Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter One

      Sam shined the toes of his boots on the backs of the legs of his starched, dark blue jeans and tugged at the open collar of his freshly ironed, maroon-plaid shirt. Smoothing the sides of the boxy cattleman’s coat that he wore for protection against the cold north wind, he sucked in one more deep breath. He was as ready as he was ever going to be.

      It felt odd preparing to talk business with a woman. Farming was usually a man’s province, but like he’d told the banker who’d put him onto this setup, “The times they were a-changing, and a wise man realized when he couldn’t stand against a tide.” Besides, he’d done his research, and Sam wasn’t as convinced of the folly of her plans as the bankers were. Farming flowers might be unusual in West Central Texas, but it was entirely possible, provided a man—or woman—had access to all the necessary resources. He did not, but neither did Sierra Carlton. Together…ah, now that was another proposition altogether, and one he’d come prepared to make. Couldn’t be all that different than talking his way into an equipment loan.

      Sam looked up at the crisp brick front of the Lorimer building. Like Sierra Carlton, Avis Lorimer was one of the famed Puma Springs heiresses. They, along with a third woman named Valerie Keene, had each inherited a cool million from an old man whom everyone around town had assumed was a pauper, including the old man’s nephew, Heston Witt, who just happened to be mayor, a position ripe for embarrassment when people learned he had pretty much gotten left out of the will. Heston’s nose had been out of joint since because of it, much to the amusement of most of the town, although that didn’t stop anyone from repeating the gossip he spouted.

      Sam didn’t have the foggiest idea what Valerie Keene had done with her money. All he knew about her was that she was rumored to have been quite the party girl before she married the town’s fire marshal.

      He’d heard worse about Avis Lorimer. Some said she was a home wrecker and possibly even a “widow-on-purpose,” but she’d stepped in and used her money to erect this fine new building on the Puma Springs town square after the old one had burned and left an ugly, gaping hole in the block.

      As for Sierra Carlton, it was rumored that she was the disinherited child of a wealthy Fort Worth businessman. Some said she was divorced, and some said she had never been married, though she had a daughter. Sam, however, was the last man to judge another. God knew that he lived with his own enduring scandal.

      Sam pushed open the heavy glass door to the florist’s shop and stepped inside to the sound of muted chimes. Warmth and a wave of flowery perfume washed over him. He glanced around the large, attractively arrayed showroom. A moment later a short, heavy woman with a mannish haircut appeared from a doorway on the right. Assuming that she was Sierra Carlton, he introduced himself.

      “I’m Sam Jayce.”

      “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jayce. I’m Bette Grouper. How can I help you?”

      “Oh. Uh, I have an appointment with Ms. Carlton.”

      The wide woman motioned to a flight of stairs on the left. “It’s at the front of the building. Just knock and go on in.”

      Feeling foolish, Sam nodded his thanks and moved to the staircase. He started climbing. About halfway up, he paused, wiped his palms on his thighs and checked his hair with both hands. He’d been cursed with a cowlick right in front, so he’d taken to spiking his short, thick hair, not that it needed much help to stand up on end. Frowning, he dropped his hands and took the remainder of the stairs two at a time, keenly aware that if he’d been meeting with a man he’d have just worn a cap and said to hell with it. Dealing with females—adult females, anyway—always changed the equation, and that woman downstairs had unnerved him. For a moment he’d thought he was going to be doing business with someone who put him in mind of his grandma. That could still happen.

      At the top of the stairs he turned left, toward the front of the building and strode down the hall to the last door. Rapping sharply, he put his hand on the knob, but felt himself freeze. The old girl downstairs