LITMIR.BIZ

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locals had called the Blaylock eyes, a mark of their heritage on their father’s side—a sturdy mix of Scots and English and French on their mother’s.

      Kallista hurried into the kitchen, away from him, from the memories of how wonderful life with Boone had been, how safe. Nothing had changed in the kitchen, not the big scarred farm table with its plain glass salt and pepper shakers, nor the mug stuffed with spoons. The old pottery bowls were stacked on the counter and every dish was still in the glass cupboards. The big gas cookstove had several ovens and burners and a shelf spanning the top. Boone had said it was his mother’s...that he’d dreamed of his wife using it, but she never had. Boone had little to say about his wife, or his children, but sometimes the faraway look in his eyes told of his pain.

      The old blackened camp coffeepot that Boone said brewed the best, sat on the back of the stove.

      She sucked in air. Or was it pain? Boone had sat her on his lap, poured himself a large, hefty mug of coffee and her small china cup half full, adding fresh cow’s milk to complete the measure. From the past, his voice curled around her. “This is how my mother did, little girl. Sat me on her lap, and told me how it should be for me, holding my own child on my lap and passing the time of day. But it didn’t come to be until now, and now I’ve got you. That’s her cup and now it’s yours. That’s real gold on the rim, and those are real English roses painted on real china—see? It’s so thin, you can see your fingers through it. We’re going to chat about things every day, sitting just like this, big stuff, like why flowers grow, and how people should keep each other in their hearts.”

      The cup seemed huge, or was it because she was small and only five? Kallista slashed the hot tears from her eyes and knew nothing could take away the pain in her heart. She glanced at a woman’s handwritten note, posted to the old refrigerator by a magnet. “Come over tonight. Your favorite for dinner. There’s garlic bread in the foil, just place in the oven with the rest to heat. We need salad dressing and olive oil. I changed the sheets.”

      A fresh wave of anger slammed into Kallista, and she jerked open the refrigerator door to find a large pan of lasagna. She slammed the door, rocking the huge pottery tureen on top. Roman Blaylock had not only taken over Boone’s house, he had installed a woman in his bed. “I’ll look upstairs,” she managed, brushing past him.

      When she’d first seen the house, hiding behind her mother and peering out at this frightening savage land, she’d thought it was a castle and Boone was a fearsome giant who might eat her. Then she’d grown to treasure and to love him and now he was gone.

      The hallway was just as wide, a table placed beneath a mirror and fresh herbs stuffed into a vase scented the air. Nothing had changed. Boone’s bedroom looked just the same: gleaming wood floor covered by a braided rug, her picture with those of other children by his oversized bed—a man’s Western boots placed neatly in a corner, gloves and a denim jacket discarded into an overstuffed chair. Roman Blaylock slept here; his masculine scent filled the room and a picture of the extensive Blaylock family sat on Boone’s mahogany chest of drawers.

      She hurried to Mrs. Llewlyn’s room, soft with ruffles and floral patterns, the scent of lavender and roses hovering in the still air. Boone had said that she lived long enough for his return, then she had passed away. “Mrs. Llewlyn’s walnut wardrobe is missing. It’s huge and has drawers—like an armoire.”

      “It needed repair and refinishing. It’s in the barn.”

      “You just put it back.”

      Her room was just the same, a single Jenny Lind bed, ruffles and flower prints and a brass vanity table and chair. Other girls had used this same room, layered with unfamiliar dolls and tea sets, and the other bedroom reserved for boys with model airplanes and trucks. The attic was stuffed with doll carriages and framed tintype pictures and memories. Kallista leaned against the door as layers of memories pressed painfully upon her. He’d tucked her in, placed a brand-new Raggedy Ann doll in her arms and told her that she was his. She’d never felt so safe—a horrible empty chill swept through her. “Oh, Boone...”

      Downstairs, Roman waited for her, a well-loved, worn rag doll in his hand. “He wanted you to have this. When you calm down, there were other things he wanted you to have.”

      “You’re not fit to sleep in Boone’s bed.” Kallista snatched the doll from Roman, holding it against her racing heart. One glance at the fringed Spanish shawl covering the huge steamer trunk and she knew where the doll had been stored. There would be other things in that trunk and she knew how to pick locks. She looked up at Roman’s impassive expression, and knew that she was going to destroy him. If Boone had stored her doll in the trunk, there had to be other things, perhaps something belonging to a relative who deserved Llewlyn House and the ranch. “You know, I think I’ll take you up on staying here—for the night.”

      When Roman nodded solemnly, she added, “Don’t try anything. I can protect myself.”

      An icy chill whipped through Kallista. She’d already proven that with one of her mother’s lovers—

      Beneath his glossy black lashes, Roman’s eyes turned warm and amused, drifting slowly over her taut body and his deep drawl curled around her. “Now that’s quite an assumption, princess—that I’d want you. What would give you that idea?”

      Two

      After hours of denying that his body tensed every time Kallista’s very soft and athletic one tossed on the bed in the other room, Roman gave up on sleep. When he heard her creep from her room he reached beneath his bedside table to disconnect the alarms. With Mike’s romantic reconciliation underway, he wouldn’t want a second awakening at three o’clock in the morning. Roman stared up at the shadowy leaf patterns on the ceiling and listened to Kallista’s boots prowl through the house, built by Boone’s parents before the turn of the century. The rippling electronic sound downstairs said she’d turned on his computer, and after a solid fifteen minutes, another sound said she’d turned it off. A small beam of light lasered through the shadows beneath his door, and Kallista’s footsteps moved past Roman’s bedroom and up into the attic. He listened to the rhythmic creak of a rocker, too small for Boone’s size.

      Roman placed his arms behind his head and waited, stretched out on the top of the bed, dressed only in his jeans, the waist snap unbuttoned. Kallista was the first of Boone’s “Innocents” on the list and if she was any measure of the rest... Roman shook his head; all he needed with his ranch chores and keeping up Boone’s silent business was a prying, nosy, bitter and sexy woman. He tossed in passionate, colorful and vibrant.

      He backtracked to the “sexy,” and that long-ago kiss stung his lips. She’d been surprised, her sassy, full lips parted and the collision of their mouths wasn’t sweet, but rather all fire and storms and unleashed hunger, and for a moment she’d matched him. Kallista’s footsteps eased down the attic stairs and pushed into his room, stalking to his bedside.

      Roman’s body leaped into heat, shaken by the passion in her slightly slanted eyes. Hands on her hips, she glared down at him. The rag doll peered at Roman from Kallista’s big leather shoulder bag. “Good. You’re awake. I want you to see me coming and know that I’m going to take Big Boone’s estate away from you, piece by piece.”

      Kallista jerked a fat file from under her arm and slapped it on his chest. “Yes. I did pick the desk lock. You’ve been tracking me. Everything’s in there from my immunization shots that Boone started to every address where I’ve lived. It’s always wise to keep up with someone who might be a threat, isn’t it? You bet I’m a threat, Mr. Blaylock. You’re not the kind of man who should be taking care of Boone’s property.”

      “Boone wanted to keep up with you. That’s his file. He’d want you to have it. It’s yours.” He was just getting worked up to tell her that he didn’t appreciate the invasion into his bedroom when the tears glittering on her lashes distracted him; inside Roman, a part of him slid into helpless mush. Then she reached out her hand and Roman reacted, grabbing her wrist and jerking her toward him. With a soft cry, she fell heavily upon him, and in that instant, in the soft whoosh

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