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A Way With Women
Jule McBride


No less than five would-be-brides show up in town after seeing Macon's ad for a wife in Texas Men magazine. Five too many, as far as Harper Moody is concerned.The efficient postmistress has already secretly sent discouraging replies to all the other applicants! And now as payback, Macon is insisting Harper host all the women for a week while he makes his choice. Fat chance! She and Macon shared more than a past–and she's determined to lasso this sexy single cowboy herself.









“You’d better leave…” Harper murmured


Macon became utterly still. Only his breath moved, teasing her ears as he leaned nearer. “What if I don’t want to?”

Gazing up at him, she suddenly couldn’t pull her eyes from his mouth. A kiss would mean so little to him, she thought, craving a taste. He had a way with women; he dispensed those kisses all the time. Maybe if she had just a taste of him, she could finally forget him. Forget his lovemaking…

His voice was mesmerizing. “What if I want to stay?”

“You always did do exactly what you wanted….”

“Then I sure as hell shouldn’t stop now,” he drawled roughly, brushing his body against hers, the taut sweep of his hips coming with a rustle of denim. She hadn’t known he was aroused, but she felt it now. He was so hard and hot and thick that her knees nearly buckled.

A moment later his mouth crushed hers and he parted her lips with the slow thrust of his tongue. Wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, he steadied her as he kicked the storm door, shutting out the summer sunlight.

He started for the bedroom and Harper was lost….


Dear Reader,

After writing many Harlequin American Romance novels, and stories for other Harlequin series, it’s been pure fun to approach my thirtieth book by shifting gears and trying some especially spicier, steamier stories, so I hope you’ll enjoy this, as well as my upcoming BIG APPLE BACHELORS trilogy for Temptation.

Usually when I daydream about mail-order men, I think of gorgeous guys arriving from far-off foreign lands with the sole intention of sweeping me off my feet and pleasuring me senseless, but this time the fantasy got a little more complex.

When sexy rancher Macon McCann receives no responses from his mail-order-bride ad, he’s stunned to discover that the local postmistress, his ex-lover whom he’s been avoiding for years, has actually been opening his mail and writing women back, telling them not to come to Texas because he’s such a bad catch!

I hope you will be amused by the shenanigans that follow, especially watching a woman get repeatedly swept off her feet and pleasured senseless by somebody she keeps swearing she can’t stand. Of course, she really loves Macon, and I hope you will, too.

Happy reading,

Jule McBride




Books by Jule McBride


HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

761—A BABY FOR THE BOSS

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

733—AKA: MARRIAGE

753—SMOOCHIN’ SANTA

757—SANTA SLEPT OVER

849—SECRET BABY SPENCER


A Way with Women

Jule McBride






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Birgit Davis-Todd, whose patient nurturing of writers has produced years of Temptations: whole worlds, new loves, teary laughter and sweet emotion, so many hours of delight and pleasure. As both a reader and writer, thanks.




Contents


Prologue (#u0a0bd5d4-1fb7-5334-9033-9179bc4e24b9)

Chapter 1 (#u95417983-e05e-50ad-af03-9ef219cebf14)

Chapter 2 (#u5997aa98-84d5-51d8-9f66-052c3c994217)

Chapter 3 (#ud5187466-0009-5a6f-b3bf-34b03a8ff460)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


“MACON MCCANN’S STILL advertising for a bride? Some things simply shouldn’t be allowed,” Harper Moody said under her breath. Shrugging out of a navy postal uniform blazer, she rolled up the sleeves of a standard-issue white blouse, raked her shoulder-length ash hair into a ponytail and secured it with a string tie the U.S. government had meant for use around her neck. Ponytail in place, she sipped the scalding coffee she’d bought at Go-Mart and glanced over as her sole customer, Lois Potts from Potts Feed and Seed, paced between padded Jiffy bags and dusty express envelopes, trying to decide between the John Wayne commemorative stamps or the City Flag series.

Lois was the last person Harper wanted to deal with, of course, since she and Lois had a history. Fortunately, the other woman was occupied, so Harper stared down again, first at a box of pink stationary she’d gotten when she bought the coffee, then at Texas Men magazine. “I really can’t believe they let Macon advertise for a bride,” she mumbled. “The fine print assures they screen these guys.”

Her fog-blue eyes drifted down the full-body photo of the man who’d fathered her teenage son. One hundred percent pure rich rancher stud, announced the caption. “Macon would come up with a line like that,” she whispered, rolling her eyes and feeling distressed by her physical response to him.

Well, what female wouldn’t react?

Muscles tested the shoulder seams of a denim shirt Macon wore unsnapped, exposing tangled chest hairs the color of sunlit wheat. His broad chest slimmed to narrow hips and slightly bowed legs whose long strides were usually headed in the opposite direction from Harper. Boot-cut jeans flared over his polished boots, and Macon was clutching a Stetson against his chest, smiling ruefully as if to say every female answering the ad had already broken his heart.

“Angel’s hair on the very devil,” she pronounced with annoyance. The honey-colored waves framing Macon’s broad, inviting face called to her fingertips to test their silky texture.

Well, she assured herself, placing her steaming coffee cup on the postal scale, Macon just looked like any other dumb cowboy—except for his eyes. As sharp as spurs, they were aware and intense, their color the aged amber of the house ale he’d been enjoying every Saturday night at Big Grisly’s Grill since he’d come back to town.

The wayward drift of her eyes ventured below a turquoise-studded belt, landing on jeans as soft as kid gloves. Just like a good love story, the fit was loose enough to leave room for imagination, but revealing enough to assure a woman of a happy ending. Glancing away, Harper realized she could recall plenty about Macon that no camera could capture. “Yeah, me—and every other female in Pine Hills,” she huffed. Nevertheless, Macon’s hands—the same lean-fingered bronzed hands that clutched the Stetson over his heart—had left their imprints on Harper, and once a woman knew certain things about a man, there was no turning back. She knew plenty, too. Including that Macon had fathered a son he didn’t know about. My son, Cordy.

Harper steadied herself by taking another careful sip of scalding coffee. Years ago, she’d done the right thing in not telling Macon about Cordy, but now she’d come to fear something terrible might happen to her. Bruce’s death two years ago proved unexpected, horrible things did happen. What if, after she was gone, Cordy needed to know the truth for some reason? What if he became ill and needed a bone marrow transplant or a blood transfusion or he had a car wreck or…?

She pushed down the fear that had gnawed at her ever since Bruce died and thought, Damn you, Bruce, we were supposed to get old together! You weren’t supposed to die! No more than Macon McCann was supposed to settle down in Pine Hills with a woman he was meeting through the U.S. mail.

Macon had become a successful contractor in Houston. Why would he come home now? And why was he advertising for a wife in Texas Men magazine when he had ample opportunities to date?

Shifting her gaze, Harper distracted herself by glancing past the metal detector, copiers and post-office boxes through the front door. Heat baked the sidewalks, and although it was only mid-morning, folks were already lined up four-deep inside Happy Lick’s Ice Cream Parlor. Outside, white-hot sun was melting everything from the cream in waffle cones to the rubber on truck tires.

“Morning, Harper. How’s it going?”

It was Lois. Harper scooted an express envelope over Macon’s ad, as well as over the other items she’d spread on the counter, then she lifted her coffee cup from the postal scale so Lois could weigh a package. “Fine, Lois. No stamps today?”

“Couldn’t decide what kind.” Lois nodded at the help wanted sign. “I see you’re looking for new blood.”

As heiress to Potts Feed and Seed, Lois hardly needed a job, but Harper found herself worrying, fearing Lois, for some harebrained reason, would apply. “Hmm,” commented Harper. “It would have been cheaper to send my coffee than your package.”

Lois chuckled appreciatively. “Guess you heard Macon McCann’s back in town and dating everything that moves. Weren’t you friends in high school?”

Lois, of course, was one of the things that moved. “Just platonic,” Harper lied.

“Same here,” assured Lois.

Harper suppressed a snort of laughter. “I heard you two went bowling last week over in Opossum Creek.” Harper couldn’t help but counter, realizing news of Macon’s Texas Men ad hadn’t yet hit town and wondering if she should tell Lois, who’d be sure to spread the word. No man would want it known that he’d stooped to advertising for a wife, and if Macon was embarrassed enough, maybe Harper would get lucky and he’d leave Pine Hills for good.

