LITMIR.BIZ

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laughed with that soft lilt that stirred his blood and lent a unique sound to her singing voice. “Maybe I should. I found Granny’s recipe box last night. She made notes on the back of the cards. And since I couldn’t sleep, I spent a long time reading over them and reminiscing. So I started making a grocery list, and... Well, it looks like I’m going to do some baking. I’ll just have to find someone to give it to, or I’ll end up looking like a Butterball turkey.”

      “Hey, don’t forget where I live. I haven’t had homemade goodies in ages. I favor chocolate, but I’m not fussy. If it’s sweet, I’ll give it a try.”

      She blessed him with a pretty smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

      As they carried the groceries into the kitchen, she said, “Guess who I ran into at the market? Earl Tellis, the owner of the Stagecoach Inn.”

      “He was shopping?” Ian laughed. “I didn’t figure him for being all that domestic.”

      “Neither did I, especially during daylight hours. But his wife had her appendix removed a couple of days ago, so he’s helping out around the house.”

      Ian didn’t respond. He sometimes drove out to the honky-tonk on weekend evenings, but for the most part, he didn’t like crowds, especially as the night wore on and some folks tended to drink to excess and get rowdy. He’d certainly seen his share of it in the past. And he’d done his share of whooping it up, too. But he was pretty much a teetotaler now. He wanted to prove that he could say no and knew when to quit—unlike his old man.

      “Earl asked if I’d come out and perform on Saturday night,” Carly added.

      “Good for you.”

      “Yeah, well, it’s not the big time by any means, but it’s a place to perform while I’m here.” She bit down on her bottom lip.

      Uh-oh. Ian had an idea where her thoughts were going.

      “Earl asked if I had a band,” she added. “I told him no, but that I might be able to find a guitarist.”

      “Who’d you have in mind?” He knew the answer, though, and his gut clenched.

      “You, of course.”

      Ian shook his head. “I told you I’m not a performer.”

      “You don’t know that yet—not if you don’t try it first. Come on. Help me out this once. Without you, Earl’s not going to want me.” She bit down on her lip again, then blinked at him with those little ol’ cocker spaniel eyes.

      “Don’t look at me like that.”

      Her lips parted, and her eyes grew wide. “Like what?”

      He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not your daddy who used to give in to that little sad face.”

      She slapped her hands on her denim clad hips and went from cocker spaniel to junkyard dog in nothing flat. “I’m not doing any such thing! And I never tried to work my dad like that.”

      Ian arched a brow in objection. “Come on, Carly. I saw you do it.”

      “When?”

      “That first day you met me. When your dad stopped by and found out that the old foreman had retired and Granny chose me to replace him.”

      “My dad hadn’t been happy to learn that Reuben Montoya had gone back to Mexico. And I was afraid he would do something...stupid.”

      “Like what?”

      “Chase after him, I guess. Or fire you before we had a chance to see if you could handle Reuben’s job.” She gave a little shrug. “I was only trying to change the subject and give him something else to think about. But I didn’t ‘work’ him the way you’re implying.”

      “That wasn’t the only time. And you were good at it, too. But it won’t work on me.”

      “That’s not fair, Ian. You make it sound like I’m a big flirt or a spoiled brat. And I’m neither.”

      Not by nature, he supposed. But when you grew up with an ultrarich father who thought throwing money at his kids was the same as saying I love you, it was probably hard not to try to get your way on occasion.

      “I’m not trying to offend you or stir you up. And I don’t want to thwart your chance at performing locally, but I’m not interested in playing guitar down at the Stagecoach Inn.”

      “Do you get nervous playing for a crowd?”

      “Nope.” Stage fright had never been an issue. “I just don’t want to.” That was the same reason he’d given Felicia Jamison, of country music fame, when he’d told her he was quitting the band. And she hadn’t taken it any easier then than Carly was now. But he didn’t figure he owed either of them any further explanation, although he probably should have given Felicia an earful.

      Ten years ago, Felicia had been an up-and-coming singer when she’d hired Ian to be her lead guitarist. And the fit had been magical. Felicia could really rock the house with her voice, but it was Ian’s songwriting that had helped her soar in popularity.

      Most of her fans might not have heard of Mac McAllister, but he’d still earned a name for himself within the country music industry.

      So far, no one in Brighton Valley knew who he was. Felicia had the face people would recognize. Ian had only been a member of her band, but if he put himself out in the limelight again, the greater chance he had of someone recognizing him and word of where he was getting out. And he’d been dead serious when he’d told Felicia that he was retiring.

      “Then I guess you can’t blame me if I try to change your mind,” Carly said.

      Ian wasn’t sure how she intended to go about that, but the truth of the matter was, he still found Carly as sexy as hell. And while she’d made it clear that she didn’t want their fling to start up all over again, he wasn’t so sure he felt the same way.

      * * *

      Carly had never been one to take no for an answer—especially since she hadn’t been entirely honest with Ian. Not only had Earl Tellis asked her to perform on Saturday night, but she’d already made the commitment—for both her and a guitarist.

      And since Ian could be rather stubborn, she had her work cut out for her. She also had a batch of chewy, chocolaty brownies with fudge frosting that were sure to impress the handsome cowboy. After all, hadn’t Granny said they made good bribes?

      And that was exactly what Carly hoped to use them for this evening—a bribe to soften up Ian. So after dinner she put on a pretty yellow dress and slipped on her denim jacket and a pair of boots. Then she spent a little extra time on her makeup and hair before carrying a platter of brownies to his cabin.

      Just like the night before, when she returned from the wedding, she found him sitting on his front porch, strumming his guitar. Only this time, he was playing a different tune, one that had a haunting melody, and singing the heart-stirring lyrics.

      Not surprising, she thought it was just as memorable, just as good, as the one he’d written for his grandparents.

      He stopped playing when she approached and cast her a heart-strumming smile instead.

      “Was that another new song?” she asked, assuming it was and adjusting the platter in her arms.

      “Yep.”

      Ian didn’t realize how talented he was. Not only could he play and sing, but he had a way with lyrics, too. Most musicians would give up their birthrights to be able to write songs the way he could.

      He set his guitar aside, next to where Cheyenne lay snoozing. “What do you have there? Did you bring dessert?”

      Whoever said that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach must have been spot-on. She just hoped Granny’s brownies were as persuasive as the note on the recipe suggested

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