LITMIR.BIZ

      MARY LYNN BAXTER

      A native Texan, Mary Lynn Baxter knew instinctively that books would occupy an important part of her life. Always an avid reader, she became a school librarian, then a bookstore owner, before writing her first novel.

      Now Mary Lynn Baxter is an award-winning author who has written more than thirty novels, many of which have appeared on the USA Today list.

      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

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      One

      He wondered if she still lived here.

      Denton Hardesty scoffed at his thoughts of his old girlfriend as he braked his BMW at the first and only stoplight in Ruby, Texas. He couldn’t believe he’d been born in this one-horse town and lived here until he’d left for college. But Ruby had been his parents’ home; he’d had no choice.

      Thank heavens he had a choice now. Dallas, the city he called home, was a far cry from this quaint little tourist town with its bed-and-breakfast lodgings, antique and gift shops. Too quiet to suit him. As soon as he finished his meeting with his prospective client, regardless of whether a deal was cemented, he would hit the road again, back to Big D.

      When he heard a truck honk from behind Denton realized he’d been camped at the light. Muttering under his breath, he shoved down on the accelerator only to have the engine sputter, then quit completely.

      A few choice words escaped his lips as he watched the truck swerve around him, a killer look on the driver’s face. So, all of Ruby wasn’t that laid-back. With dark amusement, Denton found that somewhat comforting as he restarted the BMW. It died on him again directly in front of a service station, the old-fashioned kind where a sign said owner/mechanic on duty—only in Small Town, USA.

      The owner came out immediately, wiping his greasy hands on an equally greasy rag. He smiled, showing off crooked teeth stained with tobacco. “Howdy, need some help?”

      Denton figured that went without saying but refrained from stating the obvious, keeping his impatience on a short leash. “My engine’s giving me trouble. Mind if I leave it here until the dealership can come get it?”

      “Don’t mind at all, only how ’bout I take a look at it?”

      Denton eyed the tall, lanky man with suspicion. “You know something about foreign cars?”

      “Use to work on ’em, especially these.” The man nodded toward the sleek black vehicle.

      Somehow Denton believed him, even though it seemed unlikely anyone who knew how to work on BMWs would be stuck running a one-man station. But stranger things had happened, he reminded himself ruefully.

      “Maybe it’s just something minor, and I can have you on your way real soon,” the attendant pointed out. “If not, you can call the dealer and nothing will be lost.”

      Except my valuable time, Denton thought, irritated beyond measure. Curbing his impatience, he made a gesture and said, “Be my guest. See what you can do.”

      “By the way, my name’s Raymond.”

      “Denton Hardesty.”

      Raymond stuck out his grimy hand. Then, as if seeing the look on Denton’s face, jerked it back and gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry, it’s still a bit greasy.”

      “No problem,” Denton muttered, clearly distracted.

      “You just passing through?” Raymond asked, his head cocked to one side.

      Denton wasn’t about to indulge in small talk, not when he had much bigger fish to fry. Besides, for a spring day it was hotter than hell, and he didn’t want to be wet with sweat when he met with his client. “Yeah, you might say that.”

      For once Raymond didn’t comment.

      “Is there someplace cool where I can get a cup of coffee while I wait?” Denton asked.

      Raymond nodded toward a bed-and-breakfast. “Across the street.”

      “Thanks,” Denton said, turning and heading in that direction. The first thing about the two-story colonial style mansion that caught his attention was the lovely grounds: manicured lawns, landscaped flower beds, lilacs and big oak trees, and annual beds that flanked the walkway and proudly lined the front of the porch.

      The colors of the mixed annuals were so vivid they

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