“Macon and I did go to Opossum Creek,” Lois clarified before moving on to other gossip. “But we were with a group.”

Only Harper’s raised eyebrow contradicted her. After she checked out, Lois ambled to the stamps for another look and Harper stared out the window, her gaze following South Dallas, the main drag of town. Flat as a ruler for miles, the road snaked like a ribbon when it reached Pine Cone Mountain. Farther up, blacktop turned into red dirt and dead-ended at a parking spot called Star Point. Maybe if the only movie screen in Pine Hills showed first-run rather than retro movies, or if the nearest bowling alley wasn’t forty miles away in Opossum Creek, or if Happy Lick’s Ice Cream Parlor didn’t close promptly at eight p.m., Harper wouldn’t have spent quite so many nights sneaking up there with Macon.

But Star Point had been irresistible, heaven on earth, with shady live oaks, mesquites and sycamores that cooled you even in the worst dog days of August. Miles from town, stars glittered like diamonds on black velvet in a jewelry store, looking so close that Harper always felt sure she could touch them. Atop that distant hill, so close to the stars—and just two months before Harper married Bruce—she and Macon made their baby.

Now she stared critically at Macon’s photo and reread the advertisement. “Thirty-four-year-old Texas cowboy wants to marry. Man comes complete with successful cattle ranch in Texas Hill Country and promises his bride her very own horse to ride.”

Feeling testy, Harper crossed her arms. “He makes Pine Hills sound like ‘Little House on the Prairie,”’ she muttered, pitying any poor, misinformed woman who might fall for the John Boy Walton routine. “At least until she meets him,” Harper whispered. “A horse,” she added, shaking her head. “Half the people in Texas don’t even know how to ride, so if some woman’s fool enough to marry you, Macon, why not just break down and give her a four-wheel drive?”

Lois was pushing through the door, on her way out. “Did you say something, Harper?”

Blushing, Harper shook her head. “Just talking to myself.”

“It’s only a problem when you start answering,” quipped Lois before the door closed.

The last thing Harper needed right now was words of wisdom from Lois Potts, but she politely nodded acknowledgment, then continued reading. “So, here’s the offer, ladies. Come to the Rock ’n’ Roll Ranch in Pine Hills, Texas, and be lulled by nature’s peace while you fall in love with both me and the old west. Enjoy the slow pace, deer and armadillos, hike the paths and fish and swim in the ponds. We’ve got a swimming pool, and I hope you love family atmosphere because you’ll be sharing a spacious rustic ranch house with your in-laws, Cam and Blanche McCann. So, write Macon McCann soon. This cowboy’s ready to be your loving husband now. But don’t forget, it’s first come, first served.”

It didn’t make sense. Macon had left Pine Hills sixteen years ago to pursue his dreams—and he’d never looked back. He’d never shown signs of marrying, either. And he wouldn’t marry a stranger, would he? Why, when he had so many dates?

Harper’s throat tightened as she edged aside the express envelope so she could look at the letters she’d stacked beside Texas Men. Sixteen responses to Macon’s advertisement had arrived this morning from all over the world. Most days, there were even more. It’s a simple process, she’d told herself this morning as she always did. Lift letter from mail pouch. Open post office box for Macon McCann. Place letter from wannabe bride into Macon McCann’s mailbox. Close mailbox.

Simple, yes. But Harper simply couldn’t force herself to give Macon the letters from all those women. Instead, she’d steamed them open and begun to read. Some letters made her laugh, some brought the sting of unshed tears to her eyes. Women had written from as far away as China, Russia and the Netherlands; all told stories of parents, lovers or husbands they wanted to leave, of war-torn countries from which they were desperate to escape or poverty-stricken conditions from which they sought refuge. They said they wanted a husband to help raise their children, or they wanted a taste of ranch life, but what they really wanted was somebody to love and somebody to love them back.

On a raw pull of feeling, Harper lifted a letter written painstakingly on wide-rule notebook paper. Youthfully rounded purple cursive letters looped in flourishes; large circles dotted the is.

Dear Mr. Macon McCann,

Your ranch sounds real pretty, and I want very much to be your bride. I promise I’m a nice person, from a good Christian home, but my family is mad at me right now because I got pregnant by accident. I thought of other options, but I’m going to keep this baby even though my boyfriend was lying when he said he loved me. I’m scared. I’m only seventeen, and we don’t have a lot of money since my daddy’s a shoeshine man at the airport. Please, Mr. McCann, if you don’t have anything against marrying an African American girl who’s just dropped out of school and is going to have a baby in two months, I hope you’ll write me soon. I hate my family right now and want to move away from Missouri. Even though I used to make straight As in school, I had to drop out because the girls I thought were my friends aren’t my friends anymore. They taped mean notes on my locker door. Isn’t it weird that the name of my home state “Missouri” sounds just like the word “misery?” Because that’s how I feel right now, just miserable, Mr. McCann. Please help me.

I know it’s too soon to say it, but I will, anyway,

Love, your future bride,

Chantal Morris

How selfish could Macon be? Harper wondered. Didn’t he realize he was leading on confused young girls who had nowhere to turn? Chantal Morris, like so many others who’d written since Macon placed the ad, was undoubtedly frightened out of her mind, and if she wasn’t careful, she might actually find herself at the mercy of Macon.

Which meant Harper’d better talk some sense into Chantal. After all—Harper lifted her eyes toward Star Point—she had been even younger than Chantal, only sixteen, when she and Macon conceived. Harper mulled over how many women he’d dated since his return from Houston—everybody from the new schoolteacher, Betsy, who was from Idaho, and Lois Potts, not to mention Nancy Ludell, a notorious gossip who lived at the end of Harper’s road and who was newly divorced and sticking to Macon like white on rice.

“Chantal Morris needs to graduate,” Harper whispered. “She’s not that much older than my son, and without her diploma, it’ll be even harder for her to take care of a baby.”

Tapping a pen against Chantal’s letter, Harper wondered how to help. Tampering with the U.S. mail was a federal offense, of course, but Harper was on the school board, and her donations did help outfit the Pine Hills Armadillos football team. Surely, she thought, the town fathers would help keep her out of prison if Macon ever got wind of what she was doing. Besides, fate would protect her, since her motives were pure. No, Chantal wasn’t the first misguided, underage girl who mistakenly thought she wanted to marry Macon. Harper had once made that mistake herself.

She reread Chantal’s letter slowly, frowning over every word, and then, assuring herself she was doing her civic duty, she lifted a sheet from the stationary box. The paper was pink and bubble-gum scented—that was unfortunate—but Chantal wouldn’t mind. Nor would the other women with whom Harper intended to correspond, sharing her experience, strength and hope concerning Macon. Shutting her eyes, Harper waited for inspiration and then began to write:

Dear Chantal,

From personal experience, I can imagine what a bad time you’re having in Missouri, so I hope you’ll take my advice: finish high school! You won’t regret keeping your baby, and your diploma will be of great help in the future. I gave birth to my baby just after I turned seventeen, and being a young mom was fun. Now, I wouldn’t have the energy! I’m thirty-three now, and this autumn my son is starting eleventh grade. For years, he’s been my greatest source of happiness. I know it will be the same for you. The right man will come along, so my advice is to stay strong. Don’t let those awful girls at school get you down. You’ve got to finish high school, have your baby and hold out for the man of your dreams!

Lifting the pen, Harper bit down on her lower lip as if that might stop the sudden lurch of her heart. Because she’d been double promoted, Harper had been younger than the other girls at school and, like Chantal, she hadn’t had many friends. She’d loved her husband—Harper really had—and yet…Cutting off the thought, she assured herself that what she’d felt for Macon had been girlish infatuation. She continued writing.

Chantal, fortunately for you, I’m reviewing the Texas Men respondents for Mr. McCann. You have a wonderful future ahead of you—I can feel it in my bones, sweetheart. But, believe me, that future is not in Pine Hills, Texas. Macon McCann is not the man for you, nor would he be a good father for your—or anyone else’s—baby….




