Sara carried her bags to her bedroom and set them carefully on her neatly made double bed.

  Her room was a haven of sorts; she’d spent a chunk of her first advance check bringing it from the last century into the present one, changing out the dated wallpaper and painting the walls a faint shade of grayish green.

  She’d replaced the furniture, too, since it all reminded her of her married days.

  The bed, dresser and mirrored bureau had been billed as Country French when Sara had come across them one day in the town’s one and only furniture store.

  Ever so slightly distressed, the pieces seemed particularly well suited to belong to her. She had tiny cracks here and there, too, and some of her natural luster had worn away, and yet she was solid and strong. Functional.

  She’d learned, after Zachary’s departure, that she certainly could take care of herself and of her children, despite her former husband’s efforts to undermine her confidence and convince her that neither she nor Eric and Hayley could possibly survive without him.

  Looking back, she wondered, as she often had before, how she’d ever bought into that line of bull; she had always been the strong one in the partnership, right from the very first.

  With a sigh, Sara kicked off her shoes and put them away in her beautifully designed walk-in closet, with its lit cabinets and racks and shelves.

  Pretty fancy, she thought, with no little amusement, for a woman who lived in blue jeans, T-shirts and sweatpants.

  Well, no more.

  It was a new day, and Sara had new clothes to go with it, clothes that would be right at home in her custom-built closet.

  She was taking the tissue-wrapped bundles out of the bags when she heard the front door open, and she braced herself.

  She was feeling hopeful and potentially glamorous, with all these great garments to choose from, and frankly, she didn’t want to spar with Zachary or fend off a lot of snotty questions from Eric.

  Mercifully, the new arrival turned out to be Hayley.

  The girl’s smile was dazzling as she stood in the doorway of her mother’s bedroom. “Look!” she cried, and lifted her summery top to reveal a beautiful, intricately designed rendition of a dream catcher—the temporary tattoo. “I do NOT want to wash this thing off!”

  Sara laughed and stepped closer to inspect the marvel. The lines were subtle, the colors bright, and the decorative feathers looked as though they would move in the slightest of breezes.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she said.

  Satisfied with that much approval, Hayley lowered her shirt and let her gaze stray to the bags and bundles on the bed.

  “You went shopping!” she cried, in benign accusation. “For clothes!”

  Sara was vaguely insulted. “I do buy new clothes now and again, Hayley,” she reminded her daughter, who was already folding back tissue and peering into bags.

  Hayley made a dismissive sound. “Oh, please,” she said. “Ordering the same old shirts and tops from Amazon every other blue moon isn’t shopping.”

  “Whatever,” Sara said, pleased because her daughter was pleased.

  Was it possible that she’d actually done something teen-approved?

  A rarity, indeed.

  “Can I look?” Hayley pleaded. “I promise I’ll be careful!”

  “Look all you want,” Sara replied.

  “I could have gone with you, you know,” the girl prattled on. “Given you fashion advice. Made sure you didn’t buy anything stretchy, or with an elastic waistband. You didn’t, did you? You didn’t buy soccer-mom stuff?”

  Sara laughed. “Judge for yourself,” she said.

  Hayley held up the magenta jeans bedazzled with rhinestones. “Seriously?” she crowed. The word was usually a reprimand of sorts, but this time, well, it sounded almost like a compliment.

  “Mistake?” Sara asked cautiously.

  Hayley held the jeans to her front. “Definitely not,” she replied. “Can I wear them?”

  “In a word,” Sara replied, “no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because one, they belong to me, and two, they wouldn’t fit you anyway.”

  “Did they have any in my size?” She indicated the name printed on the shopping bags. “At Fancy That, I mean?”

  “Probably,” Sara answered with a slight smile. “But unless you’ve been saving your allowance since you were in first grade, you can’t afford them.”

  That remark inspired Hayley to peek at the price tag and then exclaim, “Holy crap!”

  “Hayley,” Sara said. “Language.”

  “Mom, crap is a perfectly acceptable word. Google it.”

  “Save it for people who aren’t me,” Sara replied. “And I don’t need to Google it.”

  Hayley’s blue eyes twinkled with mirth and a kind of effervescent well-being. She looked so much like Zachary, and yet she was nothing like him.

  We all have our better angels, Sara thought.

  Even Zachary Worth.

  Mother and daughter spent a pleasant half hour or so unwrapping the clothes, remarking on them, putting them on padded hangers and placing them in the central wardrobe.

  Remarkably, Hayley approved of everything,

  They were in the kitchen, cooking supper—pasta with chicken and garlic sauce, a green salad, banana pudding for dessert—when Sara’s phone went through its default riff.

  Since Eric had his own ringtone, as did Hayley and Eli, Sara figured the caller must be Brynne calling to report any further developments concerning David Fielding and his prospective employment as a wedding planner.

  “Tell me you hired that beautiful man!” she cried instead of saying hello.

  She heard a low masculine chuckle in response.

  So, not Brynne.

  “Competition already?” J.P. asked. “Damn.”

  Sara laughed, but her cheeks were burning, and she felt, not for the first time that day, like an idiot.

