I wonder why he calls me that-Miss Mary, she thought.

I wonder why I don’t mind that he does.

There was a knot of tension sitting at the very top of her chest, and she rubbed it absently as she watched the quaint Old-West-style storefronts on Main Street flash by. She noticed that many of them were wearing new coats of paint now that spring had come, and some had flower boxes sitting out in front, planted with pansies and snapdragons and daffodils that nodded in the wind. A lot of them had hung American flags, too.

I wonder why he looks at me the way he does sometimes…as if he really does see right through this charade of mine…as if he knows who I really am.

I wonder how he can know who I am when even I don’t, and why it bothers me so much that he does.

I wonder why I wonder about him so much…

“What do you do when you’re not working?”

Her heart gave a nervous lurch and her breath hitched, and she’d already flicked him a startled glance before she caught herself and murmured, “What do you mean?”

Watching the street ahead, he casually lifted one shoulder. “What do you like to do in your spare time? Read? Garden? Build birdhouses? Go out with friends?”

Warning instincts shivered over her skin. What is he doing? Is he trying to trick me? “Why are you asking?” she said lightly, on guard now.

The glance he gave her seemed more amused than exasperated, like the look an indulgent parent might bestow on a rebellious child. “It’s called conversation-you know, polite small talk? That’s where I ask you unimportant questions and you answer them, then you ask me some and I answer, and maybe in the process we get to know each other a little better.”

He was patronizing her. Annoyance crept over her, banishing the pricklings of suspicion. “Conversation?” she said with an incredulous huff of laughter. “You must be kidding. We shouldn’t even be talking at all-about anything.”

He was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “I’m not trying to trick you into anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. My asking didn’t have anything to do with you having secrets…me trying to find out who you are. Maybe I shouldn’t be asking any kind of questions-most likely I shouldn’t-hell, Lord knows I shouldn’t. But look, you’re a newcomer in a town where everybody knows everybody and half are related by blood or marriage. I’d like to learn more about you. That’s it-that’s all it is.” He was frowning when he finished, maybe realizing how many contradictions there’d been in what he’d said.

Mary studied his rugged profile, cast in bronze by the setting sun. The dent in his cheek was a purple shadow, his hair burnished gold. The skin on his forehead had a rosy glow that looked as if it would be warm to touch…and she couldn’t keep herself from thinking of the ways she might. Brushing that thick silky hair back, my fingers burrowing through it…holding him close while I…

Shimmering heat crept through her. I shouldn’t be doing this, she thought, but she heard herself clear her throat. “I don’t know many people in town-other than clients, that is. In the evenings I watch television…read…listen to music-”

“Yeah? Me too.” The smile he threw her was spontaneous-the first of its kind she’d seen. It softened his face, warmed his cold-steel eyes. Her heart gave a hiccup of surprise. “What kind of music? Not country, I’m thinkin’.”

Without knowing she was going to, she smiled back. “No. Classical, I guess…pop…Broadway…and anything you can dance to.”

“You like to dance?”

“I used to,” she said. Her smile faded and died.

“You ever go dancing on the weekends? We’ve got a few places around here. Naturally, it’s gonna be country, though.”

She stared blindly at her hands and shook her head. “On weekends I usually catch up on chores…go grocery shopping. When the weather lets me, I go to the firing range…maybe for a walk.” The remembered loneliness of those solitary walks came creeping over her like nighttime fog, banishing the lovely shimmering warmth, and only now that it was leaving her did she recognize the warmth as happiness.

“You ever ride?”

“What? Ride-oh, you mean horses?” She shuddered, and when she looked up, found she’d almost missed another of his oddly endearing, crooked grins.

“Well, yeah, this bein’ Montana.”

“Oh-God, no.” She looked at him with such horror that he laughed out loud. This time when he glanced at her, his eyes were bright with curiosity.

“Mean to tell me you’ve never ridden a horse before?”

She shook her head. Her skin was crawling with new prickles of warning.

“Why is that? Never had the chance, or scared to try?”

She gave a short, high laugh, considered for moment, then decided to ignore the warnings. “Both, I guess. Maybe a cause and effect in there somewhere.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding wisely, “must be a city girl.”

