Chapter One

      Slade Debolt made women sweat.

      Nothing as tame as perspire fit their reactions to the six foot two, heaven honed, bronze skinned, green-eyed cowboy. Every Saturday morning when his black pickup rolled to the hardware and feed store, every boutique owner and short order waitress in Cumberland suddenly had to step out for a bit of air.

      Slade was the type of slow gaited, slanted-down-hat and howdy ma’am dude, that gave the impression he was oblivious to all the craned necks and magazine fanning going on the other side of store windows too. His rolling saunter moved those lean hips and fine ass inside his worn Levis in ways that made church ladies blush and had the tightest lipped prudes gulping into their ice tea filled Dixie Cups. Of course all Slade was doing was ambling into the feed store, coming back out with a 100 lb sack of Red Rose over his shoulder. He could balance it there while he let the tailgate down.

      Then he’d sort of toss it down, have to shift it to fit among his other goods, which was guarantied to make the summer breeze whip back that unbuttoned white shirt with the sleeves ripped out, and send muscles rippling north, south, and everywhere else, a woman liked them.

      If it was hot enough, and it was in July in Tennessee, then he would shut the tailgate, take his hat off long enough to wipe his wrist across his brow and give them a glimpse of slightly shaggy dark wheat hair. By the time he settled his hat again, if you were real quick, the same blessing-from-God breeze would pull that shirt back enough, so that when he headed back to the driver side, you could count his six pack and catch the sun glistening off the dew between his pecs—maybe that teasing line of hair leading to the “mysteries” most women had wanted to uncover since he’d reached puberty.

      His habits were true, thankfully, and the door would stay open while he eased on his sunglasses, shook a Marlboro out of a pack and lit it, holding it in those James Dean lips, blowing a stream of smoke as he slammed the truck door closed.

      He would drive up to the bank, make a U-turn and head back out. Being the polite man he was, if you stood in that doorway, looking nonchalant enough, or rushed out to pretend you were getting in your own car, he’d turn his head, raise that hand laying out the door with the cigarette, and the closer you were the more his smooth, “Afternoon, or mornin’’ would send tingles to the right places.

      Better than a shot of espresso at the new Starbucks, that weekly dose of Slade got more husbands laid and boyfriends surprised with lunch at work, not to mention the sale of batteries tripled between the hours eight and five.

      Of course, there was always the exception, the hold out, and the one, so what? Big deal, female in town, who lied through her teeth and snorted, rolled her eyes, and took herself to the employee bathroom—to keep from everyone seeing her hyperventilate, while having a death grip on the sink.

      That was Casey Roark. Twenty-six, five foot three, short strawberry hair, straight, sleek to her multi-pieced ears, and brandy eyes—freckles, although the skin was nice, smooth and tanned. Yes, redheads do tan.

       However, Casey was an exceedingly late bloomer. She had been one of those kids with glasses, braces and every plaguing affliction that could be cursed down on a girl in a small town. She’d changed all that at sixteen when she’d fled Cumberland, high school hell, and not a soul noticed she was gone—except the snobs and bullies.

      She was not shooting for California thin and perfect when she’d left. No, she had her list, and by God, she had worked through it. Okay, so she had got her teeth straight, mastered contacts and worked on her brain too, well enough to get jobs that gave her confidence, made her interact with the public and put herself out there, while waiting for nature to help the transformation along. She had it together now. In this part of the US where some junk in the trunk was an asset, and breasts were supposed to move naturally, she filled out her low rise jeans and could wear clinging tops without freaking if a strip of tanned belly showed.

      Hell, she had tattoo. Not exactly a daring new thing, but for the spelling bee champion with an overbite, who had milk cartons poured on her head—it was hell yezz.

      Tuning on both faucets, Casey splashed water on her face, and cleavage, using a finger to fix her mocha eyeliner while she took some breaths to relax her cinched stomach muscles.