  “I thought you were Brynne,” she said, after spending a few moments struggling with her own mortification and, at the same time, basking in the warm echo of his voice. “You met David Fielding today at Sully’s, and I imagine Eli has told you all about him. Can you possibly describe him as anything less than beautiful?”

  “Actually,” J.P. drawled, “he didn’t do a thing for me.”

  Sara laughed again. Then sobered. Was J.P. calling to cancel on the picnic and the horseback ride?

  “So,” she prompted lightly, “what’s up?”

  There was a smile in his voice when he answered, as though he’d considered saying something other than what he did.

  “I’m calling about our date on Saturday.”

  “I see,” Sara said, hoping the wave of disappointment that rolled over her wasn’t audible in her tone.

  “I’m not sure you do,” J.P. replied. “Horseback riding is out of the question right now, but we can still have the picnic. I have a great patio with what amounts to an outdoor kitchen. Suppose I grill up some steak or chicken—whatever you prefer—and we do the packed-basket-and-blanket thing another time?”

  Sara’s first reaction was relief out of all proportion to the situation. J.P. hadn’t called to cancel their date.

  Her second was a rush of joy.

  Now that she wouldn’t have to navigate a saddle, she could wear one of her new sundresses, dig out the strappy sandals she’d bought to wear to an Easter dinner a few years before, shave her legs, put on a little makeup and a very light misting of perfume.

  “Sounds good to me,” she managed after the silence stretched so far that Hayley made a say-something face at her, widening her eyes, raising her brows and inclining her head to one side.

  Okay, so it wasn’t exactly snappy repartee. She was paid to write, not speak.

  “Great,” J.P. responded. “We can make this lunch, or we can make it supper. Up to you.”

  Sara turned away, so Hayley couldn’t read her face.

  Anything could happen either way, of course, but supper was definitely riskier than lunch. The sky would be splattered with bright stars, and there would be wine and possibly soft music.

  She recalled the kiss, the feel of J.P.’s strong work-hardened body against hers.

  Heat surged through her, and a peculiar ache, warm and sweet and heavy, settled in her nether parts.

  “Supper,” Sara said decisively, blushing at her audacity.

  “Supper it is,” J.P. replied.

  “Shall I bring anything? Dessert? A salad?”

  “Just yourself” was J.P.’s answer. There was something intimate in his choice of words, or maybe it was the way he said them, all smooth and easy.

  “What time?” she asked.

  “How does seven sound? I’m going to be on the range most of the day, and I’ll need a shower when I get home.”

  Sara allowed herself to imagine J.P. McCall in the shower.

  Her knees went weak and she had to plop down onto the seat of one of the kitchen chairs.

  Hayley looked at her with concern and, as Melody had done earlier, fetched her a bottle of chilled water.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Hayley asked.

  Sara held up a hand to silence her daughter. She could only manage one emotional riot at a time.

  “Seven sounds perfect,” she said at long last.

  “I was beginning to think you’d ended the call,” J.P. remarked with that same sexy warmth.

  The sound made Sara want to get naked.

  With J.P.

  In his bedroom.

  She was absolutely positively going crazy.

  “No,” she said, giving Hayley a look. “I wouldn’t do that. Not without saying goodbye, anyhow.”

  The truth? She could have sat there, allowing this man to caress her with his voice, for hours.

  “Good,” he said.

  Suddenly, it occurred to her that other people might be invited to J.P.’s to share in Saturday night’s barbecue and, before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Just us?”

  “Just us,” J.P. confirmed. “Is that a problem?”

  Sara realized she was smiling. “No,” she replied.

  He laughed again, a low rumbling sound that was, somehow, deeply reassuring. Almost nurturing, which was insane.

  “I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he said.

  Sara began to feel nervous again. “Me, too.”

  “See you Saturday,” J.P. told her.

  “See you then.” She looked around. “I guess I’d better get back to making supper,” she added.

  “Goodbye for now, then,” J.P. said.

  “Goodbye, J.P.,” she answered.

  And then she pressed the end button on her phone.

  Sat staring blindly at the nearest wall.

  Hayley jolted her out of her reverie by jumping up and down, then punching the air with her right fist.

  “Yes!” the girl cried joyfully. “I knew it! You’re going out with J.P. McCall!”

  Sara came out of her trance and smiled at her daughter. “I take it this is good news?”

  “It is for me,” Hayley said, settling down a little, but still breathless. “Eric’s going to shit a brick, though.”

  Sara sucked in her smile and tried to look stern. “Hayley,” she warned.

  “Sorry, Momster,” Hayley told her, bending to kiss the top of Sara’s head, “but not sorry. Shit a brick is part of the modern vernacular—power to the people—and, anyway, I’ve heard Uncle Eli say it a million times.”

  “Uncle Eli says a lot of things you shouldn’t,” Sara said. Her tone was prim, but she knew she wasn’t carrying it off.

  She was in too good a mood to be pedantic.

  Hayley raised her eyebrows. Picked a cherry tomato from the salad and popped it into her mouth. Chewed and swallowed.

  “I’ve never heard him use the F word,” Hayley admitted.

