as long as she could remember, it had been this way.
She parked her SUV and went inside, trying not to notice the cracked lino in the kitchen and the dull walls. A coat of paint would make all the difference.
Maybe that was how she should have spent her week off work. At least then she’d have had something to show for her efforts.
A picture on the fridge showed her mother and father during happier times—Regan was sentimental and liked keeping such things. That was back before children had been on the scene and her father had been gainfully employed at his father’s oil and gas company in Dallas.
Drinking and gambling—once only occasional dalliances—had become a way of life for her dad after her grandfather died. He’d quit his oil and gas job, sure he could live off his inheritance for the rest of his life. But by the time they moved to Coffee Creek he’d squandered almost all of his investments. He’d had just enough left to buy this small acreage outside town. The idea had been to open a bed-and-breakfast.
What a laugh.
The endeavor had never gone beyond a few scribbles on a notepad.
While her mother didn’t drink or gamble, she had her own way of coping with her husband’s foibles and that was by withdrawing into her own little world—a pretty garden and her late-night movies were all Francine Moody ever seemed to care about.
Then when Savannah was sixteen her father passed away from a diseased liver. She’d already been providing most of the care for her brother and sister. But at that point she started taking care of her mother, too.
Savannah popped a frozen pasta entrée into the microwave, then gobbled it down between sips of water. She knew she should head to town and visit her mother.
But she was feeling a pull to a different place, and since there were still several hours left to the long June day, she decided to give in to it.
Rather than get back in her truck, she decided to ride the Harley that Hunter had almost finished fixing up the last time he was home.
She’d taken it to the shop to get it road-worthy, and then bought herself a leather coat and helmet. She’d always wanted a horse—something most of her neighbors took for granted—but horses were expensive to keep and the motorcycle was a close second. She enjoyed taking it out for a spin now and then.
Thirty-five minutes later, she turned the bike off the road onto a dirt boundary access lane that divided Maddie Turner’s Silver Creek Ranch from Olive Lambert’s Coffee Creek property.
The two sisters had long been estranged—for reasons even B.J. had claimed not to understand.
For about a mile Savannah drove on a track that was almost overgrown until she came to the creek that divided the Lamberts’ property from the Turners’.
The barn sat on the Turner side of the boundary, in the middle of nowhere. Once used for branding, it was now listing to one side. Most of the wood was charred from the fire, but the rain from the storm that night had saved it from being completely destroyed.
She nudged her boot under the kickstand, then left her bike parked beside an old ponderosa pine. Wading through grass that was almost waist-high in places, she heard rustling from the willows growing close to the creek.
And then she heard the distinctive sound of a horse snorting. She moved closer to the trees, to make sure.
And there he was—a handsome black gelding, all tacked up for riding and tethered to a tree near the water. “Hey, gorgeous. Where’s your owner?”
She scanned one side of the creek then the other, before turning to inspect the barn. Just then a cowboy dressed in faded jeans and a blue shirt stepped out into the sunlight.
“Well, Sheriff. Two times in one week makes for some kind of record, doesn’t it?”
She felt her heart give a leap. What the hell was B. J. Lambert doing back in Coffee Creek?
Chapter Three
B.J. had been a rodeo cowboy for almost as many years as he’d spent growing up in Coffee Creek. He’d met a lot of women in those eighteen years. None of them had ever meant to him what Savannah Moody had.
Was it because she’d been his first girl? He’d fallen for her the moment she stepped into the classroom, already beautiful at age fifteen in an unstudied, slightly exotic way that made her stand out from the crowd. Lots of the girls in Coffee Creek were blondes or toffee-colored brunettes, while Savannah’s hair was thick, wild and nearly black.
Her eyes, smoky and dark, had a mysterious, watchful quality, and her smooth olive skin and generous, full lips sent a sultry invitation that belied her cautious nature.
Her brother had similar coloring, was also tall and naturally thin, but beyond that, the resemblance ended. Hunter had been cocky, belligerent, on the lookout for trouble. In contrast, Savannah was almost always serious, never one to break a rule or stretch a boundary.
B.J. and Savannah had dated for more than two years, and in all that time she’d never let him do more than hold her hand or kiss her modestly. At parties she’d avoided drinking and smoking, which meant she’d always been the designated driver.
Her high standards had carried over into everything she did—whether it was studying or working at a part-time job, or looking after her baby sister. His friends had teased her at first, but Savannah had remained steadfast and eventually she was accepted and even respected.
He’d wanted to marry her.
And now, looking at her as a grown woman, all those old feelings were surging again.
He’d heard her motorcycle approaching and had been watching her for a while. She looked great in a fitted leather jacket and dark jeans that hugged her long, lean physique. She was almost as tall as he was.
As she walked toward him she pulled off her motorcycle helmet and her thick hair cascaded down her shoulders. He swallowed, fighting an urge to reach out and touch.
“Find anything in there?”
He caught a whiff of a fresh orange-blossom scent as she walked past him on her way to the barn. The big doors had long since fallen to the ground, leaving a gaping opening into the building. The walls sagged to the east, so much so that he felt as if one shove would topple the entire structure.
But it was sturdier than it appeared. It had to have been to have survived this long.
“Funny thing, having a barn in the middle of nowhere.”
She’d never been here before today. And until today, he had felt no wish to revisit the place where a man had died. “It was used for branding in the spring,” he explained. “Back in the days when the Turners were big into cattle, before my grandfather died.”
“When was that?” Savannah asked.
“He had a massive stroke the year before I was born. A day later, he was gone. According to his will, the land was divided between his two daughters. Mom inherited a parcel of good grazing fields that butted up to my dad’s property. Maddie Turner was left with the rest, including the house, barn and all the
