Adam is home with a sitter.”

“Not tonight.” He tried to pull his arm from her grasp, but her grip tightened. She pressed one big breast into his arm, and he knew her well enough to know it wasn’t an accident. He’d known Dixie most of his life. He’d dated her sister, and he’d remembered her as a scrawny kid. Life hadn’t been real kind to either Howe sister, and he felt bad about that, about the way they’d grown up, but he felt nothing more. “I have to take Ms. Spencer home.”

Dixie cast a quick glance in Hope’s direction, then once again focused her attention on Dylan. “You remember my offer the other night?”

Of course he remembered. There hadn’t been many times in his life when a woman had walked up to him at a T-ball game and blatantly offered oral sex.

“Any time.” She finally released her grasp and Dylan pulled free.

“Good night, Dixie,” he said and moved to the bar before she could grab hold again. Hope followed beside him, and while he quickly retrieved his handcuffs from Hayden’s wrists, he had to listen to her express her appreciation to Hayden for his “heroic intervention.”

As far as Dylan was concerned, she laid it on too thick and gushed too much. She had the poor fool blushing and stammering about how it had been his pleasure to get his nose broken for her. Hope had been in town for five days, he’d run into her three times, and she hadn’t smiled at him until five minutes ago. He guessed he now knew what it took to make her smile. It took getting hit in the face.

As they left the bar, a cool breeze loosened tendrils of blond hair from Hope’s ponytail and blew them across her smooth cheeks. His gaze lowered from her face to her arms and the very distinct points in the front of her top. Dylan’s chest got tight, his left eye throbbed, and he looked away.

He helped her into the sheriff’s Blazer, and on the short drive to Timberline Road, he wondered what kind of woman dressed in spandex, walked into a redneck bar, and provoked a man like Emmett.

Someone who thought she was a badass. The Terminator.

“Who was that woman in the bar?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“There were several women in the bar. Which one do you mean?”

“Blond. Big hair. Big breasts.”

His brows lifted and he winced. “Dixie Howe,” he answered and gingerly touched his cheekbone just beneath his eye.

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“No.” Damn, his face had started to swell. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

He looked over at her, the light from the switch panel illuminating half her face. Her ponytail was a bit ragged. She smelled strongly of beer. “Curious if I have a girlfriend?”

“No, curious about what she offered you.”

He turned the Blazer onto Timberline Road and said, “Now, that would be telling.”

“I bet I can guess.”

He laughed and pulled the Chevy into her dark drive. “Maybe she just wanted to talk.”

“Yeah, maybe through the bone phone?”

He slammed on the brakes, and if the vehicle hadn’t already been slowing, he would have put her through the windshield. “What?”

She put her hands on the dash to stop herself. “Maybe she wants to talk through—”

“Jesus H. I heard you the first time.” He stared at her and suddenly it all made perfect sense. Her glassy eyes, easy smiles, and the stench of beer he’d assumed had spilled on her. Relief hadn’t warmed her up to him at all. “How many beers did you drink?”

“Hmm? Well, usually I’m not much of a drinker, but it was twofer night.”

“How many?”

“I must have had four.”

“In how many hours?”

“Two.” She reached for the door handle and was out of the car before he’d even shut off the engine. “I probably should have eaten dinner before I had anything to drink,” she continued as she walked across the dirt yard.

Dylan tossed his hat on the passenger seat and followed. The house was completely dark. No light spilled into the yard from the porch or windows. The full moon provided the only illumination, and it shone on Hope’s hair, turning it gold. She stopped at the top of the steps and stared at her front door.

“Where is your key?” he asked as he came to stand behind her.

“I wasn’t going to be gone long, so I didn’t leave any lights on.” She fished around in her fanny pack and said, “This is kind of spooky.”

Dylan unhooked the MAG-LITE from his duty belt and shined it on the front door. It was slightly ajar. “Did you leave your door open?”

She looked up, and with the keys in her palm said, “No, I always lock it when I leave.”

“It’s still locked, so you probably just didn’t pull it shut all the way.” He stepped back and trained the light on the windows and the front of the house. Nothing was broken. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.” He walked around the house and shined the flashlight on the windows. He checked the back door, but it was locked and there didn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary. “Yeah, I think you just didn’t shut the door tight,” he said after he’d once again moved to stand beside her.

“Yeah, maybe.” She quickly stepped behind him. “You first.”

He’d already planned on checking out the house for her, but what he hadn’t planned on was her hooking her hand around the back of his belt and urging him forward like a human shield. Now, there were times in Dylan’s life when he hadn’t minded women using his body, but they’d always been naked at the time. He didn’t know how he felt about being used as a target so Hope could run like hell if anything hit him first.