      How the hell was she supposed to know who Slade Debolt was after all those years—it wasn’t like they were in the same universe when she 0 to 16. Her father had been the town accountant, the church deacon, her Mama had run off before she could remember her, and Slade was at least six years older. Boys then, the male sex with their ideal woman list, had been the spawn from hell.

      Was she supposed to know the night she’d rolled back into Cumberland in a Pontiac G-6 with her worldly possessions in her trunk, a Tim McGraw CD in the slot, that the first thing she’d see was a billboard with a picture of Leslie Faw—the perfectly gorgeous blond girl who’d made her feel like shit in school, announcing herself as the new town mayor.

      And, on that same sour note—Leslie, the tee hee here comes the geek freak, Roark the dork, would be the one Casey would have to apply to for all sorts of “permits” in order to open up the Cafe and bookshop she’d wanted to run.

      She’d hit the gas, ran the only red light and drove to the nearest hole serving tequila. Not that she could blame the booze. She hadn’t gotten that far. Nope. She had parked, stomped up to the door and been hit by the blare of George straight singing If You Ain’t Lovin’ and grabbed the nearest drink off the first table she came to, and downed it.

      Somewhere between coughing her tonsils out, digging a five spot out of her back pocket to slap down in return- and hearing a distinct female laugh at he bar, where Leslie the prospective Mayor was getting photos taken with the local good ole boys. she’d looked down at a boot propped on a rung of the next chair, a pair of finely spread thighs in worn denims, up a taut torso enhanced by a half snapped denim shirt, and skipped on up to the purest green eyes she’d ever seen outside movie stars.

      She’d put the five down, had some vague idea that his face was handsome, rugged and his lips slightly curved—hopefully amused by her stealing his Jack on the rocks—and taken all of five seconds to step around and stand beside the chair he slumped in, lean down and mutter, “I’m a twenty six year old repressed virgin. Are you interested in a no names, no next morning memory, lay?”

      He had not moved at first, but then he stood up very slow, scooped up her five and handed it back to her, tossed a twenty out of his shirt pocket, took her hand and walked outside.

      One, two, three, breathe, breathe. Casey squeezed her eyes shut. But hell, it was all there, every mind blowing second even after eight months.

      She tuned off the sink faucets, braced her hands on the cool porcelain sides again, and growled at whoever rattled the knob, “It’s occupied.” In her mind, even the scents and smells were raw.

      He had barely glanced at her car, enough to see the out of state tags, before leading her to his pick up.

      She wasn’t sure, but they didn’t really speak, she’d never really freaked out at that point, because the Jack was hitting her blood stream. All 400 miles to the state line, she’d had to keep herself from turning around and going back to anonymous and safe. A life where no one knew the introverted kid with braces, whose last high school picture looked like medusa on crack because of a home perm she had given herself.

      But, hey, at that point, she was sleeked up—well denims and a white tank, but good subtle make up, some peach gloss on her dewy lips and thanks to Cosmo, she could give her brandy eyes that feline effect.

      He had stopped the truck. She had snapped out of the miasma long enough to see a low roofed ranch house with wrap around porch, complete with hound and rockers. He had helped her out, kept hold of her hand and they’d progressed through gate, across the lawn and porch, into a shadowy great room, with every cozy, homey thing she and her father never had bothered with in an apartment over his office.

      A bedroom just seemed to manifest, though she was sure now she walked there. Amber lamps on, big window open with curtains fluttering, and a log bed—big bed—with a blue denim quilt.

      She hadn’t fidgeted when he released her hand, no. Because he’d began stripping, just peeling it all off. Tossed the hat on a cowhide chair, ripped them snaps right down, until the tail of the shirt pulled free of his snug Levis. Boots were next, and then one teasing snap. But did she care? No, because a honed and brown body, sinewy throat, wide shoulders, assailed her eyes. Cut abs, and apricot male nipples sitting on two of the hardest slabs of chest muscle she’d ever seen. There was his six-pack, his navel that she’d never thought of as sexy but...

