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Montana Dreaming
Judy Duarte
Karen Rose Smith
Cheryl St John

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Their Unexpected Family

By

Judy Duarte

About the Author

JUDY DUARTE, an avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, always wanted to write books of her own. One day she decided to make that dream come true. Five years and six manuscripts later, she sold her first book to Special Edition.

Her unpublished stories have won the Emily and the Orange Rose and in 2001 she became a double Golden Heart finalist. Judy credits her success to Romance Writers of America and two wonderful critique partners, Sheri WhiteFeather and Crystal Green.

At times, when a stubborn hero and a headstrong heroine claim her undivided attention, she and her family are thankful for fast food, pizza delivery and video games. When she’s not at the keyboard or in a Walter Mitty-type world, she enjoys travelling, spending romantic evenings with her personal hero and playing board games with her kids.

Judy lives in Southern California and loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: PO Box 498, San Luis Rey, CA 92068-0498, USA. You can also visit her website at www.judyduarte.com.

To Emalee Rae Colwell, who made her appearance in time to give Grandma a refresher course on birthing rooms and the miracle of childbirth.

Welcome to the world, baby girl!

In addition, I’d like to thank Christine Rimmer, Allison

Leigh, Pamela Toth, Karen Rose Smith and Cheryl St John, the other authors in the MONTANA series, for making this book a pleasure to write.

Chapter One

Juliet Rivera had always favored the aroma of grilled onions and green peppers, but tonight, the kitchen smells of the busy bar and grill triggered a wave of nausea.

“Are those fries up yet?” she asked, arching her back and trailing her fingers along the contour of her distended womb.

God, she hoped everything was all right. The baby had been unusually quiet today, which increased her concern about working after Dr. Hart had recommended she take it easy. She didn’t want to risk triggering premature labor, but she needed to support herself and the child she was going to bear.

Buck Crowley, the burly cook who’d once practiced his culinary skills on navy seamen, slid the plate toward her and grumbled. “You tell that fortune hunter that I’m not making them any crisper than this. French fries aren’t supposed to be as hard as matchsticks.”

“Thanks, Buck.” Juliet made her way through the dining room of The Hitching Post and placed the well-done fries in front of the lanky customer who’d asked her to take them back to the kitchen.

She watched him poke a finger at the heaping platter of extra-crispy potato strips, apparently checking to see if they were made the way he’d requested.

He wasn’t going to send them back again, was he?

If he did, she could imagine Buck storming out of the kitchen and into the dining room. The retired military man wasn’t prone to confrontations with the customers, but he, along with some of the other Thunder Canyon locals, didn’t appreciate all the strangers who’d flocked to the charming Montana town with hopes of striking it rich.

Years ago, several other gold rushes had lured their share of prospectors into Thunder Canyon. But the Queen of Hearts mine had played out, and Buck believed the contemporary gold-seekers would end up disappointed.

Juliet crossed her arms over the shelf her belly made and shifted her weight to one foot, waiting for the customer’s approval.

Dios mio, señor. Cual es su problema? With just under six weeks to go until her due date, she’d probably give birth before he decided whether the fries were good enough.

Juliet was dead on her feet and ready to clock out, especially after her visit to the emergency room two days ago. But she couldn’t leave yet. The Hitching Post was hopping like a Saturday night, and it was only the middle of the week.

The persnickety customer finally shrugged his shoulders, then reached for a fry. When he popped a second one into his mouth, she turned to go, pausing as her boss approached.

Martha Tasker, a matronly woman who wore her silver-streaked hair pulled into a topknot, placed a hand on Juliet’s shoulder. “I’m worried about you. How’s it going?”

Other than sore feet and a twinge of nausea whenever she neared the kitchen? Juliet forced a smile. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

“No more fainting spells?”

“Not since Sunday afternoon.”

Mrs. Tasker studied her, as though trying to make her own assessment. “This is your just first night back on the job. We can try to handle the load without you. Why don’t you call it quits until tomorrow?”

Because Juliet’s small nest egg was only enough to see her through delivery and a few weeks after that. What would she do when it was gone? She’d been told there would be a workman’s compensation settlement that would go to her brother’s estate, but that could take years, and she wasn’t counting on it.

She flashed her employer another smile, one she hoped boasted more confidence than she felt. “As soon as the dinner crowd thins out, I’ll go home.”

“Good,” Mrs. Tasker said, as she began to wind her way back to the cash register she manned. “We don’t want that baby comin’ into the world too early. That fainting spell nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“What fainting spell?” a husky baritone voice asked.

Juliet glanced over her shoulder and spotted Mark Anderson, a reporter for a major news service who’d been sent to Thunder Canyon to cover the gold rush. Apparently, he’d just entered the dining room and had overheard her conversation with Mrs. Tasker.

She guessed him to be just shy of six feet, although he looked monstrously tall with his hands on his hips and glaring at her like a highway patrolman who’d just snagged a reckless driver. His dark hair, a bit long and unruly, bore a tinge of gray at the temples, so she judged him to be in his late thirties.

“It was nothing,” she told him, although the fainting spell and ambulance ride to the hospital had been pretty scary.

The reporter eyed her carefully. “Have you seen a doctor?”

Juliet wasn’t sure why he asked, why he cared. But she couldn’t see any reason not to answer honestly. There were too many people in this world who didn’t tell the truth, people who kept secrets. And she’d be darned if she’d be one of them. “I have a doctor. And I saw a resident obstetrician in the emergency room at Thunder Canyon General. Everything is fine, although I’m supposed to take it easy.”

“Then what are you doing here?” His husky voice, with the hint of a soft southern drawl, settled over her like a drizzle of melted chocolate. But his probing eyes weren’t nearly as sweet and comforting.

A strand of hair that had come loose from the gold clip she wore while at work tickled her cheek, and she swiped it away with the back of her hand. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You’re certainly not taking it easy.” His whiskeybrown eyes swept over her again, no doubt spotting the exhaustion in her expression that a dab of lipstick and mascara couldn’t hide.

She wasn’t sure whether she should be angry with him for butting in or pleased that he gave a darn about her health and the baby’s welfare. But for a woman who’d grown up in a small, close-knit family, she’d been alone and on her own for too long to completely shrug off his concern.

He pulled out a chair and sat at the nearest table—on the dining room side, rather than closer to the bar where he usually parked himself for the evening. His gaze lingered on her, and he continued to study her with more interest than any of the other male customers.

At one time, she might have wondered if the reporter found her attractive. But how loco was that? With a belly that seemed to grow bigger every day, there wasn’t much for a man to find appealing—not that she cared anyway. Her baby was the one and only priority in her life.

Wanting to break the intimacy of his gaze, to distance herself from his interest, she asked, “Can I get you something to eat?”

“Not yet. But I’ll have a drink.”

Since coming into town last week on assignment, he’d had several stiff shots of bourbon every night—at least, that’s what he’d ordered when she’d been working. Then he ate dinner before heading across the street to the inn, where the news service had put him up.

She doubted he had a drinking problem, since his cynical yet flirtatious personality remained constant, and he appeared unaffected by his alcohol consumption.

“Bourbon and a splash of water?” she asked.

“Good memory.”

“Predictable customer.”

He grinned, and she headed for the bar, which sat on the far side of the room, near the dance floor that saw a lot of action on Friday and Saturday nights.

The Hitching Post had once been the town saloon, and although renovated many years ago into a respectable eatery, its history lingered in the old photographs that dotted the walls, the refurbished bar that still boasted scars and scratches from yesteryear and a painting of a nude woman, who was rumored to have been the original owner—the Shady Lady, as the locals called her.

Juliet always found it difficult not to stare at the image of the voluptuous blonde who sported a teasing grin. More straitlaced folks might disagree, but she thought the nineteenth-century piece of art added to the charm of The Hitching Post.

When the bartender handed her Mark’s drink, she returned to his table, placed a cocktail napkin in front of him, then served the glass of nearly straight bourbon.

He lifted his drink in a mock salute. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

His eyes continued to study her, but she couldn’t seem to make herself move, get back to work.

“Can you take a break?” he asked.

If she were inclined to think like a single woman on the prowl rather than an expectant mother wanting to nest, she’d consider it. “No, I’d better not. I’m still on the clock.”

“There are laws about companies giving their employees a break during the workday.” He glanced at her tummy, then caught her eyes in a mesmerizing gaze.

Juliet’s grandmother, Abuelita, had taught her to search a person’s expression—especially the eyes—to try and spot the secrets one kept. Of course, with Juliet’s history, she wasn’t very good at character assessment. And for some reason, she suspected she’d be just as lousy at guessing what drove Mark Anderson, what caused him to mellow out at night with alcohol instead of a cup of decaf and a slice of pie.

“Excuse me. I’d better get back to work.” She turned to go, but he caught her by the hand.

Mark wasn’t sure what had compelled him to touch the pretty Latina with sparkling caramel-colored eyes and long black hair she’d swept into a twist. It wasn’t like him to be forward, but he’d been drawn to her since the first day he’d stepped into The Hitchind Post hoping to while away the hours until his story developed.

Sure, there was a little attraction involved, he supposed. She was a beautiful woman, in spite of her condition. And her spunky personality made him sit up and take notice. But it was more than a case of Latin blood and genetics that caught his eye and held his interest.

He loosened his grip on her wrist, letting her go. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to sit down for a while.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said, but slowly took a seat anyway. “It’s almost time for me to go home.”

Mark couldn’t remember any Hispanic families in the area when he’d lived in Thunder Canyon. But that had been twenty years ago.

“Where’s home?” he asked.

She nodded at the ceiling. “I live here. In the apartment upstairs.”

He hadn’t expected her to reveal more than an “I live northeast of town,” or “In that new housing development off White Water Drive.” The women he knew liked to play cat-and-mouse games, never saying what was really on their minds, holding back and not revealing too much.

Was Juliet that young and inexperienced? Or were there a few women in this world who were still honest and open?

