by Anna Lowe
“And what about the aquifer?” Ty went on, unrelenting.
“The aquifer?” Rich echoed in a totally neutral tone, lobbing the ball straight back into Ty’s court.
“Yeah, the aquifer.” Ty nodded. “We hear the owner wants to drill deeper and double the output.”
Tina waited, watching Rick closely. The water level in the aquifer that fed both Twin Moon and Seymour Ranches was stable, but it would never support higher usage. Rumor had it that the new owner of Seymour Ranch had been inquiring about rights to drill deeper, pump more, and sell the water to the highest bidder. With water being the gold of the modern West…it was a thorny subject, at best.
Rick scratched his chest, looking Ty up and down as if he were speculating where the next curve ball would go.
“I’m not aware that the new owner has plans for any major changes. But don’t worry…”
Ty gave him a thorny look that said, I never do.
“…I’ll make sure you’re the first to know as things develop.”
In the tense silence that ensued, the grandfather clock inside the house gave a resounding Bong. A countdown, Tina sensed, to some uncertain deadline. Things were changing in Twin Moon’s corner of the world. Who knew what trouble they’d have to contend with next?
But surely the boy from next door could be counted on as an ally, not an adversary? She looked at Rick, whose eyes had followed the sound toward the clock. That clock—Lucy Seymour’s pride and joy—had fascinated them as kids. They’d invented a dozen stories around it. The clock was haunted, they’d whispered to each other. The clock was a fairy castle. The clock was magic. At night, when the desert was hushed, you could hear the bong from a mile away. Tina knew; she’d crept close sometimes in wolf form just to listen. To hang on to that part of her past.
The part of her past that had Rick in it, too.
His eyes followed the sound, and on the second bong—nine-thirty—his lips gave a tiny quirk, like he was remembering, too.
His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Can we talk about this over coffee?”
Tina nodded before thinking. “I brought cookies.” Her voice sounded much too hopeful, much too friendly. Even if there was no hope of anything with this man, she couldn’t resist.
“Don’t think so,” Ty grunted, already moving toward the truck and nodding his goodbye to Dale. All Rick got was the smallest tilt of the chin.
Rick gave a polite nod in return. His expression remained unchanged, and he rubbed a slow thumb over his chest, left, then right. Tina ached to reach out and do it for him as she’d once done, so many years ago.
Her eyes met his, and the next second was an eternity. Just the two of them caught in a thousand memories of what once was, of what couldn’t possibly be.
God, she’d come so close to running away with him once upon a time.
So why not now? the mournful voice of her soul cried.
Tina leaned in toward the soothing honey brown of his eyes, wondering if the impossible might be possible. Because Rick’s full lower lip was pinched between his teeth now, caught in the wistful expression of a boy she knew long ago.
Ty brought the truck to life with a roar, snapping them both back to reality. Tina extended the plate of cookies without breaking Rick’s gaze.
“Hope you like them,” she whispered over the engine noise.
He smiled and warmth filled her, as if the sun had just risen from behind the hills.
“I know I will.” He accepted the cookies with one hand and extended the other. “See you soon?” His fingers gripped hers firmly like, this time, he’d never let her go.
Ty revved the truck, and Rick’s eyes jumped over her shoulder, leveling a perfectly steady look at her brother. A one-syllable look that said, Wait.
Tina pulled away, suddenly in a hurry. It was one thing for Rick to challenge Ty, man-to-man. But man-to-wolf? He didn’t know what he was facing. He had no idea what she was. And if he found out?
The pack guarded its secret fiercely. No one could know.
Not even him.
Chapter Three
Rick stood, watching the pickup scatter gravel in the drive and speed off while Dale stalked away, muttering under his breath.
The minute they were all out of sight, Rick backed up to the top step of the porch and sat down. Hard.
He’d been expecting a visit from the neighbors, but he’d figured it would be old man Hawthorne. He hadn’t expected her.