      Well, to get on with it, that barefoot tussle headed green eyed hunk of man had padded to her and cupped her face, titled his head down and kissed her. It was melting honey on a fresh baked roll. His lips were velvet soft and he had these strong white teeth he nipped around her lips with.

      Her breathing cranked up a notch; her hands went to his warm, hardback muscles. Then it got good. All the nibbling and laving he did across her jaw, flicking her ear studs all the way up—and moving to the side of her neck, that she’d never known anyone would like besides mosquitoes in August.

      Oh, he had started moving his hands too. Good and strong hands, slightly rough but exquisite feeling under the hem of her shirt. He’d done this smoothing across her spine, a kind of rubbing thing while he kissed around the neckline of her blouse.

      Somewhere along that time she’d thought her intention, abstractly was for a rebellious screw in some backseat she’d chalk up as her first experience. Considering everyone had one, but thanks to her self-esteem issues, she never could get to that part. In any case, that was not what happened in that bedroom. No. there were crickets and some waft of breeze, a scent from him; of cool cologne and skin warmed denim and male heat.

      He had raised his head, started kissing her again, and by this time her knees were shaking and her breasts were ready to pop the front closure of her wonder bra. He made room for his hand on her stomach while his tongue rolled in her mouth and stroked hers. He tasted good, better than anything she had laved before, and certainly better than any man she had kissed.

      Yes of course, she had kissed, she had groped, she had got guys off out of guilt, because she had not (lost herself) enough in the intimacy before to actually want to go further. It hadn’t been many, but this guy could kiss. He kissed as if he had a year to do it in and was mapping out territory he wanted to claim.

      He had lifted his head. She had lifted her lashes, seeing his damp slightly swollen lips, reflecting her own felt that way, and between half-mast lashes his eyes were bottle green fire.

      There was shadow in the room that enhanced the hollow of his cheek. She was breathing deep and probably too fast when he peeled her shirt off. She watched him unhook the bra, thinking, are those mine! Seeing her breast quivering and nipples, aureoles, drawn tighter than an ice bath could produce, and then he put those gorgeous lips there. Oh, that feeling, his suckling pulling something from deep inside her, the flick of his tongue causing her to grasp his forearms, lean her head back and hope her mewling sounds weren’t offending him.

      He’d cupped them, massaged and then laved down between, took his tongue down her ribs to the navel, and breathed all moist and hot across that quivering part of her stomach. He had the extremely low-rise jeans undone in seconds. White lace V-cut thongs were never more just panties, because he tugged at the band with his teeth, breathed through the lace on her freshly waxed pubis, and even bit that line of hair making a shadow between lacy flowers.

      The peeling down got really interesting. Her hands had grasped his shoulders for balance, and he never missed a beat, no trembling thighs or the audible escalation of her breaths could break this guy’s concentration. He kissed and peeled, scooped his hands in the denim, pushed them down and laved and kissed and licked all at the same time.

      Body rushes, these hot sparks of sultry lust just kept blowing her mind. She was drunk all right, but it wasn’t Jack. His hand on her ankle, helping her step out of the pool of denim, and help her away from her cheap flip-flops at the same time. 

      He was standing again, her eyes about even with his collarbone and even her generous curves feeling narrow compared to the broad shoulders and round muscled arms. He’d picked her up, not like something out of gone with the wind...He’d picked up under the arms, setting her down on the edge of the bed and kissed while nudging her to lay back. How was she to know that he’d take his lips away, straighten and hook his fingers under that white lace and peel it off?

      Then just as the air hit the moisture, that evidence he’d reduced her to a quivering mass of something needs something in it, really soon. He’d lifted her dangling legs, laying forward at the same time sliding her back some, and by the miracles of those who knew more than she about sex, his tongue raced up between the lips and her calves were over his shoulders before she could think straight. While her hands ripped his hand-sewn quilt, the panting moans just spewed from her lips.

