"How did you mean it, then?" she shot back.

  He sighed. "Hard as nails, aren't you, baby?"

  "Yes, I am, and don't call me 'baby,'" she retorted, her pale blue eyes flashing. "1 don't like it."

  "Why, because he calls you that?" he returned.

  She threw down her napkin and got to her feet. "When you feel like yourself again, do give me a call," she said tightly.

  He relented. "Heather, don't walk out on me," he pleaded gently. "I've missed you like hell."

  "What a way to show it," she said with a cool smile.

  "I'm jealous of him," he admitted under his breath. "God, who wouldn't be? He's got everything: looks, machismo, money, charm. . . ."

  "Not me," she told him. "He may have everything else, but I promise you he doesn't have me. Not now, not ever."

  "You hate him, don't you?" he probed.

  "I don't feel enough emotion toward him for hatred," she said numbly.

  A tiny smile appeared on his lips and the light came back into his eyes. "Let's walk back instead of taking a cab," he suggested, joining her in the aisle. "I feel like howling at the moon tonight."

  "I always knew there was a strain of wolf in you," she teased lightly.

  They walked outside into the soft night, the freshness of spring discernible despite the traffic and noise.

  "The Big Apple." Gil laughed, taking her arm.

  "I didn't realize how much I'd missed it. I grew up here, you know."

  "No, I didn't," she admitted. "Chasing ambulances?"

  He shook his head. "Women. I always chased women." He laughed.

  They were walking down the street when a teen-aged girl and her companion approached Heather hesitantly.

  "Aren't you ... I mean, are you Heather?" the shorter, darker of the two asked nervously.

  She smiled at the girl. "That's me."

  The other girl, a bespectacled blond, smiled at her. "Could we please have your autograph? We both want to be singers when we get out of school."

  She laughed, flattered and a little embarrassed as she whipped off two signatures. "I hope that's okay," she murmured, handing back the pen they'd given her. "I'm new at this."

  "Gee, thanks!" the girls squealed, smiling at her brightly before they hurried away, giggling like conspirators.

  "It's like walking with royalty." Gil chuckled.

  She grimaced. "I'm not used to it yet, but it sure is flattering. Imagine, somebody wanting my autograph! A few months ago, I couldn't have given it away!"

  "A few months ago, you weren't the gal you are now," he reminded her with an appreciative glance. "What a change," he murmured. "Nobody who knew you then would even recognize you now."

  She immediately thought of Cole. No, he wouldn't recognize her without the adoration in her eyes or the trembling weakness that had affected her whenever she was near him. She was like ice now. Cole could never touch her again, never hurt her. She smiled coolly as she walked along beside Gil. Despite Emma's worries, she was independent, and she hadn't needed the legacy to accomplish it. If only Emma could have lived to see her stepdaughter now. She caught Gil's hand and held it.

  He glanced at her narrowly. "Is that an invitation?" he asked.

  She smiled at him. "What do you think?" she asked in her huskiest tone.

  He pulled her close and tucked her under his arm. "I think it's my lucky night. I've waited a long time for a green light from you."

  "What you're getting is a yellow one," she said quietly.

  "Proceed with caution?" he teased. "Suits me, honey, I like to take my time anyway. I won't rush you."

  The words triggered a memory she didn't want, the slowness of Cole's lovemaking, the devastating leisure of his hard, warm kisses against her mouth, the aching mastery of his hands on her soft body. . . .

  "Let's go dancing!" she said suddenly.

  "But it's past midnight!" he protested.

  "There's a disco across the street. Come on," she pleaded, pouting. "Live a little."

  "God help my poor old bones, I'll give it a try.

  Come on, you minx, lead me into it!" He laughed, following as she tugged him along with her.

  Spring was turning the grass green in the pastures, and roundup on Big Spur had just begun when Mrs. Jones drove the station wagon out to the holding pens to find Cole.

  "It must be something important to get you behind the wheel of a car," he remarked with a faint smile as he studied the matronly, gray-haired woman.