He looked down at the plate she’d thrust in his hand, then up to the dust cloud rising over the bluff toward the main road.
Tina Hawthorne. Dios mio.
Sweat was just starting to trickle down his face. His heart was revving like he’d just rounded the corner from third to home on a very tight play. A minute longer standing next to her, inhaling that lavender scent of hers, and he’d have lost it completely. Thrown her into a back-bending, knee-rattling kiss, like on an old movie poster. Swung her onto his back and thumped his chest a few times. Gouged the eyes out of Dale Gordon, who’d dare ogle her perfect package of an ass.
Perfect package everything. The perfect curves—not too big, not too small—obvious despite her oversized button-down shirt and plain jeans. The glossy mane of her brown-black hair, the mystery in those midnight eyes that seemed to laugh and cry at the same time.
He scrubbed both hands over his face, feeling the heat in his cheeks. Heat that spread all over as every part of his body reacted in its own love-sick way. His dick fought for space in his jeans, his lungs ached for her return.
Jesus. Tina Hawthorne. Only she could do that to him.
He looked up again, and though the dust cloud was settling, his heart rate wasn’t. But hell, he didn’t need Dale Gordon to see him like this. So he shoved himself to his feet, about-faced into the house, and breezed through the central corridor. Past the grandfather clock and the Seymour family portraits hung on the walls until he emerged on the veranda in the back. Three quick steps across the flagstones to the single step down into the garden, and he sank down again.
How long had it been since he’d seen Tina? Seven years, seven months, and yeah, a couple of days. It had been February first when she rejected him seven years ago. And today was September tenth. So…seven years, seven months, and nine days. He was about to check his watch, because he could probably calculate the minutes, too, but that wasn’t good for his sanity. And anyway, a day without her was a day too long.
See you soon? That’s what he used to whisper after one of their clandestine meetings as teens.
See you soon. She’d smile and shine and make his heart feel too big for his chest.
He nodded to himself. At least he’d gotten an echo of those words in before her brother had driven her off. See you soon.
God, it could never be soon enough.
Tina. She’d been a childhood buddy, then an eye-catching teen, then a gorgeous young woman. She’d always been a class act, but now? Christ, she was out of the ballpark. Somehow, she’d ripened, not aged. Same silky hair that shone in the sun. Same smooth, baby skin. Same fire in her eyes when she looked at him. But something about her said she was older, wiser, more careful now. A little sadder, too, but that only made him want her more. To give her whatever she needed to laugh and smile and glow.
He dug a heel into the gravel. It would have been easier if she’d aged the way so many old friends had: looking wearier, baggier, with a couple of clamoring kids clinging to her clothes. That and a big-ass wedding ring that screamed Hands off, plus a husband with a shotgun and a very mean dog.
But there was no ring. No husband. The only ring she wore was a plain one, and on the wrong finger. The guiltless lust that filled her eyes as her lips quivered proved it, too.
No, there were no contenders, except for that overprotective family of hers. The only difference to their early days was that the fire-breathing dragon of a father lurking over her shoulder had been replaced by a fire-breathing dragon of a brother. The one lookin
g at him like he’d never be good enough for Tina. Not as the son of a lowly Latino cook, not even as a ball player. He’d hoped they’d see him differently now that he was back as manager, but it sure didn’t seem that way.
In a roundabout way, he owed that cranky, overprotective family of Tina’s. They’d kept her safe from the cowboys, the city slickers, the prospectors who must have passed by throughout the years. Because Tina was a true prize. A diamond who didn’t know the meaning of rough. A soul mate, just for him.
If only she’d let him in.
Well, he was back now. Back for his third and final chance. If he didn’t succeed this time, he’d take it like a man—three strikes and all that—or cry his heart out for twenty days and nights then eventually grow old alone, dreaming about her the way he’d dreamed for the past twelve years.