Her knuckles poked the small of his back and urged him forward. He entered the house and flipped on the lights. “Anything out of place?”

She raised up on her toes and her breasts pressed into his back as she looked over his shoulder. “I don’t think so,” she said right next to his left ear.

Her breath warmed the side of his neck and turned his blood hot. “Jesus.”

She dropped to her heels and her knuckles once again urged him forward. She steered him toward the dining room and he turned on the light. The room had been buffed and polished and on the long table sat a closed laptop, a printer, a scanner, and a fax machine. Stacks of books and magazines and newspapers sat next to a computer. Things Dylan imagined a writer would need, but to write what was still the question.

“Everything okay in here?”

This time she leaned to the right and peeked around his shoulder. “Yes.” Her knuckles poked his spine again and they headed to the kitchen. Like the dining room, it, too, was spotless. The pots and pans hanging on the rack had been polished, the floor buffed, and the windows cleaned. All the furniture had been placed in the house recently.

One of the last times he’d been standing in the kitchen, the FBI had been here, too. They’d swarmed the place shortly after Hiram killed himself, and they’d taken most everything that hadn’t been nailed down. Dylan wondered what Hope would think if he told her that when they’d found Hiram dead, they’d also found red crotchless panties and a bullwhip hanging from that rack. The significance of those items became clear only after viewing the photographs and videotapes Hiram Donnelly had made of himself.

The thud of Dylan’s bootheels and the squeak of Hope’s running shoes directly behind him were the only sounds on their way to the back door. For her peace of mind, he checked it again; then they moved into the living room. When he turned on the lights, she did that raising-on-her-toes thing and pressed into his back again. Pure fire shot straight to his groin and he went from semi to stiff in less than a second. He wondered what she would do if he slid one hand around her waist, and stuck his tongue down her throat. His blood throbbed in his veins and he wondered if she’d melt into him. If she’d let him touch her breasts and feel between her legs. If he took her hand and pressed her palm into his erection.

“Everything looks good from here,” she said and dropped to her heels. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He knew he should step away, put his hands in the air, and leave the area, but he couldn’t quite force himself to do what he knew he should. Not yet. “You stay down here.”

“Don’t you think I should go with you?”

He looked over his shoulder and into her upturned face a few inches from his own. His gaze slid over her smooth forehead and perfect blond brows to her big, slightly out-of-focus blue eyes. He studied the bow of her top lip, and he said, just above her mouth, “Do you want me to check out your bed?”

“Yes,” she said and he about popped a vessel. “And then look behind the shower curtain in the bathroom. I don’t want to take a shower and get stabbed by Norman Bates.”

“Jesus, stay here.” His head spinning, he removed her hand from the back of his belt and walked away. “You should definitely stay here.”

He moved upstairs and quickly checked for intruders. He couldn’t say why, but he was glad to see that she hadn’t chosen the master bedroom. Glad she wasn’t sleeping in the same room where old Hiram had been tied up and spanked. Perhaps if he hadn’t seen the videos, hadn’t seen the faces of teenage girls, he wouldn’t see the taint of it now.

When Dylan came to the room she’d chosen for her bedroom, he stopped in his tracks. The way she’d decorated, it was obvious the woman lived alone. Everything was covered in white lace and purple flowers, like she slept in some sort of overrun garden. He seriously doubted the realtor who rented the property had placed that stuff in the house.

He shut the door before he started picturing her naked, on the white downy comforter, her hair all tousled, her lips parted and wet from his kiss, and her legs all tangled with his. He walked down the hall to the bathroom and looked behind the shower curtain as she’d asked. He turned to the mirror above the sink and stared at the deep red splotch beneath his left eye. The center was already beginning to turn blue. He touched it and carefully pulled down his bottom lid to look at his eyeball.

While he had absolutely no problem imagining Hope naked, any kind of involvement was out of the question. She was beautiful and the way she filled out spandex had to be a sin, but there were a lot of beautiful women in the world. Women who didn’t threaten the life he’d made and the security of his son.

He knew little about Hope, other than she had a rare talent for pissing people off and, in all likelihood, had lied about why she’d moved to Gospel. Ms. Hope Spencer was a mystery he had no intention of solving. If she kept her nose clean, she could keep her secrets from him and everyone else. Just as he intended to keep his—especially from her.

He’d seen another side of Hope tonight. She was more relaxed, less uptight, more approachable. Softer. Drunk. And in all honesty, he had to say he preferred the drunk. His attraction to her was purely physical and turned his thoughts to hot, sweaty things that were never going to happen. The way his body reacted to her didn’t worry him. It made him uncomfortable, yes, but it didn’t mean he was going to do anything about it.