      Guys had offered. She had refused. Yet if this stranger didn’t do more of that magical tongue bathing, she knew her heart would just explode. She needn’t have worried. Life a chef who keeps his recipes to himself, that was an appetizer. That licking led to sucking, and from there the subtle head moving, and though she felt his hands scoop up her ass, she hadn’t expected the finger filling her sex, and moving in and out sleek and slow.

      Time, it could have been a half hour. Likely it was because she’d sweat a bit, wondered if he was tired of doing that? Hoping he wasn’t, yet every time she started to reach down and move his head away, he’d raise it, bite her hand softly and go back to his cooking up an orgasm for her.

      It was the move that did it. When he moved his hands from her back side, used his fingers to hold those lips open and rasp his tongue, flat, circles, and firm, she’d shot over the moon. Well it was more like a rumble of fire that rolled under her skin. It was an awesome, completely oh yes, baby, kind of feeling. The kind of thing she learned all those expressions she had never used; but yes, yes oh God yes, was sufficient. It was the down slope of a rollercoaster ride, the lift your hands and let it carry you away kind of thing.

      When the ripples eased into a low hum between her legs, she pried her lashes up by sheer will, to find him lying beside her, head propped up and watching her under curious green eyes. His thigh was over hers, his hand on her breast as if to say, we are not done.

      She wanted to say something, thank you! Oh thank you! came to mind. But it was all sexy and sultry, all erotic between them. Some kind of heavy intensity that was good and hungry. Besides that wasn’t the time to be the girl in braces. He didn’t know that one. This was strangers in the night stuff, with sex.

      So she raised her hand and trailed the back of it over his cheek, then touched her fingertips to his lips. She looked into his eyes and read things there that made her sex contract, just ripple inside.

      He had taken her hand, kissed it, and then rolled so that he was over her but not laying down. He was reaching in the pocket of his levis, and she got a glimpse of foil before he kind of sat and rolled, poised on the edge of the mattress with his back to her, when he lifted his hips and shucked his jeans.

      His spine was sinewy and she elevated half on her forearms, still lust drunk and saw that strong tanned hand scoop up the packet. Those subtle putting on a condom sounds came and then reached to turn the lamp off.

      It left her in the mellow light, putting him more in warm shadow. When he half turned, knee on the bed, and reached for her hand. She had enough wits to read that he was helping her lay correctly in the center of the bed, instead of across it. It went really smooth, almost like a dance, because she was there and he still had her hand when he rolled and settled between her legs.

      He wasn’t rushed. He kissed her. He kissed her harder and deeper and played with her tongue a lot. He stroked and soothed his hands over her, palms gliding and fingers flexing in all the right places.

      She was hot and aroused, turned on by everything. More so by the feel of his muscular outer thighs brushing the inside of hers. Her hands moved too, touching his face when they kissed, his hair and nape, smoothing over his shoulders, down his back. Without thinking, her hips were moving subtly, sexily rubbing him and herself.

      The head of his sex entered her while she was bold enough to kiss and lave his nipples. He rocked his hips minutely at first, almost teasing the opening and inch of virgin flesh. His breathing was deep, heartbeat strong, and her hands low on his spine, just at the top of buttocks could feel that the man had good rhythm.

      There wasn’t any fear, nothing but moaning and hot kind of erotic awareness. An inch more and the same in and out, going gently, until she arched her neck to look up at him. Her fingers contracted on his spine, her legs shifted higher on his hips, her ass flexing so that she could catch his rhythm.

      When that happened, he did the deed in two thrusts. Talk about quivering thighs. With her nails likely embedded in his ass, her knees were locked; her sex full to the womb and her mind trying to find a coherent thought- was this stretching burn the worst of it? Nevertheless, he eased out and in, maybe six, seven times; she wasn’t sure because she’d been in brace yourself mode. At some point, he was in there, snug tight. He was still, so she opened her lashes to look at his face again.

