a dusty crossroad, somewhere on the way to Albuquerque.
He grabbed his leather duffel from the rack above his head and walked to the front of the bus, the aisle clear. None of the other passengers had chosen this destination, and after seeing the town out the window, he figured they could count themselves lucky. They were obviously on their way to more glamorous locations, like Santa Fe and Amarillo and Tulsa. A few passengers were even headed to Roswell to take in the “alien” experience.
Cameron knew exactly how those aliens felt, dropping down into a barren, almost lifeless world. He’d come from Seattle, where it rained almost every day of the year and where green, not brown, was the predominant color. He stepped off the bus and squinted up at the turquoise sky, shading his eyes with his hand. It was the only sight that assured him he was still on planet Earth.
Moments later, the bus pulled away in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. This would be home for the next six weeks, this desolate spot that looked more like the surface of the moon than a habitable location.
Why had his grandfather picked Vulture Creek? The name alone was enough to scare away most people. The challenge had been simple—in theory. His grandfather had sent his four grandsons to strange corners of the country on a quest of sorts—a quest to find out who they really were and where they belonged. Dermot was somewhere in Wisconsin, Kieran in Tennessee, Ronan in Maine, and Cameron, the eldest of the four, was banished to the middle of nowhere.
For six weeks, they were supposed carve out an existence for themselves, away from the family business and familiar surroundings. In theory, he understood his grandfather’s motives. He and his brothers had worked for the family business, Quinn Yachtworks, since shortly after their parents went missing, pitching in to do anything to make the business succeed. There hadn’t really been a choice in the matter; they’d just done it to repay their grandfather for taking them in and to stave off the grief that hung over the family like a dark cloud.
But now it was time to decide the fate of the successful company they’d helped build. An attractive offer to buy the business had come along from an interested party, and Martin Quinn had a decision to make—leave the business to his grandsons or sell and retire in luxury.
Cameron had never really thought twice about what he did for a living. He’d felt obligated to work at the family business, and he enjoyed his position as head of the design team. It suited his artistic inclinations and paid well—and it was interesting work.
It also suited his personality. He liked the solitary pursuit of the perfect design. He was in control; he made the decisions. It was a quiet life, a controlled life and one that he’d grown quite accustomed to. There were never any surprises.
So it wasn’t any wonder he thought this “vacation” was an exercise in futility. Cameron knew exactly where he belonged and what he was meant to do. He knew it from the moment he became head of his family, from the day his parents had officially been proclaimed dead. It had been his responsibility to watch over his younger brothers, to make their life with their grandfather work.
Sure, he’d had other dreams. When he was a kid, he’d wanted to become a paleontologist, like the hero in Jurassic Park. He’d fantasized about exotic locations and complicated digs, of discoveries that would turn history upside down. But he put those dreams aside for the greater good of his family.
According to their grandfather’s plan, after six weeks, he and his brothers were to return home. If they wanted to make a commitment to the company, they could. If they wanted to carve out a new life somewhere else, then all would be well. If they all chose a different life, then they’d share in the profits from the sale and build something new for themselves.
He crossed the street to the diner. He’d have a decent meal, check out the town and then buy a bus ticket for the nearest civilized city. After all, Vulture Creek was neither a hotbed of employment opportunities nor a glamorous vacation destination. Surely his grandfather didn’t expect him to live here for six weeks. He’d bide his time someplace more comfortable.
As he opened the door of the diner, a pickup truck slowly passed by. From beneath the brim of a battered cowboy hat, the driver watched Cameron with a suspicious glare. Cameron gave him a nod, but the man didn’t acknowledge the greeting. “Hospitable place,” he muttered to himself.
A bell above the door rang as Cameron entered the café. Fans hung from the high ceilings, turning slowly yet doing nothing to freshen the air. A small crowd of people was gathered around tables near the window, the remains of their breakfast still scattered in front of them. They were laughing and arguing, but Cameron ignored them and sat down at the empty counter. He glanced to the back of the diner and saw a woman sitting in a booth near the door to the kitchen, talking on her cell phone.
He relaxed on the stool and grabbed a menu, studying the prices. He had about six dollars left in cash and a pocketful of change. But his grandfather had given them all a company credit card to use, as well. He’d pull that out for lunch and then find a cheap motel room with a hot shower and a soft bed.
A middle-aged woman stepped through the swinging door, a coffeepot in her hand. She strolled up to him and set a cup in front of him. Her blue blouse was embroidered with her name—Millie. “Coffee?”
Cameron shook his head. It was too hot to drink coffee. “Ice water,” he said. “The biggest glass you have.”
“Breakfast specials are Denver omelet, blueberry waffles, and steak and eggs,” she said, observing him with a keen eye. “Lunch specials are pork enchiladas and a meat-loaf plate. We also have chicken-dumpling soup and grasshopper pie made fresh this morning. What can I get you?”
Cameron glanced at the clock above the counter. Though it was only eleven, he really didn’t feel much like breakfast. “I’ll have the meat loaf,” Cameron said. “With fries. And the soup. Do you have beer on tap?”
“Just bottles.”
“Give me a bottle of your best. And you take credit cards?”
“MasterCard and Visa,” she said.
She returned with his beer and poured it into a glass mug that looked like a cowboy boot. Cameron took a long, slow sip of it. He glanced over at the booth and silently observed the woman he’d noticed earlier. His breath caught in his throat as she turned slightly, and he coughed, the beer going down his windpipe.
Her battered straw cowboy hat had hidden her features, but she’d tipped her chin up to reveal a stunning profile. He found himself staring at her mouth as she spoke. She was younger than he’d originally thought, in her mid-twenties. And there was something different about her, something slightly exotic. His mind drifted as he thought about that mouth, the lush lips, wondering if the rest of her body was as tantalizingly sexy.
When she hung up the phone, he turned his attention back to his beer, watching her in the reflection of the mirror behind the counter. He held his breath, waiting for her to move. But when he noticed a distinct limp in her gait, he glanced back down at his beer, uneasy with his reaction to her handicap.
Though he felt sorry for her, nothing as insignificant as a limp could erase the image of perfection he found when he considered her beautiful features and her slender body. To his surprise, she sat down a few seats away and dropped her cowboy hat on the counter.
“Millie, I’m gonna grab myself a coffee,” she called toward the kitchen door, tucking a strand of raven hair behind her ear. She circled around the end of the counter and picked up a cup, then filled it from the pot.
God,