1


MACON MCCANN’S soft drawl moved through the ranch office like a mountain cat stalking prey, sounding slow, purposeful and ready to pounce. “I should have guessed our local postmistress was behind this.”

Diego, the ranch’s cow boss, paced thoughtfully, wiping sweat from his brow with a bandanna. “Shoulda, woulda, coulda.”

Three words that definitely pertained to himself and the widow Moody, Macon thought. Being railroaded by his father into advertising for a bride was bad enough, but when no hopefuls even answered his invitation in Texas Men, Macon should have gotten suspicious. At first, he’d even considered renting a second P.O. box, to accommodate all the mail he’d expected. Oh, he prided himself on having no foolish illusions, but Macon’d figured some women would be excited by the prospect of cooking and cleaning at the new house he wanted to build on the ranch.

In order to facilitate the process, Macon had sent Texas Men a picture. No problem there. He was better-looking than most men in the magazine. Wealthier, too.

But nobody answered the ad.

And now the mystery was solved. “Harper Moody,” Macon murmured, hell-bent on not letting his true emotions show. Leaning back, he crossed his boots on a scarred wood desk and stared down dispassionately at the pink sheets he’d taken from Harper’s work station at the post office an hour ago. Not even the aroma of hay and horses overpowered the bubble-gum scent wafting from the sheets, and Macon found it particularly bothersome since beneath that, he imagined he could smell a scent he preferred to forget.

Harper’s scent.

Since she handled every piece of mail passing through Pine Hills, Macon should have known she’d see his ad and do something to thwart him, but had she really opened the respondents’ letters and corresponded with his potential brides?

The screen door breezed open, and Macon glanced up to see his father, Cam, come inside with Ansel Walters, who owned the ranch bordering the Rock ’n’ Roll. “The moment Macon advertised for a wife,” Ansel joked, glancing between the letters and Diego and Cam, “he expected to see those brides come a runnin’.”

“Like on that old TV show, ‘Here Comes the Brides’,” added Diego, his sparkling eyes as black and shiny as the curls sticking from beneath his battered straw hat. “Yes, indeed,” Diego continued as he stripped a sweat-soaked shirt from his middle-aged, wiry frame, folded it over the back of a swivel chair and plopped down with a grunt. “Every woman in the world be desperate to get herself hitched to a rich rancher stud like Macon, right, Macon?”

“Just ask any female,” Cam added as he tossed his work gloves next to the letters. “Marrying my son’s their main goal in life. You boys wouldn’t believe how many brides I had to fight past to get to work this morning!”

Macon shot his father a quelling glance.

Cam laughed. “Oh, c’mon, don’t get mad, Macon. I never told you to advertise for a bride.”

“No, you didn’t,” Macon said, worriedly running a hand over his head, slicking back the gold waves. “But you said you won’t legally hand the ranch over to me until I’m married.”

“Now you’re catching on.” Cam’s left hand was nearly immobile, due to a stroke he’d suffered, but he gleefully clapped the other on his knee. “I don’t want you running the Rock ’n’ Roll yet. It’s my ranch, and no matter what your ma says, I’m not retiring.”

Macon surveyed his father a long moment, his gut clenching as if he’d been punched. Cam’s shoulders, once as powerful as Macon’s, were thin and stooped, and what was left of his hair had turned bristly gray. His face was as wrinkled as a pair of old boots, and suddenly, noticing how his father had changed with age, Macon wished he’d never left home. He missed the years he hadn’t been here, working the ranch with Cam. Macon had been a late baby, the only child, and now Cam was seventy-three.

Harper, why did you make me leave?

And where had the years gone? Only yesterday, the woman he’d wanted had been in his arms. Only the day before that, he’d been knock-kneed and in short pants, chasing after Cam in the fields. Pa, when you gonna teach me to ride that big horse? When you gonna take me to herd cattle? When you gonna let me rope a bull? And now he was hearing his mother’s voice. I can’t talk sense into him, Macon. His blood pressure’s sky-high, and if he doesn’t get some help with the ranch, he’ll have another stroke. Doc Dickens says so. Blanche McCann might as well have said, Your father’s going to die if you don’t come home, Macon.

Nothing less could have brought Macon to Pine Hills, since the last place he wanted to live was in the same town as Harper. He said, “Doc says you’ve got to retire on account of your blood pressure.”

“The only pressure I’ve got is you trying to take away my ranch,” muttered Cam. “Fortunately, every woman in the world’s got the sense not to marry you.”

“If I get married, you retire,” Macon said. “You promised.”

“And Cam never goes back on his word,” said Ansel.

“Nope, I don’t,” agreed Cam. “But somehow I doubt I’ll hear church bells, since Harper wrote every woman in China, just to warn them about Macon.”

“And every woman in Pine Hills already knows better than to get involved with him,” added Ansel.

“Now, now,” chided Cam. “Nancy Ludell’s still trying. And that cute schoolteacher, Betsy, who moved down from Idaho. And Ansel’s wife’s best friend…what’sername?”

“Lois Potts,” Ansel supplied.

“Right. You went bowling with her,” Cam coaxed, his tone insinuating. “Why, Lois is the closest thing we’ve got to an heiress in Pine Hills, since she’ll inherit the Feed and Seed. Why not marry her?”

“I might marry Lois,” Macon muttered, though marrying a stranger would be just as good an option. Macon wasn’t necessarily looking to fall in love. He wasn’t even sure if he was capable of it anymore.

Ansel suddenly whirled around, shielded his eyes and squinted through a smudged window at the corral. “Hurry, Macon!” he teased. “Some women in wedding dresses are running this way!”

Diego ran to the door. “Look at them wild womens lifting their veils just so they can claw out each other’s eyes! They’s fighting over Macon like cats and dogs.” The Mexican raised his voice to a falsetto. “Please, please,” he crooned, twining a finger around the end of a black mustache, “let me marry Macon and iron his shirts and give him some good lovin’!”

“Back off,” warned Macon mildly. Suddenly, he yawned and stretched his powerful arms over his head. Damn it all—his father, Harper and the cattle, too. Late last night, over a hundred head had broken through a pasture onto Ansel’s property, so Macon had been mending fences since before sunup, stopping only to run into town to check the mail, which was how he’d discovered the letters.

Diego squinted. “What’s those letters say about how bad you is, anyway?”

Macon shrugged, lifting a pink, bubble-gum scented sheet. ‘“Dear Gong Zhu,”’ Macon drawled, ignoring the tightening of his chest as he took in Harper’s neat cursive, ‘“It’s in your best interest to know there are good reasons Macon McCann has to advertise for a bride. Think about it. What kind of American man has to go all the way to China just to get a girlfriend?”’

Ansel, Diego and Cam chuckled.

Macon stirred the letters with a finger. “Here’s another. ‘Dear Carrie Dawn Bledscoe, Please know that Pine Hills, Texas has a male-female ratio of three to one. If Macon McCann was such a great catch, don’t you think a local girl would have married him by now? He’s thirty-four, so they’ve had ample opportunity.”’

The men laughed, and despite his underlying anger, a smile tugged at Macon’s lips. “Get this,” he added. “She signs the letter, ‘Yours in female solidarity.”’

Ansel snorted. “That woman’s sure got a way with words.”

It’s not all she’s got a way with, Ansel. “This one gets right to the point,” continued Macon. “’Dear Anna Gonzales, Do not come to America! Stay in Mexico and away from Macon McCann. He’s a menace, and Pine Hills is one big dusty dive. There’s no rain, and the heat’s insufferable. Pine Hills,”’ continued Macon, fishing for another letter, ‘“sounds uneventful, right? Well, guess what, Mirabella Morehead. When it comes to wildlife, Macon’s only the beginning. Unlike in Los Angeles, we’ve got more than our fair share of poisonous snakes. No culture, either. You won’t find first-run movies, or musical events.”’

“She’s got a point.” Diego swiped away tears of laughter. “The only music we gots is from frogs and crickets.”

“It’s nobody’s fault but hers if she hates it,” argued Ansel. “She could have left town. Both she and her mama said she planned to. She skipped a grade, and she had a scholarship to some Eastern school.”