      He breathed, lips parted, his face taut and eyes a smoldering green. His palms were braced down to keep his weight from crushing her. Again, it was obvious he was watching her face.

      She wet her lips, hoping she didn’t look as uncomfortable now, because though a tiny bit on the raw and too full side, it was all good, all still erotic and intimate and better than she’d heard most firsts were. Considering she was probably the oldest virgin alive, she had heard it all, read it all, and expected she’d lose it to jerk out of desperation someday anyway. This guy was dream stuff, perfect, no incredible.

      He leaned more to one side, brining her with him. Then, he brushed her hair back from her face as the other hand helped adjust their legs. Laying there on their sides, facing, he shallowly finished, his hand on her cheek, eyes holding hers, hips rocking so softly and soothing.

      His orgasm fascinated her. Casey would never forget it. He sank those strong white teeth into his bottom lip, and his lashes closed slowly as his eyes seemed to roll in enviable bliss. The shudder that worked through his frame and muscles turned her on in inexpressible ways.

      The afterward could have been horrible. It could have awkward and since she was in semi shock at that point, realizing, hell, it’s done. Yeah, it’s finally done Casey. I cannot believe you picked a stranger, you desperate goof. How dangerous and risky. All those things she would have thought should another woman have done this, just smacked her in head.

       He had kissed her, eased apart and held her a moment, the moisture from the condom wet her thigh, but hey, she held him back, shuddering, sighting away years of tension and fear of the unknown. That kind of letting of everything feeling just collapsed, so that her body felt lighter, tranquil.

      Then he spoke, soft, low, deep, the profound words, “The bathroom is up the hall.”

       When he sat up, she scooted off the other end, dashed out to find it. It was small but neat, bright as she started a shower and took the fastest one of her life. She fumbled for towels, finding one on the bar, likely used, yes, smelling of him and fabric softener. She had scrubbed, and it wouldn’t be until the next day she felt the soreness and groin aches. She had managed to laugh it off because every step in the light of day reminded her of her reckless behavior.

      Nevertheless, that is not how the night ended. She went back to the room. Her wet hair tucked behind her ears. Her arms folded over her breast. He wasn’t in there. She scrambled into her clothing and hoped he’d take her back to her car. She was starting to feel a little panicked.

      He came up the hall as she exited, having been in the back of the house. There must have been a restroom there because his hair was wet. He wore another pair of jeans and a white tank T-shirt.

      He passed her long enough to collect his boots and pull them on. Now she hovered awkwardly, leaning in the bedroom doorway while he switched; wallet, change, keys to the pants he wore.

      He was dressed, but was holding his hat when he stood and walked to her, leaning his shoulder in the doorway, so that she looked up and he down, both close enough so that her arms brushed his.

      “You going to come to that bar often?”

      “No.”

       He had asked that easily, in a low whisper. She answered in the same tone. “I’m more of a beer on the balcony kind of girl. I go to a dance hall, I dance. I don’t party or get wild.” She smiled. “Sorry. I tried that, it’s just not my comfort zone. Getting uninhibited in front of strangers.” She thought she sounded too uptight, so she added, “I’ve been on my own since sixteen, going to school, working, supporting myself. I like to have fun; I’ve just reached the point where I can afford to do what I want to.”

      He didn’t say anything, but neither did he mock that. Casey knew that she had a lot of life to catch up on. She could not change her basic character however. Though she could have said she’d like to cut loose, that didn’t translate well to a guy she only wanted a one-night stand with. Besides that, she was going to have to fit into the town with her new persona, and she was mature enough to not want to be Leslie. Who no doubt could get away with anything, with anyone. She wanted to be...normal... the fit in kind of normal.

