Chapter 2

      Nick had never wanted to set eyes on the Belle Creek Ranch again.

      Ten years ago, he’d thought the same about Shelby Stillwater, and not for the same reasons.

      Sweet Pea Shelby. Damn, the girl had turned into a woman, and what a fine-looking woman. One night, upset over yet another fight with Silas, he’d come home and saw her sitting in the cabin, where he’d gone to sleep off the Jack Daniel’s. He hadn’t cared she was barely sixteen and he was old enough to know better. She looked so lost, as forlorn as he’d felt, so he’d kissed her. Her mouth had been warm and sweet, and the kiss had seared him to his very bones, so much that his dick had turned as hard as stone in his jeans and he knew if he’d stayed, he’d have done something very, very wrong.

      Shelby was too nice for his brand of wicked.

      And now she was legal. Very legal. With those big green eyes, thick brown curls with a hint of honey and sunshine spilling past her shoulders, all those curves and that spark in her eye, she made him think of hot, wet kisses in the night, and things men wanted to do to women who roused them to the point of madness. Long, slow sex. Fast, hard sex.

      When he’d touched her, the past rushed back like a tornado. Her skin felt warm and soft as satin, and her mouth...

      Nick pushed Shelby out of his mind. Tomorrow was the funeral, and then he’d be gone again, this time never coming back. He’d never return to Shelby or the ranch. Odd, he’d thought the old man would live forever, for Silas Anderson was one tough bastard.

      Not too tough for the pneumonia that rattled his lungs and ultimately claimed him.

      Nick parked his Harley in the curved driveway of the two-story white farmhouse and adjusted his backpack. Two elegant carriage lights tastefully accented the front porch, with its rows of white wicker rocking chairs and baskets of flowers. House...? Hell, this was a mansion compared to some places he’d slept.

      He whistled. When he’d left, last time for good, the farmhouse had weathered paint, finicky plumbing and heat, and wood floorboards that creaked when you tried to sneak up the stairs. This kind of renovating took plenty of money. He knew, too, because over the past year since he’d left the teams, he’d found odd jobs doing construction and flipping houses.

      His gut curling into a knot, he walked up to the double doors with the half-moon windows above them and rang the silver bell. Soft chimes sounded inside. Even the doorbell had changed from the sharp, annoying buzzer. He half expected a butler named Jeeves to open the door.

      Instead, his cousin Dan did, and stood for a moment silently assessing him. Nick did the same. Five years older than Nick, Dan looked a little thicker around the waist than last time, and there were threads of silver in his dark hair. No welcome in his blue eyes, either. Once they’d been close. No longer. Not since the day Nick packed all his things and left for good. Abandoning the family, Dan had called it.

      Survival, Nick termed it.

      In a starched white shirt, black trousers and polished loafers, Dan looked more like a banker than a cowboy. Nick became aware of his shabby jeans, the faded black T-shirt beneath his collared chambray work shirt.

      “Hi, Dan. Good to see you.”

      “Nick. You’re here, finally.”

      Dan engulfed him in a hug that felt stiffer than a new board. Nick hugged him back a little more enthusiastically. He wasn’t going to be a jerk, even if Dan wasn’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat.

      “Come on in. You can hang your things in the hall closet. Felicity doesn’t like jackets strewn about the house.”

      Nick shrugged out of the frayed backpack containing all his worldly goods and then removed his leather jacket, placing it on a padded hanger in the closet. A black Stetson with a turquoise band sat on a shelf. Nick removed it and stroked a thumb along the brim.

      “I remember this well,” he mused. “Bought it at a rodeo when I was sixteen.”

      The remark made Dan thaw a bit. “You used to wear it in school.”

      Nick grinned. “Wonder if my head has shrunk since then.”

      Dan’s smile faded. “Felicity doesn’t like hats worn inside the house. But you can take it with you upstairs to your room and wear it on the ranch. Come, I’ll introduce you to my wife and children.”

      The hallway was lined with white marble, and elegant framed paintings hung on the cream walls. The entry to this house wasn’t stacked with boots caked with mud and horse droppings. The antiseptic atmosphere made him feel as if he should have wiped his feet more before entering.

      Dan led him into a living room with overstuffed brown leather furniture, a stone fireplace and gold lamps. A pretty but brittle blond woman dressed in a severe navy-blue dress was perched on the edge of the sofa. Next to her were two young boys with buzzed-cut brown hair dressed in neatly pressed trousers and white shirts.

      Dan introduced the woman as his wife, Felicity, and their two sons, Mason, eight, and Miles, six. The little boys looked solemn.

      Nick shook Felicity’s hand, which felt as damp and listless as the Southern heat. He sat on the leather chair opposite them.

      “Thanks for letting me bunk here tonight,” he told her.

      She gave a desultory wave of one hand. “It is your home as well, Nicolas.”

      Dan stood by the sofa, as stiff as his starched shirt. “Did you eat dinner yet, Nick?”

      “I ate at the Bucking Bronc earlier. Didn’t want to impose.”

      Felicity seemed to sit even straighter. “It is no imposition. We already ate, but there are leftovers. Breakfast will be ready at seven o’clock sharp tomorrow. The funeral home requests family be there at nine thirty. We arranged to have two limousines. You may ride in one, unless you would rather provide your own transportation.”

      “I have my bike,” he offered.

      Her nostrils flared in apparent distaste. “You may ride in the second car, then. We expect promptness and we must respect the funeral director’s wishes. The services will begin at eleven sharp. We have a few house rules. No shouting, running, hats worn inside the house or jeans at the dinner table. We dress for dinner, which is six o’clock sharp. Boots with spurs are worn outside only.”

      With all this “sharp” grating sharply on his last nerve, Nick wished he’d booked a room at the local motel. Then he remembered there was a country-music convention in town and there were no rooms. Maybe the barn. Might be a tad warmer sleeping with the horses than in this cold house.

      He glanced at the dusty Western boots on his feet. “This is still a farm, right, Felicity?”

      Felicity blinked. “Of course it is. But we are civilized people, and we must adhere to the rules in order to act as civilized people, not wild hooligans.”

      A dull flush crept up his neck. Damn if she didn’t sound like old Silas himself, with the rules and the “hooligan” accusation. Maybe the old man had rubbed off on her. Or he’d died earlier and his ghost possessed this woman.

      “I won’t be much in your way.” He gave her a pointed look. “After the funeral, I’m gone.”

      He’d think the idea would have pleased her. Instead, she kept twisting her hands together. What was wrong with this woman?

      “Where’s