The Marriage Charm. Linda Lael Miller
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but it was a breezy day; the message might blow away, roll across the range like a tumbleweed or wind up lodged in the branches of some pine tree.
Hell.
Melody pounded on the door.
* * *
NOTHING. SHE WAS out of choices.
After drawing a long, deep breath, she tried the knob. Surprisingly, the chief of police had left his house unlocked, but then again, she supposed Spence knew it would take some nerve to rob his house.
She stopped in the act of opening the door, noticing with amusement a garden gnome parked next to something bushy by the front porch. No kidding? She guessed the plant was a weed, but she had to admit it was kind of pretty with yellow flowers that she assumed would send anyone with allergies into a tailspin. Still, it looked as if he intended it to be there. A garden decoration like that on a ranch—what was the story? If that wasn’t out of character, she would eat her pointy shoes from hell.
He was such a...man.
A tall, infuriating man with skillful hands and a compelling smile, who made love as if he really meant it...
But didn’t. All these years she’d expected to hear that he’d gotten engaged. It hadn’t happened. There’d been some talk about Trudy Reinholt, an attractive elementary-school teacher who seemed to hold on to him the longest—longer than Melody had, that was for sure—but it had fizzled out about a year ago.
Melody let herself in and stood in the living room, since there was no real entry other than some tiles in a square so cowboys could wipe their feet before they stepped onto the hardwood floors. There was a tan couch to her left in front of a river-stone fireplace, a plain pine coffee table with a dog-eared novel on it and an iron lamp that had the image of a bronco rider. His coffee cup was still sitting on the surface of the table, but to his credit, he’d used a coaster.
Would he mind her just barging in? His actions last night meant he’d given up that choice, she decided. If he hadn’t been so impetuous, so...pushy, she wouldn’t be standing here, uninvited, in his living room.
Yep, all his fault.
Still, she was an interloper. Spence craved his personal space, she knew that about him, and it was something they had in common. Solitude was a friend for both of them. She needed it in order to create her eclectic designs. He dealt with a much grimmer reality, although—granted—no one would call Mustang Creek a hotbed of criminal activity. But solitude for him was an escape from the problems he had to unravel, a chance to recover his equilibrium.
While he was in the real world solving crimes, she was in her own little realm spinning treasures.
They were opposites. She got him, and yet she didn’t.
Was that the chemistry? She was light, and he was darkness?
No, Spence was pure light, just of a different kind.
She should ditch the philosophical meditation and find a pen, since there didn’t seem to be one in her purse. No sketchbook either. Melody might have walked right into the man’s house, but she drew the line at rummaging through cabinets and drawers. She finally fished out a bank receipt from her bag and thankfully spotted a pen on a small side table by the picture window. She’d snatched it up and started to scribble her apology, noting that the pen said Findley’s Feed Store on the side, when the door opened.
“Hey.”
The sound of Spence’s low voice made her whirl around in time to have Harley launch himself at her in pure adoration, singing the song of his people.
So the master of the house was back.
Boy, he sure was, leaning in the doorway, that faint, devastating smile on his mouth. “Ma’am, pardon me for saying so, but I believe you’re trespassing.”
* * *
“I WAS LEAVING you a note.”
Melody looked cute when she felt guilty, especially while trying to fend off a dog with one hand, a pen clutched in the other.
Spence’s problem was that she looked cute—no, beautiful—to him all the time. Even in the daffodil dress, wobbling on her ridiculous shoes, she’d turned him on. Maybe it was that glimpse of one long, sleek leg because her skirt had a slit in the side of it.
The real Melody, the quirky artist with mismatched clothing and long honey hair in a shining fall over her shoulders, was eye-catching in his humble opinion. It didn’t matter what she wore.
“About?” He raised his brows in question.
“About what?” She’d figured out that if she climbed onto one of the stools by the counter, Harley’s exuberance was easier to handle. At a word, the dog would calm down, but Spence didn’t say anything. Perched there, Melody peered at him.
“You mentioned a note?”
“Oh, right.” She seemed flustered. Gloriously so. “I was going to thank you for last night.”
“For what, specifically?” Spence savored Melody’s discomfort, reflecting on the fact that she hadn’t seemed all that grateful at the time.
“The ride home.” She was blushing. “And I assume you’re the one who got my car back to me. Thanks for that, too.”
“No problem.”
“It had to be something of a problem, since you didn’t have my keys.”
“As someone who’s worked in law enforcement for a while, I can tell you it’s not an insurmountable one.”
In the course of his career, he’d met a few people who’d done a two-step, twirl and turn when it came to the law, but they weren’t always bad folks, just a little misguided. He didn’t look the other way when they broke hard and fast rules, but most of them, especially the young ones, only needed a nudge in the right direction. Spence was a big believer in second chances.
He wouldn’t mind a second chance himself. A second chance with Melody Nolan.
He could hardly believe it, but they were actually alone. Yesterday had been different, full of activity and ceremony and guests, but in his quiet house they were together—and on their own—for the first time since he and Melody had gone their separate ways nine years ago.
“Just answer my question. How did you manage the car anyway, without my keys?”
“Called in a favor from someone I know.” He moved into the kitchen, but his casual stride didn’t reflect his mood. He was anything but nonchalant. Coming home to see her car outside his house—and her inside it— had done something interesting to his stomach that had nothing to do with the fact that he’d ridden back because he was getting hungry.
She looked skeptical but also flustered at being caught in his kitchen, although at least Harley had calmed down enough that she could get off the stool. “How do they turn off the car without keys?”
She’d always had an inquiring mind.
He shrugged. “The same way they started it, I imagine. And no, I didn’t let a convicted felon drive your car. No arrests, just an...unusual background.”
Frank was a wizard with all things mechanical, but outside of one juvenile joyride, he’d stayed out of trouble. After that initial brush with the law, they’d come to a mutual understanding—Spence didn’t want to send him to jail, and he didn’t want to go. He’d found it hilarious that Spence had called him.
She chose to not pursue it. Facing him, her aquamarine eyes vivid in the late-morning light, she began, “This is better done in person, anyway. I know we’re no longer—”
“Lovers,” he supplied helpfully, crossing his arms and propping himself against the counter.
More’s the pity.
“Not