Chapter One

      1885

      Montana Territory

      The creak of the bedroom door had every muscle in Trace Edwards’s body going hard, yet he didn’t crack an eyelid. Didn’t need to. He knew who it was, and the image of Annie Houlton’s honeycomb-colored hair, hanging down her back in a single braid, and perfect, luscious curves, which he’d made the mistake of sampling years ago, was burned into his mind as clearly as the brands on the thousands of cows roaming the countryside nearby. Her land. Her cows. Her brand.

      He’d been a part of that brand—the Lazy E—a long time ago. Now he was just here to solve a crime. Texas was where he belonged, not Montana. Not anymore.

      She didn’t make a sound, no click of heels on the floorboards, but she was moving closer. Floating across his room like a ghost coming to haunt him. Or a phantom coming to tempt him.

      A swish, softer than a breeze blowing through the leaves of a single tree, echoed in his ears louder than a howling December gale forewarning a full-blown blizzard.

      There’d been no way for him to prepare for this. Annabelle Houlton—no, it was Annabelle Edwards—was as tempting now as she had been all those years ago. More so in many ways as she’d matured into the beauty he’d always expected her to become, but she was off-limits now, and that was what he couldn’t quite grasp.

      Trace shot up in bed and leveled his most menacing stare directly at her glistening blue eyes—which almost stole his breath.

      It would be so easy to just fold back the covers, take her hand and guide her onto the bed beside him. He’d always been able to read her like a book, and right now she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. To hold her just once more, to have her flesh molded against his, to experience the passion that had always exploded between them as it had that day next to the creek—the day he’d dreamed of so many times over the years.

      His entire being was tense, hot and battling fiercely against the piece of his mind insisting he couldn’t take what she was so generously offering.

      Not just couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

      “Get out of here, Annie,” he snapped while he still had air in his lungs.

      “Trace.” Her voice was like a warm knife, and he like melting butter. “I—”

      “No, Annie.”

      She’d already removed her outer wrapper—the one that had covered a nightgown thinner than cheesecloth and clinging to very specific parts of her body. His stomach muscles tightened and sweat popped out on the back of his neck. Memories hadn’t done her justice, and his dreams...

      “No,” he repeated.

      “Trace—”

      “No.” He jumped out of bed—the other side of bed—and, thankful he’d listened to his inner sense and left his britches on, he moved straight to the door. There he grabbed the handle and made a point of holding the door wide open. “This is the foreman’s house. You belong in the ranch house. Your house. My brother’s house. You do remember him, don’t you?” A burning sensation took over his throat as he growled, “Your husband? Roy?”

      The room was dark except for a sliver of moonbeam, which bounced off her like sunshine, making her skin glisten and his insides ache. He’d loved her beyond all else at one time and had feared seeing her again would bring everything back to the surface, but he didn’t have a choice. This assignment was no different than numerous others that took him across the country chasing down cattle rustlers.

      Yes, it was. This one included his brother.

      She’d retrieved her outer wrapper off the floor, and she put it on and tugged it tight while crossing the room, chin up and glaring at him as if he’d just tried climbing into her bed instead of the other way around.

      “I’ll never forget Roy,” she said, “or what he did for me and Wyatt.” Maintaining the haughty attitude she’d displayed since he’d arrived four days ago, she stopped directly in front of him. “It’s you who needs to remember Roy. The man he was. Few men, if any, were more honest, more dedicated, than him.”

      She didn’t so much as blink, which only made Trace notice the tears welling in her eyes as she continued, “He’d never, ever have had anything to do with stolen cattle and you know it.”

      Trace would have liked to believe that, if only so he could remember his brother fondly, but the evidence was there—and it said otherwise. Besides, Roy had stolen her right out from beneath him. A herd of cattle seemed insignificant in comparison.

      “Go back to Texas, Trace,” she snapped. “You aren’t wanted or needed here.”

      He’d go back to Texas, as soon as the trial was over, but he didn’t tell her that. Instead he watched as she faded into the darkness of the house and listened as the outside door slammed shut. He moved to the window in the front room and watched her walk from the foreman’s house to the ranch house several yards away. He expected she was mad, embarrassed, frustrated, yet she carried herself well, full of pride and purpose, but