  "Yes, sir, it is," Dessie Jones agreed, grimacing at the steering wheel. "That Andrews man is up at the house waiting to see you, and I couldn't raise anybody on the radio to come tell you."

  "Andrews," he murmured. "My mother's lawyer?"

  "The same."

  "Move over, Dessie, I'll drive you back."

  "Oh, would you?" she asked, heaving her ample bulk to the passenger side. "I do hate these mechanical contraptions."

  "I'll remember that, the next time you ask me for a new food processor for the kitchen," he said, putting the station wagon in gear.

  "Oh, now, Mr. Cole!" she protested.

  They were back at the house in no time and Cole took the steps two at a time, wondering impatiently what Andrews wanted. The will had gone through probate long ago, surely he hadn't found a new one!

  Bob Andrews looked as disheveled and haphazard as ever. He stood when Cole came into the living room and extended his hand. "Good to see you, Cole," he said pleasantly. "Sorry to come at such a bad time."

  Cole tossed his hat on the bar and reached for glasses. "I needed the break," he replied. "Care for a drink?"

  "Scotch on the rocks for me, and thanks. It was a long, dry ride."

  The older man joined him on a bar stool, and they sat sipping their drinks for a minute before Andrews opened his briefcase, fumbled for a moment and produced an envelope.

  He tossed it down on the smooth, glassy surface of the bar. "I've been sorely remiss about this," he said, "and I won't blame you if you want to throw a punch at me. Emma made me promise to give it to you as soon as possible after her death, but to tell the truth, it got misplaced in my office and only surfaced a week ago. I don't suppose it was anything too urgent, but in case it might be, I came as soon as I could."

  Cole studied the white envelope. His name was scrawled on it in Emma's spidery hand, and it was sealed. "When did she give you this?" he asked quietly.

  "The day before you left for Nassau," he replied. "Came to my office in the afternoon, very somber, not like Emma at all. She said she'd been to the doctor that morning, and she wanted to make sure her will was in order. I asked if anything was wrong, and she just laughed and made light of it. But apparently she had some kind of premonition."

  "Apparently." Cole took another swallow of his drink and tore open the envelope. Inside there was one typed sheet of paper. He remembered with a wistful smile how Emma had typed letters using only one finger. She didn't trust her handwriting, but it would take her forever to peck out a sentence on the typewriter. As he unfolded the paper and began to read, his silver eyes narrowed.

  "Dear Cole," Emma had written, "I've just been to see my doctor, and he says my indigestion is actually congestive heart failure." Cole's eyebrows shot up. "I have very little time left, he says. I'm not afraid to die, my dear, but I want to know that my affairs are in order in case it happens sooner than I expect.

  "First," she continued, "I want to explain why I left half the estate to Heather. Big Spur was Jed Shaw's long before it was yours and mine, and Heather should have had it all probably. But you put a lot of work into building it up, and I didn't think she'd mind letting part of it go to you. She's not going to like being dependent on you for money, and that's another reason I divided the ranch between you. But my best reason was that I'm doing my best to play Cupid. I can't think of anything that would please me more than having you and Heather discover that you love one another. I had that kind of love with your father, Cole. There was never anyone who could match Big Jace, not even Jed Shaw. I cared for Jed in my own way, but all I could give him were the crumbs left over from my first marriage, and I'm afraid he knew it.

  "Big Jace was the only man for me. just as I was the only woman for him. Don't ever let anyone tell you there was something going on between him and Deidre Shaw. A great many people knew that she made a play for your father. But I give you my solemn word that nothing happened, ever. I'd have known if it did. Jace loved me until he died, and there was never another woman. Nor was there any kind of relationship between myself and Jed Shaw before we married. I rushed into marriage with him more for Heather's sake than my own. I could have lived with the memory of Big Jace for the rest of my life and it would have been more than enough."

  Cole's hand jerked on the page, and his eyes flashed wildly.

  "Of course, I don't want to push either of you into anything. Heather may not be in love with you, or vice versa. In that case, I've done the right thing to make her financially independent of you. Of course, if things workout, there won't be a problem, you'll have the ranch together. Be kind to her, Cole, whatever happens. She worships you. Don't grieve for me. I'll be with Jason again, and wherever he is, that will be Heaven. I love you. Mother."