Either way, he found her innocence refreshing, to say the least.

He glanced at the ceiling, as she had done, and a grin tugged at his lips. “Did you know that the second floor of The Hitching Post used to be a whorehouse?”

She smiled, a flush coloring her cheeks. “Mrs. Tasker, my boss and landlady, told me that, although she referred to it as a ‘house of ill repute.’ But you’d never know it now. One of the previous owners converted the upstairs into a living area for his family back in the 1950s.”

Mark had heard the second floor was now an apartment. But when he’d lived in Thunder Canyon as a teenager, legends of the saloon and whorehouse held more interest for him and his friends than the renovations had.

“I lucked out,” she told him. “I got a job and a place to live all in one day.”

Lucky for her, maybe. Mark was glad he’d left Thunder Canyon. And just being within city limits made him uneasy and gave him reason to throw back a couple of bourbons before turning in. The booze helped pass the time and keep the memories at bay.

She shot him an unabashed grin. “I love it here.”

“Here?” He scanned the dining room.

“Yes, working at The Hitching Post and living in Thunder Canyon, especially the old part of town. I love the Wild West charm.”

Mark chuckled. “What are you, a history buff?”

“In a way.” She fiddled with the unused napkin in front of her. “My dad and brother used to love those old shoot-’em-up westerns. You know, Bonanza reruns, Gunsmoke. John Wayne movies. And before long, I was hooked, too.”

“Really?”

She leaned forward, her eyes flashing impishly, and grinned. “And when the TV is on the blink, I’m a big fan of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour.”

“No kidding?”

She lifted up her right hand in a Boy Scout fashion. “Honest. But don’t tell.” She smiled again, suggesting that she didn’t really care what people thought of her choice of reading material. Caramel-colored flecks sparkled in her brown eyes. “On my days off, I walk along the wooden sidewalk here in Old Town and study the false-front buildings.” She slid him an enchanting smile. “Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can see a cowboy in a spun woolen shirt, leather vest and dungarees, walking along the dusty western streets.”

“You don’t say. That’s a pretty vivid imagination you’ve got. Do you hear his spurs go jingle jangle jingle?”

“Of course.” The mirth in her voice taunted his cynical nature. “You mean you haven’t ever envisioned a prim lady dressed in calico and wearing a splash of lemon verbena?”

“No. Never.” He leaned back in his chair, extending his legs, as his gaze swept her pretty face. “Not even a pretty señorita with flashing dark eyes.”

Her lips, with only the hint of rose-colored lipstick, quirked as she made a tsk-tsk sound. “That’s too bad. Life must be boring for a man mired in reality.”

That was for sure. What little imagination Mark had was spent deciphering puzzles, weeding out lies and digging for the meat of a story. And although his life was normally far from dull, that wasn’t the case on this assignment.

Covering the gold rush was a waste of his time, and it chapped his hide that his boss had sent him here because he’d once been a local boy. But Mark was a professional. He’d get the damn story written, make Thunder Canyon look remotely interesting, then get the hell out of town. As long as he could stay a step ahead of the memories he’d like to forget, he’d come out on top.

“My life isn’t dull,” he told her. “Not by a long shot. But I’ve got to admit I’m bored in Thunder Canyon.”

She leaned back in her chair. “You’re a stick in the mud.”

“And you’re a romantic.”

Her smile drifted and the light in her eyes faded. “About some things, I suppose.”

His gaze fell to her belly, to the swollen womb where her baby grew, and he realized the conversation had taken a personal turn for her. A heavy turn?

“What’s your husband do?” he asked, curious about the guy and hoping he was supportive and making sure she didn’t do too much in her condition.

“I’m not married. I’ll be raising my child alone.”

God knew he didn’t want to go there. Mark would be in and out of town long before she had the baby. At least that was his game plan.

“Soooo,” he said, trying to get them both back to an impersonal level, at least when it came to the lover in her past. “You fell in love with Thunder Canyon and settled here.”

She nodded.

“Amazing. And I couldn’t get out of town fast enough.” The minute the words slipped out, he wanted to take them back.

There were some things Mark Anderson was hell-bent to forget, some memories he refused to discuss. Some guilt, that if left unchecked, would stealthily creep back in the dark of night, pointing a finger and reminding him how he’d failed his sister, his family.

But he’d be damned if he’d let the reminder haunt his dreams tonight. So he gamely changed the subject. Again. Back to her past. “Where are you from?”

“Originally? San Diego.”

“That’s a long way from Thunder Canyon.”

“The distance was part of the appeal.”

Mark nodded, as though he knew something he couldn’t possibly understand. The reporter in him wanted to question her, to learn why she was running, but this wasn’t another work-related interview. And he didn’t want to encourage self-disclosure when turnabout wasn ‘t fair play.

“My baby’s father didn’t want our child,” she offered without being asked, then shrugged and cast a smile that didn’t convince Mark that the guy’s rejection hadn’t done a number on her. “So I left town with the intent of settling down in the first place that felt like home to me.”

The lover who’d fathered her baby was a fool. But Mark kept the thought to himself. “And you just ended up here?”

“I stopped at a restaurant near Sacramento and chatted with a couple of tourists who’d come from Montana. They told me how quaint and charming Thunder Canyon was, and I decided to visit.”

“And then you decided to stay.” An easy assumption.

“That’s about the size of it.” She scooted her chair back and stood, her belly and the baby stretching between them.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Back to work.”

“Shouldn’t you go upstairs and put your feet up or something?” He didn’t know why he was feeling so protective of her.

God knew he didn’t have any intention of getting involved with any local women, not to mention a pregnant one who was a good ten to fifteen years younger than he was. But that didn’t keep him from feeling sorry for her. After all, the father of her child wasn’t in the picture, and considering her job, money was obviously an issue.

She shouldn’t be working so hard this late in her pregnancy. Something could go wrong.

A momentary flash—lightning quick—thundered in his chest, reverberating in his mind and threatening to shake the memories free from their dark hiding place.

Kelly lying on the floor. The gray pallor of her death mask. The distended belly. The pool of blood.

Mark could tap dance around the truth all night. But he knew where the urge to protect the pretty waitress had come from.

His sister had been about Juliet’s age when she and her unborn son had died.

As Juliet slid the chair she’d been sitting in back to the table, obviously ending their chat and the short break she’d taken, he couldn’t keep quiet. “I hope you’re turning in your apron for the evening.”

“Dr. Hart told me to take it easy. And she suggested I stop work. But that’s not an option right now.”

“You need to take the doctor’s orders more seriously.” No one understood how something could go wrong better than Mark.

“I did take the doctor seriously. I took off two days from work, I’ve cut back my hours a bit and the other waitresses have tried to make my job easier.”

Before Mark could stop her, she made her way to another table, leaving him to ponder the easy banter, the subtle flirtation that went on despite her circumstances.

And the overwhelming urge to take care of a woman he hardly knew.

He took a drink of the bourbon. And then another. He hoped the alcohol would drown the memories Juliet’s pregnancy had invoked. But it didn’t seem likely.

The godawful guilt had reared its head, and it was too late to turn back the clock, to right a wrong he’d never forget.

Chapter Two

As was his custom, at least while in Thunder Canyon, Mark ended each day of interviews by downing a couple of drinks and having dinner at The Hitching Post.

He didn’t feel any better about the value of his work on this story or feel any closer to wrapping it up than he had on his first day back in town. For the most part, all he could come up with was human-interest type stuff.

Public opinion, it seemed, was split when it came to the gold rush and the influx of fortune hunters.

Some townspeople had gotten so excited by the fervor, they’d locked up their homes and drained their bank accounts in order to buy prospecting gear. Others—mostly business owners—were pleased by the increase in revenue the newcomers brought to town.

But then there were the vocal locals, those who hated the publicity and the swarm of strangers who’d turned the quaint little town topsy-turvy. Juliet, with her love of history, probably fell into that group.

Mark scanned the room and found her near the cash register, talking to her boss. Why didn’t Martha Tasker trade jobs and let the pregnant waitress sit on a stool while collecting payments and making change? It wouldn’t hurt the older woman to take orders and serve customers for the time being.

As Juliet walked away, she massaged the small of her back with both hands.

Damn. It grated on Mark to see her working so hard. And hurting.

But hey, he reminded himself. That really wasn’t any of his business. He ought to be relieved that she hadn’t waited on him this evening. That she hadn’t made any effort to stop by his table—in spite of the friendly conversation they’d shared last night.

Yet the fact that she hadn’t come by bothered him, too.

He missed her smile, her wit. Her company.

But then why wouldn’t he? Juliet was about the only person, place or thing in this town he found interesting or appealing.

And she hadn’t looked his way this evening.

Was she avoiding him? Had he been too intrusive last night? Offering his opinion and advice without being asked?

Maybe so, but that was just as well.

Last night, following their chat, he’d gone back to the Wander-On Inn and, when he’d finally dozed off, he’d slept like hell, tossing and turning all night long like a trout trapped in shallow water.

He glanced up from the trace of meat loaf and mashed potatoes on his plate and saw her coming his way.

Well, what do you know? Speak of the pretty devil who’d triggered his insomnia.

When she reached his table, she smiled. “Mary Sue had to go home because of a family emergency. So I’m going to be taking care of you from here on out.”

“You’re the one who should be cutting out early. And someone ought to be taking care of you.”

She arched, grimaced, then rubbed her lower back. “We’ve already talked about that.”

They had. And he hadn’t meant to get her all riled up. After all, it wasn’t his place to harp on her. And even if she appreciated his concern, he wouldn’t be around long enough to nurture a friendship. Besides, he damn sure didn’t need to get involved with a single mother and her child, especially when they lived in a town he’d been avoiding for twenty years.

“I’m sorry, Juliet. I’ll let it go.”

“Thanks.” She offered him an olive-branch smile. “I’m trying to take it easy, Mark. But I’ve got to keep working a little while longer.”