She turned her head sharply and looked out the window as a memory came from nowhere, unexpected and shocking as a slap.

“You think you want to be a city girl!” My father’s voice, thundering down like the wrath of God from somewhere above me-his pulpit, maybe. I remember the church smells of old wood and linseed oil and dead flowers as he shouted, “Cities are dens of wickedness and degradation, girl-remember what the Lord did to Sodom and Gomorrah. No! My answer is no, and no, and a thousand times no! No daughter of mine will ever follow a path that can only lead to sin and death! Not while I have breath!”

She thought, Goes to show how much you know, Sheriff. But the warning prickles were too insistant now to be ignored, and they kept her from saying it out loud.

The SUV turned sharply, jounced off the pavement and into a packed-earth parking lot, and came to a halt.

Mary glanced around in surprise; she’d been too fogged in by memories to notice they’d gone beyond the turn-off to her street. “Why are we stopping here?”

The sheriff pulled the keys from the ignition and turned to look at her, his hair and features weirdly highlighted by the flashing multicolored glow of the animated neon sign on the roof of Buster’s Last Stand Saloon. “It’s dinnertime. I’m hungry, and I’m guessing you are, too. I’m also guessing-well, hell, to be honest, I happen to know you haven’t done any grocery shopping since you got out of jail. Since I’m told you like the cooking here, thought you might like to stop in…pick up something to take home for dinner.”

She stared at him, trying to read him, wondering whether he’d meant to be cruel… whether he could really be so devious. But his expression, thanks to the flickering light of the neon sign, had nothing to tell her.

She turned to stare instead at the sign-a cowboy on a rearing horse, which was said to be something of an antique, though not as much of one as the original, which Mary had been told had depicted an Indian wielding a tomahawk. It had been replaced sometime in the latter part of the twentieth century when changing sensibilities had rendered it politically incorrect.

She gazed now at the rearing horse, half-hypnotized by its flashing animated sequence that seemed to keep time with the thumping of her heartbeat and the throbbing ache in her throat, and wondered why her vision should suddenly blur with unshed tears. Because his kindness had seemed real to her…because she’d trusted him…because she felt betrayed? Or something else entirely?

“Why are you doing this?” She was so used to keeping silent…so used to keeping her secrets, she almost didn’t believe it was her own voice. “What did you hope to accomplish by bringing me here?”

“What?” He jerked back from her as if she’d struck him. Feigned innocence, she wondered, or genuine surprise? “Ah, Mary, come on, now-”

“Were you hoping I’d…I don’t know, be overcome with guilt at seeing the place where Jason and I had our…confrontation, break down and confess I shot him? Save your county the expense of a trial?” She glared at him, relieved it was anger that had brought these forbidden tears. Anger, she could deal with.

“Ah…hell. Mary…” He drew a hand over his face, then turned so that he was facing her, one arm across the back of the seats. “Look, I’ve an idea you’ve got good reasons to be so suspicious and cynical about a man’s motives. Maybe I can’t expect you to trust me, or believe me when I tell you I’m just not that devious.” His voice was a low, hypnotic rumble. She didn’t want to listen to it…didn’t want to sit unmoving when she felt his hand on the back of her neck. And yet…she did. “But I’m not,” the mesmerizing voice went on, while his hand slipped under her straggling hair to lay its comforting and intimate warmth on her bare nape. “Swear to God. Kind of wish I’d thought of it, but the fact is, all I was trying to do was get you something to eat before I took you home. I am truly sorry I upset you.”

She nodded, eyes closed, and struggled to push words past the ache in her throat. “It’s okay…I’m sorry…it’s just that…”

But how could she explain to him that in the darkness and the flashing neon lights it had all come back to her, that she could feel hot, moist hands on her body, the rough scrape of beard stubble, cruel wet lips and searching tongue…the choking stench of beer breath…the coppery taste of blood in her mouth. She felt nauseated and cold; all the feelings she’d suppressed that night rose up in her now, and it took every ounce of will she had to keep from tearing open the car door and vomiting onto the hard-packed earth…then running away as fast and as far as she could get from that soothing voice and gentle hand. So compelling was the desire to crawl trembling and sobbing into this man’s arms…to allow herself the unimaginable luxury of his comfort and protection.