Chapter Two

      Sunday morning Lydia woke up and stared into her open suitcase. She wanted to make a good first impression with the Moonlight Motel manager—even if he was just a country boy. If she wanted Gunner Hardell to take her seriously, then she’d better dress as a professional. She picked out a black maxi skirt and a short-sleeved white poppy-print blouse, then headed for the shower.

      A half hour later with her wet hair secured in a bun at the back of her head, she walked into an empty kitchen. Her aunt had left a note on the table. Good luck today. After washing her antibiotic down with a glass of orange juice, she took her bowl of bran flakes outside and ate breakfast on the front porch swing.

      Her aunt’s home sat on the corner of Buckaroo Avenue and Vaquero Lane. A yellow butterfly vine in full bloom covered the wrought iron fence enclosing the front yard. A large magnolia tree shaded the porch and smaller crepe myrtle trees lined the driveway, their pink blooms scattered across the black asphalt. Boston ferns hung from ornate vintage hooks along the porch overhang and a pot of daisies sat on the table between a pair of white rockers at the end of the porch.

      Aunt Amelia took pride in her home and Lydia wasn’t surprised that she wanted to tidy up the town. All of her neighbors kept their properties neatly landscaped—even the yard of the home with a for-sale sign out front had been mowed recently.

      Lydia swallowed the last bite of cereal and returned inside to brush her teeth and put on lip gloss. With her computer in hand, she grabbed her purse and left the house. She drove through town at a snail’s pace—not much had changed since she’d last visited Stampede.

      Three blocks of businesses formed Chuck Wagon Drive, the main thoroughfare. The brick buildings dated back to the late 1800s and early 1900s—the National Bank and Trust still remained a bank. The old Woolworth had closed its doors decades ago and now the building housed the Cattle Drive Café on the main floor, the town library in the basement and Statewide Insurance on the third level. The feedstore built circa the 1870s took up an entire block, the doors and windows boarded over. Years of baking in the hot sun had bleached the wood gray. For Sale had been spray-painted on the side of the building.

      There were no stop signs in Stampede, just slow signs posted along the side streets. The third block along the main thoroughfare consisted of newer brick storefronts, but the Saddle Up Saloon’s window had a huge crack through it and the sign for the Crazy Curl Hair Salon hung crooked. An out-of-business poster had been taped to the window of the Buckets of Suds coin-operated laundry. Right next door a rocking chair and overturned milk can sat in the display window of Millie’s Antiques & Resale—Open Saturdays had been painted across the window.

      The old Amoco filling station on the corner had been converted into a farmers’ market. Empty vegetable and fruit crates littered the back of the lot next to a dilapidated snow-cone stand. The Corner Market sat at the end of the block—Lydia remembered walking there as a kid and buying five-cent candy.

      There was no landscaping in front of the businesses, no benches to sit on or flowerpots to admire—nothing but bare sidewalks with weeds growing through the cracks in the cement. No wonder Aunt Amelia was frustrated with the mayor’s lack of interest in beautifying the town. Stampede was aptly named—it looked as if a herd of renegade bovines had trampled the life out of it.

      After the last block Lydia hit the gas. A half mile up the highway, the sign for Moonlight Motel came into view—a full moon sitting on top of a forty-foot pole. When the sign was turned on, the moon glowed white and spun in a slow circle. No Vacancy was spelled out across the moon, and depending on whether or not the motel was full, the letters in the Vacancy or No Vacancy glowed blue against the white backdrop of the moon.

      She pulled into the parking lot of the six-room tan brick motel and parked by the office. Weeds and trash littered the empty lot. A person would have to be desperate for shelter to rent a room here, which played in Lydia’s favor. Anything she did to the place would be an improvement.

      The motel was shaped like a capital L. The rooms were numbered sequentially—starting with 1 next to the office. The once-royal-blue trim and doors had faded to baby blue. There was no pool or recreation area for families to picnic or relax and the office with its peeling window tint gave the impression the place had closed down.

      She locked the car door, then used the key her aunt had given her to let herself into the office. The dim interior smelled musty like a suitcase that hadn’t been opened in decades. A chair with an inch of dust coating the leather seat sat in the corner next to a table covered in old tourist brochures. She set the key on the counter, then glanced through the leaflets advertising cave tours and shopping outlets.

      “If it isn’t the dairyland princess.”

      Lydia spun and came face-to-face with Gunner Hardell.

      He removed his cowboy hat. “We bumped into each other at the Valero yesterday.”

      “We did?”

      “You walked right past me without looking my way.”

      Embarrassed she hadn’t noticed him, she said, “I’m sorry. I was in a hurry.”

      “You grew up real nice, Lydia Canter.”

      So had Gunner. His grin widened, drawing her eyes to his sexy mouth. Handsome wasn’t the right word to describe the dark-haired cowboy. H-O-T with a dozen exclamation points fit better. Too bad none of the men on the dating site she’d joined looked like Gunner.

      Her attention shifted to his hands. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

      Gunner cleared his throat and she looked away, mortified that he’d caught her studying him. “I understand you’re the manager of the Moonlight Motel.”

      “I mostly rodeo and do this—” he spread his arms wide “—on the side to keep Gramps happy.”

      “So you know why I’m here.” She tore her gaze from his face and pretended to study her surroundings, irritated that he made her nervous. There weren’t any guys like Gunner on SavvyMatch.com. He was too confident and sure of himself to fit the profiles of the socially awkward men who’d been matched up with her.

      “If you ask me,” he said, “the motel doesn’t need a makeover.”

      Seriously? Maybe a bull had kicked the cowboy in the head and scrambled his brains. “I’d like to peek inside one of the rooms. I assume the motel