He nodded. She was concerned about finances, which was understandable. Once she gave birth and went back to work, the cost of a babysitter would probably put a crunch on her paycheck.

Maybe he ought to give her some money. Five hundred dollars might make life a bit easier for her. And then he could let it go. Ease off. Let her be.

“Can I get you some dessert?” she asked. “Buck made his blue-ribbon peach cobbler today. And everyone’s been raving about it.”

“Sure. I’ll take some.” Mark placed his napkin on the table and pushed aside his dinner plate. “Will you join me?”

“Maybe for a minute.” She glanced over her shoulder at Martha, who appeared preoccupied with sorting bills in the cash drawer. “I’ve had a nagging backache all afternoon.”

Mark couldn’t hold back a grumble. If he were a violent man, he’d slam a fist on the table in frustration. Was a backache normal for a woman in her condition? Or was it an indication that something was wrong? Something terribly wrong? Something that put her life and that of her baby at risk?

Like Kelly.

Damn the memory that wouldn’t let him alone.

No matter what he’d told himself, no matter what kind of truce he and the waitress had drawn, Mark couldn’t shake his concern. “I’m glad you’re going to take a break, but come on, Juliet. You really need to go home and put your feet up. Think about the baby.”

“I am.” Her eyes locked on his in rebuttal, although they appeared a bit glassy, like they were swimming in emotion and barely staying afloat. “I don’t have a family to fall back on. It’s just the baby and me. And I can’t help worrying about making ends meet, about keeping a roof over our heads once he or she gets here.”

“Yeah, well unless you want that baby to get here too soon, you’d better heed the doctor’s advice and quit work.”

“Tonight, when I clock out, I’ll ask for a couple of days off. Okay?” She lifted a delicate brow, as though cueing him to agree.

He merely blew out a sigh, giving in—so it appeared. He didn’t usually offer unsolicited advice. It wasn’t normally his style. But then again, he wasn’t reminded of Kelly that often. Of her unnecessary death.

Juliet seemed to accept his silence as acquiescence, which it was. But her weary smile didn’t take the edge off the exhaustion in her expression. Nor did it erase the dark circles he hadn’t noticed under her eyes last night.

“I’ll have two peach cobblers,” he said. “And a glass of milk.”

“I’d think the milk might curdle in your stomach with the bourbon you drank earlier.”

“The milk is for you.”

She nodded, then went after the dessert. When she returned, she took a seat. “How’s your story coming along?”

“What story? This assignment is a joke.” And it was, compared to the bigger stories he’d covered in the past. Important events that made him feel as though he’d reached the professional level he’d strived for, that level where one man—a reporter—could make a difference in people’s lives.

“You think the gold rush is a joke?” she asked.

“Writing a story about a bunch of loony-tune prospectors who’ve flocked to a possible gold rush in Thunder Canyon can’t even come close to a story about a major flood or fire.” He dug into the cobbler and scooped out a gooey bite. Hmmm. Not bad.

When he glanced up, he caught Juliet’s eye, her rapt attention.

“You’d rather write about disasters?” she asked. “Why such depressing news?”

“It touches hearts, confronts our deepest fears. Stirs up emotion.”

“We had a fight in here last Saturday night. There was plenty of emotion stirring then.” Her lips quirked into a grin, and he realized she was teasing him, trying to chip away at the cynical armor it had taken him years to build.

“A fight, huh? I’m sorry I missed the entertainment. But not to worry. I can go down to the E.R. at Thunder Canyon General and watch them stitch up the scalp of some idiot who tripped over a pickax and split his head open.”

“So this is small tomatoes for you.”

“Small potatoes,” he corrected, unwilling to reveal his disappointment, his frustration. His desire to make a difference, to help people—victims of disasters. And to better prepare people who hadn’t been stricken by major calamities yet. He shrugged. “I’ll get the job done.”

“You know,” she said, licking a dollop of peach cobbler from her fork. “There have been some gold nuggets found. So one of the prospectors could strike it rich.”

“Maybe. But I think the biggest story I’ve got is the hullabaloo about the ownership of the old mine.”

“I thought Caleb Douglas owned it. That his great-grandfather won it in a poker game with the Shady Lady.”

“That’s the legend that’s been circulating for years. People have just assumed that Caleb was the owner. But he hasn’t produced the deed.”

She furrowed her brow. “What about the county records?”

“They’re not available right now. Harvey Watson, the clerk who’s been transcribing all the old records into the new computer system, is on vacation.” Mark slowly shook his head. “Can you believe, in this day and age, that Thunder Canyon would be so far behind the times?”

“Like I told you before, I think this historical old town is quaint.”

He leaned back in his chair, watched the innocence dance in her eyes and smiled. “You must have some Amish in your genes.”

“Sorry, no Amish. Just a little Basque, a drop or two of French. But mostly, a healthy blend of proud Mexican and Old World Spanish.” She smiled and gave a little wink. “Maybe I was born in the wrong century.”

She was definitely unique. A novelty. And as far as he was concerned, her bloodlines were damn near perfect.

“So, who do you think owns the Queen of Hearts mine?” she asked. “You ought to have an idea. After all, you’re a local boy.”

Not that local. Mark hadn’t moved to Thunder Canyon until he was thirteen. And he was long gone five years later. “I think Caleb Douglas owns the property, and it’s just a matter of a misplaced deed and some backward record keeping in a land office. Anyway, that’s my guess.”

She took a sip of milk, and he watched the path of her swallow. She had a pretty neck. Regal and aristocratic. The kind of throat and neck a man liked to nuzzle.

When she lowered the glass, she wore a spot of white at the edge of her mouth. Unable to help himself, he reached out and snagged it with his thumb.

Her lips parted, and something—he sure as hell didn’t know what—passed between them. An awareness. An intimacy. Something he hadn’t bargained for.

“I…umm…I’m sorry. You had a little milk…” He pointed to her cheek.

Juliet swiped her fingers across her mouth, trying to remove any trace of milk that still lingered. Or maybe she was trying to prolong the stimulating warmth of Mark’s touch. The flutter of heat his thumb had provoked.

For goodness’ sake. She was acting like a schoolgirl with a crush on the substitute teacher, a handsome young man fresh out of college and thrown into a classroom of adolescents. Or on a guy who was way out of her league. And that was crazy.

With the healthy sense of pride Papa and Abuelita had instilled in her, there weren’t too many people—or men—Juliet would consider above her reach.

Of course, being nearly eight months pregnant certainly left her out of the running when it came to romance.

She glanced across the room, eager to break eye contact, or whatever was buzzing between her and Mark, and spotted Mrs. Tasker sitting in the swivel seat at the register. The older woman wore a frown that made the wrinkles around her eyes more pronounced.

Were her ingrown nails giving her trouble again tonight? Or did she think Juliet had a crush on the handsome older man, that she was trying to strike up a relationship with a customer?

Maybe she was thinking Juliet ought to get back to work.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Mark said. “Tell Attila the Hun to back off and let you have a decent break.”

He was right—not about Mrs. Tasker being a barbarian, but about Juliet needing to quit for today. This darn backache was getting to her. “I’ll take the rest of the night off, all right?”

“That’s better yet.” He caught her fingers in a gentle squeeze before releasing them. But the brief connection remained, humming between them as though he hadn’t let go.

She shook it off, blaming her hormones and the loneliness that seemed to haunt her at times, ever since her brother’s accident.

It had been two years, although time had eased the pain and dulled the shock, as Father Tomas had told her it would. But time hadn’t done a darn thing to ease the loneliness or to change the fact she didn’t have a family anymore.

She brushed a hand along the contour of her tummy, caressed the knot that sprung up on the left side. A little foot? A knee? A fist?

As she stood, the muscles of her back gripped hard, causing her to bend and grab the table for support.

“What’s the matter?” Mark jumped to his feet.

“I’m not sure.”

For a woman with bad feet, Mrs. Tasker was by her side in an instant. “Are you in labor?”

Juliet froze as the possibility momentarily hovered over her like the calm before the storm. “No, I don’t think so.” At least, she hoped not. It was still too early.

As the ache in her back continued, she closed her eyes. Dios, por favor. Don’t let it happen now. It’s too soon.

“Are you having a contraction?” Mrs. Tasker asked, glancing at her wristwatch, as though she meant to start timing the pains.

“It’s just a backache,” Juliet said, willing it to be true.

The older woman crossed her arms in an all-knowing fashion. “That’s how my labor started with Jimmy. All in my back.”

Juliet lifted her gaze, looked at Mark, expecting him to blurt out a gripe, a complaint, an I-told-you-so. But the only sign of his response was a tense jaw, a pale face.

“No need for us to take any chances,” Mrs. Tasker said. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“Don’t bother.” Mark reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet, withdrew a twenty-dollar bill and dropped it on the table. “I’ll take her to the hospital.”

Juliet began to object, to tell him to finish his dessert. But he slipped an arm around her and led her to the front door.

Mark followed White Water Drive to Thunder Canyon General, then veered toward the separate emergency entrance. He stopped under the covered portico, close to the automatic glass doors, and threw the car into park. “Wait here.”

Leaving Juliet in the idling car, he dashed inside past a security guard, his heart pounding as though he had a personal stake in this—and he sure as hell didn’t.

But Mark knew firsthand how things could go wrong during labor. And he wasn’t going to leave Juliet, who didn’t have anyone to depend on, to fend for herself. Neither was he going to let her ignore any symptoms that might be serious.

He spotted a nurse behind the reception desk. “I need help. Now. I’ve got a woman in my car who may be in premature labor.”

The nurse grabbed a wheelchair and followed him outside. But rather than take Juliet right to a room, she stopped at the reception desk.

“Can’t this wait?” Mark asked, growing more agitated by the second. He wanted to hand over Juliet to a qualified professional, then get the heck out of here.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse responded. “This will only take a minute.”

She was wrong. But while the customary paperwork was filled out, Mark managed to not pitch a fit about the amount of time it took.

