Chapter Two

      Laura had always thought it was just some stupid saying, but it was true that no good deed went unpunished. She’d thought Wyatt’s request to help his brother would be easy and quick, and yet it had turned into her sitting next to a far-too-handsome convict for one painfully long and awkward road trip.

      She glanced over at Rainier. His hair was flecked with bits of auburn and copper, and when the sunshine struck it just right it almost glowed like precious metal. His eyes were the color of emerald sea glass, their hue dulled and muted by the many years he’d spent behind bars. She wondered if, with time, their color would brighten and energy and light would return.

      Her palms were sweaty as she gripped the steering wheel. The Dunrovin Ranch wasn’t that much farther. She tried to nonchalantly glance at the clock on the dashboard to get an idea of how much more time she would be trapped in the car, but she noticed Rainier watching her and so she reached over and flipped on the radio. An old country song by George Jones filled the space between them, telling of broken hearts and destroyed lives. It was a bit ironic—the two of them were far too much like the song, she being the keeper of a broken heart, and his life destroyed.

      She slipped Rainier a smile, trying to hide her thoughts before he could read them upon her face. Maybe she had it all wrong, or at least backward—her life had been destroyed in just a matter of minutes, as well.

      Maybe the song was really just about her.

      The country singer’s twang grated on her nerves and she flicked off the radio.

      “Do I need to go back over the rules and conditions of your parole, or do you think you understand them?” Laura asked, pushing a wayward strand of hair back into the tight bun on her head.

      Rainier answered with a chuckle and lifted the manila envelope for her to see. “Between this ream of paper, and instructions you’ve been going over for the last hour, I think I’ve got it.”

      “I just want to make sure you fully understand that at any point we can revoke your parole, and you can be sent back to prison. Under no circumstances are you to violate any of the conditions I’ve given you.”

      “All right, there will be no drinking in excess, no hanging out where drugs are distributed or taken. I shall not leave my geographic limits without written permission. I shall see you between the first and third of each month...” He looked over at her and gave her a sexy half smile, and she tried to diffuse her nervousness by shifting in her seat. “I will not violate any law,” he continued. “I won’t associate with people who have criminal records, will not possess firearms or any dangerous weapons, and...well, we know the rest.”

      “Just so long as you do.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel.

      It was going to be a long year, seeing him every month, if this was the way he made her feel simply by sitting next to her and smiling.

      Long ago, she had sworn off relationships, as the only thing they had ever brought her was heartache, thirty pounds that had now collected solidly around her thighs and ass, and what she’d learned later was a raging case of crabs. Not that she ever told anyone she’d had crabs, but she could think of no better reason to call an unwavering hiatus on all things men than a hundred little bugs making her itch like a madwoman. Looking back, she realized they weren’t half as annoying as the man who’d given them to her.

      “Laura—”

      “Call me Ms. Blade,” she said, interrupting.

      “Sorry. Ms. Blade.” He said her name as if it were as sharp as the object it implied. “I was just gonna ask how you got into the parole officer game.”

      The last thing she needed was to exchange pleasantries with her assigned parolee. It would send the wrong message if Rainier thought for one minute they were anything that resembled friends. He had been assigned to her by the state, and her one job was to make sure he didn’t find himself back in trouble. It was her job to save him from himself, even if that meant drawing a hard line.

      “Being a parole officer isn’t a game, Mr. Fitzgerald.” She could feel her butt clench. “I take my job very, very seriously.”

      “Very very,” he teased. “I guess you do. I haven’t heard anybody say that since high school.”

      Just like in high school, she wanted to reach over and punch him in his arm for his cheeky manner. Under a different set of circumstances, she could’ve lightened up and they could’ve been friends. But he was the one who had chosen to nearly kill a man. Now he would have to deal with the consequences—not that missing out on her friendship was really a consequence that he needed to worry about.

      “I’m surprised you didn’t get into more trouble in prison, with a mouth like that.”

      He laughed, tilting his head back with mirth. “If you think I have a mouth, you clearly haven’t been a parole officer very long. What are you—like, thirty-two?”

      Oh, they were so off on the wrong foot.

      It was never okay for a man to guess a woman’s age, especially if he was guessing too high. If he had said twenty-four, things may have gone more in his favor, but it was too late. He had fallen from her grace.

      Thankfully, they ascended the hill that led to the ranch, and the tin roof of the Dunrovin barn came into view, letting him off the hook about erroring at her age.

      It had been only about a week since she’d come to the ranch for their annual holiday party, the Yule Night festival, and it felt strange coming back again so soon. Yet even with all the drama that surrounded the place, a sense of calm came over her. She could almost imagine what it would be like to live there, walking through the spring pastures with her feet