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to his own age. This man couldn’t be more than thirty-four or -five.
He was certainly tall, she thought, watching him walk smoothly to the pulpit. At least six-two, maybe even sixthree. His thick, wavy hair touched the collar of his white dress shirt and was almost as black as the tailored suit he wore. A suit, Faith noted with interest, that fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist like a glove. Her gaze drifted just below the waist, and she felt a tug of curiosity, wondering if his suit jacket covered a backside that was as wellshaped as the rest of his muscular body.
The improper thought caught Faith completely off guard. Frowning, she straightened and carefully reined in her wayward wondering. She had a job to do here, she reminded herself sharply. The sooner she completed that job, the sooner she could be back in Boston. It was imperative she stay focused.
When the man turned and looked straight at her, her focus tumbled.
The face matched the body: dark, intense eyes; strong, masculine features; a jaw that advertising agencies paid big bucks for. Only when he looked away from her did she realize she’d been holding her breath.
“Digger Jones,” the man said, his voice deep and resonant, “was the most irascible, ill-natured, argumentative, opinionated man I’ve met in my entire life.”
She nearly gasped out loud. How could he say such a thing after a man had so tragically lost his life? Shocked, Faith glanced around the church. Everyone was nodding.
“And no one,” Sam said, “no one, loved him more than me.”
There were smiles now. Some of the ladies dabbed at their eyes. Relieved, Faith leaned back in the pew. Any resentment or grievance with Digger from Mr. McCants, or from the town, might complicate her business here.
“Many of you—” Sam said, moving to the coffin “—are probably thinking what I’m thinking. That this casket hd is going to fly open any minute, with Digger ranting and raving, wanting to know what all the fuss is about and why the hell isn’t Matilda flipping burgers and frying potatoes at lunchtime?”
There were chuckles throughout the church and a loud nose-blow from a big-haired platinum blonde in the second pew. Matilda, Faith assumed.
“But we all know,” he went on, “that this coffin is empty. Digger is still in the mountains. In the canyons that he loved, where he worked, his entire life. Some people may have thought him foolish, crazy even, to live his life chasing after a silver mine. But I admired him. His tenacity, his determination, his dream. His apple cobbler.”
When Sam looked heavenward, laughter broke out and Faith pressed her lips tightly together. She’d only been to two other funerals in her life, the first one four years ago, when she was twenty-two. Randolph Hollingsworth, the founder of the Boston Businessmen’s Association, had passed on at eighty-four. Dignity and formality had been protocol for the elderly gentleman. Even when Russel Matthews’s toupee had slipped off his head and fell directly onto Widow Hollingsworth’s lap no one had laughed.
And then there was her second funeral, only six months ago.
Her father’s.
There’d certainly been no laughter there, either. The service for Joseph Alexander Courtland III had been solemn, the reception afterward hushed and reserved. Like the man himself.
“I was only ten the first time Digger took me into the mountains to mine with him,” Sam continued, and Faith drew in a breath to refocus her attention. “I just knew I was going to come home rich, with silver nuggets bulging out of my pockets.”
He paused and smiled at the coffin. “What I came back with was a sore butt from four days in the saddle and hands that had more blisters than Pete Johnson has teeth.”
The crowd laughed again, and a pole-shaped man in a too-small suit rose, tipping his cowboy hat as he grinned at everyone with a smile reminiscent of a woodchuck.
“But a young boy’s disappointment,” Sam said quietly, “became a man’s realization. A realization that I did come home rich from that trip, that I brought back much more with me than any amount of riches could ever buy. Digger taught me perseverance, to never give up on what I value most, no matter what the cost. To treasure our families, our goals, our dreams.”
Sam touched the coffin, a tender gesture of farewell. “Goodbye, Digger Jones. You may never have found your treasure, but you were one of the richest men I’ve ever had the pleasure, and the honor, to know.”
The organist began to play as Sam walked back to his seat. Faith struggled to blink back the tears threatening to spill. What was the matter with her? She had no reason to cry. No reason at all, she told herself. She was tired from the trip, under tremendous pressure at the moment, nervous about meeting Mr. McCants.
So what if the man’s eulogy was touching? So what if Digger had made such an impact on these people’s lives? None of that had anything to do with her, or why she was here. She was Faith Alexis Courtland, daughter of Joseph Alexander Courtland III and Colleen Jane Buchanan. She did not cry at funerals, and she most certainly did not laugh.
One by one, the townspeople passed by the coffin, men with their hats in their hands, women dabbing their eyes with tissues. Faith stayed where she was, ignoring the curious looks from the people of Cactus Flat as they filed out of the church.
To keep her eyes diverted and her hands busy, she fumbled in her purse for a tissue. She had no desire to talk with anyone, and she waited until the church was nearly empty before she tucked her tissue back into her purse. A few deep breaths and she would be fine. In control. Composed.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
Faith snapped her head around and stared into Sam McCants’s dark eyes. She stood quickly, too quickly, and her purse slipped from her fingers, still unclasped. The contents skittered over the worn, but shiny oak floor.
Great—just great, Faith thought with a silent groan. A terrific first impression.
Her eyes were blue, Sam noted. The color of pale, soft denim. He’d caught her off guard, he realized, and for just a moment, before she’d straightened her shoulders and lifted that cute little chin, he’d seen something in those wide eyes that belied her outer image of cool sophistication. A distress that went deeper than a spilled purse.
He bent to help her, but they moved at the same time and only managed to bump into each other. The contact, though only a fraction of a second, brought forth an image of heated flesh. The sudden flush on her high cheeks charmed him. He caught her scent. Expensive. Exotic.
She stepped back, the windows in her eyes closed now. “Excuse me.”
Her formality amused him as much as it intrigued him. He watched her bend demurely and scoop up a slim black wallet, palm-size brush and set of keys with a rental car insignia. He enjoyed the extra inches of exposed leg as she reached for a gold-toned ballpoint pen.
“Do you mind?” she asked.
He thought he’d been caught sneaking a peek, but she was gesturing to the silver-cased lipstick that had rolled between his feet. He bent to pick it up, glancing at the label as he handed it to her. “Passion’s Blush,” he read aloud. “Very nice.”
She dropped the silver tube into her purse, snapped the purse shut and adjusted the gold chain over her shoulder as she stood. “Faith Courtland, Mr. McCants.”
He looked down at the hand she extended to him. Her tone was as stiff as the starched collars his mother had made him wear to Sunday school when he was a boy. “We’re laid back here in Cactus Flat, Faith. Why don’t you just call me Sam?”
She nodded, then smiled hesitantly. “Sam.”
Her fingers were long and smooth Warm. And no rings. He held her hand longer than he should have. “I’ve never seen you before, Faith.” He would definitely have remembered. “Are you a friend of Digger’s?”
“Digger?” she repeated. She cleared her throat, then tugged her hand from