LEAVES FLOATED DOWN like rain and littered the path with bright color, red and aspen gold. The air had a crisp bite to it, clean and fresh, the scent of autumn. Above, the sky was cloudless, a pure Wyoming blue.
Perfect training weather.
Becca “Bex” Stuart flashed by another runner with a nod. The trail was busy on this Saturday morning. Mustang Creek had put in a series of municipal paths specifically for walking, biking and running, and the money had, in her opinion, been well spent. She sure took advantage of her tax dollars every chance she got.
Just a light run. That was her goal this fine morning. Luckily, Bex had access, thanks to her business, to the finest athletic equipment available, so she could get an accurate time. The upcoming marathon was the usual 26.2 miles, and her strategy was to gradually work up to that. And then she’d begin tapering down. By next Saturday she should be ready.
Her friends thought she was insane.
From experience, because this wasn’t her first endurance race, Bex knew they could be right. Mile nineteen was where you just wanted to chuck it all and quit, but if you got past it...you were home free.
Her phone, clipped to her shorts, beeped.
A text.
She could read it as she ran; however, she couldn’t answer, not without stopping, and she wasn’t going to stop now.
It was from one of her best friends, Melody, recently married, so now Mrs. Spencer Hogan.
Meet us at the ranch for lunch? Hadleigh and I want to talk to you.
It was, according to her high-tech pedometer, a manageable time frame as long as they meant around noon. She was able to type K without breaking stride.
There was definitely a shower in her future before she sat down with other human beings to eat—as a favor to them. Despite the cool temperature, Bex was perspiring, as she should be, or she wasn’t trying hard enough.
“Bex? Bex Stuart?”
Male voice. Familiar.
The sound jarred Bex out of her endorphin haze, brought the world around her back into focus.
She’d just reached the second loop around Pioneer Park, and the place was filled with small, noisy kids celebrating life in general. The male voice belonged to Tate Calder, she saw with dismay, his two young sons among the crowd of children crawling all over the playground equipment.
Tate looked, as usual, put together and handsome with his clean-cut features, wavy chestnut hair and dark eyes. He wore a leather jacket and nice jeans, while she was arrayed in the scruffiest outfit she owned—and, naturally, sweaty, as well.
Great.
“Hi,” she said. Not exactly brilliant, but polite at least. A little breathless, Bex ran in place, her body on autopilot. Keep that heart rate up.
Not that it was a problem. Just looking at this man seemed to have an aerobic effect on her.
She’d encountered Tate two or three times before, since he was a friend of Hadleigh’s husband, Tripp, both men having flown for the same company as charter pilots back in the day, before Tripp decided it was time to sell the firm and come home to Mustang Creek.
Tate’s dark eyes were amused, missing nothing. “How’ve you been?”
“Good.” Now there was a snappy answer. Yes, she was on a conversational roll, all right, a regular genius with words.
Tate grinned. “You seem to be in a hurry, so I won’t hold you up. Tripp tells me you’re training for a marathon.” A