Finally, Juliet was given a temporary bed in the E.R. Her only privacy was a blue-and-white striped curtain that didn’t reach the floor.

Before long, she’d had her temperature and blood pressure taken—all within normal range.

Mark really ought to loosen up. Normal was a good thing, right?

“Did you notify your physician that you were coming in?” the nurse asked Juliet.

“I didn’t have time to think about it.” Juliet glanced at Mark and blew out a sigh. “Can you tell Dr. Emerson that I’m here?”

The nurse, a matronly blonde, placed a hand on Juliet’s shoulder. “Dr. Emerson had a heart attack last night and is in ICU.”

Juliet gasped.

“But don’t you worry,” the nurse said. “We have a top-notch resident obstetrician who will take good care of you.”

“Dr. Hart?” Juliet asked.

The nurse smiled. “That’s right.”

“I saw her on Sunday afternoon. I’d had a fainting spell. And you’re right. I felt very comfortable with her.”

“Good,” the nurse said. “I’ll give Dr. Hart a call and see whether she’d like us to examine you down here or send you to maternity on the second floor.”

Juliet uttered an okay. She might be comfortable with the resident obstetrician, but Mark could see the worry in her eyes. The anxiety in her face.

“In the meantime,” the nurse said, pointing to a chair beside the bed. “Why don’t you have a seat, Dad?”

Dad? She had that all wrong. But before Mark could explain, Juliet did it for him. “This is my friend, Mark Anderson. He’s not the baby’s father.”

The nurse smiled. “It’s nice for a woman to have someone she trusts be her birth coach.”

Birth coach? Whoa. Not Mark. He’d just brought Juliet here to make sure she saw a doctor, that she was someplace safe. Maybe he could stick around and hold her hand for a while. But if things got hairy, if she was really in labor, he’d wait in the cafeteria until she gave birth. Heck, he might even hang around long enough to look at the baby behind a glass window and tell her the kid was cute—even though he’d seen a couple of newborns and thought they looked more like aliens than humans.

Then, after that, he’d be on his way.

When the nurse stepped out, Mark took a seat, but he couldn’t seem to relax. What was taking so long? He glanced at his watch. The minute hands seemed to be moving slower than usual.

A while later—he didn’t know how long—another nurse arrived. A friendly, thirty-something woman with short, dark-hair and wearing a pink smock dotted with teddy bears. “Ms. Rivera? I’m Beth Ann. Dr. Hart has asked me to take you to maternity.”

The nurse fiddled with the bed, making it mobile, then began to push Juliet out of the E.R. and into the hall. She slowed her steps just long enough to glance at Mark. “You can follow us.”

He opened his mouth to object, to say he’d be having coffee in the cafeteria, but for some reason, he fell into step behind the rolling bed.

They took an elevator to the second floor, then the nurse wheeled Juliet toward the maternity ward, where she paused before the ominous double doors.

Mark’s steps slowed, too. But not because he was tagging along behind them.

What the hell was he doing? Juliet was in good hands. Competent hands. He didn’t need to go in there. They didn’t need him. Besides, he’d done his duty. His good deed for the day.

But when Juliet turned her head and looked at him, those misty, mahogany eyes locking on his, he saw the fear, the nervousness. The need.

He offered her a wimpy smile, and when she turned her head away, he ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t have any business going in there with her. He wasn’t the baby’s father. Or her husband.

But Juliet didn’t have a mother or a sister. She was new in town. And he doubted she’d made any friends, not with her schedule. Hell, none of her co-workers had jumped in to help.

Right now, she only had him.

The nurse pressed at the button that automatically swung open the doors, then pushed Juliet through.

Mark followed behind, like a clueless steer on its way to a slaughterhouse.

They plodded along the hall, his Italian loafers clicking on the spanking clean floor, the nurse’s rubber soles making a dull squeak with each step. They passed several open doorways Mark was afraid to peek into and continued along a glass-enclosed room that held incubators for the tiniest and sickest of patients. All of the little beds were empty, thank God.

Would Juliet’s baby be placed in one of them?

The possibility jolted his heart, jump-starting his pulse.

Oh, for cripes sake. Mark wasn’t a worrier. Not by nature. It was just the pregnancy, the vulnerability of both woman and child.

And his own fears brought back to life.

He swore under his breath. Juliet was just having a backache, right? From working too hard and carrying the extra weight of a baby. She hadn’t been especially worried until Martha Tasker popped up like a jack-in-the-box, with the tale of her own labor, stirring things up. Making something out of nothing.

Mark followed the bed into a room that looked more like a bedroom than a private hospital room. Pale green curtains graced the window that looked out into a frozen courtyard that was probably colorful and vibrant during the summer.

Decorated in pink, green and a touch of lavender, the color scheme and homey touch of the room probably helped ease the nerves of laboring expectant mothers. But it didn’t do a damn thing to ease Mark’s anxiety, not when he spotted medical gaskets and gizmos that reminded him of where they were, what they faced.

“Here’s a gown,” Beth Ann said. “As soon as you slip it on, I’ll examine you.”

An examination? Oh, cripes. Not an internal exam.

The nurse asked Juliet, “Would you like him to stay in here?”

Oh, hell no. Not on a bet. Mark cleared his throat, then started backing toward the door. “Why don’t I step out of the room for a little while. You can come and get me when it’s all over.”

When it was all over. Not just the exam.

The nurse nodded as she reached for a box of rubber gloves.

Mark couldn’t get out of the birthing room fast enough. If he ever had a kid of his own, he wouldn’t be hanging around and watching that kind of a procedure. No way.

He ran a finger under the collar of his shirt, then scanned the hospital corridor, where a floral wallpaper border softened the sterile white walls.

If there’d been anyone else who could be here for Juliet, he’d be out of here faster than a sopping-wet dog could shake its fur.

But she didn’t have anyone.

And that’s why he stayed.

Moments later, the nurse poked her head out the door. “You can come in now.”

He nodded, then stepped inside. But before he reached Juliet’s bed, an attractive woman dressed in medical garb approached and introduced herself as Dr. Hart.

“I think she’s in the early stages of labor,” the nurse told the obstetrician. “And she’s about two centimeters dilated.”

Dr. Hart nodded, then approached Juliet. “I’d feel better about delivering your baby a couple weeks from now. So I’d like to give you something to stop labor and another medication that will help the baby’s lungs develop quicker, in case your labor doesn’t respond to treatment.”

When the doctor and nurse left them alone, Juliet shot Mark a wobbly grin. “You don’t have to stick around. I’ll be okay.”

Hey, there was his out. His excuse to leave. But he couldn’t take it, couldn’t walk away knowing she was all alone. “What if you need a ride home?”

“I can take a cab.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Then he sat back in his chair, unsure of what the night would bring.

And hoping to hell he could step up to the plate.

This time.

Chapter Three

Juliet stretched out in the hospital bed, wishing she could go back to sleep. The medication Dr. Hart had given her last night seemed to have worked. The backache had eased completely within the first hour of her arrival.

But that didn’t mean she’d rested well. And neither had Mark, who’d stayed by her side the entire night.

More than once she’d told him he could go back to the inn, but he’d refused. And she had to admit, she was glad he hadn’t left her alone.

She suspected hanging out with a pregnant woman at the hospital hadn’t been easy for him. A couple of times, he’d gotten a squeamish I’d-rather-be-any-where-but-here look on his face. But he’d persevered like a real trooper.

Now he dozed on a pale green recliner near the window, hands folded over the flat plain of his stomach, eyes closed, dark hair spiked and mussed. He lay there for a while, unaware of her interest. And then he stirred.

She watched him arch his back, twist, extend his arms, then cover a yawn with his fist. When his eyes opened, he caught her gaze. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

“Tired, but the backache is gone.”

“That’s good news.” He gripped the armrests, manipulating the chair to an upright position, and stood like a knight in rumpled armor.

And that’s how she thought of him. Real hero material—in the rough.

With a wrinkled cotton dress shirt and tousled hair, the cynical reporter might not make another woman sit up and take notice this morning. But another woman hadn’t appreciated him pinch-hitting for the men she no longer had in her life.

Her brother Manny had been a macho guy, tough and gruff on the outside. But he’d also been a softy in the middle—at least, when it came to his little sister. And Mark appeared to be cut from the same bolt of cloth—a comparison made without any effort on her part.

There were men, as Juliet had learned the hard way, who wouldn’t stand by a pregnant woman.

Her baby’s father was one of them.

For a moment, as Juliet watched a sturdy, broadshouldered Mark walk toward the window, she pretended that she had someone in her corner. Someone who cared enough to stick by her.

And, at least for the past twelve hours, that had been true. Mark had been there for her when she needed a friend. And that was something she’d remember long after he’d taken another assignment and left Thunder Canyon.

She watched as he drew the floral curtains aside, allowing her to peer into the dawn-lit hospital courtyard. She wondered what the grounds looked like in the summer, when the patches of snow had all melted and the rose garden bloomed.

The door to the birthing room cracked open, and they both turned as Dr. Hart entered. The slender woman with light brown, shoulder-length hair approached the bed. As in the past, she exuded professionalism and concern. Yet last night Juliet had noticed something different about her. A happy glow that lingered this morning.

“Good morning,” the doctor said. “Did you have a restful night?”

“I didn’t sleep too well,” Juliet admitted, “but I’m feeling all right. No apparent labor.”

“Let’s make sure there hasn’t been any silent dilation going on,” the doctor said, as she headed for the sink.

As before, Mark left the room to give her privacy.

After washing her hands, Dr. Hart donned a pair of gloves and nodded toward the closed door. “That’s some friend you have.”

“It looks that way.” Juliet closed her eyes during the exam, whispering a prayer that all was well. That she hadn’t dilated any more, that her baby was safe in her womb for the time being.

“Good,” Dr. Hart said, removing the gloves and tossing them in the trash. “Nothing’s changed since last night.”