Dylan moved out into the hall. He’d bet by morning, everyone in town would know he’d given Hope a ride home. They’d likely start placing bets on how long he’d stayed. Dylan had to be very careful where he parked his truck, which was probably the reason that he hadn’t parked it in a long time.

Growing up, he’d had a wild reputation. A reputation he’d deserved, but he was the sheriff now. An elected official. The father of a young son, and he could no longer afford negative gossip or speculation about his sex life. He had his own past to live down, as well as that of the former sheriff’s. Sometimes he wondered if the citizens of Gospel were all watching, waiting for him to mess up.

When he returned downstairs, he found Hope in the kitchen, wrapping a towel around a bag of ice.

Her back was to him; he let his gaze slide down her spine to the curve of her sweet spandex-covered butt. Maybe Iona was right. Maybe MZBHAVN wore thong undies.

She turned and smiled at him again and he felt it tighten his chest. “How’s your eye?”

It was obviously past time for him to go home. “It hurts like a bitch.”

She handed him the towel, and he figured since she’d gone to such trouble for him, he could stay a minute or two. “I thought this might help.”

Dylan leaned his behind against the counter and crossed one foot over the other. “You’ve really cleaned the place up. It looks nice.”

She shrugged her bare shoulders. “It took me a few days to get rid of all the dust and dirt.”

He raised the towel to the corner of his eye. “And bats.”

“And bats.” She nodded.

“Shelly told me about the bloodstain. Did you know the late Sheriff Donnelly?”

“Sure. I was one of his deputies.”

“Then you know why he killed himself?”

“Yep.”

When he didn’t elaborate, she prompted, “Well... why?”

He figured that anything he told her, she could probably find out if she dug deep enough. “He had a fondness for kinky sex. Real dominance-and-submission stuff. He liked women to dress up in red lace and stilettos, and he’d videotape himself getting his droopy butt flogged.”

“Weird, but nothing to kill yourself over.”

“You didn’t know Hiram.” The old sheriff had been a real hard-assed lawman. “Are you thinking of writing an article about him?”

“I’m thinking about it.” She drew her brows together. “I usually don’t like to write about real people, but yeah. Maybe. How do you feel about helping me get the police report?”

“Can’t help you with that. The FBI was in charge of the case. We got wind of it about the same time Hiram did. By the time anyone got here, he was already dead.”

She sighed. “So I’ll have to send an FOIA request to the Feds, and that could take a few weeks or several months.”

She obviously knew the system. “Call and pester them,” he advised. Despite her statement of not usually writing about real people, he wouldn’t mind if her attention was distracted by the old story. That way, she wouldn’t be snooping around and looking to report a new one. The late sheriff was still a favorite topic in the county, and if the people in town found out she was writing a story about Hiram, they’d form a line and talk her into a coma. “You might ask around. Get information from people who knew Hiram.”

“I don’t think people will talk to me. They haven’t been exactly friendly.”

“Give them another chance. They’ll probably help you out.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll do what I can,” he volunteered, then figured it was time he changed the subject completely. “Tell me something, is there a Mr. Spencer?”

Hope cocked her head to one side and studied the tall cowboy standing in her kitchen. His left eye had begun to swell a bit and a shadow of beard darkened his chin and jaw. He kind of had a glow about him, and she wondered if it was the trick of the light or the Budweiser. She felt good and free, and she was old enough to recognize she’d had more than her share to drink. She was buzzed, all right, but not the kind of drunk that made the room spin or her stomach heave. The kind that made everything okay. Like in a dream, where all her problems receded into the background, and where a big, strong man saved the day, broke up fights, and checked out her spooky house for her. The kind that had a handsome cowboy standing in her kitchen and offering to help her with a story she just might write. None of it seemed quite real. “There is,” she finally answered. “But he’s someone else’s Mr. Spencer these days.”

“How long were you married?”

The answer to that question was easy. “Seven years.”

“Long time.” He lifted the towel from the corner of his eye. “What happened?”

She leaned a shoulder into the refrigerator and thought about the next answer, which wasn’t so easy. “He found someone he liked better.”

“Younger?”

She was drunk, but not that drunk. “No, not younger. It’s not even very interesting. Just the old cliché about a doctor having an affair with his nurse,” she lied, because lying was so much easier than the truth.

His lips curved into a one-sided smile she found slightly irresistible. “She couldn’t be prettier than you.”

Okay, more than slightly irresistible. “Actually, she has big teeth.”