  Cole's eyes closed on a wave of pain so intense he felt his knees were going to buckle. If this letter told the truth, and of course it did, he'd driven Heather away for nothing. For nothing, damn Tessa!

  "Are you all right?" Andrews asked warily.

  Cole opened his eyes again, his face rigid and pale, his body frozen. He picked up his drink and drained the glass in one quick swallow.

  "I have a horrible feeling that I've caused some disaster," Andrews murmured regretfully.

  "Call it fate," Cole ground out, crushing the letter in one lean, powerful hand.

  After seeing the attorney to the door, he marched into the kitchen, his eyes throwing off sparks, his face set in an expression Mrs. Jones hadn't seen in years. "I need to ask you something," he said without preamble, watching her deft hands pause in the middle of chopping onions for the quiche she was making.

  "Yes, sir?" she replied.

  "You told me once that you suspected something was going on between my father and Deidre Shaw. . . ."

  "Heavens, no!" She gasped, horrified.

  He blinked. "You said my father couldn't help it...."

  "He couldn't help that Mrs. Shaw hunted him," she replied quickly. "I thought you knew about that night when he threatened to tell her husband what she was doing, Mr. Cole. It was one time when Mr. Shaw was away. She made up some reason to get Mr. Everett over here to Big Spur. She was throwing herself at his feet when I came in. Your father, God bless him, was almost purple with rage. He informed her in no uncertain terms that he loved his wife and wanted nothing to do with her." She watched all the hardness go out of him, to be replaced with a black sadness that was more painful to behold.

  "It wasn't my place to tell anyone, you understand," she added helplessly.

  "No, of course it wasn't." He shrugged. "I appreciate your telling me the truth."

  "Is something wrong? Is that what made Mr. Andrews come out here, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "Yes, something is very wrong," he agreed. turning. "And I only hope I can put it right."

  Two days later, he sat in the audience at the club in New Orleans where Heather and the Red Rhythm Band were appearing and watched her belt out a soft-rock song with a professionalism she'd never have managed before the accident. He didn't like that short haircut she was sport-ingf but her new sophisticated image drew his eyes. She was so obviously a woman now, not the child he'd driven away from him.

  He studied her slender body. She was wearing a silver gown that plunged and clung to every soft curve and Cole knew she was working a subtle witchcraft on every man in the audience. Her voice was better than ever, haunting, lovely, and he could easily understand her growing fame. This club, the most exclusive in New Orleans, would be her last stop before she went back to Houston.

  He had come to talk her into the proposition he had in mind. He shifted restlessly in his elegant dark evening clothes, feeling uncomfortable. He hadn't dressed like this for ages, not since he'd last seen Heather, and he would gladly have traded the confining suit for his jeans and denim shirt. He'd driven himself hard lately, putting in unnecessary hours helping the men with roundup, but he'd needed the physical activity badly. Sitting at his downtown office hadn't been enough to keep his mind busy.

  His heart turned over at the thinness of Heather's body. She'd lost weight, a lot of it, and her face was drawn beneath her makeup. His jaw clenched when he remembered what he'd said to her the last time. He wondered if she'd ever be able to forgive him, even as he realized that he could never tell her what he had thought or why he had acted as he had. His pride wouldn't let him.

  Heather, oblivious to everything but the song she was singing, uttered the last poignant words and then bowed in the spotlight as Charlie led the band into her theme song, "Devil in Ribbons and Lace." She turned, blowing a kiss to the band and then to the wildly applauding audience, before she walked offstage.

  She felt lonely when she closed the dressing-room door behind her. Gil was back in Houston now, and she missed him terribly. Nothing had really changed in their relationship, but he was a good friend and she enjoyed his bubbling company. Now that he wasn't around, she'd have nothing to do. New Orleans was a lovely city at night, but not for a woman alone. She'd go back to her hotel room and stare at the walls, drink too much black coffee and sleep too little, as usual.

