CHAPTER ONE

      “BILLIE DEE?”

      The back door of the Stagecoach Saloon swung open. Henry Larson stuck his head in, bringing in a gust of autumn-scented mountain air.

      The sound of his voice buoying her spirits, Billie Dee turned from where she had a pot of Texas shrimp gumbo going to wave the cowboy in. She watched as Henry removed his Stetson and wiped his feet before settling his gaze on her.

      The bigger-than-life cowboy made her smile with his ah-shucks-ma’am shyness. He often stopped by this time of the day for a cup of coffee and a visit. She looked forward to seeing him. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Henry had a crush on her.

      “Pull up a chair,” she told him as he looked around for a place to put his hat and finally rested it on one knee as he took a seat at the table.

      She turned down the gumbo before pouring him a cup of coffee and one for herself. Taking the full cups over, she set them down and then hung up his hat on the hook by the door. As she lowered herself into a chair across from him, she breathed in the warm, rich smells of the kitchen, along with Henry’s fresh-from-the-shower scent. It surprised her how much she’d come to love both.

      Gilt Edge, Montana, seemed at the end of the earth when she’d driven her old car through town. She’d planned to keep right on going, no place in mind up the road, just making the best of this autumn part of her life as she could.

      But as she was leaving, she’d spotted an old stone building with the sign Stagecoach Saloon and Café. Something about the place had drawn her. She’d pulled in and shut off her loud, complaining car engine, thinking she’d have lunch then get on her way.

      That was when she saw the sign in the window. She’d laughed since she’d been looking for a sign of where she should light—at least for a while. The sign in the old stagecoach window wasn’t the kind of sign she’d been expecting.

      But there she was, outside of an old mining town in Montana, looking at a sign that read Cook Wanted. She didn’t know what could be much clearer than that. She’d hired on and stayed.

      “Nice weather we’re having,” Henry said and pushed the sugar bowl over to her.

      She smiled as she put four spoonfuls into her coffee, added a little cream and stirred. “It’s what makes me so sweet,” she’d joked the first time he’d raised an eyebrow.

      Like now, he only smiled. Henry took his coffee black, saying he was a simple man and sweet enough. She thought he was right about that.

      He watched her until she’d finished stirring before he picked up his own cup and took a sip. He was a big rugged man, with broad shoulders and long legs. Henry had a chiseled, handsome face and twinkling blue eyes. His dark hair was still thick, but there was gray at his temples. Billie Dee figured they were about the same age. Her own hair was fiery red. It went with her temper, she’d always say, though no one believed it because of her usual easygoing disposition.

      But then, no one around here had ever seen her mad. She hoped they never did. It was a side of her she kept hidden, just like her past.

      Henry put down his cup. “You weren’t singing this morning,” he said, eyeing her closely. “Usually I can hear you the moment I pull in at the back. I was worried.” He had the most intense blue eyes she’d ever seen. “Everything all right?”

      His question surprised her. Usually they talked about the weather or the price of beef or what she was cooking that day for the café. She liked to cook what she knew. And what she knew was Tex-Mex with a side of Cajun. Which in this part of the country seemed exotic—and often too spicy.

      “Do I sing that much?” Half the time she didn’t even