“She stayed to antagonize Macon,” Cam guessed.

“Which is why I moved to Houston,” said Macon, despite the fact that no man present really understood how serious he’d once been about Harper.

“Well, amigo—” Diego looked sympathetic “—now you’re back. And the only thing standing between you and this ranch is Harper.”

Ansel grinned. “A formidable force.”

Restless and tired of the ribbing, Macon rose, crossed the room and leaned in the door frame, staring through the screen at the rock bluffs and green hills that had given the Rock ’n’ Roll Ranch its name. He watched corralled horses grazing under the shade trees. Why can’t you just leave me alone, Harper?

When he decided to advertise in Texas Men, his motive had been purely business, but when no one wrote back, Macon had felt an unexpected void and admitted the truth to himself. He wanted a wife. He’d tried for years to get over Harper. He’d waited long enough. Didn’t he deserve to start waking in the night with someone beside him, each inch of her his for the touching? She’d had a man’s warm body beside her for sixteen years. She’d enjoyed shared morning kisses and raising a son. Hundreds of protective miles no longer lay between him and Harper, and Macon needed to have a woman with him, if only to prove to Harper that he still could.

She was thirty-three now and probably nothing like the girl he’d left behind, but physical distance and the passage of time had never deadened Macon’s feelings the way he’d hoped. Some Christmases, he’d run into her, Bruce and their son, Cordy, and every time, something inside Macon would curl up and die. He’d tighten his arm around whatever woman he happened to be entertaining, intimating plenty more was going on than there ever really was, then he’d return to Houston. Oh, he’d tried other relationships, but nothing ever panned out. He’d missed Pine Hills, too, but couldn’t live in the same town as her.

But now Bruce was dead, and Macon was here to stay.

He’d offered a quick hello in the post office before he and Harper reached a silent, mutual agreement not to exchange pleasantries. Since then, he’d wordlessly checked the mail, never venturing past the copiers in the lobby, but always aware of Harper behind the counter.

Today, she’d hung a paper clock over the counter, next to a help wanted sign, indicating she’d be gone for five minutes, so after he’d checked the empty P.O. box, Macon had given in to the impulse to glance into her work space. He’d been stunned to find Harper’s un-mailed responses to his brides. Wanting time to process how she’d been disparaging him, he’d grabbed the letters and left.

But what had possessed her? She had no right to stand between him and a woman. She’d married. As much as he liked her son, Cordy, who’d been working odd summer jobs on the Rock ’n’ Roll since around the time Bruce died, Macon still hated the fact that she’d had him by another man. Macon knew he’d satisfied her sexually but figured Bruce had offered Harper another, better kind of sharing, touching her in a way so deep she’d married him. Macon tried to ignore the words teasing the edges of his consciousness. Why couldn’t it be me, Harper? Why wouldn’t you let me break the iron grip your mama had on you?

Macon’s lips compressed. He had no choice but to confront her about the letters, but he hadn’t wanted to create a scene at the post office, since it was the gossip hub of Pine Hills, and now he wasn’t sure he could handle being inside the house she’d shared with Bruce. Being anywhere near the bed where she’d given herself to her husband made Macon as tense as he’d been years ago when he’d caught his first glimpse of her.

She’d been sixteen and headed to live with relatives in Tuscaloosa when her mama’s car broke down in Pine Hills. One thing led to another and they’d stayed. Harper’s mama got a job managing a Laundromat, where Harper spent every day after school when she wasn’t sneaking off with Macon. Now he figured there wasn’t a landmark in town where he hadn’t made out with her, in the old cemetery, the rock quarry and on the sloping banks of Star Point Lake. Even Ansel, with whom Macon had been thick as thieves since birth, didn’t know how much time he’d spent with Harper, since her mama was so strict that they’d kept their meetings as secret as possible.

Her mama had died the year before Bruce had, but Macon had never stopped hating the woman. She’d had her suspicions about what Macon and Harper were doing, and anytime she saw Macon in town, she’d pull him aside, her blue eyes narrow and fierce and her voice cracking from the Camels she chain-smoked. My baby girl’s smarter than you. She don’t need your kind. You and me know you’re just using her, trying to get the one thing boys want. But she’s got herself one of those scholarships, so the last thing she needs is you.

Macon had been young and rebellious enough that he could have told the woman what he thought of her, but he hadn’t, out of respect for Harper. In her own way, Macon guessed the woman had loved Harper. And loving Harper, at least, was something Macon understood.

But she’d turned out to be her mama’s girl all the way. She’d rebelled, but not before that twisted woman had filled her head with dire warnings about men, just because she was backward and because a man had left her when she was pregnant with Harper. The summer they were out of school, Macon begged Harper to leave home and run away with him, and she’d finally said she would.

That night, he’d waited in the truck under a canopy of trees not far from Big Grisly’s Grill, alternately peering down the road and staring into a night as starry as Harper’s eyes. Where are you? he’d thought with panic. Don’t stand me up. Don’t let your mama win.

But she had.

And then she’d married Bruce and given birth to Cordy. Now Macon lifted his gaze from the horses in the corral, realizing he’d been half admiring their dreamless ease, their thoughtless pleasure. Why couldn’t his life be that damn simple? “What?”

Diego’s black eyes narrowed. “Stewing about the widow?”

Macon shook his head. “Just hoping that new fence’ll hold.”

“Don’t let her get you down,” said Ansel. “You saw her son, Cordy, last Saturday when he came over here to help herd cattle. He’s ready to leave the nest, so Harper’s just looking for distractions. She’s like her own crazy mama, always meddling.” Ansel frowned. “Wait a minute. Back in high school, was there more going on with you and Harper than we knew about?”

Plenty. “’Course not.” Crossing to the desk, Macon stared at big block letters that stated: “Everything you read in Texas Men magazine is a lie. Here is the real Macon McCann.” Attached was a photo of a grizzled, leather-faced, bearded man three times Macon’s age. Macon held up the photograph, forcing a smile. “This guy makes Cam look pretty.”

Cam laughed. “Don’t take your love troubles out on me, son.”

“They’re not love troubles,” Macon grumbled, wishing his father would simply turn over the ranch to him. Since he wouldn’t unless Macon married, Macon had no choice but to fix things so the Texas Men respondents could write him back.

Macon snuggled his hat down on his head and after a moment’s hesitation dug in a pocket for the keys to his truck. “I reckon I’d better head over to the Moodys’,” he explained. He tried to tell himself that he no longer felt betrayed or cared that she hadn’t loved him. Things just hadn’t worked out. Still, Harper had no right to open his mail, and the words she’d written to Chantal Morris played in his mind. Hold out for the man of your dreams…. Macon McCann is not the man for you, nor would he be a good father for your—or anyone else’s—baby….

How had Harper known what kind of father he’d make? She’d never given him a chance. “Figure I’d better go over there,” he repeated gruffly. “At least give her a piece of my mind.”

“Careful that’s all you give her a piece of,” Ansel warned.

“Careful you don’t start makin’ bacon, Macon!” added Diego.

Cam cupped a hand around his ear. “You hear that sizzling sound, Diego? You smell something burning?”

“Hooee,” hooted Diego. “It’s Macon. He’s hotter ’n chili peppers on a branding iron.”

Macon set his lips grimly, bracing himself for the sparks that always flew between him and Harper. Fact was, in the old days, he and Harper’s explosive arguments had always landed them in bed—or more likely the floor, or a bed of pine needles, or the back seat of the nearest available vehicle. But it had been years since they’d shared that unbridled lust. Then, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Then, the resolution to any heated exchange was reached only one way—with her undressed and Macon hot and heavy between her legs.

But that was then, and this was now.

And now, stepping through the screen door into the scorching Texas heat, Macon assured himself he could confront her at her house without incident.

Now, everything was going to be different.




2


“HERE COMES TROUBLE,” Harper whispered, pressing her fingertips to the door screen, her heart hammering as Macon’s red pickup truck came down her tree-lined road. She never should have left her work station today to freshen up. Leave it to him to check his P.O. box while she was finger combing her hair and experimenting with eyeshadows. She hadn’t worn makeup since Bruce died, but now Macon was back in town, and she didn’t want him to think she wasn’t aging well.

