LITMIR.BIZ

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yet, text me.” Not usually demonstrative, Blythe reached out and touched his cheek in a brief, tender gesture of affection. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

      Call my cell. Better yet, text me. Slater smiled to himself, remembering how hard it had been to persuade his mother to get a mobile phone in the first place. Now she was adept at high-tech communication. “Sounds like a plan.”

      He went into the house and through a foyer with a chandelier that should have been in a museum somewhere. The piece wasn’t original to the house, but went back much further, probably to the turn of the nineteenth century; according to family legend it came from a grand Southern hotel. A beautiful creation of flawless crystal, it seemed incongruous—and yet oddly natural—in a ranch house set among mountains and prairie.

      By now such things were part of the landscape to Slater. His family was eclectic, to say the least.

      He entered his office, formerly his father’s study. He was comfortable there, among the belongings of generations—polished bookcases and a vast collection of volumes, most of them having some flavor of the Old West. There were classics and plenty of nonfiction, a smattering of epic poetry and high-brow philosophy, but a generous sprinkling of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour, too.

      Slater settled into the old leather chair and booted up his computer. As he’d expected, a slew of emails awaited him, the majority sent by various crew and staff members wrapping up last-minute details on location.

      He took care of those first, and it was, as usual, a time-consuming task.

      There was a message from the resort concerning the dinner and meeting he had booked that morning, confirming the date he’d chosen—still almost a month out—but it was the second email that really got his attention. He was invited, in a briskly businesslike way, to have dinner the following week with the resort manager—none other than Grace Emery herself—so they could discuss “possible joint endeavors and promotions.”

      A slow grin spread across Slater’s face as he considered, just for a moment, a few possible joint endeavors he might be able to suggest.

      I’ll be damned, he thought, smiling.

      Recalling last night’s brief and testy exchange with her, he marveled at—okay, celebrated—the fact that the lovely Ms. Emery wanted to see him again. For any reason.

      Grace had been furious at her stepson, yes, and she’d virtually forced the boy to apologize. But she’d also taken an apparently instant dislike to Slater. Now, all of a sudden, she wanted to talk business? Over dinner?

      Since there was no one around to see, Slater punched the air with one fist and muttered, “Yes!”

      Ideally, the meeting would be one-on-one. No assistants. No heads of this department or that.

      Just Grace and him.

      But life was rarely ideal.

      Warning himself to rein it in, not to read too much into the unexpected invitation, Slater printed out the confirmation for the other event, his company gathering, filed it and sent the notice to his guests, indicating the time and place—one month from this coming Saturday.

      That done, he carefully composed his RSVP to the second get-together.

      Of course the email would go straight to Grace’s assistant, someone named Meg, but surely she’d see it, too. He rested his elbows on the desk, that smile still lingering on his mouth, although most of his triumph had subsided, turning into something more fragile, like hope.

      He’d sensed, despite the bristling body language and snappy retorts of the night before, that the attraction between him and Grace hadn’t all been on his side.

      But maybe he was wrong on that score. Maybe the invitation was exactly what it appeared to be—strictly business.

      Slater paused, leaning back in his chair, reflecting. Going by what his brothers had told him about Grace, she’d already given plenty of eager cowboys the brush-off. She was, after all, a busy woman with a demanding job, plus dealing with a troubled teenage boy. While Ryder seemed like an intelligent kid, the smart ones were often the hardest to manage. Throw in a move from one state to another and a career change, and it was no great leap to figure out that romance might not be all that high on Grace Emery’s to-do list.

      Come to think of it, getting involved wasn’t really on Slater’s agenda, either. He loved his work, enjoyed dating a wide variety of women, most of whom he met on location, spent as much quality time with his young daughter, Daisy, as possible, and helped his brothers with the ranch and the winery. He figured that was more than enough for one man. And he subscribed to the if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it theory. Nope, he wasn’t looking to complicate matters.

      Still, some of the best things in life were unplanned.

      Like his daughter, Daisy, for instance.

      Pensive now, Slater picked up his phone, scrolled down his contact list and hoped he’d catch up with Raine this time around. He’d left two messages already, but his ex-girlfriend, who happened to be the mother of his only child, kept eclectic hours, and her somewhat free-spirited lifestyle often made communication difficult. When she answered, she said with a little laugh, “Well, I guess trouble’s back in town.”

      Slater smiled. He’d thought he’d loved Raine, back when they were together, and he knew she’d believed she loved him. And yet they’d always been more friends than lovers. Yes, the sex had been stellar, but they’d both been young and healthy, so it made sense that they’d enjoyed making love. They’d finally realized that they didn’t have what it took to get married and stay that way. “You guess?” he countered mildly, snapping out of his reflective mood. “I’ve sent you a couple of emails and called a few times. Some people would interpret those things as clues to my return.” He spoke in a relaxed tone, used to Raine and her legendary ability to focus on her work, when she chose, to the exclusion of everything and everybody around her—except for their young daughter. “Fortunately, Daisy bothered to get back to me, and we’ve been plotting against you. What are you doing for dinner tonight? I haven’t seen my daughter in two months, if you don’t count that flying visit so I could see her in the school play. And according to Mom, Daisy’s playing softball this summer, so I’ll want to be at as many of her games as I can.” A pause. “Obviously, I have some catching up to do in the father department.”

      There was a lilt in Raine’s voice. Predictably, she’d let most of what Slater had said pass. “Dinner?” she echoed. She’d probably been thinking about some project she was working on. “I guess it depends on whether or not Harry’s doing the cooking. Our being available, I mean.”

      “Harry is doing the cooking,” Slater confirmed, amused. He’d already worked out an arrangement with the housekeeper. “Unless you’d rather go to a restaurant.”

      “And miss one of Harry’s incomparable meals? No way, José.”

      He laughed outright, warmed by Raine’s friendship. Their relationship, long over in terms of romance, had been an interesting chapter in his life, an illustration of the old adage that opposites attract. Slater believed in roots, family, tradition, while Raine took a more whimsical approach, but they usually managed to agree on the basics.

      Usually.

      Slater felt a twinge, remembering. They’d already gone their separate ways, quite peaceably, and been apart for six months or so when Raine had come to see him after a lengthy visit with some New Mexico cousins. She’d been eight months pregnant when she turned up on his doorstep and, while the prospect of becoming a father had brought him up short, once the initial shock was past, he’d been delighted.

      Raine was fiercely independent and when she’d discovered she was pregnant she’d never questioned, not for one second, that she wanted the baby. They hadn’t discussed parenthood during their time as a couple, except in the most hypothetical way. Yes, they both liked the idea of having a baby—later. Some vague, undefined later. Maybe that was why she hadn’t informed Slater when she found out, but he’d

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