Juliet blew out the breath she’d been holding, as Dr. Hart opened the door to call Mark back into the room.

“I think we’re home free,” the obstetrician told him. “This time.”

“Thank goodness.” Mark blew out a little whistle and slid Juliet a smile, providing a sense of camaraderie. Teamwork. Something she hadn’t experienced since her brother’s accident.

The doctor made a note in the chart, then glanced at Juliet. “If you promise to stay off your feet, I’ll let you go home.”

“That’s great.” Juliet knew she’d feel better in the privacy of her own little apartment, close to her photographs and memories. “Thank you.”

“But I’m talking extreme bed rest,” the doctor stressed.

Mark cleared his throat. “Juliet doesn’t have anyone to look after her, so maybe she ought to stay here.”

For several weeks? Was he crazy? “That’s ridiculous, Mark. I’ll rest better and be happier at home.”

Dr. Hart glanced up from the chart. “I’m not sure how your insurance carrier will feel about you staying here for more than a day or so. Do you have someone who can stay with you?”

“No, I live alone. But I promise to take it easy.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mark made his way to Juliet’s bedside. He’d seen the way she’d been “taking it easy” at The Hitching Post. “Doctor, you can’t trust her not to get up and do the dishes or scrub floors or clean out closets or something like that.”

“Then maybe we’d better keep you here.” Dr. Hart, attractive even in green hospital scrubs, leaned her hip against the bed and crossed her arms.

Disappointment swept over Juliet’s face, and Mark felt like a real spoilsport. But she didn’t have anyone to look after her. He doubted Mrs. Tasker, who liked to park her butt by the cash register, would volunteer to help.

Juliet looked at him and frowned, tossing a guilt trip on him.

Mark supposed he could check on her. After all he was staying across the street.

“I can look after her.” The comment popped out before Mark could think about the ramifications. And when Juliet and the doctor faced him, he realized backpedaling would be next to impossible now. He was committed. And he’d taken a stand. But that didn’t mean his gut wasn’t twisting.

Juliet shot him a wide-eyed stare. “You can’t be serious about staying with me.”

“Why not?” The question couldn’t have surprised her any more than it had him. Hell, Mark had not only volunteered to babysit a woman who was on the verge of going into labor, but now he was trying to convince her—and maybe even himself—that it was a good idea.

“You can’t waste your time taking care of me.” Juliet pressed the control button that raised her up in bed. “You’ve got work to do.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have anything pressing to do.”

“That’s not true,” she countered. “You’ve got a news article to write.”

“The story, as I’ve told you before, is a joke. And the article can practically write itself.”

“So, what’s the verdict,” Dr. Hart asked. “Do I sign these release papers or not?”

Mark crossed his arms. “Sign them.”

“All right,” the doctor said. “I’ll have the paperwork processed. Then I’ll send an orderly to take you out in a wheelchair.”

When Dr. Hart left the room, Mark ran a hand through his hair. Juliet’s back might feel much better this morning, but his hurt like hell.

What he really needed to do was get out of here, shower and maybe take a nap.

He glanced at Juliet and saw reluctance in her expression. Resentment, too? He wasn’t sure. But she’d been overruled, and he had a feeling it didn’t sit well.

Strangely, for a guy who liked to come out on top himself, he wasn’t feeling too happy about winning this argument.

And he hoped to hell he hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew.

Thirty minutes later, Mark brought his rental car to the curb at the main entrance of the hospital. Then he helped Juliet into the passenger seat.

He was taking her home. And that fact brought on a flurry of other concerns, things he hadn’t considered when he’d volunteered to look after her.

There was no way around it. He would have to put in a significant amount of time with her. He’d told the doctor he’d take care of her, not pop in and out several times a day.

What if something went wrong in the middle of the night?

He’d have to stay there until she was no longer at risk for premature labor.

But how big was her place?

Where would he sleep?

On the sofa, he supposed.

The crick in his back, the one he’d woken up with, ached all the more, just thinking about being camped on her sofa for the next week or so. Damn. He was going to have to see a chiropractor when this stint in Thunder Canyon was over.

As they drove past the newly constructed Ranch View Estates, Juliet peered out the window, studying the pine tree-lined entrance, the bright, colorful flags and a sign announcing that Phase I was now available.

“That’s a nice housing development,” she said. “One afternoon, on my day off, I looked at the models.”

Mark nodded, but didn’t comment. He didn’t have any inclination to set down roots, to purchase a home and landscape a yard. Especially not in Thunder Canyon.

At thirty-eight, he’d yet to buy a place of his own. And why should he? He was always off on assignment, living in hotels that the news service paid for.

He turned left onto Main and followed it until they neared The Hitching Post.

“Can you drive around to the rear entrance?” Juliet asked. “I don’t feel like going through the dining room looking like this.”

“Sure.” He didn’t think she looked bad at all, not after what she’d been through. But he didn’t argue. He swung around to the back, where a black Chevy S-10 pickup with a vinyl cover on the bed was parked next to a trash bin.

Mark nodded toward the custom truck with a lowered chassis. “Whose is that?”

“It’s mine.”

“You drive a pickup?” He chuckled. The lady was full of surprises. “Somehow, I figured you would drive a racy red sports car or a flashy white convertible.”

“Hey, that little truck is special to me. It was my brother’s pride and joy.”

Was?

She’d told him the baby was her only family.

Unable to quell his curiosity, he asked, “What happened to him?”

“He died about eighteen months ago, and since he’d listed me on the title, I inherited his truck.”

“I’m sorry,” Mark said, the words feeling inadequate but necessary.

“I’m sorry, too.”

A heavy silence filled the interior of the car, and Mark wanted it to end, wanted to lighten the mood. To make her feel better. But it was hard to know what to say to someone who’d lost a loved one. He knew how impotent sympathetic words could be. No one had been able to ease his grief after his sister died. Not when her death had been his fault.

His parents had never forgiven him for what had happened that stormy evening. But he supposed that was to be expected. He’d never forgiven himself, either.

“It’s tough not having a family,” Juliet said, breaking the stifling stillness that had nearly choked the air out of the sedan. “But I focus on the memories we had. It’s what Father Tomas, our parish priest, advised me to do. And it helps.”

Mark was glad she had memories to rely on. He didn’t. At least not the kind that made him feel better. In a way, he’d lost his entire family, too, even though his parents were still alive and kicking.

When his mom had learned he was in town, she’d called him at the Wander-On Inn. She’d sounded hurt that he hadn’t chosen to stay at the motel she and his dad had owned and operated for the past twenty-five years.

Mark had told her it was because the company had prepaid his room without knowing his family could provide him free lodging. But to be honest, Mark had been very specific with the company’s travel agent when they’d talked about where he wanted to stay—anywhere but The Big Sky Motel at the edge of town.

After parking beside Juliet’s pickup, he spotted the stairway that led to the second floor.

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that The Hitching Post didn’t have an elevator, not when the county land office was just beginning to convert their records to a computer system. He bit back a swear word, but couldn’t stop the grumble that slipped out.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I’m going to have to get you upstairs.”

She opened her mouth, as if to object, then closed it again. Apparently, the recent bout of premature labor had made her realize how vulnerable she was.

He slid out of the driver’s seat, circled the car and opened her door, intent upon carrying her.

She put her hand up to stop him. “Maybe if I take the steps really slow—”

He shook his head. “No way. Climbing stairs isn’t a good idea. It’s too strenuous.”

“I can’t let you carry me.” She glanced down at her belly and frowned. “I’m too heavy.”

She might be pregnant, but she was a petite woman. Small boned.

“Don’t be silly. You’re a lightweight.”

“Open your eyes, Mark.” She stroked her stomach.

Heck. Women could be so testy about their weight—even when they weren’t pregnant. As he opened his mouth to argue, he caught a glimpse of skepticism in her frown.

Hey, wait a minute. Was she doubting his ability to carry her?

His male pride bristled. “Listen, sweetheart. I’m probably ten to fifteen years older than you, but that doesn’t make me over the hill yet.”

She balked momentarily, as though contemplating a fight, but she slipped an arm through the shoulder strap of her purse, swung her legs over the side of the seat, draped a hand around his neck and let him scoop her up.

She was heavier than he’d expected, but she was all belly. How big was the kid?

As he lifted her from the rented sedan, he choked back any sound she might consider a winded effort. But once he’d straightened and kicked the passenger door shut, it wasn’t so bad. In fact, he kind of liked holding her in his arms and feeling like some kind of kick-ass hero.

Her arm looped around his neck. Holding on. Holding him.

He carried her up the steps, nails in the wood creaking under their combined weight. Damn, he hoped that whoever had built this stairway had made it sturdy. And that it hadn’t been the original staircase. No telling what more than a hundred years of wear and tear had done to the structure.

“Mark, wait. I’m really uneasy. That can’t be good for the baby, either.”

She was right. He let her down, then helped her walk the rest of the way. Slowly. Carefully. Step by step.

When they reached the top landing, she dug through her purse for the key, but instead of unlocking the door, she turned to him instead. Her belly brushed against him, tempting him to touch it. To see what it felt like. But he refrained.

Her eyes sparked with sincerity. “I can stay alone. Really. Maybe, if I give you a key, you can stop in and check on me several times a day.”

The idea had merit. But Mark had promised the doctor he’d look after her. And that’s what he intended to do. “If it’s okay, I can stay with you. Besides, I’m stuck in town anyway—at least until the county clerk returns and I can have a look at those old recorded deeds.”

Her eyes widened and her lips parted. “Are you going to move into my place?”

No. He couldn’t do that. Ever since his wife had left him and filed for divorce—way back when—Mark had learned to protect himself, his freedom. His secrets.

Even when he was seriously dating someone, he’d maintained a distance. He didn’t like the idea of having his toothbrush and razor claim space on someone else’s bathroom counter or on a shelf inside a medicine cabinet. Unless, of course, it was in a hotel room on a lover’s getaway weekend.