This would teach her.

Earlier, she’d returned to the mail counter to find the lobby empty and Macon pushing through the door, pink stationery fisted in his hand. She’d quickly hunkered guiltily behind a display until he was out of sight.

As Macon now nosed his truck beneath the willow tree that served as her carport, Harper reminded herself that she had nothing to fear. In fact, she should take great pleasure in telling Macon the truth about why she’d written to all those women.

Macon got out of the truck and slammed the door. Pretending he wasn’t aware she was staring at him from behind the screen, he glanced around the yard, his gaze resting momentarily on an old sandbox. Harper hadn’t removed it, compelled, she supposed, by the same maternal force that made her hold on to Cordy’s craft class artwork, skateboard and first mountain bike. She watched anxiously as Macon casually assessed the house, taking in the sweeping, white-railed wraparound porch, porch swing and petunias spilling from the weathered pine flower boxes Bruce had built.

When their eyes met, her fingertips curled on the door screen as if the flat surface could provide her with support. All at once, she couldn’t think straight or breathe, and she kept trying to swallow, but she couldn’t do that, either. She wished Cordy was home, then she felt guilty for wanting to use her teenager—my and Macon’s teenager, she thought with breathless panic—to shield her from his own father. It was wishful thinking, anyway, since Cordy was gone, spending the night with his best friend.

Breathe, she coached herself as Macon approached. It should have been easy, but just like delivering Macon’s mail from all those women, it wasn’t. Besides, she was too busy worrying about the bags only she noticed under her eyes, and about how, after her thirtieth birthday, cellulite had dappled her thighs overnight while every other inch of her started leaning like the Tower of Pisa.

Macon, of course, had never looked better.

Why did he have to be the one man about whom her mama had been so right? And why did seeing him in her front yard hurt so much even after all these years? Well, no matter what, she wouldn’t allow her anger to surface. What was past was past. Besides, any show of passion around Macon—even temper—might lead them places neither was prepared to go.

It was the wrong time to remember their lovemaking had been too urgent for them to ever make it as far as a bed. Or to realize Macon had showered and changed since coming to the post office. He was wearing fresh jeans and a pressed white short-sleeved, snap-up shirt, and despite that she was bracing herself for battle, he looked even better than he did in Texas Men magazine. For the briefest second, she thought he’d changed clothes for her, then she recalled it was Friday night and Macon probably had a date. She felt a rush of temper.

He came up the porch stairs lifting off his Stetson and stopping wordlessly on the other side of the door, staring at her through the screen, his amber eyes touched with barely suppressed anger. His hair was a delicious mess, the rich gold waves rippling in early evening sunlight that slanted across the wide planks of the porch.

“Harper,” he drawled, the hard consonants of her name lost so that it might have been something else entirely, such as Apa or Happa.

“Macon,” she returned just as calmly. It was the first time she’d spoken his name aloud to him since he’d come home, and doing so did such funny things to her heartbeat that she shot an involuntary glance over her shoulder, as if Bruce was still alive and might catch her out here alone with another man. Just looking at Macon McCann made her feel that guilty.

“We need to talk, Harper.”

Thankfully, the screen was safely between her and Macon. Everything inside her was tightening as it did whenever he got this close. It would be impossible to convince herself that the heat suffusing her skin was anything other than pure lust, but she tried, assuring herself that nothing could be as brutally punishing as this god-awful Texas heat. “Talk? About…?”

“You know why I’m here.” Pulling a sheet of crumpled pink bubble-gum scented stationery from his back pocket, Macon waved it in her direction, then re-pocketed it. “Mind if I come in?”

She considered, nervously lifting a hand to smooth her hair, his penetrating glance making her conscious that she’d brushed it up into a loose topknot, just the way he liked it, leaving long stray sexy wisps curling against her neck. She’d put on a strappy white sun-dress embroidered with bluebonnets, too, which showed plenty of cleavage. Licking her lips against their sudden dryness, she assured herself she’d only dressed this way because of the heat. Blowing out a shaky sigh, she said, “No, you’d better not come in.”

Macon didn’t bother to ask why not. He knew why not. He considered the matter even longer than she had. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Okay. I guess you’re right. I’d better not.” After a moment, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her shudder. “Aren’t you coming out here then?”

His perusal was sapping strength from all her joints, so she wasn’t sure she could step over the threshold if she tried. “I don’t think I’d better come out, either.”

Losing patience, he raised an eyebrow in question. “So, you’re going to stay in there, barricading the door?”

“I’m not,” she defended on a rush of pique. “But should I be barricading my door? Am I in trouble?”

Since they were nose to nose, it was definitely a good thing the screen was between them. “I’m not here to have a battle of wits, Harper.”

She couldn’t help but flash him a quick smile even though her stomach felt awfully jittery—probably from all the coffee she’d drank this morning. “Wouldn’t a battle require two people with wits, Macon?”

“As ever,” he retorted, “your tongue’s sharp as spurs.”

She couldn’t quite believe how quickly she’d lost control of the conversation, and yet her heart tugged as she thought of the letters she’d read this morning. All those women were in such trouble. “In this day and age, a woman had better be sharp,” she said pointedly.

“Especially if she’s tampering with the U.S. mail.”

“You didn’t have to come here. You could have simply called the sheriff, Macon.”

“And have you arrested? I thought of that myself, and it’s sorely tempting, but there’s more than just you to worry about. Did you think of that, Harper?”

Hearing him say her name made her heart skip a beat, but she ignored that and squinted through the screen. “Think of what?”

“Of Cordy. Your son. He’s a good kid. I’d hate to see him minus a mother, which is where he’ll be if I call the sheriff and you go to jail.”

For a second, she ceased to breathe. As far as she knew Cordy and Macon had been introduced—on the rare occasions she’d run into Macon, Cordy had sometimes been with her—but Macon had said Cordy’s name so familiarly, almost as if their relationship were personal. Knowing she should feel more relief about Macon not taking legal action, she managed to say, “You’re letting me off the hook? Don’t tell me you found a heart in Houston.”

He stared at her a long moment, his expression bemused and faintly accusatory, as if she’d somehow wronged him. “I always had a heart, Harper.”

As if she didn’t. Nervously, she scraped a thumbnail on the screen. “If you don’t intend to take any action, why’d you come over?”

His gaze flickered over her dainty dress, his voice lowering with a huskiness he was obviously trying to fight. The barely heard words were rough, but there was no mistaking the innuendo. “Do you want me to take some sort of action, Harper?”

She imagined she knew exactly what type of action he meant. “Of course not!”

Eyeing her dress, he didn’t look convinced. Only when he touched the screen did she realize she was still running her thumbnail across it. His fingertip brushed her thumb through the metal, the touch lasting just long enough to assure her there was still an electrical spark between them. “Please,” he muttered, “could you stop that? It’s driving me crazy.”

She couldn’t help but say, “Maybe I like driving you crazy.”

Everything about him seemed to still at her words. He frowned. “I came over because what you did is wrong, Harper. You know that.”

Yes, and she also knew that if he studied her neck any harder where the pulse was beating out of control, she’d lose her self-control. “You should be illegal.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Silently, she stared at him, cursing that sudden teasing lift at the corners of a mouth that kept reminding her of how well he kissed. She’d meant to fight how his voice always dropped directly into her bloodstream with a dark ripple, but here she was—heart racing, hamstrings quivering, shaky all over. Trying to regain her equilibrium, she lifted her chin a notch. “It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

“No? Then how’d you mean it?”

Having no answer, she watched in horrified fascination as one of Macon’s big hands suddenly curled over the doorknob. She’d always loved his hands. Huge, slender-fingered and tanned a rich copper, they were a working man’s hands. “Macon,” she managed to say, her pulse staggering drunkenly as he came into the dim hallway, and she stepped back to accommodate him, “I’m sure I didn’t invite you in.”

“Memory,” he returned. “Never your strong suit.”

That was rich. Didn’t he recall being with Lois Potts the night he was supposed to run away with her?

“I’m coming in,” he announced. “It’s hot out there, Harper.”

“It’s Texas,” she returned evenly as he stepped inside. “It’s hot everywhere.”

