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Amy, blond and pretty, was dealing with the changes in her own way. She’d always been a thoughtful, tenderhearted child. Was this onset of brattiness an attempt to hide her feelings, or was she just moving into her teen years a little early?

Never mind, Kylie told herself. She needed a break, and her children would be fine here without her. She could see Henry over by the barn, staying close enough to keep an eye on them without getting in their faces. A good man, Henry Samuels. He’d been working on this little farm for as long as Kylie could remember. She knew she could count on him.

Only as she settled into the driver’s seat and started the station wagon did Kylie realize how tired she was. For the past nineteen months, since Brad’s death, she’d done her best to put a brave face on things—dealing with her own grief and the children’s, struggling to make ends meet on her widow’s benefit, looking for a job and failing to find one, packing the station wagon and driving two grumpy youngsters all the way from California to Texas.

Right now, all she wanted was to crawl into a warm, safe bed, burrow under the quilts, and then sleep around the clock. But she couldn’t even think about resting—not with Christmas almost here and so much to be done.

At least she wouldn’t have to shop for gifts. She’d ordered everything online from a company that guaranteed Christmas delivery. Since she’d used Muriel’s address, the packages should be arriving any day now. She had sweaters, computer games, and new phones for the children, as well as a warm cashmere shawl for Muriel and new leather gloves for Henry.

The seven-mile road to town cut a straight line across flat pastureland, dotted here and there with clustered trees and buildings that marked farms or small ranches. Beef cattle, more black Anguses these days than the red-coated Herefords Kylie remembered, grazed in the fields. Aside from that, not much appeared to have changed. Driving down Main Street, on her way to Aunt Muriel’s, she’d noticed the new strip mall with a supermarket, a craft shop, and a chain pizza parlor. But the bones of the town—the schools, churches, and modest homes—were much the same as when she’d left for college, where she’d met Brad and married him at nineteen.

But just because she’d come home didn’t mean she had to live in the past. Turning on the car radio, she fiddled with the dial until she found the only clear station, which played country-music oldies—one more thing that hadn’t changed.

Hank Miller’s feed store was on the way into town. She would buy the Christmas tree first. If it wouldn’t fit in the back of the station wagon, maybe Hank could tie it on the top. She’d wanted a nice, fresh bushy pine, but she would settle for whatever she could get. When she’d packed for the move, she’d boxed the precious decorations that went back to the children’s babyhood, one for each year of their lives. Putting them on the tree again would make Aunt Muriel’s two-story clapboard house seem more like home.

Singing along with Elvis’s “Blue Christmas,” she pulled up to the tree lot.

The song died in her throat.

The makeshift fence was still rigged around the tree lot. Pine needles and a few broken branches littered the ground. Aside from that, the lot was empty. A sign on one of the posts read,
SOLD
OUT
.

Kylie struggled to ignore the dark knot in her stomach. She couldn’t just give up. The tree was too important. Maybe the market would have a few. They might be more expensive, but she was desperate enough to pay any price.

Still hopeful, she pulled into the crowded Shop Mart parking lot. The place was busy this afternoon—most likely with folks stocking up for the storm or buying extra food for Christmas. Kylie drove along the rows of parked cars, SUVs, and pickups, looking for an empty spot. Every space was filled. But on her second time through, she saw a woman loading groceries into the back of a van. With impatient drivers honking behind her, Kylie waited. When the van pulled out, she swung into the parking place. So far, so good. She grabbed her purse and climbed out of the station wagon. Maybe luck would be with her this time.

But she saw no Christmas trees in front of the store. If they’d ever been here, they were gone. As a last resort, Kylie asked a clerk about boxed artificial trees. There were none. For a moment, she weighed the wisdom of driving to the next big town, sixty miles to the north. But there was no guarantee she’d find a tree there, either. And with the sky already darkening, she didn’t want to be caught on the road when the storm swept in.

