A Montana Homecoming

Prologue

"What do you mean you’re leaving?" Laurel sat up, clutching her cotton dress to her chest. Her bare back felt itchy from straw that only a half hour earlier had felt like the sweetest of mattresses. And there was a horrible hole yawning open inside her.

Shane didn’t look at her. He yanked his T-shirt over his head. His thick hair looked more brown than blond in the dwindling light of the ancient barn and was messy, as much from her fingers as from the shirt. I have classes. His deep voice was clipped.

Starting tomorrow? She couldn’t hide her disbelief. She knew good and well that Shane’s graduate school classes weren’t beginning for another few weeks. She knew, because he’d told her so himself.

His gaze finally slanted toward her, and he crouched next to her, leaned toward her—making her heart stop with hope that he really couldn’t be serious about leaving her, not like this, not now, after they’d—

He plucked his sock from the straw beside her, and his hand brushed her bare thigh as he pulled back, straightening. He didn’t even bother to sit on one of the hay bales. Simply balanced easily on one foot and drew on the sock, then did the same for the other, then shoved his feet into his scuffed athletic shoes.

Her eyes burned. Did I do something wrong?

He made a low sound. Shoved his hands through his hair. Laurel—

Laurel. Not songbird, which he’d been calling her for weeks now.

It had been her first time. But not his. I didn’t cry because it hurt, Shane, I—

God, Laurel. He kicked the bales of hay so hard that suddenly the top one tumbled off the stack and landed with a thud. A cloud of dust and bits billowed out, making her wince and squint against the shower of debris.

He swore again, which made Laurel’s eyes burn even more, because Shane just didn’t swear.

I should never have touched you. I’m twenty-three. You’re barely eighteen.

"But I am eighteen. Her voice was thick with tears, which wasn’t at all the way she wanted to sound. She scrambled to her feet, awkwardly pulling her dress over her shoulders and fumbling with the buttons that ran all the way down the front. But her fingers couldn’t seem to match up any of the buttons with the proper holes and she finally just clutched it together at her waist. And we love each other." Didn’t they?

He looked pained, his gaze fastened on her white knuckles. He took a step toward her. Then another.

She nearly stopped breathing.

He put his hands over hers and slowly unclenched her fingers from the pale-yellow fabric.

Then he just stood there, staring down at the hands he held. Her dress, soft from too many summers and too many washings, parted a little.

He swallowed. She saw it work down his strong, tanned throat. Then he squeezed her hands just a little and released them. And reached for the top of her dress.

Her knees—not particularly steady after what they’d just done, anyway—felt like her mama’s strawberry jam left out on a sunny counter.

His fingers were so long. A little bony, and a lot callused. He might be a preacher’s son, but he’d spent the summer working for old Hal Calhoun right here on his farm.

Shane. His name was barely a whisper on her tongue. She loved his name. She loved him. He was tall and good and golden and so incredibly gentle.

I shouldn’t have touched you, he said again. And as deliberately as he’d unbuttoned each and every one of those tiny white buttons, he began doing them up again. I’m sorry, but it was a mistake. It’s my fault. So go ahead and hate me all you want.

By the time he reached the hem, just below her knees, the tears were crawling openly down her cheeks. The bleeding from her heart, broken wide, wasn’t visible at all.

He rose.

She was glad that he didn’t bother hunting around for her bra or panties. She could see them from the corner of her eye, tossed carelessly aside near her sandals.

I’ll drive you home.

She didn’t want to go anywhere. She wanted to stay there in Calhoun’s barn with Shane. She wanted him to put his arms around her again, to press his lips to hers, to breathe softly against her ear and make her feel as if everything in life was good and fine.

They’d barely had a summer together, but it had been the best summer of her life.

I’d rather walk, she said quietly.

Laurel, I’m not leaving you here—

Yes, you are, she interrupted, feeling a curl of anger nip at the yawning pain inside her. "That’s exactly what you’re doing."

He shoved his hands in his front pockets. She could see the shape of them, fisted against the worn-white denim. I never made it a secret that I was going back to school. He looked away for a moment, and she saw the muscle in his jaw flexing. You’re starting college classes soon, too, dammit.

Preachers shouldn’t swear, she murmured.

He snorted and looked back at her, then pointedly looked at the bed of straw, then her underwear. I have no business becoming a preacher, either.

Despite her cracking heart, she reached out to him. Don’t say that, Shane. He had plans. Wonderful, admirable plans. He wanted to be like his father, to help people however best he could. On someone else, those plans would just be dreams. But Shane would make it happen. He was just that way.