      He had kissed her smooth and quick and then took her hand, leading her out the way they had arrived. The night was foggy, sharper, but that was likely, her awareness returning. It was at her car, which he walked her to, closed the door for her,that he had leaned down and said, “The house is about eight miles out of town. I wasn’t sure you were paying attention.” His smile was subtle, more in the eyes.

      From panic to thrilled, she felt her mind scatter. Thrilled he obviously enjoyed it all, didn’t see the old Casey anywhere in those moments. But, panicked because she didn’t want to encourage something with a stranger—who was that good looking and probably bed booked for the next millennia. He had all the features, all the assets, of the local stud. A notch on someone’s bedpost she would rather not be.

      She didn’t know what that kind of sexual, going together rejection felt like, and she’d just as soon not walk into a bar and order it up from a guy like this.

      So she smiled back and returned, with all her assumptions and insecurities, “I’m terrible at waiting in line. In case you didn’t pay attention.” She started the car and glanced up as she backed out. Oh, he was smiling, kind of bemused one. In her taillights, she saw him leaning against his truck, lighting a smoke.

      It took a whole week. A week after, she’d filed her permits and everything to open the cafe and bookstore, of shoving her boxes upstairs in the open floor plan 1940’s apartment building, before she was apprised of whom she had slept with.

      The moment was another rockets go off and mortification lands thing. She’d been cleaning the old shop, the same building her father had his office in at one time, and running back and fourth with her cell to her ear, ordering her tables, chairs, the usual from a dozen catalogues. The stereo was wafting from upstairs; she’d left the door open, and was sitting on the bottom stars, which were in the far corner, to the back of the lower floor. Through plain windows she’d given a wave to the high school student, she hired to paint her Casey’s cafe sign, and so it was just another preoccupied day.

      Evening saw her across the street, tired and somewhat grungy with a bandanna on her head, her oldest jeans and flips on, a green tank that she’d spilled coffee down trying out the espresso machines.

      It was another old building converted into a video and game rental place, packed with teens. She had grabbed a movie, a soda and two giant packs of nuts and stepped out the same time two women emerged from the bed and bath boutique next to it, and were shuffling packages, apparently heading for a minivan.

      “Are you coming in on Saturday? Jane’s got manicures on discount this week.”

      “Are you kidding me?” A fortyish woman with a high school wrestling shirt had snorted. “Doesn’t every woman make an excuse to be in town on Saturday?”

      The petite one put the stuff in the back and came round unlocking her car, chuckling, “Oh yeah. Slade Debolt’s moving back and taking over his Daddy’s ranch was the best thing that happened to Cumberland since Starbucks.’

      The other woman hooted and they climbed in. but Casey heard her say, “Brenda’s been trying to get in his pants since he was in high school. Leslie has already turned her radar on him. I noticed she ended up doing those local shots in the same bar he just happens to visit on a Saturday night.”

      “Can’t say I blame her. If I wasn’t too short, too divorced and too damn tired from kids and jobs, you better believe I’d find a reason to fall in front of his truck.”

      “Yeah. Well. I never knew him to be tamed when he lived around here. About the only thing Slade rode regularly was horses. He was, still is the best damn trainer around. But women... I think that’s why he moved off, he’d gone through them all and got tired of being chased.”

      “Not what I heard, “The other started the van. Casey had to step off the sidewalk to hear the last bit as she was pulling out. “I heard he met a woman out west, married her and was crazy enough to give it all up and follow her around.”

      “No shit?”

      “Nope. I think it was...”

      Casey didn’t hear the rest. She didn’t know who that Slade was, until Saturday morning came. She had been in the cafe, standing in for a waitress while her own business got going. A fiftyish woman name Kate Hurly had offered her the temp, and since she had nothing to do but wait on supplies and clean, she took it.

      In any case, she’d got the awakening when everyone of the female gender seemed to head for the doors and windows at the same time. But, seeing him in daylight, hearing all the fuss and witnessing the reaction to him. She hadn’t known to sink through the floor or run to the apartment and hide.

