but scrub and dust and cactus beyond the faded sign announcing the town limits.
Pulling in to the only motel, Taylor parked the truck and shut it off. With a weary sigh she momentarily rested her head on the steering wheel, her back throbbing with the strain of sitting first in the plane and then in the vehicle for so long. The shooting had left its mark on her in a lot of different ways, but one painful reminder was a nagging backache if she didn’t stretch and move around frequently. After a moment’s uneasy rest, she opened the door and slowly stepped out into the darkness.
The air was cool and biting, a pleasant surprise after Houston, especially when she breathed deeply and realized it carried a hint of cedar and wood smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled.
She made her way to the office of the motel. A sleepy clerk, his name tag crooked, his face confused, answered the buzzer and ten minutes later, Taylor had a room. Worn and less than fashionable, it was at least clean. Closing the curtains, she stripped, showered and fell into bed.
She was too tired to even dream.
COLE REYNOLDS HEARD the truck approaching long before he saw it. He was sitting on his porch cleaning his rifle and the mountain air brought the engine’s whine to his ears a full twenty seconds before his eyes found the telltale cloud of dust marking the vehicle’s progress. By the time the black Blazer pulled up into his yard, Cole had the .30-06 reassembled and tucked behind his rocking chair, no trace of it or the cleaning materials anywhere in sight.
He waited patiently to see who emerged from the unfamiliar vehicle. He didn’t recognize the Blazer, and its darkened windows gave him no hint. Whoever was behind the wheel was looking for him, though, of that he was sure. No one drove this far without knowing he was at the end of the road.
The door slowly opened. He caught a glimpse of blond hair and one stretched-out leg—long and slim—then the driver rounded the truck and came toward him. He hadn’t seen the woman in two years and the last time he had, she’d been covered in bandages and bruises. But he would have recognized Taylor Matthews anywhere.
His chest tightened, and he found himself gripping the arms of the rocker, a low, dull pain throbbing in his hip and resonating upwards. Ignoring the sensation, as he always did, he pushed himself up. By the time she reached the bottom step, he was staring down at her.
She looked as good as he remembered. Glittery and golden and polished, like the pebbles he sometimes found near the Rio Diablo. Fool’s Gold, he reminded himself.
He spoke pleasantly, hiding all his reactions. “Miz Matthews—what a surprise. What’s brought you back to this part of the world?”
She stood in a pool of sunshine, her green eyes taking in his house, his truck to one side, even his dog lying on the rug by the front door before she spoke. “I’ve decided to sell the ranch.”
Her answer was as direct as his question. No niceties, no preliminaries, no small talk. He started to reply, but she spoke again. “Before I sell, I want to go out one more time. To the...to the place it happened. Will you take me?”
If she’d walked up on the porch and punched him in the stomach, he wouldn’t have lost his breath any faster. For a single long moment, he stared at her, the midday warmth rising between them, a fly buzzing against the screen door, then he spoke. “No.”
He turned around and walked slowly to his door. Before he could open it, she spoke from behind him.
“That’s it? Just no?”
He didn’t bother to turn around. “That’s it,” he answered. “Just no.” Opening the screen door, he stepped inside the cabin. The sudden dimness was such a change from the outside, he blinked, his vision going dark for just a second. By the time it returned, her steps were sounding on the wooden porch and she was speaking to him through the screen.
“Can I at least come in and try to convince you?”
He turned then, slowly, almost awkwardly. She was a shadow behind the screen, a disembodied voice. “There’s nothing you could say that would change my mind, but you can come inside and waste your breath if you want to.”
Without waiting to see what she did, he made his way to the small kitchen tucked in one corner of the house. Opening the refrigerator, he heard the screen door creak, followed by the sound of her boots on the floor. He didn’t look back. “Beer?” he called out.
“That’d be nice,” she answered.
Taking two Coronas from the refrigerator, he opened them both, then walked back to the den and over to the desk where she was standing. He handed her one of the cold, clear bottles, then brought his own to his mouth. When he lowered it, the beer was all but gone.
In the dimness, her green eyes glowed.
“I want to go back,” she said softly. “I have to.”
Despite himself, he asked, “Why?”
She hesitated for only a moment. “I’ve never turned loose of it. Never said goodbye. It’s time for me to move on with my life, and I can’t seem to do that without taking care of this first.”
“Time to move on...” Her choice of words intrigued him. She was the one who’d fled. He’d stayed. Every day he drove by the entrance to her ranch. Every day he led strangers into the land surrounding it. Every day he dealt with the ragged pain in his hip.
“Richard Williams—my husband’s partner—has asked me to marry him,” she said. As if that explained everything. “I promised him I’d...think about it but I had to come out here first.”
He saw it now—the wink of an enormous diamond on her left hand. She’d worn a plain gold band before. Funny how he remembered that, but he could see the ring as if it’d been yesterday—those pale, long fingers lying on the white sheets of the hospital bed, the gold glinting dully. It’d felt cold against his own hand when he’d covered her fingers with his.
“Congratulations,” he said.
She looked startled by his answer, her eyes rounding for an instant before she shuttered her expression. “Thank you.”
He turned around and sat down heavily in the old recliner beside the couch. She continued to stand by the desk.
He spoke to break the silence, his voice was raspy in the quiet. “How you feeling? Everything heal okay?”
He watched as her fingers went to her upper arm. It was an unconscious movement, he was sure, because she merely touched her shoulder then dropped her hand back to her side. “I went through a lot of physical therapy,” she answered. “It was...hard.”
The word seemed unsatisfying to her. She pursed her lips and stared at him, then spoke again, this time telling him the truth because they were both survivors and he’d understand. “Actually, it hurt like hell. I didn’t think I’d make it.”
He nodded. Nothing else was necessary.
She sat down on the couch, the springs protesting her weight. “Why won’t you take me?”
He drained his beer and set the bottle on the floor beside the chair. The decision to lie to her was an easy one because it wouldn’t have been a
