Nobody’s going to take this woman from me. Nobody.

Once upon a time, someone had taken the life of the woman he loved and gotten away with it. It wouldn’t happen again. Not while he had breath in his body.

“Don’t know about Fate,” he drawled as he pushed back his chair and stood up, emotions barricaded, now, inside a fortress of calm resolve, “but I’m gonna be arranging some protection for you, whether you like it or not. And that’s not open for discussion,” he added, when he saw she was about to speak.

Her smile was faint and wry. “I was going to ask if that would include giving me my gun back.”

He gave a snort of laughter. “Can’t do that-sorry.” He strolled toward her, but kept his arms folded on his chest to stop himself from reaching for her, touching her. He halted an arm’s length from her, frowning, knowing on the outside he looked the very picture of the strong arm of the law-steadfast, courageous, protector of the innocent-while his insides churned with fear and the knowledge that his starched sheriff’s uniform and shiny silver badge and white hero’s hat hadn’t done a thing to save Erin’s life. In spite of all that, someone had come into his home, killed his wife, maimed his child and he’d been powerless even to catch the one responsible. Protector of the innocent… The thought was a bitter pain in his heart.

“What I can do, though, is put someone watching this house, and your shop whenever you’re there-goes without saying either I or one of my deputies will be taking you to work and anywhere else you need to go-and bringing you home. And you don’t go inside either place until it’s been thoroughly checked out-that clear? When you’re here alone, I want you to keep all the doors and windows locked, shades down, curtains drawn. And stay the hell away from the windows. Don’t-”

“Roan.” She was smiling at him still, a patient little smile that made him want to shake her. “This is a small town. Don’t you think someone’s going to notice if a stranger-say, um…a hitman-”

“Don’t. Dammit.”

She closed her eyes and contritely whispered, “Sorry. I’m trying not to be scared.”

“Hell, you should be scared.” His throat felt raw. “Look, it’s fine to try and be brave, but don’t make light of this. From what Scott Cavanaugh told me, those were some seriously bad people you pissed off. Señor may not be around anymore, but his son sure as hell is. He’s the one you hit where it hurts most.”

The fine skin around her eyes flinched, and it struck him that without her glasses her face seemed open and defenseless as a child’s. His willpower caved like a house of cards. He put his hands on her arms, felt the tremors she was trying to hide, and his insides melted like chocolate in the sun.

“Mary, Diego DelRey was released from prison two years ago. He’s off the radar. He could be anywhere. He probably wouldn’t come after you himself, but let’s say he sends a-” his lips twitched wryly “-hitman. I wish I could tell you you’re right about it being hard for a stranger to sneak into town without being noticed. Normally that’d be true. Thing is, for the next couple weeks, things aren’t going to be exactly ‘normal’ around here. We’ve got Boomtown Days coming up. That’s Hartsville’s spring blow-out-maybe you noticed the stores downtown getting all spruced up for the big event? Happens every year around this time, same time as the college rodeo over in Silver Springs. We’re gonna have all sorts of out-of-towners coming in.” And there was no way in hell his department was going to be able to keep track and run checks on all of them.

He closed his eyes…let out a breath. And Lord, it was hard not to gather her in, wrap her up in his arms the way he wanted to…wrap her up in a nice little package and put her somewhere to keep her safe until all this was over…

Over? Just when and how was this mess she was in going to be over? When Diego DelRey was dead? And there was still a first-degree murder charge hanging over her head-the one he’d put there.

“Look,” he said with gravel in his voice, “just…be careful, okay? Do those things I told you. Pull those shades. Lock your doors. Don’t take chances.” Hard as it was, he made himself let go of her, looked around for his hat, remembered where he’d left it and ran a distracted hand through his hair. “I’m gonna figure out something…if I have to, I’ll put you back in jail.”

“I won’t go,” she said unsteadily, lifting her chin and hugging herself, her own hands rubbing the places where his had been. “You have no right-not until a jury finds me guilty.”

“Yeah, and that’s not gonna happen either,” he growled. “Not if I can help it.”

