Chapter Two

      At the groom’s house, the prewedding festivities went on from morning until night, from casual drop-in breakfast guests to late-night beery reminiscences. The friendly, easygoing MacCollums knew everyone in town. Pop MacCollum had been the high school football coach and Mama Mac, as she was called, a retired school teacher, was the woman people came to when they needed help, or sympathy, or simply a nonjudgmental ear.

      At first Hitch, still uptight after the visit with his own parents, followed by the near miss with the redhead and the kid, had found ways of avoiding the convivial mob scene. By the second day he had unwound to the point where he was actually beginning to enjoy himself. Or at least to enjoy Mac’s enjoyment. The groom-to-be was having the time of his life, being the envy of all his male friends for having landed the most gorgeous woman in three counties.

      At least they claimed to envy him, Hitch thought cynically, and it would never occur to Mac to doubt their sincerity.

      At the moment, a leisurely game of croquet was under way. Maura, Hitch observed from his lawn chair in the shade of a giant magnolia, wasn’t above nudging the ball with her foot. Steff, resplendent in white silk slacks, a white silk shirt and white, high-heeled sandals, was better at striking a pose than at actually playing the game.

      Mac’s besotted gaze followed her as she moved into the sunlight, which made her pale blond hair glimmer like a halo. “She’s sure something, isn’t she? I still can’t believe she’s gonna be mine.”

      “Yeah, she’s something.” Without being specific, Hitch would allow that much. “Where’s Cindy?”

      “Who? Oh, is that still buggin’ you? Hey, don’t sweat it, man, Cindy never held a grudge in her life.”

      “All the same, I owe her an apology and I always pay my debts.”

      “Know what I think?” Mac was on his third beer at half past two on a sweltering August afternoon. “I think you’ve developed a thing for freckle-faced redheads in your old age,” he teased. Mac had always been one to tease, but thanks to his unfailing good nature, no one ever took offense.

      “What I’ve developed,” Hitch growled, a reluctant grin taking the edge off, “is a guilty conscience. I came down pretty hard on her, and she was completely blameless. If she hadn’t dived after that kid I could’ve hit him. I really would like to apologize and get it off my chest.”

      “Man, don’t take it so serious. Cindy’s used to people yelling at her. Not that Miz S. ever actually yells, but that woman can pack a wallop without even raising her voice.”

      Hitch replaced his empty bottle in the wire holder beside his chair. “Like mother, like daughter, they say. It’s not too late to back out.”

      Mac sighed. “Yeah, it is. It was too late the day Steff was born. She was made for me, man, only I’ve had the devil of a time convincing her.”

      Suddenly, Hitch straightened. “There she is now,” he muttered, easing his six-foot-two frame up from the low lounge chair.

      Cindy spotted her target and hurried across the lawn. “Steff, you’re wanted on the phone. It’s Wade, about your hair appointment.”

      “Well, where is it?”

      “Where is—oh, the portable. I guess someone left it out in the back yard and the batteries ran down. Either that or Charlie got hold of it.”

      “Oh, for pity’s sake,” the elegant blonde exclaimed.

      “Problem?” inquired a quiet baritone voice.

      Cindy whirled, her hip locked and she stumbled. Hitch reached out to steady her and she yanked her arm free. It was bad enough just seeing him again, so close she could see the squint lines at the corners of his slate-gray eyes, the few silver strands scattered through his thick, dark hair.

      Feeling the warmth of his hard palm on her arm, it was as if someone had suddenly flushed a covey of quail where her heart was supposed to be.

      She managed to say “No problem,” as she stepped back from the path through the hedge between the two houses and waited for Steff to precede her.

      And waited. Phone call evidently forgotten, Steff was gazing up at Hitch through her long eyelashes and touching her hair in that way she had that Cindy, no matter how she practiced before a mirror, had never been able to accomplish.

      At least, not with the same results.

      “Go back and tell Wade the appointment stands,” she directed.

      “I’ll tell him,” Cindy said doubtfully, “but he said if you can possibly put it off until Saturday morning—”

      “Tell him I can’t, that I’m getting married Saturday, and my rehearsal ball is Friday night, and if he doesn’t do my hair Friday afternoon he’ll be sorry.”

      Hitch heard it all, tried to withhold judgment for Mac’s sake and watched the little redhead’s slender shoulders rise and fall in defeat. He pitied Wade. Whoever the guy was, whatever he’d done, he was going to pay through the nose for it.

      Hitch told himself if he was any sort of friend at all, he would kidnap this blond witch and hold her hostage until Mac came to his senses.

      “Wait a minute, will you, Cindy?” he said when his red-haired quarry headed back through the hedge.

      “Don’t have time, I left the iron on.” She had her own style of haughty, and it made Steff look like a rank amateur.

      “I won’t take but a minute of your valuable time,” he said before he could check the sarcasm.

      But she was gone, and he refused to chase after any woman.

      Maura was strolling over to join them. Steff waved her away, sighed and touched her hair again. “Croquet is such a childish game, isn’t it? I don’t know why I bother.” Her Southern accent took on a finishing-school polish,