      What she had done was perfect her so what- big deal, routine. This morning, all this time, too many glimpses and even running into him a time or two, she was still trying to hold onto that.

      “Hey! You okay in there.”

      Casey jumped. She flushed the toilet and yanked the door open, greeting Kate with a grin. “Sorry. I’ve had that horrible stomach virus.”

      Kate squeezed past her. “Yeah it’s been bad. Help yourself to some home made chicken soup...”

      Casey muttered something, and emerged into the main eating area. She still worked there two hours on Saturday. Her own cafe served just coffee and bagels, muffins. Her clientele was college age or the teachers, a few business people, and book readers who came in for novels. It had evolved and she hired a young girl—yes, a nerd with braces—to work there part time. They took in a lot used books and installed a couple of computers and it was more a niche business with all the favorite spots around.

      It didn’t compete because she wasn’t going for that. It served a small and loyal clientele that enjoyed it for what it was. She had learned those years working at jobs, to be happy doing what she enjoyed. Her father hadn’t been rich, and he hadn’t been happy in his business. He had filled a slot in the town, and died tried, unassuming. He had left a policy or two, an aunt in Illinois to go to, and a kind of sad fondness in her memories of him.

      She may well have turned out that way herself, had it not been for adversity pushing her. That , and a rather eccentric and amusing aunt who, while Trudy would have accepted her in any way—had said dryly, so if it bothers you, fix what you can fix, and work on the rest, or forget it. Don’t live your life for others. They cannot define you. She had also said, “You got to work kid, pay your way and don’t look back.”

      Trudy was a gem. A professor at one of the small colleges, she lived her life to suit herself.

      “You going to the rodeo this weekend, Casey?”

       Preparing to leave, Casey glanced at Jillian, a woman her age who had moved there after marrying a local. She was a pretty blond with a sweet set of twins her stepdaughter watched while she worked.

      “Hadn’t planned on it.”

      Jilly made a face. “I like books, but you spend too much time with them. You should go.”

      “I go out.” Casey laughed. “I went to every game at the school. Every local concert and for six Saturdays in a row, I’ve tried every fish fry and chop house you and Kate have raved over.”

      “Yeah yeaa.” Her friend waved her hand. “That’s nothing like a rodeo. Boy howdy, you see some real prime beef there, if you know what I mean.’

      Casey laughed. “You’re married, remember.”

      “Yeah. He’s my honey.” Jillian winked. “But you think he watches UFC just for the blood and gore? Unt uh...” She shook her head. “The twins put ripples of skin where I used to have ripples of muscle. So what if he eyes a bit of candy. His cute stomach makes a great crumb catcher and his ass ain’t never been round enough to fit his pockets, so we’re both firmly grounded in our realities and hopelessly in love. Rodeo is fun, you ornery woman, that’s really the point.”

      Casey chuckled and shook her head. “I’ll think about it.”

      However, later, doing her books upstairs while the smell of coffee and subtle conversation from the staff and workers wafted up, she thought about why she never went. She never went because Slade always did. She knew a bit more about him, and ranching, rodeo, horses, it was his life.

      Casey slipped off the small lens glasses, got up and walked to the window, sitting on the ledge, and absently musing while she watched old Ned, the local barber run the red light just to watch the camera take his picture. No one bothered dragging Ned to traffic court; of course, no one bothered getting their haircut at his barbershop either. A WW2 vet, Ned was the town’s favorite son and local color. He hadn’t cut hair since 1970 when he’d had his first stroke, but it was a gathering spot, and the town let him keep his lease, his business, and now this mind was slipping, they sort of looked forward to what Ned would do next.

      However, she was thinking really of Slade, seeing him in her mind’s eye. One day, about three weeks after their one-night-stand, she had gone to the local grocery store and been happily pushing her cart, eyeing the chocolate that was begging to her, buy me, buy me, you love me... And had muttered back, “I love you, but when I eat you, you stick to my ass like a Jell-O mold.” And—ran right into Slade.