At least the store had plenty of provisions. Kylie found a hickory-smoked ham and some potatoes and carrots to save for Christmas dinner. She also stocked up on the children’s favorite cereals and the mac-and-cheese mix they liked. They’d need all the basics—including milk, eggs, butter, sugar, juice, bread, pancake mix, syrup, and bacon, as well as tuna, mayonnaise, lettuce, and pickles for sandwiches. As an afterthought, she slipped some Christmas candy and small trinkets in with the essentials. Aunt Muriel had offered free rent, but that didn’t include free groceries. Kylie would provide the food, and she planned to do most of the cooking—if she could figure out that blasted stove.

With her cart piled high, she headed for checkout. The efficient cashier was too young to remember her. All to the good. Kylie wasn’t in the mood to chat about the old days. All she wanted was to get out of here and get home. Maybe Henry or Muriel would have some idea where to get a tree.

By the time she’d loaded the back of the station wagon, a line of cars had formed behind the pickup driver who’d stopped to wait for her parking place. Horns were honking; tempers were flaring. Kylie did her best to hurry as she shut the tailgate and piled into the driver’s seat. Only as she shifted into reverse and checked the side mirror did she see the problem. The pickup driver, a flustered-looking old man, had gone a few inches too far before stopping. If she backed straight out, her wagon would hit his front bumper.

With vehicles jammed in close behind him, there was no room for the old man to back up. The sensible thing would have been for him to drive ahead and give the spot to the next car. But either he hadn’t thought of that or he wasn’t willing to give up. He sat there with his hands on the wheel and his jaw set in a stubborn line.

The honking had risen to a clamoring din. Kylie willed herself to stay calm. Maybe if she swung the wagon’s rear end hard to the right, she could back out of the parking space without hitting the truck.

Twisting the steering wheel, she eased down on the gas pedal. Hallelujah, it was working! The wagon inched backward, missing the truck’s bumper by a finger’s breadth. Sweating beneath her fleece jacket, she pulled out of the parking place. But she was still in trouble. Her vehicle was cross-blocking the way between two rows of parked cars. To get clear, she would need to make a sharp quarter-turn, and there was barely any room.

She steeled her nerves, checked her side mirrors and began a cautious backing-and-filling motion, working the car around in a counterclockwise direction. Some of the waiting cars had begun to honk at her, but she was almost there. One more maneuver should do it. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place and back on the road.

But she should have known this wasn’t her lucky day. Backing up for the last time, she felt a slight bump of resistance. Then, from behind her wagon, she heard the awful crunch of twisting, folding metal.

Kylie’s stomach lurched. She hit the brake and switched off the ignition. Legs shaking, she climbed out of the car. People had turned to look, but nobody was screaming or calling for the paramedics. It couldn’t be too bad, she told herself. She’d barely been moving. If she’d caused a fender bender, her insurance would pay for it.

At first, she couldn’t see what she’d hit. Then, as she walked around to the back of her vehicle, there it was. Her heart dropped.

Crumpled against the rear of her station wagon was the ruined front end of a vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

Chapter Two

“Y
ou’d better get outside, Shane! Some damn-fool woman’s backed into your bike!”

At the bag boy’s words, Shane Taggart abandoned his cart in the coffee aisle and made a beeline for the front entrance of the store.
Not the bike,
a voice in his head shrilled.
Anything but the bike!

Shane had owned the 1977 Harley-Davidson Low Rider since high school—so long that, when he rode it, the lovingly maintained machine felt like part of his body. Today he’d chosen to take it on one last run before draining the tank and locking it away for the winter. Bad decision. The idiot woman had probably been gabbing on her cell phone, not paying attention when she backed out of her parking place. Whoever she was, she was damn well going to pay.

Charging outside, he scanned the parking lot. A crowd had gathered around the spot where he’d parked the bike. Traffic was backing up. Angry drivers were yelling and blasting on their horns. Shane muttered a curse. Whatever was in the middle of that mess, it was bound to be bad.

Steeling himself, he strode across the parking lot. The knot of people clustered around the accident parted to let him through. Shane was well known in Branding Iron, and even the meanest of its citizens knew better than to mess with his motorcycle. They were no doubt expecting a showdown. Shane was of a mind to give them one.

