LITMIR.BIZ

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my point.” Digger emphasized his statement by pointing a long, thick-knuckled finger. “I spent my life prospecting one claim after another, moving from one mine to the next, just like you with your oil wells. I was a damned fool. Don’t want to see the same thing happen to you, boy, that’s all.”

      “Hey, Cupid, you gonna jack the jaw all night?” Floyd Perkins bellowed from the corner booth. “A man could grow old waitin’ for a cup a coffee ’round here.”

      “Somethin’ wrong with your legs, Perkins?” Digger hollered back. “Slater and me are having a conversation.”

      “Sounds more like you’re the one having the conversation,” Floyd grumbled. “Why don’t you leave that poor boy to read his paper and eat his meal in peace?”

      “What paper you reading that’s so dang interesting?” Digger squinted and leaned close. “The Granite Ridge Gazette. Why in tarnation you readin’ that? Granite Ridge is five hundred miles from here.”

      Slater ground his back teeth together. He should have known better than to expect any privacy here. What he read and why was his business, and he had no intention of sharing that business with anyone—especially Digger Jones.

      “You know somebody there?” Digger kept on. “I hear they got some fine horse ranches down that way, especially quarter horses. Joe Stovall bought two cutters from a fellow named—” he rubbed thoughtfully at his chin “—hell, what was his name...Jack something...”

      Slater braced himself.

      The cook’s bell rang persistently, cutting off Digger’s train of thought. He turned sharply and growled at the intrusion. “All right, already. I’m coming. Stop yer clanging.”

      With a sigh of relief, Slater watched Digger shuffle off, then settled back into the booth, struggling to fit his long legs under the tabletop. He stared at the paper in front of him, at the familiar names and faces.

      Granite Ridge.

      For the past ten years, since he’d left his hometown, the Gazette had followed him across the country: Oklahoma, New Mexico, Washington and now back to Texas. The only time he hadn’t received the paper was during his stint in Venezuela. The rig he’d been working on there had been too remote to receive mail with any dependability, so he’d let it lapse those months, then immediately started it up again when he’d returned to the States. Whether for some morbid kind of punishment—a reminder of all the things he could never have, that he never did have—simple curiosity or just plain habit, he didn’t know or care.

      Thankful that Digger was busy harassing Pete Walker for his lack of attendance at the last town meeting, Slater scooped up a forkful of mashed potatoes and turned his attention back to the front page of his paper. The top stories of the past week were Mary Lou Hebbit’s—assisted by her husband, Bobby Joe Hebbit—giving birth to twin girls in the flatbed of a hay truck, and the Hackett brothers’ assigned twenty hours’ community service for being drunk and disorderly.

      Slater seemed to recall a few nights that he’d spent with Bobby and Billy Hackett himself. The brothers had played in the bars as hard as they’d worked on their daddy’s farm, but always showed up for church on Sundays and were the first to volunteer for the town’s annual Ladies’ Auxiliary carnival and auction. If anyone needed to “git himself a woman,” Slater thought with a smile, it was definitely those boys.

      He skimmed the city council and agriculture reports, then paused at the wedding section, which had one entry: Millie Johnson and Todd Overby were engaged and getting married in two weeks. Millie and Todd? Slater shook his head as he took a sip of coffee. They’d practically been babies when he’d left. How could they be old enough to get married?

      With a sigh, he moved on to the obituaries, thankful at least, that column was empty. He took another sip of coffee and started to fold the paper when the bottom of the last page, an assortment of classified ads and personals, caught his attention.

      Wanted: One Husband. Not too old. Must like kids. List good qualities. Call Kasey at the Double D Ranch—555-4832 or send picture to 684 Marva Lane, Granite Ridge, TX.

      He nearly choked. Coffee sloshed over the sides of his cup as he slammed it down.

      Kasey...as in Kasey Donovan?

      He shook off the coffee he’d spilled onto his paper and looked at the ad again. Good God! He had read it right. It was Kasey.

      Kasey Donovan had been his sister Jeanie’s best friend since they’d been six. They’d been inseparable. Kasey, with her wild red hair, vibrant green eyes and a ready-to-take-on-the-world attitude, had been a sharp contrast to Jeanie’s silky blond hair, pale blue eyes and quiet acceptance of whatever life dealt her. Which, Slater thought with a tightening in his gut, had been one lousy hand after another. She’d learned young that life wasn’t fair. They both had.

      He missed her. God, how he missed her.

      He let the pain roll through him, then shook it off and stared at the newspaper again. Kasey Donovan. With her bright laugh and enthusiasm for life, she emerged from a dark past like a rainbow after the storm.

      He’d lost track of her after he’d left Granite Ridge, though he had read that after she’d graduated high school she’d married some hotshot journalist and moved to New York. Obviously if she was looking for a husband, that hadn’t worked out. Then four years later her mother had died after a long illness, six months after that, her father from a heart attack. Slater had been in Venezuela at the time and hadn’t heard until he’d gotten back to the States. By the time he’d called, the phone had been disconnected.

      The Donovans had been like some kind of a TV family. Always there for each other, loving...accepting. Mrs. Donovan had been the mother Jeanie had lost when she was two, and, Slater recalled with a smile, Mr. and Mrs. Donovan had both treated him as a son, too. Kasey’s mother would always insist he stay for dinner every time he came to pick up Jeanie, then afterward Mr. Donovan would discuss the latest issue of Rancher’s Digest over a cup of strong black coffee, asking Slater his opinion or advice on horse breeding.

      Something Slater’s own father had never done.

      The Donovans had been Slater’s only regret when he’d left Granite Ridge. His only regret even still.

      And now Kasey was advertising for a husband?

      He shook his head at the thought. Kasey. His little Kasey. He’d taught her how to ride a bike, helped her with her science homework. At fifteen she’d been all arms and legs and a mouthful of braces. At seventeen, when he’d left, she’d emerged a young woman with curves that had every male drooling and every female turning a lovely shade of green.

      And now, here he was, ten years later.

      And here was Kasey.

      Obviously she was in a serious situation if she was advertising for a husband. But whatever her problem might be, there had to be another solution than marrying a stranger.

      “Slater!” Digger’s loud exclamation from the other side of the diner brought Slater’s head up. “Jack Slater, from the Bar S. That was that big rancher’s name.”

      Slater’s back stiffened at the name he hadn’t said in ten years.

      Coffeepot in hand, Digger moved beside the booth and refilled Slater’s cup. “Hey, he must be a kin of yours. Brother, maybe? Cousin?”

      Digger had a hold of the bone now, and Slater knew the old man wouldn’t let go. So let him have it What difference did it make?

      “Father,” Slater said evenly, and took a sip of coffee.

      “No kidding.” Digger whistled. “And all this time we thought you had no family.”

      I don’t, Slater thought. Not with Jack Slater, anyway.

      Ignoring Digger’s rattling on about fathers and sons, Slater stared at Kasey’s ad again. Jeanie’s death had been as hard on Kasey as it had him. He’d walked out on her ten years

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