LITMIR.BIZ

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his mind dwell on situations in which he would be thankful if Sam Pettit never, ever backed off.

      “Whew.” He went to pour himself a big glass of ice water, drank it all down, then poured another.

      Bonnie came to the door. “Everything okay, Tommy?”

      “Everything’s fine, sweetheart.”

      “You sure? That woman looked like she could be real trouble.”

      Tommy took another long gulp of water. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

      So he hoped, anyway.

      SAM DROPPED INTO THE driver’s seat of her Mustang, slammed the car door and revved the engine into the red zone before calming down enough to pull out into traffic. She had places to go, people to see who would actually cooperate when she interviewed them. But instead, she drove aimlessly around New Skye for a while, trying to get herself under control.

      What did she have to do—proposition the man? Show up in a raincoat, garter belt and stockings and flash him in the reception area? Wouldn’t that sweet little thing at the desk be shocked?

      At the thought, Sam’s fury gave way, and she laughed, hard and long. The only other choice was to cry. She’d met Tommy Crawford more than a year ago, at a chamber of commerce luncheon, and she’d been trying to get a date with him ever since. His skeptical, irreverent attitude, his wary eyes, his sidelong smile, had captured her heart from the first moment. She liked his compact build and his sandy hair, his scholar’s slouch and his square, limber hands. She arranged to bump into him as often as possible, had exchanged her ordinary looks for a version of vamp, bought the most expensive perfume New Skye had to offer. Nothing seemed to work. The man remained oblivious. Or indifferent.

      She pounded her fist on the wheel. No, that was not possible. He found her funny. He thought she was sexy—after that maneuver in front of the desk, she’d seen his eyes glaze over. For some reason, he simply wasn’t connecting what he felt with the possibility that they could have a relationship. Sam knew Tommy Crawford was a smart man. So why was he missing the point?

      Now he would be managing Adam DeVries’s campaign—the worst possible news, as far as Sam was concerned. On the one hand, she’d get plenty of excuses to talk to Tommy. But her job as a reporter demanded objectivity. Even animosity, if that’s what it took to get the facts. She and Tommy would be on opposite sides from Labor Day until the election. He’d be trying to present his candidate in the best light, and she’d be trying to find every single dirty detail to offer the public. Not a recipe for romance, by any stretch of the imagination. If she did enough damage, she might make an enemy of Tommy Crawford for life.

      When what she really wanted was simply to marry him and live happily ever after. Was it too much to ask?

      On a day like today, with yet one more rejection to her credit, Sam was afraid that the answer to her sad question would be a flat and final “You got that right.”

      THURSDAY NIGHT, ADAM followed the directions he’d received from Willa, Phoebe Moss’s receptionist, and headed south out of town into horse country. When he arrived at the last turn fifteen minutes ahead of his appointment, he concluded that Phoebe must drive on the slow side. Or maybe, as his mother had mentioned on more than one occasion, he drove too fast.

      No matter what the clock or the speedometer read, though, he hadn’t failed to notice the sign announcing L. T. LaRue’s latest triumph—the farmland he would use to build that low-income housing project for New Skye. Filled with trees and set on a gentle slope, Adam’s site had been nearer to town and a bus route, for the benefit of those who didn’t own a car. If LaRue operated true to form, he would no doubt simply mow down all the pine trees bordering the tobacco fields, pave the flat landscape and put up the most utilitarian building possible.

      Shaking off what he couldn’t—for the moment—change, Adam slowed down and turned his truck onto Bower Lane. Pines lined the road on both sides, their high branches casting shadows across the asphalt, making the evening seem almost cool. Behind the trees on the right, a herd of cows grazed a wide pasture, freshly green with yesterday’s rain. On the left, comfortable ranch homes nestled in the piney shade.

      Peaceful, pastoral. After a day spent standing in the hot sun on unshaded building sites, arguing with subcontractors and suppliers, Adam could appreciate why Phoebe Moss had chosen to live this far out of town. He’d look forward to coming out here…for any reason besides speech therapy.

      The sign for Swallowtail Farm stood about a mile down Bower Lane on the left, just as the receptionist had said. The metal frame gate opened across a gravel drive. Adam followed the meandering track over the dips and rolls of the land to a small brick house. The front porch and windows looked out over the fields he’d just passed, with a barn off to the right in the back. He could see Phoebe coming from the barn and across the grass in front of the house to meet him. To begin the session.

      Trying to delay that moment as long as possible, Adam climbed out of his truck and walked to the pasture fence, where a group of horses cropped lazily at the short, wiry grass. The evening air still held the heat of the day and the animals weren’t moving much, but all of them looked up as he approached. Their dark eyes surveyed him with interest for a moment, then the four heads bent to continue grazing.

      “What do you think?” Phoebe stepped up beside him. Her head just reached his shoulder, which seemed to ease a little of his tension, for no sensible reason he could think of. She didn’t meet his gaze, which also served to make him less nervous.

      “I-I c-can’t d-decide which is the m-most b-b-beautiful.” Talking wasn’t so hard, if he didn’t feel he was being watched, being judged.

      “I know what you mean. Cristal, the black filly, is young and spirited, a teenager you envy for her energy. Brady, the bay closest to us, is just an all-around great guy. Really laid-back. Robinhood, the red one—we call it chestnut—is at the height of his power as a male.” She chuckled. “Even though he’s a gelding, Rob thinks he’s hot stuff. And Marian is simply gorgeous. That pale gray coat with the pewter mane and tail is terrific. You should see her gallop across the pasture. Like watching the wind.”

      Adam glanced at her and caught the curve of her smile. “H-have you al-always h-had h-h-horses?”

      Still without looking at him, she shook her head. “I took lessons, because my parents thought it was the socially correct thing to do. But I never had one of my own until I moved here.”

      “The l-life s-suits you.” Phoebe seemed a part of the landscape, as natural an element as her animals. Tonight, her long hair flowed freely, like the manes and tails of the horses, in a complicated range of colors from silver to maple. She wore a dark tank top that showed off muscular arms and a graceful throat, shorts that left her pale legs bare, and some kind of clog shoe that obviously did a great job of shaping the muscles in her calves. Adam was surprised to recognize the flicker of interest stirring inside him, a warmth curling deep in his belly that he could only call desire.

      “I couldn’t be happier,” she said in response to his awkward compliment. She glanced behind him. “Do you mind dogs?”

      He hesitated too long. “Uh…”

      Phoebe’s eyes widened, and she stepped quickly behind him. “Galahad, no! Gawain, Lance, no!”

      Adam glanced over his shoulder to see three dogs bounding toward him, a Golden Retriever and two other breeds he wasn’t sure of. As he turned and braced for the assault, Phoebe called, “Down, boys. Down!”

      Like magic, the three dogs dropped to the ground, noses resting obediently on front paws, tails wagging wildly. Their eyes were eager and friendly.

      “I’m sorry,” Phoebe said breathlessly. “I should have asked you sooner. They wouldn’t hurt you. But they can be too much. Especially if dogs make you nervous.”

      “N-no. N-n-not n-nervous.” Though it sure sounded that way. If he tried to explain, she’d send him to a shrink. As his parents had when he was ten. And again at thirteen.

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