  “Trust me,” Sara said. “He uses it. But that doesn’t mean you get to. Not in my presence, anyway.” She drew a breath, let it out. “Show a little respect for your aging mother.”

  “My aging mother?” Hayley challenged, apparently delighted. “If J.P. McCall, one of the best-looking men this town—heck, this country—has ever produced, thinks you’re hot, then you are definitely hot!”

  “Stop it,” Sara said, but without much conviction. Secretly, she was flattered.

  Did J.P. think she was hot?

  Would he still think that if he took another look at Melody Merriman?

  “You stop it, Mom,” Hayley shot back. “Hasn’t anyone ever clued you in to the fact that you’re beautiful?”

  Zachary had told her she was beautiful, once upon a time, and she’d believed he meant it.

  Once she realized, in a very painful way, that everything he’d ever said to her had been a lie, she’d discounted the whole idea.

  Brynne was beautiful.

  Shallie Hollister was beautiful.

  She, Sara Garrett Worth, was passably pretty.

  Smart. Competent. Sensible.

  But beautiful? No.

  Zachary had disabused her of that notion long, long ago.

  Besides, it was better, wasn’t it, not to be conceited, full of oneself, vain and entitled?

  Brynne and Shallie weren’t like that—of course they weren’t. They were wonderful, generous women. They celebrated their femininity.

  And they were exceptions to the rule, Sara decided, with a touch of sadness.

  She was who she was, and that was good enough.

  It had to be.

  CHAPTER NINE

  J.P. HAD BEEN on the range, on foot no less, checking for traps of any kind, since shortly after dawn, along with several deputies, his dad and about a dozen volunteers—mostly ranchers and farmers, but also a few townspeople.

  Eli had helped out intermittently, going back and forth between J.P.’s place and Cord’s, where Melba’s people and more volunteers were covering as much ground as they could, as safely as they could.

  Nothing had been found, but there was still a lot of ground to cover, not only on the McCall and Hollister ranches, but on the surrounding properties as well. Who knew how far this malicious mischief reached?

  The work was hot, dull and tiring, not to mention discouraging, and when, after completing his usual chores, J.P. peeled off his dusty, sweat-stained clothes and climbed into the shower, just before 6:00 p.m. that evening, he figured he could have fallen asleep standing up, like an old horse.

  The thought of Sara kept him upright.

  In more ways than one.

  He finished off the shower with a blast of ice-cold water before getting out, drying himself off and pulling on clean jeans and a relatively new green T-shirt. After pulling on a decent pair of boots, he went back into his bathroom to assess himself in the mirror.

  Wiping away enough steam to make out his general condition, he peered at the image of a very tired man in sore need of another shave and a few swipes of a comb.

  He used the comb, then brushed his teeth.

  Trooper meandered into the foggy room to see what his primary human might be up to.

  J.P. grinned down at the dog. Rubbed his own stubbled chin.

  “So a little scruff is considered fashionable these days,” he explained amicably. “They say women find it sexy—who the hell ever they is. What do you think, old buddy?”

  Trooper tilted his faithful head to one side, as though considering a reply.

  Of course, none was forthcoming.

  “You’re right,” J.P. said. “It’s a good time to find out.”

  Trooper backed out of the bathroom and disappeared.

  J.P. hoped that wasn’t a judgment on his decision to forgo shaving.

  He splashed on some woodsy, leathery-smelling cologne—a gift from one of his sisters several years before—and sat down to inspect the soles of his boots, just in case.

  The ones he’d worn to scour part of his land with a metal detector were on the back porch, caked with dirt and manure, waiting to be hosed off before he wore them again.

  He went out to the patio, where the fancy brushed-steel grill took up a considerable amount of space, raised the lid and inspected the racks.

  They were clean, thanks to the housekeeping service—they were nothing if not thorough. Then he lowered the lid again, turned on the propane to fire the thing up.

  Barbecuing was a questionable endeavor, given that the heat of the day still lingered, but J.P. had made the offer of an outdoor meal to Sara, so he was going to follow through.

  He headed for the kitchen, washed his hands at the sink and carried the still-packaged steak and chicken breasts outside. After warning his shadow—Trooper—that the food was off-limits, he made another trip inside to fetch a pair of sizable baking potatoes wrapped in foil.

  God bless his mother. She’d stopped by, at his request, earlier that day to look in on Trooper and make sure he wasn’t too lonesome.

  Since J.P. had mentioned plans to entertain Sara Worth that evening, Sylvia had taken the figurative bull by the horns and whipped up two salads, one pasta and the other green, with all kinds of vegetables.

  For good measure, she’d baked her famous rhubarb/strawberry crumble.

  Her thoughtfulness had saved J.P. some work and, after the day he’d had, he was more than grateful.

  He made a mental note to send her flowers, to supplement the thank-you he’d already offered.

  Her response, via telephone, had been a cheerful, “I like Sara.”

  “So do I,” J.P. had responded honestly. “You’re the best, Mom. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Sure you can,” Sylvia had responded with a mischievous note in her voice. “You can come over here one day soon and rototill a space for a new flower bed. That kind of work is too hard for your father.”

  That remark had worried J.P. a little. “Is something going on with Dad that I ought to know about?”