Either way, he hadn’t thought things through that far. Hadn’t thought any of this through. There hadn’t been time. It had only been a week ago that he learned he’d been named manager of Seymour Ranch. Perfect timing, considering he had still been contemplating how to launch a second career six months after the accident that ended his days in the league.
Of course, he’d always known those days were numbered and planned on a new start. He’d finished business school on the side with that in mind. It had taken him years of part-time study, hammering away whenever work gave him the chance, but he’d finally done it. He’d been getting ready to put that degree to use when an addendum to sweet old Lucy Seymour’s will came to light, naming him as manager of this ranch.
So here he was, back where he started. In more ways than one.
He let his eyes drift to the ragged mess that the once-vibrant garden had become. Weeding it was one of the items on his list, along with finding out what the hell this aquifer business was all about. His gaze went from the sun-dried adelias and choked-off gaillardias to the space beyond.
Right over there was the batting cage he and his dad had built. All rusty and overgrown, not like it had been for that Sports Illustrated photo shoot his agent had talked him into a couple of years back. Even he had to smile at the story—country kid grown up in isolation becomes baseball star, thanks to a rusty old pitching machine the neighbors didn’t want.
His mouth curved into a frown. The neighbors were Dale Gordon and his sons. Old Dale had played a little minor-league ball in his time and had visions of his sons making it big someday. So he’d picked up a discount pitching machine somewhere and set it up. But Dale’s two boys had turned to more satisfying hobbies, like shooting beer cans, jackrabbits, or any snake unlucky enough to cross the sights of their BB guns.
So Rick and his dad had bought the machine off Dale. Set it up in a nice, even spot and put up a cage made of cast-off lengths of fence. They couldn’t afford new stuff, but they made do.
“Perfect.”
He could still remember his father nodding at it with pride.
A sigh built in his chest. Weeding the batting cage would go on his list, too, right after the garden.
“The best batting cage in the world,” his dad had said.
And it was, because it was his, and it worked. It was fun. Focusing on the chute, the ball, his swing—that filled the time his dad couldn’t color with stories of Rick’s mother, who’d died much too young.
Yeah, the pitching machine worked, all right. The lonely kid on the remote ranch had batted his way right into a college scholarship, then into the major leagues. So in a weird way, he owed Dale Gordon and his no-good sons. If it weren’t for that pitching machine, he might be like them—a couple of thirty-year-old drifters doing who-knows-what.
Lucky for Rick, he hadn’t seen either of Dale’s sons since his return. Just Dale—and far too much of him. Lucy Seymour had managed to keep the foreman sober, but these days, he’d taken to hitting the bottle. Hard and often, it seemed.
Rick kicked at the dirt and shook his head. Funny how some dreams panned out and others didn’t. And funny how some dreams changed. Used to be, he would line the pitching machine up so he’d face the mesa and pretend it was a stadium full of fans, screaming for a grand slam. But after a year or two of playing major-league ball, he started doing it the other way around. Even in the oldest, most venerated parks like Fenway or Wrigley Field, he’d let his imagination take out the grandstands and crowds and substitute Arizona instead. This space. This peace. This sky.
Home. Home had been calling him for a while.
And now the ghost of Mrs. Seymour had finally brought him back. Back home.
Back to Tina.
They’d played together as kids, then played a different way as teens. Lost their virginity together that magical night in Spring Hollow, and followed that up all summer, sneaking off to clandestine rendezvous once their chores were done. But then a talent scout had come along and made Rick an offer too good to resist. One thing led to another, and Rick ended up in college, and eventually, the big leagues. It all went so fast, and he had nearly convinced himself that what he and Tina had was just a kid thing. Puppy love, right?
But puppy love didn’t last over twelve years and a thousand miles. Puppy love didn’t propel a man and a woman right back into each other’s arms the minute they laid eyes on each other when he finally did visit home.
Home. Arizona. Tina. He sighed, remembering it all.
That week they’d shared seven years ago had been a whirlwind of passion and burning need. No giggles, only intense gazes as if the end of the week signaled the end of the world. And it did, in a way.
