door quietly shut.
Dana let him go and swung around to put herself between him and Petra’s door. Chin up, she stared at him, breathing hard. “Get out of my house this…minute.”
Startling white against the tan, a reluctant smile flickered across his hard face. “Good for you,” he said simply, then turned away…
To open the next door down the hall—Sean’s room! Dana pressed a hand to her throat, swallowed, then charged after him. But—thank you, God—Sean hadn’t returned.
The stranger stood in the center of Sean’s bedroom, surveying the posters pinned to the wall—surly rock groups and a surfer shooting a blue-green pipeline at Maui. The desk piled high with books and camera accessories. Discarded shirts and jeans draped over the chair and the top of the closet door.
“Get out.” Dana bared her teeth. She supposed she could run uphill and ask her wrangler, Tim, for help, if by any miracle he was home on a Saturday night. Or run downstairs and phone the sheriff. But no way would she leave Petra to do either.
“You’re his sister, I reckon?” the man murmured, without turning.
“His stepmother.”
His dark head snapped around, and the blue eyes reassessed her, a quick head-to-toe appraisal. She crossed her arms over her breasts and glared back at him. Why the surprise? “And who the hell are you?”
“Rafe Montana.” He brushed past her and stalked out the door, headed for her bedroom.
“He’s not here,” she hissed, bracing her hands against the doorjamb and leaning after him. “Can’t you see?”
He stood there, looking down at the big brass bed that she’d shared with no man for fourteen months and thirteen days. The soft, rumpled down comforter that was no substitute for Peter’s living warmth.
“So where is he?” Montana turned to take in the rest of her room.
She felt his eyes touch the books stacked on her bedside table, testimony to all the nights she could not sleep; the vase of blue columbines on the wide windowsill; the bottles of perfume on her dresser, which she hadn’t uncapped for more than a year—and she felt as if he’d run his hands across her body. You trespasser. She stamped her foot to reclaim his attention. “I’m not about to tell you, when I don’t know what you want. When you barge in here like a—a maniac!”
“That’s about how I feel,” he said, swinging to face her. Two long strides and he towered above her. “I’m Zoe’s father.”
“Who’s Zoe?”
“Who—” His eyes narrowed with rage. “You don’t know?”
She shook her head wordlessly. His daughter. He was no longer a maniac, but an outraged…father. And he wants Sean. Her hand rose of its own accord to her lips. My Sean?
“Uh-huh,” Montana said dryly, as if she’d spoken her thought aloud. “And where’s his father?”
“He’s…not here, either.” Montana might seem somewhat more human, claiming a daughter, but still, no way was Dana admitting she didn’t have a man to back her. “He should be home any minute.”
“Sooner the better.” Montana walked out of her bedroom, glanced through the open door to the empty bathroom, then headed back down the hall.
Hands clenched, Dana tagged at his heels. “If you would just tell me what this is about—”
“He’s around here someplace, isn’t he?” Montana growled, descending the stairs. “You thought he was in his room. So…” He walked through to the kitchen again, then out the back door.
She caught up with him on the deck. He stood with big hands on his lean hips, staring up the slope toward the corral and the barn. A light shone through the cottonwoods from one of the cabins along the creek. “Where is he, Mrs. Kershaw? In the barn? Or—what’s that house beyond—the bunkhouse?”
“One of the guest cabins. But if you barge in on my dudes, I’ll call the sheriff and have you arrested, so help me God. Now, tell me—” She stopped with a gulp as a thought hit her. “Oh…” She drifted past him, down the two steps to the gravel where her old pickup should have been parked. Turned a slow circle of bewilderment.
Montana joined her, glanced down at the ruts made by the tires, and swore. “Where’s he gone?”
“I…don’t know.” At fourteen, Sean had no license yet. Peter had allowed him to drive the truck on their property, and though Dana didn’t entirely approve, she hadn’t dared revoke that privilege after Peter was gone. Sean had extended his range without asking, she’d noticed this last six months, to include the private road out as far as the highway. But he wouldn’t dare—“Did you pass an old pickup on your way in from the public road?”
“I passed nobody.”
Which meant, she supposed, that Sean had already departed. Or fled, she realized, staring up at Montana. He knew you were coming! That phone call during supper.
“Where would he be on a Saturday night, Mrs. Kershaw? Down in Trueheart at one of the bars?”
“Sean?” She laughed incredulously. “Of course not!”
He stepped closer, till they stood almost toe to toe. “You haven’t a clue where your punk is, do you, lady? I guess I should have expected that. Running wild…”
Insults on top of invasion, and the truth in his charge only made it sting more. She tipped up her chin. “And I suppose you know precisely where your daughter is this minute, huh?” What was she supposed to do? Keep a fourteen-year-old boy who outweighed her by twenty pounds—who barely could stand the sight of her—on a leash? She was doing the best she could!
“You better believe I do,” Montana said coolly. “Zoe’s locked in her bedroom without even a phone for company. And that’s where she’ll stay till I thrash this out.”
A tyrant, on top of all else! Dana paired two fingers and jabbed them directly into his second shirt button—it was like prodding warm stone. “Thrash what out?” Please, not what I’m thinking. This had to be some sort of ridiculous mistake. Perhaps he had the wrong Sean.
They both jumped as, inside the kitchen, the phone rang. Montana caught her arms and moved her aside with a gentleness that belied his temper. She stood for a moment, blinking, strangely undone by the sensation of a man’s hands upon her—it had been so long—then spun and went after him. She saw him lift her phone to his ear. “Don’t you dare!”
“She’s right here,” Montana said in response to the caller’s question, then handed her the receiver with ironic courtesy.
“Mrs. Kershaw?” inquired a male voice. “This is Colorado State Trooper Michael Morris calling, ma’am. Do you have a son named Sean?”
“Oh, God!” Not Sean, too! Slowly she sagged against the counter. No, no, oh, no. She was dimly aware that Montana had set one broad hand on her shoulder, steadying her, and that he’d tipped his head down close enough to hear the trooper’s voice. His temple brushed her hair.
“Oh,
