to him, telling him they were from Chicago, but lying was not only necessary, it was positively vital to survival.
She had invented a story for herself that she intended to adhere to. The story was that she was a widow from Chicago who had left the windy city because it held too many painful memories of her husband. A husband who, in reality, had never existed.
Sighing, she wrapped her arms around herself and for just a moment allowed herself the luxury of imagining what it would be like to be held through the night in strong, male arms. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what it felt like to have male lips touching hers in a combustible kiss. Oh, how she used to love to kiss!
She snapped her eyes open, recognizing that she was indulging in a perverse game of self-torture. Those days and nights of Ken were gone, lost beneath family tragedy, lost because he had turned out to be less than half the man she’d believed him to be.
Ken was gone from her life, and there would be no more men for her. The most important things in her life were the two children sleeping in the house where she intended to make a home.
Draining her coffee, she stood and went into the silent house. Although it was still early, she decided to go to bed. Luke had said he’d begin work on the porch early in the morning, and she was exhausted.
She entered her bedroom and stifled a moan as she saw the chaos. Since arriving here, all the unpacking had been done in the kids’ rooms, the living room and kitchen. Little had been done in this room.
Boxes were everywhere, and clothes spilled out of an open suitcase on the floor. The only items she’d unpacked were the sheets that were on the bed, her alarm clock that sat on the nightstand and a colorful porcelain hummingbird that was also on the nightstand.
She sank on the edge of the bed and picked up the hummingbird, the delicate porcelain cool beneath her fingertips. It had been a birthday present two years ago, given to her by her older sister.
“You always accuse me of flitting around like a hummingbird,” Loretta had said. “So, I figured I’d give this to you and whenever you look at it you can think of me.”
Abby’s vision blurred with tears as she set the figurine on the nightstand. She couldn’t think of Loretta. She didn’t have time for grief, didn’t have the energy for mourning. The best thing she could do was carry on, remain strong, and that’s exactly what she intended to do.
She undressed and got into her nightgown, then turned off the light and slid beneath the sheets. The moonlight poured through the window and painted silvery streaks on the bedroom walls.
The moon seemed much bigger, much brighter here in Inferno, Arizona, like a giant benign night-light chasing away the deepest darkness of the night. She hoped it would keep the bogeyman away.
As always, just before she closed her eyes, she prayed. “Please…please don’t let him find us,” she whispered fervently. “Please don’t let Justin find us.”
Justin.
Her personal bogeyman.
The man they’d been running from for the past eleven months. If he found them, then he would destroy them. If he found them, then all would be lost.
Chapter 2
For the thirty-sixth day in a row, Luke woke up stone-cold sober. He opened his eyes and waited for the familiar banging in his head to begin, anticipated the nasty stale taste in his mouth.
Then he remembered. He didn’t drink anymore.
He sat on the edge of his bed and looked around. There was no denying it, without the hazy, rosy glow of an alcoholic buzz, the room where he lived in the back of the Honky Tonk looked grim.
The room was tiny and held the battle scars of a thousand previous occupants. It boasted only a single bed, a rickety nightstand and chest of drawers and its own bathroom.
He’d taken the room because he’d wanted to be off the family ranch and because most nights he worked at the Honky Tonk, playing his guitar and singing and, until a little over a month ago, drinking too much.
Until a little over a month ago he’d thought he’d had a perfect life. He’d had his music and he’d had his booze and there had been nights when he hadn’t been sure what was more important to him.
It had taken a crazy deputy trying to kill his sister, Johnna, to change Luke’s life.
Luke had stumbled into the scene of the almost crime and, had he not immediately beforehand downed a couple of beers, he might have realized Johnna was in trouble. But, with reflexes too slow and a slightly foggy brain, Luke had become a victim, as well. He’d been knocked unconscious, and it had been up to somebody else to save not only Johnna, but Luke, as well.
He’d awakened in the hospital with a concussion and a firm commitment to change his life. He was twenty-nine years old, and it was time to get his life together. And part of that new commitment included no more drinking, and working hard at his carpentry business, buying time until he could leave Inferno behind forever.
But making the choice to change his life and actually doing it were two different things. There wasn’t a moment of the day that went by that he didn’t want a drink, had to consciously fight the seductive call of a bottle of Scotch or whiskey.
He gazed at the clock on the scarred nightstand. After seven. He’d shower, dress and get right out to the Graham place to start work. Old Walt Macullough, who owned the lumberyard, liked to get his deliveries done early, before the infamous Inferno heat peaked midday.
It wasn’t until he was standing beneath a hot spray of water that he remembered the dreams he’d had the night before. Crazy dreams…erotic dreams of a dark-haired woman with sexy spring-green eyes.
He adjusted the temperature of the water to a cooler spray as his memories of the dream hiked his body temperature higher. In the dream he and Abigail had been splendidly naked and locked in an intimate embrace.
His fingers tingled with the imaginary pleasure of stroking her silky skin, tangling in her length of rich, thick hair. And in his dream her sexy, husky voice had cried out with pleasure as he’d taken complete and total possession of her.
Crazy. He shut off the water and grabbed a towel, shoving away the sensual imaginings. All the crazy dreams proved only that he’d been incredibly physically attracted to Mrs. Abigail Graham, but he certainly didn’t intend to follow through on his attraction. After all, she was a married lady, and Luke had never and would never mess with any woman who was married.
But one thing was certain. Luke loved women. Maybe it was because his mother had died when giving birth to Luke’s sister, Johnna. Luke had only been a year old.
He’d been raised by a parade of housekeepers, most of whom had stayed only for a month or two before being driven away by Luke’s father. Adam Delaney had been a son of a bitch, and keeping household help had been a real problem.
The result was that women entranced Luke. He liked the way they smelled, the feel of their soft skin. He was fascinated by the way their minds worked, but that didn’t mean he wanted to bind himself to any woman for anything remotely resembling forever.
Within minutes he was in his truck and headed for the Graham place, pleased to have a big job to keep him busy