“Come with me,” he’d urged her when the week was up. “Come to California. Marry me.” She’d barely left the ranch in all those years, and he was just what she needed—a knight in shining armor to carry her away. “Be mine.”
He remembered how her eyes had blazed with hope, then dimmed to twin shadows before she forced a bittersweet smile.
“I can’t, Rick.” No explanation, though he sensed a cascade of words poised on her tongue. She looked at him with those weepy eyes, so full of secrets.
Why? He wanted to plead. Why?
“I just can’t,” she whispered. Seven long years ago.
He took a deep breath, then another. When a raven cawed, his gaze snapped up from wherever it had drifted to and focused back on the overgrown garden.
Tina. Love. Last chances. He could spend all day staring into the wind, thinking about it. But he had a ranch to run, and an awfully fine line to walk between old ways and new—not to mention a bitter old man as a foreman and neighbors who expected the worst.
Rick sucked in a long, slow breath. He’d take it one day at a time with Tina and with the ranch. Lucy Seymour’s husband, Henry, used to say the first twenty days of anything were the worst, and Rick had used that as a benchmark throughout his life. His first miserable twenty days away from home back when he was a teen. His first grueling twenty days in the big leagues. The first hopeless twenty in the hospital.
And now this. His first twenty days on the ranch.
His hand balled into a fist, but something got in his way. The cookie plate. He looked down and studied it for a minute. Chocolate chunk cookies, by the look of it, lumpy as the surface of the moon and just starting to melt in the sunshine. Perfect.
He bit into one and let the flavor explode in his mouth. Pictured Tina holding the bowl at her hip, mixing the batter. Wiping a smear with her finger, then extending it to him.
He sucked in a sharp breath when the next image popped into his mind, all by itself. He was just leaning over to lick that finger when a tiny Tina look-alike came pattering along, giggling, Daddy, Daddy, and got to it first.
Now, shoot. Did his imagination really have to torture him like that?
He closed his eyes and held on to that picture for a good, long time.
The next cookie, he held up to the hills in a silent toast to their maker—and to twenty days.
Chapter Four
Tina’s head buzzed all the way home.
Other body part
s, too. Her face tingled like she’d gotten too much sun. Her stomach fluttered. Heat pooled low in her body and slid around in slow, sultry waves.
Ty slapped the steering wheel as he drove. “Can you believe it?”
No, she couldn’t. Destiny had made a terrible mistake, letting her meet Rick all those years ago. Letting her soar with hope then crash brutally to the ground because her destined mate was human. Female shifters couldn’t mate with humans for good reason, so it was either one big mistake, or one awful trick of fate. She’d given up on love years ago, because if she couldn’t have Rick, she didn’t want anyone.
And now he was back. Worse, as manager of Seymour Ranch! She’d have to deal with him regularly. She could practically hear the cruel laugh of destiny on the sidelines, witnessing the torture that every business meeting with him would be. She’d be able to see her true love but not touch him or hold him or kiss him or—
“Fucking unbelievable,” Ty went on.
Tina gave a bitter nod as her eyes tracked the landscape outside. The desert seemed drier, more withered than it had before. The cactus graying, the brushwood drooping.
The pickup rattled over a series of cattle grids and then under the Twin Moon Ranch gate. Overhead, even the ranch brand seemed to mock her: two circles, overlapping by one-third. A perfect representation of her and Rick. Two lovers connected in their hearts, yet forever pulled apart.
“And now this,” Ty muttered.
She could have listed a dozen things about Rick that could have qualified as this, but Ty was waving at the first building on the right where several concerned faces stood in an expectant huddle.
“Trouble,” he growled.
Trouble for sure, she nodded, still thinking about Rick.
Ty parked, slammed the door, and stalked to the meeting house. Tina followed on feet that felt heavier, older than before. She climbed the three steps to the shaded porch, followed Ty in, and gave her younger brother Cody a nod of greeting.