Definitely hotter in here, now that she was sharing the hallway with Macon. And yet he was right. The house was cool and dark. She’d opened the windows last night and drawn the blinds today, and even though Bruce had installed central air conditioning long ago, the house was usually cool enough without it, which was saying something in Texas. Hardly comfortable, though. With Macon crowding the hallway, she couldn’t have been more tense if she were entertaining a burglar.

Not that Macon was the least bit bothered by her anxiety. Dropping his hat over the newel post, he glanced down the hallway toward the kitchen, then upstairs. When he looked through an archway into the living room, she realized how many of Bruce’s belongings still filled the room. Leather-bound history volumes were alphabetized in glassed cases—although he’d worked as a pharmacist, history was his hobby—and the old-fashioned spectacles he collected were arranged on the mantel. It was an odd collection, but Bruce had possessed a questing mind, a focused intensity that allowed him to see even the knottiest problems through to the end. Sometimes, when he’d caught her lying awake late at night, Harper suspected he’d known she’d never really gotten over Macon.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a start, feeling renewed determination to placate Macon so he’d leave. “I know you found those letters today. I saw you leave the post office. I…I truly don’t know what possessed me to write them, Macon.”

Instead of looking relieved at the confession, he pinned her with a particularly unnerving stare. “Harper,” he said flatly, “I’ve known you for years. You always know what possesses you.”

Oh, not always. She hardly wanted to examine her motives for suddenly caring so much about her appearance lately, for wearing this dress, for instance, or for pulling back her shoulder-length ash hair or spritzing her neck with perfume. “I was only doing my civic duty,” she found herself admitting.

“My, my,” he taunted, looking genuinely amused. “That sounds so patriotic. I’ll bet the U.S. government is having a meeting right now, wishing they had a few more postmistresses like you, Harper.”

“Macon,” she returned hotly, unable to stand the way he was mocking her. “You can’t rope in poor, unsuspecting women this way. Most women who responded to your ad need help.” She exhaled an exasperated breath. “You should have read those letters!”

Tilting his head to get a better look at her, he wedged a boot heel comfortably over a stair step and raised a golden eyebrow, his voice turning silky. “You really think so?”

She nodded. “Yes, I do!”

“Hell, yes, I should have,” he retorted. “They were addressed to me!”

Her heart pounding, she glanced around, her long-smoldering desire for Macon mixing with fury over the dire situations expressed in the letters. “There were pregnant teenagers.” She defended herself. “Mothers without enough money to feed and clothe their babies, foreign women wanting citizenship because they’ve been separated from children in the U.S. Some are so lonely they just can’t take it anymore.”

His expression was infuriatingly bland, as if the catalogue of horrors didn’t even touch his heartstrings. “Are you lonely, Harper?”

The words hit a nerve. She’d survived a teenage pregnancy and a mother who’d barely earned enough money to raise her. And yes, damn you, Macon, I’m lonely. Bruce had been gone two years, and Macon’s unwanted presence made it seem forever since she’d been touched lovingly. Why couldn’t he understand? “You can’t play with people’s lives like that!”

He surveyed her curiously. “Who says I’m playing?”

“I’d forgotten how impossible you are!” she snapped. No, she’d spent far too much time remembering the heat of his mouth and how his arms felt wrapped around her back. Forgetting her hair was up, she drew shaky, annoyed fingers through it, dislodging further wispy strands. “You have no concept, Macon,” she continued with a soft sigh of frustration. “You’ve never wanted for anything, but some of those women have absolutely nowhere to go.”

“Then why not let them come here?”

“Why not?” she echoed, stupefied.

His voice was a silken thread of danger. “If you hadn’t written to them, they could have,” he told her, his tone so reasonable she was flooded with guilt. “So, do you mind explaining why you’re interfering in my love life?”

“Love life?” she repeated, the lips she’d glossed with something called Goldust Glitter parting in astonishment.

His eyes hardened. “Yes, love life.”

“Since when does meeting strangers through Texas Men magazine constitute a love life, Macon?” Did he think she was jealous? she suddenly wondered. Even worse, was she? Cutting off the intrusive thoughts, she rushed on. “Macon, advertising for a bride in Texas Men is no joke.”

He looked furious. “Am I laughing?”

“Yes!” she exploded. She leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms, the sudden drop of his heated gaze making her aware, a second too late, that the action caused her breasts to lift. “I believe you are laughing. I bet you and Ansel Walters struck a wager or something. I bet he said you wouldn’t have the nerve to advertise. Why else would you do it?”

“Because I want to get married?” suggested Macon.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “There’s got to be more to it than that. You’ve been back in town two months, Macon, and…well, I’ve heard you’ve already slept with every available woman in town.”

He had the audacity to chuckle softly. “Maybe some of the unavailable ones, too.” Before she could respond, he added, “Besides, how do you know who I’ve been sleeping with, Harper? I don’t remember seeing you in my bed.”

“You have so many women you wouldn’t remember,” she returned, offering a disgusted shake of her head. “And how can you make light of this? Do you expect me to believe you’re going to become monogamous just because a pregnant teenager or an illegal alien shows up on your doorstep?” Before he could answer, she shook her head adamantly. “Oh, no, I don’t think so, Macon.”

He squinted at her. “Why not?”

She found herself recalling his male appetite. “Because I know you.”

His voice turned silky again. “You most certainly do, Harper.”

Her heart was pounding too hard, and her lungs were nearly empty. If she didn’t take a deep breath soon, she’d get dizzy. She forced herself to do so, gathering strength. Someone had to stop this lunacy. “To be perfectly blunt, working at the post office puts me in a position to hear all the gossip, Macon.”

Unfortunately, he looked intrigued, not contrite, as if he couldn’t wait to see what she’d say next. “When it comes to me, I bet it’s juicy, huh?”

“I don’t ask to hear the gossip,” she said, not gracing his question with a response. “Nor am I saying any of this for your amusement.” She suddenly gaped at him. “C’mon. Are you denying you and Nancy Ludell didn’t leave Big Grisly’s Grill until four a.m. last Saturday night? Or that you and that new teacher, Betsy, had breakfast the next morning, before you took your mother to church?” She paused, staring at him hard. “Or that you and Lois Potts didn’t also go bowling in Opossum Creek?”

“Serious charges,” Macon returned solemnly. “Bowling should get me the electric chair. And church…why, that should rate a lethal injection, don’t you think?”

“I should be so lucky,” she muttered. “Can you honestly tell me you weren’t teaching an underage girl to drive a stick shift last week, and that when she drove your truck into a ditch—”

Macon’s disbelieving chuckle stopped her. “Harper,” he said in warning, peering at her as if she’d just stooped lower than the human eye could see, “that was Diego’s niece.”

She ignored the rush of relief. “Maybe that time,” she countered. “But that’s not the point. Everybody in town knows what you do, which is probably why you’re trying to find a—” somehow she couldn’t force herself to say bride “—woman from out of town.” When Macon’s jaw tensed, Harper’s eyes lingered a second too long on its firm, clean-shaven line. For a second, she was sure he was considering grabbing her, and she had no idea which way she’d run—out the door or into his arms.

“Dammit, Harper.” The sudden rasping curse hardly offered any comfort. “Since when are you so interested in what I do with other women, anyway?”

“I have no choice! Someone has to take an interest!” The words rang with conviction. “Don’t you understand, Macon? Some of these women don’t even speak English! What kind of relationship could you have with them?”

Anger had begun stoking the fire in his eyes, and now they looked lively, burning into her. “A relationship based on something other than talking?” he suggested, his tone deceptively mild.

She sighed ruefully. “I’d hoped you’d changed over the years.”

“Over the years? I’m only thirty-four, Harper. Hardly over the hill.”

“Your adventures around Pine Hills make that perfectly clear.” Swallowing hard, she mustered her most controlled tone. “Which is why I wrote those women. Macon, the simple truth is, you’re not ready to marry.”

He stared at her. “That’s not for you to decide.”

Throwing up her hands, she glared. “You really want to make an honest woman out of someone? You want kids?” The words honest woman echoed in her mind, filling her once more with guilt since she’d never told him about Cordy.

“You have a problem with that?”