His joints felt loose and his muscles jerky as he strode through the house, grabbed up his hat and let himself out the front door. On the porch he stood for a moment, hauling in great big lungfuls of the warm spring air…looking up and down the street of the town he’d lived in all his life, looking up at the trees leafing out and dropping flower fluff and pollen everywhere, looking past them at the sky…blue Montana sky. Thinking it all ought to look different to him, somehow.

Because he was definitely a different man coming out of that house than when he’d gone in.

Mary had no way of knowing how long she stood there propping up the kitchen counter. She knew there were things she should be doing-lock the doors, pull the shades, take a shower, make the bed-but she felt too battered, too emotionally drained to think or move. Cat, having completed his after-breakfast toilette, came to twine around her legs by way of saying thank you, and she couldn’t even summon the energy to bend down and pet him. So, when the telephone on the kitchen wall rang, for a moment or two she simply stared at it, unable to think why on earth it should be making such a sound.

Then, when her brain did start to function, her body turned ice-cold. The phone here at home never rang. Who could possibly be calling her now? She thought about running after Roan-maybe he was still sitting out in front in his SUV, calling in to his office, as he often did. Then she scolded herself for cowardice. So much for putting up a brave front.

She walked to the phone and lifted the receiver from its hook with hands so wet and clammy she nearly dropped it before she got it tucked into its proper place next to her ear. “Hello?” she said in a hushed and husky voice.

Shaking, heart pounding, she listened to silence…some rapid breathing. And then… “Oh God-Yancy?” the caller squeaked. And burst into sobs.

Mary spent more than an hour on the phone with Joy. Afterward, she felt calmer, stronger, a thousand pounds lighter and ten years younger. And how strange it was, she thought, that she should feel this way when there was a murder charge hanging over her and someone-Diego or his gunman-possibly at that very moment on his way to kill her.

The truth was, the murder charge, the fact that her life was in danger-none of that seemed real. What was real to her was the profound sense of relief she felt to have finally stopped running. The tremendous feeling of freedom that came from laying down the burden of her secrets was like breathing fresh air and feeling the sun on her face after being locked in a dungeon.

With her spirits so high, it was hard, in the week that followed, for Mary to stick to the orders Roan had given her. Or, it would have been, if he’d allowed her any wiggle-room at all. She got used to seeing the sheriff’s department patrol vehicles cruising the street in front of her shop, or parked in front of her house at all hours of the day or night.

The days fell into a routine. Every morning, a deputy would show up on her doorstep, escort her to his patrol car and drive her to work. She would remain in the vehicle while the deputy unlocked her shop and searched it thoroughly, then wait to be escorted inside. Deputies kept an eye on the front of the shop; the back door was always locked. At closing time, the process would be reversed, until she was once more safely barricaded inside her house with the doors and windows locked and the shades drawn.

It was always a deputy who drove her to work and brought her home again, never Roan. When Mary asked, she was told the sheriff was busy with preparations for the onslaught of visitors expected for Boomtown Days.

It was just as well, she told herself. But there was a Roan-shaped emptiness in her heart, bigger than she’d imagined it could be. And the longing that came along with his image in her mind-and it came much too often, with blue eyes glinting, a wry smile deepening the thumbprints in his cheeks and his hair bearing the imprint of his Stetson-was the only cloud darkening her skies during those days.

Cat, she discovered, made a very good watchdog, since he growled whenever the deputies came to her door. He was a comfort in other ways, too, and she took to sleeping with him curled up on the foot of her bed.

Her shop was surprisingly busy. More people than usual seemed to be stopping in to make appointments in person rather than phoning. Regular clients popped in to say hello, or to drop off bouquets of flowers they’d picked from their yards, and people who’d never been in the shop before came to browse through the boutique.

Curiosity, Mary cynically told herself, because of the news story. After the first day or two, the constant jangling of the bell attached to the door got on her nerves.

Then she mentioned the steady stream of visitors to Miss Ada when she came for her regular appointment on Friday at five o’clock, and the elderly clerk of court patted her hand and said, “The town’s behind you, dear.”

Mary felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She put down her comb and scissors and fled to the back room, where to her own astonishment, she had a good cry. The town’s behind you… Whether it was true or merely Miss Ada being kind, the notion that a community might open its heart to her, its people make a place for her among them after she’d wandered alone in the world for so long, seemed…almost unbearable. To belong…