LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Hush.” She gave him a warning glance.

      Edna’s was half filled with breakfast lingerers. Rio, being new back in town, had already drawn a good amount of interest and conversation, including, to his chagrin, an impromptu “Support our troops” rally from four ancient members of the Treetop VFW who held down a corner table every a.m. Better that, he supposed, than a rehashing of the old scandal that had converted him from local success story to just another kid who hadn’t managed to rise above his so-called station in life.

      Yet.

      “I have all the guarantee I need,” his mother said stolidly.

      “You have—” Nothing, he wanted to say, but that would upset her. Virginia truly believed that her place on the Stone ranch was secure.

      “You have me,” he amended. “I’m your guarantee.”

      “Yes, and I’m grateful for that. Having you home is all that’s important. If only…” Virginia paused, and Rio saw that she was considering how much to say. She was the practical type. She didn’t fight losing battles. Even when he’d signed up for the army, forgoing the college education she’d put such faith in, her disapproval had been muted by resignation.

      “I just wish that you hadn’t agreed to work for that woman.” His mother looked down at her capable brown hands, unadorned except for a plain gold band she wore on the ring finger of her right hand. Her “wedding” ring, he’d always assumed. “Are you sure that’s necessary?”

      “I need a place to stay and an undemanding job.”

      “There’s the money market account.” She’d taken every cent he’d given her and invested it. She called the account her grandchildren’s college fund.

      “No, I’m not touching that.” He had his own savings. He’d already dipped into the money to buy a state-of-the-art laptop computer. Although he could have also covered the cost of a room and meals for the next several months, he hadn’t been able to resist Meg’s ad. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.

      His mother tried again. “You could stay at the…”

      The invitation died on her lips, withered by Rio’s hard stare. He’d sworn he’d never step foot on the Stone ranch again. Not without an invitation. Definitely not as the bastard son of the boss’s housekeeper.

      Virginia gave in with a grim nod, though she wasn’t happy about it. “All right. But keep your distance from her, if you can.”

      “I intend to,” he said forcefully, much too aware of the old saying about the road to hell. “Remember, I have work to do.” Work that would keep him apart from Meg even if his intentions didn’t.

      “Writing. I can hardly comprehend that, either. It doesn’t seem like a real job to me.”

      “You’ve read the blog?” A couple of years ago, he’d begun writing entries for a soldiers’ group blog that had gained a large readership and quite a bit of notoriety. He’d sent his mother the Web site link from Afghanistan but she’d never really commented.

      Virginia made a face. “It was too graphic for me.”

      He smiled an apology. Much of the language had been rough, blunt. Soldiers weren’t polite. “I warned you to read only my stuff.”

      “Yours was hard to take, too. In a different way.”

      He waited, but that was all she’d say. Typical.

      “It may get worse, you know, if I’m published.”

      “Rio.” The way she said his name was like a scolding. “Please reconsider.”

      “Why? You said it yourself. I’m on my own again. Free and independent. I’ve accepted my birthright—or lack of one. Do you want me to be ashamed of who I am?”

      This was the closest he’d ever come to stating the bald truth to her face. He twisted in the leatherette booth, bringing his fist down on the table with more force than he’d meant to. The crockery rattled. He quickly quieted it. “For chrissake, Ma, this is a new century. There’s no real stigma to—”

      “That’s enough.” Color flamed his mother’s face. “Can’t you write this thing without naming names? Anonymous.”

      “This thing?” He hadn’t expected her to understand his compelling need to write his story, to leach the poison out, but he’d hoped that she’d be proud of the accomplishment, at least.

      “The book,” she said heavily.

      “It’s a memoir.”

      Her gaze slid away. “Authors use pen names. It’s not unusual.”

      He forced a negligent shrug. The blog had been written under nicknames—pseudonyms, of a sort—to protect the careers of the soldiers. It wasn’t required that he use his own name. His agent, however, had told him that being open to the publicity would be highly beneficial. As well, verification would be required.

      Verification of the truth. A truth that would devastate several people who deserved it, but also his mother. Maybe even Meg, for all that she’d put on a good front of not caring what others thought of her.

      “I’m thinking about it,” he conceded. “Or who knows? The memoir may not pan out.” He wasn’t even sure he could write a book in the first place.

      “What about fiction?”

      “I don’t think so.” There’d already been enough fiction in his life. His mother had accepted it, even perpetuated it. He wasn’t as willing.

      “What does she say?”

      “Meg and I haven’t discussed it. She doesn’t know that I’m writing a book.”

      “That won’t last, not in Treetop.”

      “We’ll see. The ranch is isolated. She doesn’t seem to have much to do with the townspeople.”

      “Like her father.”

      Rio had never thought of Meg as antisocial. But she wasn’t an ordinary girl, either. She was hard to know, difficult to get along with. Except when it came to the two of them, relating one-on-one. Their friendship had deep roots. The love was more complicated, especially after she’d rejected him the last time.

      The real last time, he’d decided then, as she skipped town with another guy. That resolution had been easier to keep with thousands of miles between them.

      Now, she was already working her way under his skin, into his blood. The old desires were tugging at him.

      But, no, he wouldn’t take her back. Not again. Even in the unlikely event that she offered. If nothing else, the memoir would prevent that.

      “I don’t trust her,” Virginia went on. “She’ll get you into trouble. Again.”

      “I’m responsible for my own actions, Ma.”

      Virginia gave an inelegant snort. “Responsible for hers, too.”

      “Her name is Meg. You used to like her, or at least you tried to befriend her.”

      “She was young then. A skinny child with no mother, growing up practically wild. I felt sorry for her.”

      “That didn’t change just because she got older.” Older, but also tougher, wilder, even more daring. Sometimes, she’d scared even Rio.

      Primarily, she’d confused him. He’d been dealing with his own adolescent turmoil. He hadn’t been equipped to handle the strange new way that Meg made him feel, with her ripening body and her growing awareness of how boys, even men, reacted to her.

      Virginia was still fretting. “She’ll be a distraction for you.”

      Rio looked out the window. Sure enough. A charge went

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