Damn him! Of course she had a problem with that. Was she really going to live in the same town with Macon McCann while he married one of those young, pretty women who kept answering his ads? “You’re going to marry a stranger, Macon? Have a family with her?”

His smile vanished, and she had the distinct impression she’d finally gotten through to him. “You have a child,” he muttered, “so you must know how fulfilling it can be.”

Our child, Macon. Haven’t you realized Cordy’s ours? She could barely find her voice. “What you’re doing doesn’t even make sense,” she managed to say. “You’ve known plenty of women, so why write to strangers? And why come back from Houston, anyway?” For years, she’d prayed he would—and prayed he wouldn’t. “Everybody said you loved it there. They said you were never coming back.”

He hesitated, and as sunlight shifted through a window behind him, a shadow fell, erasing the grooves around his mouth and wrinkles around his eyes, making him look so much like the boy she remembered that she could have cried.

“Cam’s health isn’t what it used to be.”

“Oh, Macon.” Instinctively, she stepped forward and touched his arm. A heartbeat later, when his flesh gave a quick quiver beneath her fingers, she knew getting this close to him was a mistake. Seeing male awareness come into his eyes, she stepped quickly back, edging toward the wall. “Macon, I’m sorry.”

“He’s had a stroke already. Lost some mobility in his left arm. Now he’s got to watch his blood pressure, Harper. He’s got to slow down.”

So do I. She was still feeling the hot touch of Macon’s sun-warmed skin. “You think he’ll be all right?”

“If he quits working the ranch.” For a long moment, Macon was silent, his gaze trailing unabashedly to where two thin straps held up her sundress. His expression hardened. “I’m getting married, Harper,” he said, his gaze returning to hers. “I’m settling down in Pine Hills, and I’m not doing it alone.” Sounding gruff, he added, “I want a woman.”

The raw statement of male hunger made her knees weak, and as their gazes meshed, she felt oddly disoriented. Determined to ignore the palpable energy coursing between them, she kept her voice even. “I guess I didn’t want one more poor soul to get stranded in Pine Hills, the way my mama did.” It was as close to an apology about writing the letters as she could get.

“You could have left, Harper.” He glanced around. “Looks to me as if you did right well in this town, anyway,” he mused, suddenly sounding as if she wasn’t even there anymore. Finding her eyes again, he added, “Why’d you get married, anyway? It was so fast. I didn’t even know you were seeing Bruce. Back then, he was…he was just a pharmacist.”

Surely she was fooling herself, but she swore she heard something that sounded distinctly like pain. She watched with astonished curiosity as Macon stepped so close that she could feel waves of heat coming from his body. Warmth seemed to push into her, and there was simply no help for how the tips of her breasts constricted, noticeably beading under the strappy dress she never should have worn. The effect wasn’t lost on Macon. His voice dropped, becoming a lazy rumble, turning her bones to rubber. Her stomach muscles tightened; everything else inside fluttered.

“Why, Harper?” he repeated. “Why’d you get married?”

What did it matter to him? And why was he asking her now? Why couldn’t he have stayed in Houston and left her alone? She should have said she loved Bruce, but instead, she said, “I’ll tell you my motives for marrying whenever you tell me yours.”

“Touché.” It was only a whisper, and even if breath from the word hadn’t buffeted her collarbone, the rest of him would have told her his mouth was far too close. Suddenly his thigh was lightly pressuring hers, and fingers were gliding upward on her arm, making goose bumps rise on her flesh. “Here’s the deal,” he murmured, sounding oddly breathless. “I came by to get a few things straight between us.”

She felt faint. “I’m waiting.”

His fingers tensed on her arm, almost hurting. “You never waited, Harper.”

Her temper flaring, she stepped back, then realized she was pressed against the wall. Her hands skated behind her, flattening against the plaster for support. “Save the fancy verbal moves for your bride. You’re the one who left Pine Hills.”

“But I’m back.” Macon’s eyes captured hers, holding on so fiercely she didn’t think he’d ever let go. “This might be a small town, but it’ll have to be big enough for us both. From now on, leave my mail alone, and I’ll forget about the letters and not press charges.”

She swallowed around the unexpected lump forming in her throat. “Thanks for letting me off the hook.”

“No problem.” He drew a deep breath, and she sensed he was affected by the scent of perfume he took with it. “I know you planned to leave here years ago,” he said, seemingly trying to hide how affected he was by her proximity, “but you married Bruce, and now things haven’t turned out the way you wanted, so you’re meddling in my life. You’re mad because I left here and lived my dreams, Harper. But I forgive you.”

So that’s what he thought. Pain sliced through her at his lack of understanding. She had no idea where her mama’s dreams ended and her own began. Her mother had hated Pine Hills and wanted Harper to leave. Escape, she’d called it. But Harper had liked doing her homework in the Laundromat after school, listening to the familiar rhythmic sound of the dryers while she joked with customers. She’d liked sneaking off to meet Macon, too. She knew she was smarter than average, but she’d never needed to be somebody important. Her voice caught. “Maybe there were other dreams, Macon.” Like leaving town with you. She could hear her mama’s voice. You think that rancher’s boy cares about you, girl? No, ma’am. He’s the richest boy in town. To him, you’re just some girl that’s gonna wind up working in a Laundromat like your mama. For a breathless moment, dread pushed at Harper’s chest, and she thought she’d suffocate.

“Harper?”

All the air left her lungs. “I’m sorry for what I did, Macon,” she said, knowing she had to make him leave. “Really. Please, you’d better go now.”

He become utterly still. Only his breath moved, teasing her ears as he leaned nearer. “What if I don’t want to?”

Gazing at him, she suddenly couldn’t pull her eyes from his mouth. A kiss would mean so little to him, she thought illogically, craving a taste. According to gossip, he dispensed those kisses all the time. He let them fall from his damnable lips like spring rain. Maybe if she had just a taste of him, she could finally forget him.

His voice was mesmerizing. “What if I want to stay?”

“You always did do exactly what you wanted, didn’t you, Macon McCann?”

“Then I sure as hell shouldn’t stop now,” he drawled roughly, brushing his body against hers, the taut, hard sweep of his hips coming with a rustle of denim. She hadn’t looked down, hadn’t known he was aroused, but she felt it now. He felt so hard and hot and thick that her knees nearly buckled.

“Where’s Cordy?” he said.

Hearing her son’s name brought her to her senses, but Macon had already filled the space between them. How could she fight what she felt right now? She couldn’t bear to admit it, but she’d probably lured Macon here by writing those letters. The seductive dress, upswept hair and new makeup were telling, too. A heartbeat passed, then his throaty words slurred against her hair. “Where?”

She could feel his lips brushing the strands. Her heart beat wildly. Get away, she ordered herself. Sidestep. Brush past. Push open screen door. Step outside and breathe deeply. Clear your head, Harper. It should have been so simple, but the eyes riveted to her lips were all amber fire.

“Where, Harper?”

She shouldn’t have said it, but she did. “Not here.”

Hot was the first thought that came a second later, when Macon’s mouth crushed down on hers. Burning hot. Moving with unrestrained trembling hunger, he parted her lips with the slow thrust of his tongue. Wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, he steadied her as he kicked the storm door, shutting out the summer sunlight. He threw the dead bolt, the loud click making her pulse soar, the masterful strokes of his tongue making her climb. Up through dark tunnels, she strained for the feeling, whimpering and aching as practiced, work-roughened hands deftly slid between their bodies, caressing her breasts and belly as they swiftly unbuttoned the front of her dress.

She reached down, her fisted hand opening on a hard-muscled thigh before sliding over to grasp him intimately. He was so aroused, so big, all throbbing ready heat pulsing through denim. Her dress was open, too—all the way now! Just as she squeezed him firmly, her fist closing around his length, he pushed the dress from her shoulders, making her head swim as he exposed her bra.

She couldn’t believe what this man did to her, no more than she could understand why she hadn’t felt this with Bruce. And then those thoughts were gone because Macon was admiring her with a hot gaze, looking down, his greedy eyes devouring her belly and simple white panties. He brushed his knuckles over the mound, lightly grasping her tangled hairs through the silk, then quickly, he unhooked the front clasp of the bra and pushed the cups back toward her shoulders. The way he looked at her bare, aroused breasts made her feel heartbreakingly beautiful. His whisper was hoarse, the words slurred. “I’ve missed this, Harper.”

