memories to rest—here and now, once and for all.
Removing his sunglasses, he reached across the bucket seat of his car to pat his dog on the head. “Come on, Taz, let’s get this done.”
Nate got to his feet, then turned to confront his unpleasant past. The ramshackle farmhouse with its surrounding pastures, where he spent his misbegotten youth, had tumbled down on itself, like the bitter memories that avalanched over him. Nate stared at the dilapidated house that was silhouetted against the blazing orange-and-yellow sunset, where rolling hills flattened into gray, arid plains. This was the rugged landscape where Nate had grown up like a wild weed.
He flinched when the sights and sounds of that night—fifteen years ago to the day—erupted in his mind. He could almost see the flashing lights of the squad car, see the crowd of bystanders closing in around him while he was read his rights, cuffed by Sheriff Fuzz Havern and stuffed into the back seat. As if it happened only yesterday, voices exploded around Nate.
“’Bout time we got No-Account Nate out of our hair,” someone had jeered at him.
“Yeah, all he does is raise hell and howl at the moon, like the rest of the prairie wolves that prowl around Coyote Flats,” somebody else yelled smugly.
“Whaddya expect? The kid’s daddy is a jailbird, and his mama boozes it up and runs around with any man who’ll give her a second look.”
“Good riddance, loser. Now you won’t have to visit your worthless daddy in prison. You’ll be right there with him!”
The sneering comments chased one another around Nate’s head as he strode purposefully toward the run-down shack that was overgrown with weeds and sagebrush. He took one last look at the broken front steps, shattered windows and chipped paint on the wood-framed home, and he saw nothing that he was going to miss.
This was the best of his childhood memories, he thought with a snort. Hell of a childhood he’d had.
Nate reached into the pocket of his slacks to retrieve a lighter, then set the overgrown weeds aflame. The dry branches popped and crackled as orange flames consumed and devoured the shanty. A plume of dark smoke rose in the twilight, drifting down the rock-strewn hill in the light breeze.
Nate stood there, purging himself of his bad beginnings, watching his bitter memories burn to cinders. Now he owned the deed to this property that his family had rented all those years ago. Now this drafty, leaky shack was his to destroy—and rebuild. He was going to make something from nothing, something worth remembering.
Nate continued to stand there for the longest time, listening to the forlorn howls of a pack of coyotes that trotted west across the tabletop flats that were skirted by deep, winding ravines. He felt intense heat radiating from the roaring blaze that engulfed the shack and the caved-in barn that had become little more than a pile of rotted wood through the years. Smoke rolled, and flames reached up with orange-tinged fingers to claw at the gathering night.
Nate blinked back the tears that welled up in his eyes, assuring himself that it was just the pungent whiffs of smoke that caused the watery reaction.
“It’s done,” he murmured, then glanced down at his faithful companion. “Come on, Taz. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Chapter One
One year later
“Nate Channing is back in town.” John Jessup plunked down in the front booth at the Coyote Café and stared grimly at the man across from him.
Lester Brown slumped against the red vinyl headrest, his jaw scraping his chest. “The hell you say!”
“The hell I do say. Saw him with my own eyes, Lester. He climbed out of a shiny black Lincoln, wearing one of them expensive Army suits, or whatever you call ’em. He swaggered into the post office. I was still in the barber shop when he walked out and headed for the bank.”
Lester scratched his hairy chest and muttered under his breath. “Can’t believe that hoodlum has the gumption to show his face in Coyote Flats after all these years. But he won’t hang around here long, I guaran-damn-tee, not if I have anything to say about it.”
“You might not have a say, Les.” John stared grimly at the leathery-faced rancher. “According to the gossip at the barber shop, Channing is the one who bought the property and built that fancy palace on the farm where he used to live.”
Lester snorted sardonically. “Yeah, right. Like that no-account could afford that sprawling mansion that’s been under construction for nine months. Pull my other leg, why don’tcha, John.”
“No kiddin’,” John insisted. “The news broke today, right there in the barber shop. Old Sheriff Havern is the one who made the announcement that the house and land belonged to Nate Channing.”
“What!” Lester crowed as he bolted upright in his seat. “You swear?”
John bobbed his bushy gray head.
Lester swiveled his barrel-shaped body on the seat to address the other patrons in the café. “Y’all hear that? The terror of Coyote Flats is back in town. Nobody around here has to guess where he got the cash to build that ritzy house. Drug money. You can bet your bottom dollar on it. But no matter how fancy No-Account Nate dresses these days, you can’t make silk from a sow’s ear. That bad boy is bad news. Always was. Always will be.”
While the pillars of Coyote Flats society—such as they were—speculated on Nate Channing’s reasons for setting up a base of operation in his hometown, Katy Bates-Butler sat frozen in the corner booth of the café, listening to a half-dozen conversations taking place simultaneously. Memories she hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on for more than a dozen years spiraled around her, smothering her with their intensity.
Nate Channing was back in town….
Apparently, Nate had returned to Coyote Flats the same way he’d left—in an uproar.
Forbidden and doomed were the first two words that popped into Katy’s head. Lord, she thought she had adequately buried all those feelings and sensations attached to Nate Channing’s name. Yet, emotions stirred and shifted inside her. Heartache, outrage, despair…and love. Those poignant feelings were still there, churning, threatening to crumble her carefully controlled composure.
Katy clasped her trembling hands around her coffee cup, as if it was her salvation, then squeezed her eyes shut. “Nate…” she whispered shakily.
To Katy, thoughts of Nate were synonymous with a time in her life that bubbled with dreams, promise, adventure, innocence—and torment. She could almost see Nate Channing leaning leisurely against his rattletrap car, wearing a dingy white T-shirt and faded jeans. She remembered how his shaggy hair shone like a raven’s wing, how his midnight-black eyes twinkled down at her with that endearing hint of deviltry….
That boy has a heart as black as the devil’s, and he has a soul to match. That’s what Katy’s father had said—repeatedly. Stay away from that cocky juvenile delinquent. He’s bad news, nothing but trouble.
But Nate Channing hadn’t looked like trouble to Katy. He had been her forbidden first love. In some ways he represented all those defiant, rebellious feelings that Katy had experienced when dealing with a domineering father who picked her dates and friends