  A soft knock at the door brought her out of her depression. "Come in, it's open!" she called with forced cheer.

  The door swung open and her heart turned a double flip in her chest when she saw Cole standing behind her in the mirror—dressed in dark evening clothes that emphasized his rugged masculinity. His face was harder than she remembered it, his eyes glittering. But the expression on his dark face didn't give away what he was feeling. She had thought she was him until then; she'd thought she could be in the same room with him and feel nothing. But her breath was already coming in uneven gasps, and she knew her hands would tremble if they weren't clasped tightly in her lap.

  "Hello, Cole," she managed quietly.

  He ran his eyes over her with a slow, thorough boldness that made her pulse pound. "Hello."

  She lifted her face proudly. "Is something wrong at the ranch?" she asked with deceptive coldness. "I don't flatter myself that you'd come all this way just to see me."

  "Why not?" he asked.

  She laughed mirthlessly and turned back to her mirror to dab cold cream on her face. "I don't need to tell you. You made it very clear that you don't want me around, remember?"

  His eyes closed briefly; but she missed his moment of anguish because she couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Where's Austin?" he asked pointedly. "Is he with you?"

  "You don't have the right to ask me that," she told him levelly, flashing a glance at him.

  "Probably not." He lit a cigarette with quick, jerky motions. "He didn't go on tour with you. You lied about that."

  "Of course." She laughed. "I tell lies, I throw myself at men—"

  "Oh, God, don't!" he bit off, whirling on his heel to stare out the darkened window, his back rigid with pain.

  She shrugged, puzzled by his strange behavior, but she was getting herself under control now, and she wanted no part of him. Cole meant heartache and she didn't want any more of that.

  "You still haven't told me why you came," she remarked.

  He took a long draw from the cigarette. "You've got a vacation coming up after this performance, haven't you?" he asked. His eyes had darkened slightly, but his face was as impassive as ever.

  She eyed him warily. "Yes. Why?"

  "Why don't you spend it at the ranch?" he asked carelessly.

  She flinched as if he'd struck her, and a wave of indefinable emotion rippled over his pained features when he saw her involuntary reaction. She dropped her eyes. "I'm not welcome there," she reminded him.

  "Heather, for God's sake . . . !" he burst out.

  Her pale eyes jerked up, serenely cool. "You're not getting another free shot at me, Cole, or Tessa either. I've had all I'm going to take from either of you. Maybe you've conveniently forgotten what you said to me the last time you came to one of my performances, but I'll live and die trying to. You cut me into ribbons that night. I'm not about to give you a second chance."

  He froze at the words, scowling, his eyes narrowed.

  "Tessa's in Paris," he said through tight lips, his expression unreadable.

  "How terrible for you," she returned. "What do you want me for, a substitute? I never did like being second best, despite what you think of me.

  "You don't know what I think," he said quietly.

  "Don't I?" Her soft voice was bitter. She grabbed some tissues and mopped the cold cream and makeup from her face in one smooth motion. "You've made it plain enough, haven't you?"

  "Circumstances can cause people to do a hell of a lot of strange things, Heather," he reminded her.

  She didn't even answer him. The memories were hurting too much.

  "I'm not asking you into my bed," he growled. "I'm offering you a quiet place to rest, that's all. Period."

  She sighed deeply. That's all he had to offer, and she knew it. "I don't think it would be a good idea."

  "Damn it!" he burst out, jerking around. He took an exasperated draw from the cigarette and his lips made a thin line. "Were you always this stubborn, or have you been taking lessons?"

  "Look-who's talking," she replied lightly. The words slipped out unconsciously, and so did a faint smile. He caught his breath at the light in her lovely face as he stared at her across the room.

  She looked away from that intense stare, puzzled by his expression. "Will sweet Tessa be there?" she asked.

  He stared at her straight back. "No."

  "Can I bring Gil?"

  "What for?" he growled. "I don't need a comedy act."

  She turned. "Why do you want me to come?"

  He whirled on his heel and crushed out the cigarette. "God knows," he muttered under his breath. "Forget it."