Sucking a breath through gritted teeth, he used both hands, lifting and cupping her breasts from beneath, mercilessly kneading them, pushing them high and pressing them together, deepening the damp crevice between them as he locked his groaning, liquid mouth to one. Releasing a throaty growl that, alone, was enough to make her shatter, he ground himself against her, rolling his hips as she arched to meet him. She cried out, gasping as he bit, nibbled and soothed a painfully erect nipple with his mouth, leaving her so damp between the legs that she was shaking. Only after long, torturous moments did Macon lean back, tersely demanding, “Look at me, Harper.”

She did, and the past vanished. There was only their present connection—light and shadow playing on his face, the warmth of long-suppressed desire in his eyes and finally the blessed fusion of his searing mouth to the breast he’d already left glistening. Thrusting her fingers into his hair, she whimpered again, twisting for the rasp of his teeth. Chest heaving, she drew in the woodsy scent of him, everything inside her reaching higher, endlessly higher like a kite, as his urgent hand tugged down her panties.

“There, Harper,” he soothed, in a ragged whisper, his hand parting her knees, and then gentle thumbs pressing circles ever higher on her open thighs. When he reached the apex and stroked the pearl he’d laid bare, she was so lost she barely even heard the rake of his zipper, but she plummeted into a whirlpool of wet, blind darkness when his bulging thighs pressured hers again. She’d waited so long for this…for him. Dizzy, her knees weak, she clung to his shoulders. Lower down, she felt the hair that protected him, rough and tangled and wild, and then the raw living silk of his erection. She’d never known a man could get so hard. The dangerous thickness of the shape made her gasp, and he moaned his response, dragging his trembling lips back and forth across hers. “Harper…oh, Harper.”

Darkness was still pooling in her thoughtless mind when his first hard, swift thrust lifted her. Lights flickered and went out, but she was climbing, her head flung back, her hands curling over powerful muscles, her fingers digging into work-honed shoulders, tightening with each new furious onslaught of scalding kisses that prepared her for the fall. Against her cheek, his words were rough, torn sandpaper. “I didn’t…won’t…”

Her mind was spinning. Come inside me? An old promise. Oh, God, what am I doing?

But she wanted this, she had for years. Heaven help her, but after Bruce died it was sometimes Macon she’d imagine, his body loving hers until she didn’t feel so alone. Suddenly, she was tumbling downward, spinning, her body shaking, the pulling depth of her shuddering climax making her mind blank again as she convulsed.

And then, just like that, he was gone. A wrenching gasp was torn from him. Another as she felt the warm gush of his release as he withdrew. The loss was so abrupt, so jarring, that her heart seemed to go with him. Stunned, strangely bereft, she wondered how this could have happened.

Macon had come about those letters, and the next thing she knew…

She steadied herself, her hands flying to her bra and dress, gathering the sides. She pulled up her panties so fast they wedged in her behind, and by the time her shaking fingers were through buttoning, he was buckling his belt. Even worse, the damn man was grinning. “Are we still here, Harper?”

Didn’t he know she felt like her dress—like she’d come apart at the seams? That she was still throbbing, her heart still racing out of control? Didn’t he understand what he’d just done to her?

Judging by his grin, she guessed he did. “I don’t know how that happened,” she whispered.

His breathing heavy, he eyed her a long moment, and by degrees, his grin vanished and his jaw set. “I thought things might be different now.”

Different from what, Macon? Different from when I came to tell you I was pregnant—and found you in your truck with Lois Potts? Different from when you went to Houston without me? A lump formed in her throat. “Different?”

“I thought…maybe with Bruce gone, and Cordy almost grown. And given the fact that Cordy and I are on good terms…”

Everything inside her seized up. “Good terms?”

He stared at her. “He does work for me, you know.”

She didn’t. Her heart missed a beat. “At the ranch?”

Macon frowned, his hand resting on the belt he’d just buckled. “He didn’t tell you I hired him to work Saturdays?”

No! She thought he came home dirty on Saturdays because of summer football practice. Why had Cordy gone behind her back? He had a generous allowance, a car, and he’d promised to concentrate on his studies this summer. The shock, on top of what had just happened between her and Macon, was too much. Realizing she’d buttoned her dress crookedly, she tugged it down, trying to smooth it, but Macon had wrinkled it beyond repair.

He was already opening the storm door, glancing through the screen as if he wanted to be anywhere in the world but in a dark hallway with her. “I guess you figure I’ll destroy your son the way I would any woman I marry,” Macon said, not bothering to hide his temper. “But don’t worry, Harper, I’ll tell Cordy that the Rock ’n’ Roll won’t be needing him anymore.” Macon shrugged. “Guess you don’t know everything about your son.”

She wished something, anything, would stop the too-fast beating of her heart. “You don’t, either, Macon,” she whispered miserably.

Lifting his hat from the newel post, Macon put it on and adjusted the brim. “Good to see you, Harper.”

Given what had just happened between them, the words seemed the worst kind of understatement. Her lips felt swollen. Tendrils of hair were glued to her neck with perspiration. She crossed her arms over the cockeyed dress, feeling ridiculous. “That’s all you’re going to say about what we just did?”

Macon shot her a level glance. “What do you want, Harper? A blow-by-blow analysis? A report?”

“No,” she said, coloring, “but—”

“If I think of anything to say, I’ll send you a postcard,” he assured dryly. “Somehow, I’ll bet you’re one of the people around this town who still gets her own mail.” Turning, Macon pushed through the screen, casually walking across the porch and into the sunshine. When he was halfway across the yard, he lifted the hat, waving it once as a parting taunt sounded over his shoulder. “I mean it. Real good to see you, Harper.”

She glared at his back, her eyes narrowing. Mustering her gamest tone, she offered her own sugary Texas drawl. “So glad to oblige, Macon.”

A throaty chuckle floated back.

Pressing her fingertips to the wire mesh, she stared at him through the screen, shaking her head. She’d repay him for this. She didn’t know how yet, but she’d think of something. And when Cordy got home, they were going to have a serious talk about his working on the ranch. For now, she simply watched Macon. Just as when he arrived, he was circling the lilac, forsythia and snowball bushes, then he got into his truck and slammed the door.

Torn apart by mixed emotions, she whispered, “It’s like watching a rewinding movie.” Except a lot had happened between the past and the present, and during Macon’s short but rather eventful visit. As he’d ambled through her yard, his open shirttails had blown in the breeze as if to announce to the neighborhood that he’d recently had little use for clothes. And as he backed his truck from under the willow, he had the nerve to toot his horn as if to say he’d definitely be back for some more of the same.

Staring at the last glimpse of his red truck winking through the trees, Harper softly, solemnly vowed, “Never again, Macon McCann. I mean it this time. Never again.”




3


HARPER HAD LED HIM ON and rejected him for the last time, Macon vowed as he galloped toward the ranch office. She should have been hog-tied for meeting him at the door wearing that sinful sundress dotted with dusky bluebonnets the color of her eyes, the heavy, milk-satin breasts Macon remembered all too well straining the straps. Glancing at the new fence as he flew past, Macon added, “Guess it’ll hold.”

Harper’s dress sure hadn’t. He barely noticed the nearly full moon, or the orange and purple clouds bracketing a bloodred sun that was taking a final peek as it dipped behind rolling green hills. He was still seeing shadows slanting on her skin and thrusting his fingers into pale hair he’d left disheveled around her shoulders. He was still considering that deceptive blond-haired, blue-eyed, little-girl-next-door facade that always fooled him until he looked closer and noticed broody eyes that were too aware and a mouth that was too sassy because of her repressed need for kissing.

At least Macon had kept his cool when he left, but now he couldn’t believe his lack of willpower. How could he stop himself when her body tucked so perfectly into his, though? When the soft smoothness of her skin glided under his mouth like water? And when her incoherent whimpers cooed around his ears, begging him to burrow into wanting heat? Cursing soundly, Macon fought memories of the burning relief he’d felt as he entered her….




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