The other side of his lips slid up and his whole face smiled. “I hate that in a woman.”

The more he talked, the more she liked him. “And a shelf butt,” she added.

“Hate that, too.”

“The last time I saw her, she got herself some big ol‘ breasts to match.”

He didn’t say anything. Just continued to smile.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about your girlfriend from the Buckhorn.”

“I told you, Dixie isn’t my girlfriend, but I can pretty much vouch that she isn’t filled with bags of saline.”

“How do you know?”

“Because her older sister, Kim, was my girlfriend in high school. They’re built about the same.”

“Is Kim the girl who ran off with a trucker right after graduation?”

His brow furrowed and he pressed the towel over his eyes. “How do you know about that?”

“Shelly told me.”

“Yeah, that figures.”

“If she was your girlfriend, why’d she run off with a trucker?”

“Because,” he said as he set the towel on the counter and straightened, “Kim was a girl with marriage on her mind, and I had plans that didn’t include hanging crepe paper in the grange hall and saying ‘I do.’ ”

“What plans?”

“Getting as far away from this town as I could get.” He shrugged. “Seeing the rest of the world.”

“But you’re back.”

“Yeah, I guess I didn’t like what I saw.”

“I’ve been wondering about something since I first came here.” She looked into his deep green eyes surrounded by thick lashes, the left one starting to swell a bit more. “What’s it like to have several women in this town in love with you?”

He shook his head and took a few steps forward. “Honey, you’ve got that all wrong,” he said and stopped directly in front of her. “I just happen to be single and have a job. That makes me a prime target for women who want to get married. That’s all.”

No, that wasn’t all. He was also a six-three cowboy with hard muscles and a slightly imperfect smile that only made him more perfect. His hair was always a bit messed from his tendency to comb it with his fingers, and she’d noticed as she’d followed him around earlier that he had a very nice behind. But more than his physical perfection was the way he had of looking at and talking to a woman, of focusing all that male attention directly on her. Of casually calling every woman in town “honey,” yet making it sound personal.

“Did the ice help your eye?” she asked.

“No, got any other ideas?”

“I might have a frozen steak.”

“I don’t think so.”

Hope pressed a finger to her lips, then lightly touched his bruise. “How’s that?”

He shook his head and his gaze slid to her mouth. “I’m afraid that didn’t get the job done.”

She placed her hands on his chest, rose to the balls of her feet, and softly kissed the corner of his eye. “Is that better?”

The word “no” whispered across her cheek and Hope’s senses completely scattered, only to regroup and concentrate on where she touched him. Her cheek and hands tingled and the sensation spread like fire through the rest of her body. She froze, knowing she should push him away, yet unable to move from the warmth of his big, solid body. Standing and feeling him so close was like coming in from the cold. Like holding your frozen hands close to the fire.

“Dylan,” she uttered, and he responded by turning his head and covering her mouth with his. The kiss never got the chance to start slow and sweet. The instant their lips touched, it became an openmouthed tongue thruster. He placed his hands on the sides of her face and, with her back against the refrigerator, he held her to him. His slick tongue stroked hers while he created a light suction within her mouth. He tasted very good, like something elusive that she couldn’t quite catch. Like something she hadn’t had in a long time, but until that moment hadn’t even realized she desperately missed.

She ran her hands over his chest, felt his hard muscles bunch and flex beneath his shirt. She moaned deep in her throat, and her palm closed over the star pinned to his breast pocket. He kissed the way he did everything else. He gave every inch of her mouth his full attention. She breathed the air from his lungs and drew in the scent of him through her nose. It went straight to her head like pure oxygen. He made her light-headed and dizzy and gasping for more.

Hope slid her free hand down his chest to his flat belly. He sucked in his breath and her fingers curled in the cotton plaid of his shirt. She pulled it from the waistband of his jeans, but Dylan grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the refrigerator while he made love to her mouth. His tongue slid in and out, hot and slick. Her mouth clung to his. She wanted more. She wanted it all. All the hot touches and fiery hunger that had been missing from her life for so long. She wanted to feel him beneath her greedy hands and fought to free them. But when he finally let go, he ended the kiss and stepped backward, out of her reach.

His breath was ragged; his eyes ate her up. He wanted her. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. Her lids felt heavy, weighted as she stared at him, her body aching, responding to all that potent want and need staring right back at her. Yet he turned and walked away.

He moved to the doorway of the kitchen and he stopped. “Hope?”

She looked at the back of his wide shoulder and the brown-and-gold hair on the back of his head. She opened her mouth, but no sounds came out.

“Stay away from the Buckhorn,” he said, and then he was gone.