LITMIR.BIZ

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added. “I hadn’t thought about the time involved, obtaining a license and such. It was fortunate that you did.”

      “Like I said,” he repeated. “No thanks needed. Now why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

      She turned her face back to the ceiling and pulled the sheet to her chin once more, but was too keyed up to even think about sleeping.

      “Troy?” she whispered again.

      “Hmm?”

      “I don’t think I can sleep.”

      He chuckled, the sound deep and throaty in the darkness. “Want me to tell you a bedtime story?”

      “No,” she replied, and bit back a smile at his teasing. “I think I’m a little old for that.” She glanced over at him again and nervously pleated the sheet between her fingers. “But would you mind talking to me for a while?” she asked hopefully. “Just until I get sleepy?”

      She could feel his gaze as he turned his head to peer at her, though his features were nothing but a play of shadows in the darkness. “About what?”

      “Anything. Just talk. Tell me where you’re from,” she suggested and rolled to her side, slipping a hand beneath her pillow to support her head as she peered at him in the darkness.

      He turned his face away to stare at the ceiling. “Texas. I’ve got a place near Tyler. Know where that is?”

      “Yes,” she said in surprise and pushed herself to an elbow. “I go to Canton for First Monday several times a year on buying trips. Tyler is near there, isn’t it?”

      “Not far. First Monday, huh?” She could hear the smile in his voice, though his face remained in shadows, hiding his expression. “Now there’s a circus, if ever I’ve seen one.”

      She smiled, too, remembering her reaction upon visiting the flea market for the first time and experiencing its vastness and the variety of merchandise displayed there. “Yes, it is, and just as much fun.”

      “Haven’t been in years,” he replied absently, then added, “My place is about twenty or so miles from Canton.”

      “Really?” she said, her curiosity piqued as she dropped her head back to the pillow.

      “My grandparents’ place originally,” he clarified. “About three hundred acres, give or take a few. They farmed the land, but I never took to it. Preferred riding a horse to driving a tractor. I run a few cattle on the place now to keep the grass down. Probably will increase my herd when I quit rodeoing.”

      “Are you planning on retiring soon?”

      His shoulder brushed hers in a shrug. “Someday. Haven’t really given much thought as to when.”

      With the sound of his husky voice beginning to relax her, Shelby murmured, “Who takes care of your cattle while you’re gone?”

      “I stop in pretty regular, but I have a neighbor I pay to keep an eye on the place when I’m on the road.”

      “What’s it like, traveling the—rodeo circuit? Isn’t that what it’s called?”

      “Close enough.” He shifted his shoulders more comfortably on the bed. “It’s a lot of driving or flying when the schedule’s tight and the rodeos are on opposite sides of the country. Being wound up tighter than a new spring when it’s your turn to compete, and drained dry and limp as a wet rag once you’re done. Eating breakfast in one state, dinner in another, trying, best we can, to hit as many rodeos as possible. Me, Pete and Clayton have been rodeoing together for about three years now. We take turns with the driving, spelling each other so we all have a chance to catch some sleep.” He lifted a shoulder again. “That’s about the size of it.”

      “Do you have family?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

      He seemed to hesitate a moment, then replied, “A grandmother. But she’s in a nursing home now.”

      “Is she ill?”

      “Alzheimer’s.”

      “How sad,” Shelby said sympathetically, somewhat familiar with the disease. She stared at his profile a moment, her eyelids growing heavier and heavier. “Will you tell her about our marriage?”

      “No. Probably not. Half the time she doesn’t even recognize me. No need to confuse her more. Doubt she’d understand, anyway.”

      Though she couldn’t see his expression, Shelby heard the regret in his voice, the sadness. Without thinking about the action, she reached over and placed her hand over his folded ones on his chest, giving them a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Troy,” she murmured. “That must be hard on you.”

      Troy didn’t say anything in response, couldn’t. Just stared at the ceiling, trying his best to swallow the baseball-size wad of emotion that had risen to his throat. The comfort of her hand on his, the softness, the warmth as her body heat seeped slowly into his skin. He lay still as death, fearing if he moved she would, and not wanting to lose that contact. Finally he worked up the nerve to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted and relaxed in sleep. Careful not to disturb her, he turned his hand over, opened it beneath hers and wove their fingers together.

      An angel, he thought wistfully, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. Too bad he’d been handed a pitchfork at birth instead of a set of wings like hers. If he’d had the wings, maybe he could’ve flown with her, offered her more than just his name. Maybe he could have offered himself as a real husband to her and as a father to the child she carried.

      As it was, the name he’d given her was sullied enough. No sense trying to tie her to the man folks claimed was responsible for dirtying the Jacobs name.

      Sighing, he turned his face to the ceiling and closed his eyes.

      He fell asleep with his fingers still woven through hers, steeped in her warmth and comforted by her touch.

      Three

      Troy was dreaming. He was sure he was, though there were no color or images in the dream. Just sound. An irritating scrape and clatter that began to work on his nerves. A metallic jiggling sound, as if someone was testing a lock. A squeak of hinges badly in need of oil. Then a loud, indignant inhalation of breath.

      It was at that moment that Troy realized this was no dream.

      But the realization came too late for him to react. A hand closed over his bare shoulder, blunt nails biting deep.

      “What do you think you’re doing in my daughter’s bed? Get out! Out! Do you hear me? Out!”

      There was a yank on his shoulder—a yank that lacked the strength required to budge a man of Troy’s size—and Troy blinked open his eyes and met those of Shelby’s father. He knew the man had to be her father. There was enough righteous indignation in his dark eyes to condemn a hundred men to hell for their sins.

      Troy heard a soft moan beside him, then the fullness and curve of a hip bump up against his. Nervously he released the hand he still held and cleared his throat. “Shelby?” he said quietly, hauling himself to a sitting position. “Sweetheart, I think you better wake up.”

      The man staggered back as if Troy had punched him. His chest swelled, his nostrils flared and his neck turned a mottled red against the white collar that bound it. “Shelby Ruth Cannon,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “You’d better have an explanation for this abomination. A very good one,” he warned and spun to drop down onto one of the wicker chairs. He sat, his spine rigid, his hands splayed along thighs covered by unrelieved black gabardine, and drummed his fingers, waiting, his eyes narrowed on the window in front of him.

      Shelby slowly pushed herself up on one elbow, swallowing hard as she stared at her father’s profile. “Good morning, Daddy.”

      “Good morning?” he raged, snapping his head around to glare at her,

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