He saw the bike first. Shane bit back a groan as he surveyed the crushed front wheel, the twisted forks, the broken gauges, and the cracked windscreen. Even if the frame wasn’t bent, he’d have a major repair job on his hands—and genuine parts for a bike as old as this one were scarcer than diamonds and almost as pricey. He swore silently. Given a choice, he’d rather have broken his leg. At least bones could heal themselves.

“It was an accident. I’m sorry.” The tremulous voice was smoky-sweet, like a swig of home-brewed peach brandy.

“ ‘Sorry’? Isn’t it a little late for that?” Shane glowered down at her. She was petite, five-three at most, with short, strawberry blond curls and wide bluebonnet eyes. She wasn’t a local—he’d have noticed her before now if she had been. Something about her did look vaguely familiar. But never mind. Experience had taught him that it was easier to be mad at a pretty woman than at a plain one. And he was mad as hell.

“Why didn’t you look where you were going?” he growled. “Those rearview mirrors aren’t just for putting on your lipstick.”

Her posture stiffened. Her eyes flashed. “How can you say that? You don’t even know what happened.”

“I can see what happened.” Shane knew he’d crossed a line, but he was in no mood to apologize. The vintage Harley had been his pride and joy. Now the front end of it was a twisted mess. He didn’t even have a way back to his ranch.

“Fine,” she snapped. “We can have a civilized conversation about this or you can deal with my insurance company. Your choice. Here’s my card. If you want to copy the information, I can lend you a pen.”

Shane took the printed yellow card and scanned it till his eyes found what he was looking for—her name.

KYLIE SUMMERFIELD WAYNE.

He felt a jarring sensation, like getting kicked in the rump by a steer. Shane bit back a curse. No wonder she’d looked familiar. He’d shared schoolrooms with snooty little Kylie Summerfield since the year they were in Miss Maccabee’s kindergarten class.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

Her blue eyes narrowed. “Nice to see you again, too, Shane.”

Kylie had recognized him the moment he came charging out of the store. Shane Taggart, the town bad boy, who’d been suspended twice in ninth grade for smoking in the boys’ lavatory. Shane Taggart who’d been tearing around on that motorcycle, with or without a license, since his legs got long enough to reach the foot pedals.

Now he loomed above her, all lean, hard six-foot-four of him. Warring emotions flickered across his movie-star face. Years of sun and wind had burnished his chiseled features like fine leather, deepening the set of his dark, hooded eyes and adding a glint of silver to the stubble that shadowed his jaw. Dressed in jeans, muddy cowboy boots, and a black leather jacket, he looked every inch the troublemaker he’d been in high school.

He had to be Aunt Muriel’s so-called cowboy. No wonder he made her seventy-nine-year-old pulse flutter. Shane had always been a heartbreaker. One of the hearts he’d broken had been Kylie’s—and he didn’t even know it.

His gaze had returned to the smashed motorcycle. Kylie recognized it now. It was the same machine he’d had as a teenage hellion. It looked meticulously cared for. Probably worth a lot of money now. Kylie had had enough experience with insurance companies to know they weren’t inclined to pay much for vintage items. And on top of that, the sentimental value . . . Heaven save her, why hadn’t she backed into something that could just be paid for and fixed—like maybe a brand-new BMW?

“I’ll do anything I can to help,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “But first, we need a way out of this parking lot.”

She eyed the worsening traffic snarl. The old man in the pickup had taken advantage of the melee to pull into the parking place and walk into the store, leaving Kylie trapped between the wrecked motorcycle and the honking cars, which were backed up in both directions. Shane surveyed the scene, taking silent measure. Then he went into action.

“Get in your car and stay there,” he ordered her. Then he strode down the line of vehicles, talking to each of the drivers, barking instructions. Kylie couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the sound of honking horns died into silence. At his signal, the cars began to back away slowly, out of the jammed parking lane. Within minutes the lane was clear.

Kylie was free to pull away and go. But she could hardly drive off and leave Shane stranded with a wrecked motorcycle.

She got out and walked around to the back. Shane was standing next to her rear bumper, scowling down at the wreck.

“It was amazing, the way you unsnarled that traffic jam,” Kylie said.

He gave her a black look. “It’s going to take a lot more than ‘amazing’ to fix this bike.”