But this was different.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to check out of the inn completely. It wasn’t a matter of saving money. It was saving his space. His privacy. His ability to slip away before things got complicated.

“No, I’m keeping the room at the inn.” As an explanation, he added, “With all the fortune hunters who’ve clamored into town, rooms are limited. And if I give up my place across the street, I might not be able to find another one.”

And that was true. Mark sure as hell wouldn’t ask his folks if he could stay with them. Not at the small mountaintop home they owned. Not even on a couch in the office of The Big Sky Motel.

“If you’ll be okay for a while,” he said, “I’ll go across the street and bring over a few personal items. A change of clothes.”

She flashed him a battle-weary but confident smile. “I’ll be fine. Remember, I’m the one who wanted to stay alone.”

He nodded, waiting as she turned her back and slipped the key in the lock. After she opened the door, he followed her inside.

The scent of cleaning products mingled with a hint of paint, as he entered a living room that didn’t have any walls separating it from the kitchen or dining area. He glanced around, eyes adjusting to the darkened interior.

She flipped on a switch, turning on a goofy wagon wheel chandelier that lit the room, revealing a brown tweed sofa, a black recliner and a maple coffee table.

A trace of old cigarette smoke that a good scrubbing and a paint job hadn’t been able to hide lingered in the gold drapes and the green shag carpet.

“Why don’t you lie down,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

As he turned to go, she grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, those rich mahogany eyes snaring his, setting his nerves on edge, making his heart rumble in his chest.

“Thanks…for…you know…” She gave a little shrug. “For everything.”

“No problem.” But as he stepped into the crisp, cool morning air, he wasn’t so sure he’d done anything commendable.

Juliet wasn’t in a hospital—where she belonged.

And Mark, who had volunteered to be her private duty nurse, didn’t know squat about pregnant women, childbirth or babies.

What in the hell had he set himself up for?

Juliet stretched out on the sofa, her head propped up on two pillows. As she thumbed through a Parents magazine, a knock sounded at the door.

She glanced up from an article on breast-feeding that had caught her eye. “Mark?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“The door is unlocked. Come on in.” She fingered the fringed lapel of her blue robe, hoping he wouldn’t give her a hard time because she’d taken a shower and shampooed her hair. But she’d been careful and had taken it slow and easy.

Mark, who looked shower-fresh himself, strode into the room with a newspaper tucked under his arm and carrying a gray duffel bag in his hand. His gaze zoomed in on her, and he frowned. “Why is your hair wet?”

“I took a quick shower. No strain, no stress.”

“I don’t think that’s what the doctor meant by extreme bed rest.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll rest easier if I’m clean.”

He scanned the interior of her apartment, as though noting the Early-American-Garage-Sale decor, the mismatched furniture, the decoupage wall plaques that served as artwork.

So the apartment was a little drab. She was happy here. She lifted her chin, prepared to defend her home from a remark that didn’t come.

He nodded toward the wagon wheel chandelier that hung over the dinette table. “Those are low-watt bulbs. Do you mind if we have some more light in here?”

“No, go ahead.”

She expected him to turn on another lamp, but he strode toward the window and paused in front of the ugly gold drapes.

The droopy, rundown condition wasn’t her fault. And there wasn’t anything she could do about it. The rod was missing some of those little plastic thingies the metal hooks poked into.

But, hey. As long as she had privacy, she could live with them. After all, she’d lived with worse and been happy. When love and laughter filled the interior of a home, nothing else mattered.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You need to ask your landlord to replace the curtains.”

“I’m not going to push for anything like that right now. Not when Mrs. Tasker is going to be shorthanded in the diner and might have to replace me.”

He started to say something, but turned toward the curtain rod. He fiddled with the cord until he opened the drapes a couple of feet.

“I rented this place furnished,” she told him. “So I can’t be too fussy.”

Again, he withheld a comment, although she wished he hadn’t. She was prepared to argue. There was no need for him to feel sorry for her. She was glad to be in Thunder Canyon. Glad to have a job and a home for her baby. There was a lot to be said for counting one’s blessings.

She reached for the soft green covijita that draped over the back of the old sofa and pulled it close, brushing it against her cheek. Her abuelita had crocheted the small blanket, and Juliet cherished it.

“How many bedrooms do you have?” Mark glanced at the two doors along the east wall.

“Just one. The bathroom is on the left. The other door is the bedroom. Go ahead and put your bag in there. I’ll take the sofa.”

“No way.” He crossed his arms, standing sentry-straight, brow furrowed as though she’d suggested they run naked in a snowstorm.

“Shall we compromise?” She figured they could share turns.

“Sure. You take the sofa by day, and I’ll take it by night.”

She could argue, but what was the use? Mark was only looking out for her best interests. Besides, there would probably be plenty of times in upcoming days when they’d disagree. It was best if she chose her battles with this man.

Mark moved toward the bookcase where Juliet displayed her family photos instead of books. Her father had built it years ago. As far as quality, the wood was rustic and slightly flawed, but the piece of furniture was priceless.

He lifted a silver framed photograph of Abuelita holding Papa when he was a toddler.

“Did these pictures come with the place?” he asked.

“No. That’s my father when he was just a little boy. And that’s his mother. My abuelita.”

He replaced it and chose the one of Manny in his baseball uniform.

“That’s my brother, Manuel. He loved sports.”

Mark studied the photo for a while. “What kind of accident did he have?”

“It happened at the warehouse where he worked. A freak industrial accident, they told me. Involving a forklift.” She laid the magazine across her lap and tried to focus on something more pleasant. Something that didn’t remind her of her brother’s death, the lawsuit. Something that didn’t trigger thoughts of Erik Kramer, the attorney who’d volunteered to handle her interests in the workman’s compensation case. The jerk.

Mark replaced the silver frame, then turned away from the shelves. “I’m sorry your family isn’t around for you now.”

She shrugged and mustered a smile. “I have a lot of happy memories. Of the good times. And the unconditional love.” She ran a hand along the contour of her tummy, caressing her child. “And I have a new baby to look forward to. Life goes on.”

He merely studied her, looking skeptical. Hopeful. Concerned. A hodgepodge of emotion she found hard to decipher played havoc with his expression. But it didn’t do a thing to lessen the attraction that continued to build—in spite of her circumstances.

Dios mio, the man was handsome. Or maybe she found him more appealing, now that she’d gotten to know him better.

It felt weird to have him here. But at the same time, it was kind of nice. And she found it hard not to stare.

He slipped off his black leather jacket, hung it over the back of the recliner and sauntered toward the sofa. He’d dressed casually today, sporting a pair of worn jeans and a long-sleeved chambray shirt.

As he drew close, she caught a whiff of mountain-fresh cologne, menthol shaving cream and peppermint toothpaste. It was a taunting scent. Mesmerizing in a way. Her gaze locked on his, her pulse kicking up a notch. Did he know? Could he sense her inappropriate interest?

He cleared his throat. “It’s nearly nine o’clock, so we’d better think about breakfast.”

The husky sound of his voice, more graveled than usual, made her wonder if he’d ever been a smoker. If so, he’d given up the habit.

“You’ve got to be hungry,” he added.

She was. But she hadn’t realized it until now.

“Can I get you anything?”

“I’ll have a glass of milk. For the baby.”

He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk. Then he rummaged through the cupboards, looking for a glass. She could have helped him out, she supposed, telling him where to look, but she watched him instead, her interest and curiosity piqued. There was something about a man in the kitchen. Especially that man.

There was so much she didn’t know about Mark, other than he was a reporter who’d once been a local boy.

“Do you still have family around here?” she asked.

His movements slowed. “Yeah. My parents.”

That was nice. “Do you see them often?”

“No.” He filled the glass until the milk frothed at the top. “My folks and I had a falling out years ago.”

“That’s too bad.”

He shrugged. “We were never that close anyway.”

“Have you tried a reconciliation?” She knew the value of a family, the value of turning the other cheek. Of appreciating each individual personality, in spite of the differences. And the value of appreciating what you had, while you still had it.

“We talk, if that’s what you mean. But we aren’t very close. And I like it that way.” He brought her the milk. “Do you have anything I can use to make breakfast?”

He was going to cook? By himself?

Her father and brother couldn’t have fixed themselves a meal—maybe because Abuelita had claimed the kitchen as her territory. And even after she passed away, they hadn’t stepped foot near the stove. So, at the age of ten, Juliet had taken over. And eventually she became a pretty decent cook.

“I have eggs and bacon in the fridge,” she told him. “Orange juice, too. And the coffee is in the small canister on the counter.”

“Okay. I’ll fix something for us to eat. You just rest.”

Actually, she thought watching Sir Rumpled Knight in the kitchen might prove to be entertaining.

And touching.

If she let herself dream, she could imagine falling for a guy like Mark. But Juliet knew better than to let any romantic, fairy-tale notions take root. Her heart had already borne more than its share of grief, and there was no need to set herself up for a fall that was easy to foresee.

Besides, Juliet came from sturdy stock. She was a survivor. And she didn’t need to be rescued, didn’t need anyone to look after her once the baby got here.

Especially not a globe-trotting reporter who’d made it clear that he was just passing through.

She returned her attention to the magazine she’d been reading, to the article on breast-feeding dos and don’ts.

And she remained focused on the words—until she caught a whiff of burning bacon and heard the squeal of the smoke alarm, as it ripped through the room.

Chapter Four

“Dammit!” Mark shut off the flame under the frying pan and turned on a fan that didn’t work.

A giggle erupted from Juliet, who sat on the sofa, but he ignored it as he hurried to place the smoking skillet in the sink, dump out the grease and burnt bacon and turn on the faucet. The water hit the hot pan, roaring and sputtering like someone had entered the gates of hell.

As the smoke alarm continued to blast, he looked up at the archaic safety device that didn’t have an on or off switch, then swore under his breath as he hurried to open the window, to let fresh air into the room, to allow the smoke to dissipate. All the while, the alarm continued to shriek like a drunken banshee.

