the weight between his legs, seemingly unaware of the disruptive noise he was emitting along the quiet and peaceful streets of Shelter Valley.
A light blue Cadillac drove by. Becca Parsons—the mayor. Becca was Martha’s best friend. Ellen’s youngest sister, Rebecca, was named after her. Ellen could see the woman’s frown from a block away.
Hot-rod engines simply didn’t belong in Shelter Valley.
BLACK LEATHER DIDN’T SEEM to see the car at all. He sat there, gunning his motor with a gloved hand, unaware that within minutes Sheriff Richards would be all over him.
Or at least, right behind him, finding a reason to stop him and determine his business in town. And if that business wasn’t just passing through, Black Leather would be on the radar. The heroines of Shelter Valley—the core group of women whose strength and nurturing of each other and everyone else in town were the glue that held Shelter Valley together—would convince him so sweetly to exit their borders, he would never know the departure wasn’t his idea.
That was how it worked around here. The people of Shelter Valley would help anyone. They were compassionate. Welcoming. And anyone who didn’t emulate the town’s values and ways was encouraged to find happiness elsewhere. That’s what kept Shelter Valley what it was—a town that embraced and protected in a balance that was even enough to create a form of heaven on earth.
At least most of its residents, including Ellen, thought so.
Black Leather picked up his feet, his gaze locked straight ahead as Becca drove past. He yanked on his throttle one more time.
Ellen watched the thirty-second episode, her chest tight, and wondered at the man’s audacity. Wondered why she didn’t simply go say hello to Tory. Ask how the kids were doing during this last hot month of summer.
“Ellen? You okay, sweetie?”
Tory’s soft voice floated to Ellen from the front steps. The thirty-one-year-old stay-at-home mother looked as put together and beautiful as always.
“I’m fine,” Ellen called with easy assurance, staring down the street.
Black Leather leaned. He was turning in the opposite direction. She breathed a little easier and with a wave to her mother’s much younger friend, resumed her course down the street. As she increased her pace, Black Leather glanced her way, pinning her with a stare that struck at her core.
Then he was gone.
But the memory of him wasn’t.
The man had guts. And the seeming intelligence of someone who would house bulls in china shops. Fortunately, he was not her problem to worry about.
HE’D SPENT TIME IN MORE boring places. But Jay Billingsley couldn’t remember when. Or where. He was ready to leave. Every place and every activity the quiet desert city had to offer he’d already been to and done. And he’d been in town only twenty minutes.
Didn’t bode well for his future, since for the foreseeable part of it, he was here—living in the furnished home a few blocks from the clinic where he’d be working part-time at a job that satisfied him. He’d already made arrangements to rent the property on the edge of Shelter Valley on a month-to-month basis. The hours he wasn’t at the clinic he’d be hell-bent on completing the tasks that had forced him to come to Shelter Valley.
He’d driven by his new place. Didn’t try the key he had in his pocket because the boxes he’d had shipped weren’t due until tomorrow morning. The pool in the backyard was pristine with a rock waterfall. And there was a fire pit for grilling. For once the real thing was even better than the picture.
Really, it wasn’t Shelter Valley’s fault that he was in a rank mood. Wasn’t anybody’s fault. Not even his.
Not many guys would like being forced into distasteful situations.
Best get on with it. His life’s motto. Which was why an hour after he’d driven into—and around—his latest home base, Jay showed up at the clinic looking for Dr. Shawna Bostwick, the psychologist who had so effusively accepted his offer to practice clinical massage under her auspices. She had a small room at her clinic ready for him to use and some patients to refer to him.
“You’re Jay Billingsley?” The young woman’s shock wasn’t carefully enough disguised.
“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed his head, his hands crossed in front of him, standing the way he’d learned while waiting in the mess line during his eighteen months on the inside.
Back to the wall and cover your balls, as he privately described it. Those months had taught him other life lessons. Accept what you can’t change. Don’t expect anyone else to watch your back. Being still is the best way to assess the opposition. Adopting a subservient stance is the fastest way to disarm others’ defenses.
Eleven years on the outside and, whenever he was being negatively judged, he still reverted to the man he’d become while doing time for drug possession.
Some lessons lasted a lifetime.
“You, uh, ever been to Shelter Valley?” The pretty blonde seemed to be somewhere around his own thirty-two years.
He waited until she looked him in the eye and said, “No. I’d never heard of the place until a month ago.”
Her smile, though tentative, seemed genuine. “You might be in for a surprise.”
“I doubt it,” he said easily. Then something about her, or about the damned town, had him adding, “I’m good at what I do, Dr. Bostwick. I’m in this business because I care. Because I want to help people. You can rest assured that I won’t let you down.”
She grinned at him. “I’ve read your résumé. I’m not worried. But I do think you might want to get your hair cut. And lose the vest.”
“My only transportation is a motorcycle.” He told her what she’d find out soon enough anyway. Who would have believed he would find a Western town without a Harley dealership? Or any other signs of motorcycle ownership? “Leather deflects bugs and is more impervious to wind.”
“And the hair?”
He shrugged. He could have cut it, if he’d wanted to give a false first impression. Jay was who he was. A free spirit. A man who didn’t conform to social pressure. His hair told people that up front.
And it reminded him every single day that his freedom was in personal expression and belief, not in the making of his own laws—either moral or physical.
“It’s taken me eleven years to grow it.” That was all the explanation anyone would get.
Jay noticed the doctor’s firm backside at the tail end of the blue blouse that hung over her jeans as he followed her down the hall to his new space. The room would suit and, once his table arrived tomorrow, he would set up quickly.
He’d only been in town an hour and had already seen two very fine-looking women—a jogger and his new professional sponsor.
Too bad he wasn’t in Shelter Valley to have sex.
JAY SWAM IN THE NUDE. His temporary backyard was completely enclosed by a cement block