      Yes, handsome, bronze, green-eyed cowboy, rancher, Slade. He stood there, one hand holding a pack of chocolate covered pretzels, and the other on the buggy handle, with a smile in his eyes that told her he’d heard every word she had said.

      She hated being a red head, because she blushed, and she knew she blushed, because who the hell talked to chocolate?

      All he had done was reach out the pretzels and say, “I like Jell-O.” Then drop them into her cart and move on. After standing there, swallowing a few times and closing her eyes. She had rushed to get out of the store. She had bought the damn pretzels too.

      Another time, she’d spent the day, getting her hair trimmed, and her waxing and gone to the drugstore for tampons and other personals. As always her basket overflowed with every bath oil and new fangled as seen on TV thing, and of course, three of the hottest romance novels with the sexist covers she could find—all the men, looked as close to Slade as possible.

      He had appeared in line behind her. A long line. Moreover, could see over her shoulder apparently, because that smooth and deep voice was near her ear as he offered, “You’ll like the first one there, Breathless, the scene in the barn is pretty convincing, except she gets slighted in my opinion. Kind of a hair trigger orgasm thing, you know. It’s unrealistic.”

      Mortified had reached new levels in her body. Her gaze was locked with the eighteen year old cashier whom she was already dreading handing tampons and douche to—now having heard every word Slade Debolt said to her, the guy was trying to keep from laughing or coughing one, and she’d bet on laughing, since he was in a grotesque smile stage when her tampons were slapped on the counter.

      The painful process was not over. She got her things and didn’t look back, but hardly got off the sidewalk before Slade was there. He said to her shoulder as she switched directions, pretending to need something up the street, “You’re not repressed, Miss Casey Roark, you’re just shy.”

      She wasn’t shy. She wasn’t. Around other people, she was fine. Normal. Nevertheless, that one night with him replayed in her head, over and in her body a thousand times. She did get tempted to drive out there. She got tempted all the time.

      She had heard the rest of the story too, about his brief marriage. A three-year stint with a some kind of executive who represented companies sponsoring the rodeos. Someone, an uncle of his, had told it to Kate, and Kate and Jillian brought it up at the diner. He had been on the top of his game, famous and well known locally, a hard working rancher with his father and a nephew who still rode bulls.

      He had had an older brother that died of cancer at the young age of twenty-seven, and his dad and himself had raised the nephew, Ash. However, he had met the woman, apparently fell in love, at least everyone said it had to be that because he dropped his life for hers. Whatever ended it, happened the same year his father died. However, he’d come back, by then the nephew was finished college, still bull riding, working at a software company in Houston.

      It was the before that proved out her impressions of him. Until that woman he’d apparently, since middle school, had to beat women off with a stick. His father had been handsome, his nephew, they said, was a dreamboat, and Slade drove the women wild because he never had been exclusive. What they called tamed. She had some wicked sense of get what you deserve idea, that he’d wed a high maintenance woman who was beautiful and every guys fantasy, and one who wasn’t rancher wife material at all. Like most men, he’d probably broke a dozen hearts before he got a taste of it himself.

      It didn’t really make her dislike him. She wished she could. It just proved to her that keeping anything with a guy like that was just asking for heartbreak down the road. Most men had a past. Any guy who looked like Slade surly would. Nevertheless, there were knock out women, including Lesley, who wanted him. Moreover, she would not compete. She just wouldn’t. On the other hand, gossip, a one-night-stand, and a few teasing remarks by him, did not a know the man, make.

      Oh—hell. She turned away from the window. She was going to the rodeos. She knew she’d see him. She was glutton for punishment. But, hey, who knew, the man of her dreams could be there. The I’m steady and faithful and you’re perfect as you are, kind of guy.