By this time, Juliet’s giggle turned into a laugh, triggering a rush of embarrassment. Frustration. And anger at himself for getting distracted.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

Grabbing a dish towel from the countertop, he began fanning the smoke away from the kitchen, hoping it would clear the air and make the stupid alarm shut up. When that didn’t seem to work, he reached up, jerked open the plastic contraption and removed the batteries.

Silence.

Except for Juliet’s laughter.

When he glanced over his shoulder, he watched her belly jiggle with mirth. “Hey, stop that. Do you want to shake the baby loose?”

She placed a hand on her enlarged womb, as though trying to hold back the tear-provoking laughter, but it didn’t work. Between her chuckles, she managed to say, “I assumed you knew how to cook.”

“I do. But I’m not used to this stove.”

Her gaze scanned the kitchen and lingered on the newspaper spread over the gold Formica countertop—no doubt realizing what he’d been doing when the bacon got away from him.

The editorial had caught his eye, dragging him into small-town politics, the debate about the gold rush, and the fortune hunters who’d converged on Thunder Canyon with hopes of striking it rich.

Consequently, Mark had neglected to watch the stove, the flame, the sizzling meat.

“Anything interesting going on in the world?”

“Undoubtedly,” he said. “But I was reading the Thunder Canyon Nugget, which is chock-full of nothing.”

“Well, something obviously caught your attention.”

“Not really. The paper, like this town, can’t compete with the real world.” He turned off the kitchen faucet and nodded toward the sink. “I’m afraid that was the last of the bacon. And the pan needs to go in that Dumpster outside.”

“Don’t throw it away. There’s cleanser and steel wool under the sink.”

“I’mnot going to scrub this thing.” He chucked the pan into the trashcan. “I’ll buy you a new one as soon as I get the chance.”

She swiped at the moisture under one eye, evidence of her amusement. But she couldn’t hide her grin. “I’ve got cornflakes in the cupboard. And there’s a banana on the counter. You can slice it—if you like fruit on your breakfast cereal.”

Mark didn’t like bananas, didn’t like the taste or the texture. He’d eat his cereal plain, although he preferred a manly meal like bacon and eggs.

As he rummaged through the kitchen, looking for bowls and a box of cornflakes, he tried to shake off the image of what would have made a hearty breakfast going up in smoke. Of course, with all the fast food he’d scarfed down in his travels, his body could probably use the fiber from the cereal. Better to flush those arteries than clog them.

“It was really sweet of you to try and cook for me,” she said.

Yeah, well, he didn’t feel sweet. Or funny. And if someone downstairs heard that damned alarm and called the fire department, he was going to feel stupid.

A few minutes later, after the smoke had begun to clear, he fixed her cereal, adding the sliced bananas on top. Then he placed her bowl on the coffee table so she wouldn’t need to get up and walk any more than necessary.

“Thanks.” She tugged at his sleeve, drawing his attention. “And I’m sorry for laughing.”

“No you aren’t.” He tossed her a laid-back grin, sliding back into the easy banter they shared.

“Okay, I’m not.” She giggled again. “You should have seen the look on your face when that alarm went off. And the way you frantically swung that dish towel around like a dime-store cowboy trying to lasso the horse that had thrown him.”

“I think you enjoyed seeing me screw up.”

“Let’s say I found it entertaining. I’m competitive by nature. Maybe it’s a little sister/big brother thing.”

Was she saying she thought of him as a big brother? He supposed that ought to be kind of nice. Or touching. But for some reason it irked him that she thought of him that way. As if he were too old for her to consider as a lover—well, if she weren’t having a baby and all.

Nah. She couldn’t have been thinking about him as lover material. Mother Nature probably disconnected all the sexual urges when a woman got pregnant. In fact, he doubted Juliet thought about making love at all—especially now.

So why had sex crossed his mind—even briefly?

Maybe because it had been a while since he’d had time to spend on a relationship—as noncommittal as his were.

She swung her feet around to the floor and sat up to eat, making room for him to take a seat beside her on the sofa.

Actually, when Mark put his frustration and embarrassment aside, he had to admit it was nice seeing her smile, hearing her laugh. He shot her a crooked grin. “I looked like a cowboy, huh?”

“Roy Rogers at his worst.” Her eyes glimmered and her lips twitched, as she used her spoon to snag a slice of banana and pop it in her mouth.

Although he enjoyed a good joke, a part of him didn’t like her laughing at him. But he chided himself for being sensitive about something so minor and took a sip of coffee. As he savored the rich brew, he realized he’d done something right this morning.

He glanced at the ceramic cup—white, with a pink carnation trim along the edge. The pattern was bright and cheery, unlike the other things in the house. And he wondered if she’d had a hand in choosing the dishes. “Was the kitchen furnished, too?”

“The dishes are mine. I packed Mrs. Tasker’s set in a box and put them in the closet.”

Mark looked at his cup. “I’ll bet these are nicer than the ones she had.”

“I think so. They’re not fancy, but they were my grandmother’s, so they’re special.”

Yeah, well he was beginning to think Juliet was special, too. Over the years, she’d lost her family. Yet she didn’t seem beaten.

His gaze dropped to her stomach, to where she carried her child. Why hadn’t the father of her baby stepped up to the plate? Why hadn’t he wanted a pretty woman like her? Maybe, over time, the guy would change his mind.

“Tell me something,” Mark said. “Does the baby’s father know where to find you?”

“No.” She dabbed her lips with the paper towel he’d given her to use as a napkin.

Mark might not have any desire to be a husband and father, but if Juliet—or rather some other woman—was having his baby, he’d want to know about it. And he’d want to know where she and his child lived. “Don’t you think you should tell him? In case he needs to see the baby or send money?”

She thought for a moment, as if trying to find the words to defend her move out of state. Or maybe she was trying to decide whether Mark had been right, whether she ought to let the baby’s father know where she was residing.

After studying the pattern on her cereal bowl, she caught his gaze. The bubbly smile that had seemed permanently fixed moments ago had drifted. “I grew up in the barrios of San Diego. But I was raised in a loving home, and we were happy.”

He didn’t know what that had to do with anything, but he’d been curious about her past. So he shifted in his seat, facing her, letting her know he was interested in what she had to say.

“I never knew my mother. She left home when I was just a baby. But my grandmother moved in to help raise my brother and me.”

Mark wasn’t sure where she was going with this. Why was she skirting his question?

“My father worked at a neighborhood tortilleria to support the family. It was a small, family-owned business that didn’t provide health insurance for the employees. And even though my dad insisted Manny and I visit the doctor whenever we were sick, he didn’t like spending the money for himself.” She paused for a moment, her gaze drifting back to the pink carnation trim on her bowl. “When I was fourteen, he died of cancer. It had been a treatable case that went undetected until it was too late.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. But Papa was a man of great faith. And I know he’s in Heaven.” She offered him a sincere smile, one that held feeling, conviction and victory over grief. “It was tough back then, but Manny and I did all right. We took care of each other. And we held on to the values we’d been taught.”

Manny was her older brother, Mark realized. The young man who’d died in an industrial accident. Without meaning to, Mark glanced at the bookshelf, at the silver frame that held a smiling boy in a red baseball uniform.

“About four years ago, after I graduated from high school, I got a job waiting tables in a San Diego suburb at a small Mexican restaurant called La Cocina. And Manny took a night job as a stock clerk in a discount superstore. We pooled our resources and moved out of the barrio, where we could create a home together and start a new life. We’d dreamed of buying a house. It had been a dream of our father’s, then it was ours. Now it’s mine.”

Juliet, he realized, was made of sturdier stuff than she seemed.

She leaned back into the sofa. “Manny’s death was a real blow.”

And not just because of his youth, Mark realized. They’d been close. And her brother had been the last family member she had.

Mark struggled not to take her hand, to pull her into his arms. To provide a hug. Something. But he’d never been a touchy-feely kind of guy.

“One of the regulars who frequented the restaurant where I worked, an older guy who was a lawyer, volunteered to help me. To take care of the legalities resulting from my brother’s estate and the workman’s comp lawsuit that’s still pending.”

A nice guy? Mark wondered. Or an attorney looking for a cut of a settlement she was bound to get?

Juliet ran a hand over her belly. Over her child. “I needed a friend. Someone to talk to. Someone who cared. And Erik Kramer was a charmer who promised to be there for me. I believed him, and before long, we became lovers.” At that point, she looked up, caught Mark’s eye. “He was my first.”

If the attorney had been in the room, Mark might have considered punching him. Charming a young virgin when she was grieving smacked of unethical behavior. And since she’d already mentioned that the baby’s father hadn’t wanted the child—or her—it made Kramer seem like more of a jerk.

There was a certain responsibility a man ought to have after taking a woman’s virginity, especially when she was vulnerable, as Juliet had been. And the man should have been there for her when the chips were down. Like he’d promised.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I broke the news to him. I knew he’d be surprised. Like I was. But I assumed we’d make the most of it.” She offered Mark a wistful smile. “You know. That we’d get married and live happily ever after.”

Mark could guess the end of the story. “Apparently, Kramer wasn’t into marriage.”

“Oh, but he was.” Juliet smiled wryly. “He and his wife of fifteen years were planning a Mediterranean cruise to celebrate their wedding anniversary.”

Mark might be hell-bent on remaining single after his disappointing divorce, but that didn’t mean he approved of married men having affairs. A commitment—if a man or woman were inclined to make one—ought to mean something.

Juliet peered at him with misty eyes. “If Erik would have been honest with me, if I’d known he had a wife, I never would have slept with him. He gave me every reason to believe that he was free to pursue a relationship. That he loved me.”

“He lied to you. The guy’s a bastard, Juliet.” Mark wished Kramer was standing before him so he could knock his lights out. “I hope he’s agreed to pay you child support.”

