LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Thanks to Shirl Thomas for being there whenever I need her,

       Lisa Scaglione for adding a new voice to the critique group, and Diana Rumm for talking me through a computer crisis. Another thanks to Pet’s Choice in Anaheim Hills for helping me create Barney. And for Jesse’s and Sky’s inspiration—a heartfelt hug to the Muscogee Nation, a proud and beautiful people.

      SHERI WHITEFEATHER

      lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, summer powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. Since her one true passion is writing, she is thrilled to be a part of the Silhouette Desire line. When she isn’t writing, she often reads until the wee hours of the morning.

      Sheri also works as a leather artisan with her Muscogee Creek husband. They have one son and a menagerie of pets, including a pampered English bulldog and four equally spoiled Bengal cats. She would love to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 5130, Orange, California 92863-5130.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Epilogue

      One

      Patricia Boyd loved him, more than life itself. She sat on the edge of his bed and brushed her fingers across his forehead, sweeping strands of dark brown hair away from his face. Eleven-year-old Dillon Hawk. Her son. Her heart and soul.

      The morning sun shimmered through the blinds, illuminating the boy’s room with slats of light. Patricia smiled. Dillon kept his room tidy. Each carefully constructed model car, battleship and airplane had its place, as did a favored pair of in-line skates.

      “Hey, Mom.” He grinned sleepily. “Are you leaving for work?”

      “No. Today’s Sunday.”

      “Oh, yeah,” he said, pulling himself up against the oak headboard. “Breakfast at Grandpa’s.”

      Sunday breakfast was a family tradition in the Boyd household. Omelets, hash browns and fresh-squeezed orange juice. “I have something else to do this morning, but Grandpa will fix your eggs.”

      “Cool. He always makes those spicy Spanish kind.” Dillon pushed the covers away. “Where are you going today, Mom?”

      To see your father, she thought nervously. Jesse was back, twelve years later. He’d bought the old Garrett farm, a piece of property between Arrow Hill and Hatcher. Of course, Jesse wasn’t expecting her. He hadn’t made an attempt to contact the woman he’d shunned.

      “I’m going to visit an old friend,” Patricia told her son. My first love. The man who gave me you. “I’ll drop you off, then stop by Grandpa’s later.”

      “Okay, but we might be at the hobby store by then.”

      Another family tradition, Patricia thought. Raymond Boyd purchased his grandson a new model every Sunday. He spoiled the boy, but then Dillon was easy to shower with affection and expensive gifts. Her son appreciated every heartfelt hug as much as every toy he’d ever received.

      She kissed his forehead. “Wash up and get dressed.”

      “I’ll hurry.”

      Twelve years had passed. Thirty more minutes wouldn’t make a difference. If anything, it would give her a chance to check her appearance again, maybe sip a cup of herb tea. Anything to calm her nerves. “That’s all right. There’s no need to rush.”

      Patricia left his room and entered her own, a bedroom that was neither frilly nor bland. Antique wood furnishings, accented with winter-white and splashes of royal-blue, complemented the stained-glass windows. Every morning the sun reflected prisms of light across the bed.

      She walked to the mirror and lingered over her reflection. She had chosen a straight white skirt, a pale-peach blouse and low heels—casual designer wear on a not-so-casual day.

      Would Jesse recognize her right away? Or would he look twice to be sure? Her body was still slim, but her hips flared a bit more—a testimony to maturity and motherhood. Her hair hadn’t changed much, she decided, aside from a slightly shorter cut and subtle caramel highlights framing her face.

      Her face. She touched her skin, remembering how Jesse marveled at what he called its “flawless texture.” Would he find flaws now? The skin of a thirty-year-old?

      What

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