“He gave me nearly a thousand dollars in cash, telling me to get rid of the ‘problem.’ Then he encouraged me to get a little something for myself with what was left over.”

Mark reached out, took her hand and gave it a squeeze. But it didn’t seem to be enough.

“The pregnancy had come as a surprise to me, too,” Juliet said, caressing her womb again. “But there was no way I’d consider aborting my baby. He or she is the only family I have left.”

“So you left San Diego. But what about the lawsuit?”

“For that reason, I’ll eventually call and give his law firm my address. But I wanted to put some distance between us. Emotionally, as well as physically.”

It made sense, he supposed.

“I didn’t want the baby to find out that its father didn’t want him or her, that he had another family that didn’t include us. So I pocketed the money he’d given me, gave notice at La Cocina, had a garage sale, packed my belongings into Manny’s truck and headed north. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I was eager to create a family of my own.”

“And you ended up in Thunder Canyon.”

“I wanted to find a small town where people knew their neighbors, where there were no secrets, no one who could betray my trust.”

Mark wasn’t so sure she’d found that here, but he wasn’t about to splash a wave of cynicism on a young woman struggling to embrace a buoy of hope.

“That’s probably way more than you wanted to know,” she said. “But I didn’t want you to think I’d intentionally hook up with a married man. That I’d normally be that stupid. That my father and the church hadn’t taught me better than that.”

Mark flicked a strand of hair away from her cheek, and cupped her jaw. His thumb made a slow, gentle stroke of her skin. “You’re a special lady, Juliet. And someday, a lucky man is going to figure that out. And then you’ll have a family again, the family you deserve.”

Funny thing was, Mark the cynic actually believed that to be true.

For her.

But unlike pretty Juliet, a family wasn’t in his cards. He’d tried to recreate his broken family once, but his ex had doused that dream years ago.

Not about to go another round with the kitchen or the stove for at least another day, Mark ordered two take-out dinners from The Hitching Post. He hoped Juliet would be pleased with his choice—pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and lemon meringue pie.

He carried the cartons of food upstairs and, while Juliet turned off the television, set the dinette table. The doctor had said she could get up to use the bathroom, so Mark figured it wouldn’t hurt to sit for a couple of minutes.

As he poured them two glasses of milk, she crossed her arms over her belly and arched a brow. “What? No bourbon?”

“Not tonight.”

It’s not as though Mark was a lush, even though he could understand why she might think so. She’d seen him having nightly cocktails ever since he’d arrived in town. But that was liquid courage to face the memories he couldn’t seem to shake while in Thunder Canyon.

And this evening, he had an intriguing young woman to keep his thoughts off his past. Off the rebellion that had led to his sister’s death.

Juliet reached for a butter horn roll, tore off a piece and popped it in her mouth. When she swallowed, she placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “So, tell me about the assignment that’s going to write itself.”

“Actually, it’s going to be a big spread. A Sunday paper special.”

“Impressive.” She smiled, and he felt a surge of pride, of pleasure. “What kind of spread? What will be the focus?”

“I’m going to write about the gold rushes, past and present. The willingness of naive miners to pursue a hopeless dream.”

“Why not focus on the positive, on the excitement, the thrill of striking it rich?”

Maybe because Mark’s hopes and dreams had died in Thunder Canyon, and he’d had to move away to get his life back. To make a future for himself.

“Do you realize how many miners actually hit pay dirt?” he asked.

“Some do. That’s what makes it so exciting, so interesting.”

“Come on, Juliet. You really don’t believe anyone is going to find any significant amount of gold in Thunder Canyon, do you? By the early 1900s, the mines in the area had played out.”

She took a bite of the crab apple garnish. “There could be another vein of gold. And someone might find it.”

“Do those rose-colored glasses ever fog up?”

A grin tugged at her lips, creating a dimple on one cheek. “I choose to look on the bright side of life.”

That was growing more and more apparent. “The chance of a big strike is pretty slim. Ever since the 1860s, when the first gold rush started in this area, miners swept the hills, finding nuggets here and there. And yes, some people did get rich. But there weren’t too many big fortunes made for the little guys. And most people were disappointed, if not devastated after gambling their savings on lady luck.”

“You’re more pessimistic than most of the people around here.”

She wasn’t the first woman to point out his cynicism. But he liked to think of himself as realistic.

“When I was in high school, I wrote a paper on Fourteen Mile City, a stretch of settlements amidst the gold fields.” Mark had received an A+ on that report, along with a budding interest in journalism. “My history teacher praised me for pointing out the downside of mining and exposing what greed did to people. Back then, gullible investors bought stock in fraudulent ventures, sometimes bankrupting themselves. And I won’t even go into what the gold rush cost the Indians and the Chinese.”

“I can see that there’s a downside. But I think most people would rather read about dreams, possibilities, hopes.”

“The best I can do is write realistically. But it should make you feel better to know that I’m going to also include the history and the legends of Thunder Canyon.” He stole a glance at her.

A growing fascination lit her face. “What kind of legends?”

“Supposedly, this canyon was sacred to the Indians, although I’ll have to research that for accuracy. And there’s also that story about Amos Douglas winning the Queen of Hearts gold mine in a poker game.”

Juliet turned toward him, brushing her knees against his thigh, shooting a tingle of warmth and awareness through his blood. The way she looked at him, her eyes wide, hanging on his every word, made him puff up like a toad that thought he was king of the pond.

“Was Amos related to Jason and Caleb Douglas?” she asked.

“Yeah. Amos was the original Douglas settler in Thunder Canyon.”

“And what’s the story about the poker game? Who did Amos win it from?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a prospector with a drinking and gambling problem. It’s hard to say. When I get some time, I’m going to head over to the museum and see if they’ve got more information.”

She sobered. “I’m sorry, Mark.”

“About what?”

“Keeping you from your research.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can place a few calls, if necessary, and can research the Internet. Maybe by the time I get back to my interviews, Caleb will have found the deed.” His explanation seemed to appease her, and he was glad, although not entirely sure why.

She placed a finger to her lips and clamped down on a nail, puzzled by something. “If the Douglas family owned the gold mine property, what do you think happened to the deed?”

Mark shrugged. “Who knows? It’s been over a hundred years. Maybe Amos or one of his descendents misplaced it. They probably thought the land wasn’t worth anything.”

“Not even in sentimental value?”

He reached up, stroked a silky strand of her raven-black hair and gave it a gentle tug. “Most people see land for what it is. Real estate. Money in the pocket.”

“I’m not most people.”

“So I’m learning.” For a moment, something passed between them. Something tender and intimate. Something that ought to scare the hell out of him. Something that did. He dropped his hand and studied his empty plate.

“Well,” she began, “from what I’ve gathered from mealtime chitchat at The Hitching Post, Caleb seems more focused on finding that deed than in the groundbreaking of the ski resort he’s developing.”

“He’s probably no different than the others. Each time another gold nugget is found, folks want to believe there’s an untapped vein out there. The idea of sudden riches stirs the blood of some people.”

“But not yours?”

“No.”

“What stirs your blood?”

He looked at her, caught the gold flecks in her eyes that glimmered in the lamplight when she teased him, spotted the cute nose that turned up slightly. Noticed the fullness of her bottom lip, the softness that begged to be kissed.

His blood was moving along at a pretty good clip now, but he’d be damned if he’d let her know that.

Damn. He definitely needed to get laid. How long had it been? Surely not long enough for his libido to contemplate putting the moves on an expectant mother, for cripes sake.

“You really are a stick in the mud.” She patted his thigh in a gentle, we’re-good-friends way. But it didn’t seem to matter to the rush of his bloodstream. “You have no imagination, Mark. Can’t you tap into your heart?”

His heart had fizzled out a long time ago. After his sister had died. And whatever had been left shriveled up when his wife filed for divorce and moved out of their apartment while he was away on an assignment.

Juliet tugged on the sleeve of his shirt again, which seemed to be her habit. Her way of touching him without actually doing so.

“Can’t you let go once in a while?” she asked.

Let what go?

His past? His guilt? His pessimism?

“What do you mean? I know how to have fun.” At least, he used to. It had been a while—about as long as it had been since he’d had a wild passionate, no-strings-attached night.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

For some dumb reason, he did. “Okay, now what?”

“Think about The Hitching Post. About a building that’s been around for ages. Can’t you almost hear the plunking sound of a piano? The voices of people who once lived and played here?”

He squinted, opening one eye and then the other. “I’m not sure we ought to be listening to those voices. This floor was a brothel, remember?” He chuckled. “Did you still want me to imagine the tales these walls could tell?”

Her face flushed, although the Pollyanna glimmer remained in those mahogany eyes. And she shrugged. “It might be interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“I thought most women in the olden days didn’t particularly like sex.”

“I’m sure plenty of them did.” He grinned. “What makes you think they didn’t?”

“Well, once when I was in the fourth grade, I overheard my abuelita and an older neighbor lady talking about sex.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“My grandmother said she wouldn’t walk across the room for it.”

“That’s too bad. It sounds as though your grandfather didn’t know how to pleasure her.”

Juliet didn’t respond. But then, what was there to say?

Mark wondered whether Kramer had been good to her, whether he’d given her the kind of first-time experience she should have had. “Tell me, Juliet. Would you walk across the room for it?”

“Probably. If there wasn’t anything good on television.” Her eyes glimmered, and he couldn’t tell if she was serious or pulling his leg.

“Then Kramer wasn’t any better at pleasing a lady than your grandfather was,” Mark said, taking a guess.

Her eyes widened, as if he’d hit the G-spot and set off her first orgasm.

Sexual awareness filled the room, settling over him. Over her, too, he suspected.

Her lips parted in an enticing way, almost as if inviting him to close in on her, to give her the kind of kiss that made blood pound, race, demand.

What was happening to him?

He ought to pull away. Let it go. Laugh it off, like a guy with any sense would.

But Mark had never been very heroic.

And when Juliet ran the tip of her tongue along her lips, he was lost.