His lips twisted. Get the rest of your things. You can’t walk home. It’s nearly dark. He ignored her outstretched hand and walked to the barn door, sliding it open enough to walk out. A moment later she heard the rumble of his old truck engine cranking to life.

Dashing her hands over her cheeks, she snatched up her panties and yanked them on, balled up her bra into her pocket and shoved her feet into her sandals.

She didn’t look at him as she joined him in the cab of his truck. But she had to close her eyes against a fresh rush of tears when he silently reached over and pulled a long piece of straw from her hair.

Then he put the truck into gear and drove her home.

Chapter One

Who was inside the old Runyan house?

The car—dark blue and dimmed by a thick layer of dust—was still parked in the cracked, uneven driveway when Shane drove past. It hadn’t been there when he’d gone to the station in the morning. But it had been there when he’d driven out to his brother’s place that afternoon. And it was still there this evening on his way home for the day.

He could have kept on driving. Instead he pulled in to the rutted driveway and parked behind the small blue sedan.

A light shone from the front picture window of the house. Old Roger Runyan had been dead five days now, but the house he’d lived in for as long as Shane could remember looked more welcoming in that moment than it had in years.

Question was, who was inside the house, turning on lamps as if they belonged there? Roger had no kin except Laurel, and she hadn’t been in Lucius for twelve years.

Twelve years. He sighed and climbed out of his SUV.

There were three steps leading up to the front door. Wooden and nearly rotting through. It would be a merciful day when Shane finally got the deed to this place and tore it down. Just the thought of it was almost enough to put a smile on his face.

He planted his boot on the top of the porch and climbed up, bypassing the steps altogether, and tilted back his hat a few inches to peer through the metal-framed screen door as he rapped his knuckles on it.

He already knew from dealing with Roger’s death that the furnishings inside the house hadn’t changed over the years. Considering the old man had rid himself of his wife, Violet, twelve years ago, Shane had been surprised Roger hadn’t done a thing to eradicate her little touches from his home. But they’d still been there. Fussy little glass lamps with beads hanging from the fading shades, bowls of dusty plastic grapes and apples, vases of unnaturally bright flowers that never needed a drop of water.

Just another thing Shane would never understand about the man.

He figured the person inside the house was the real estate agent. Only, he didn’t recognize the car, and Shane knew all the cars around his town.

All part of the job.

He knocked again. Hello?

Coming.

The voice was female.

Throaty.

Young.

He straightened and absorbed the shock of it.

He was pretty sure he recognized the voice, and it was definitely not anyone from down at Lucius Realty.

The woman neared the door, her form blurred by rusting metal mesh. The porch light flicked on. The door screeched as it began to swing open. I’m sorry. I was in the back and didn’t hear… The woman’s voice trailed off as Shane stepped away from the screen door enough for her to open it.

She looked up at him. Her eyes widened a little. The color in her cheeks rose, then fell.

Recognition, all right. Hello, Laurel.

Her lips—damn, but they looked as soft as ever—rounded into a little O. She wore a tidy white blouse tucked into a slender beige skirt. Little gold hoops hung in her ears, visible because her hair was pulled back from her face in a snug knot. She looked about as finished and polished as she’d looked ravaged and pained the last time he’d seen her.

Except for her eyes.

Her eyes looked positively shell-shocked.

And he felt like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

Then her lashes swept down for a moment, and when she looked up at him again, the shock was gone. Everything was gone. There was nothing but politeness, and for an awful moment Shane thought maybe the stories had it wrong and that Laurel Runyan had never climbed out of the pit of despair she’d been tossed into that long-ago summer when her family had disintegrated before her eyes.

Hello, Shane. What are you doing here? The greeting was considerably less welcoming than the light shining from the front window had been.

But at least she remembered him. That was good. He’d rather have her still hate him than be feeling the emotional numbness that had gripped her for months after that summer.

Saw the light, he said, looking past her into the house. But he couldn’t see hide nor hair of another person. Had she come alone to Lucius? Had she married? Did she have a little tribe of kids now? He wished he could blame the questions on simple curiosity. But nothing about Laurel had ever been simple. Wanted to check it out.

Her eyebrows drew together a little, and the corners of her lips lifted a little. Check it out. For what? New church members? Her hands lifted to her sides for a moment.

A moment long enough for him to see there was no ring. A faint tan line where one had been, though.

Recently.

Sorry, she went on, oblivious to his cataloging. I gave up going to church years ago.

He had, too. For a while.

Thought maybe you were one of the agents from Lucius Realty, he admitted.

Well, as you can see, I’m not. Her voice was still pleasant. But the edge of curiosity was still there, not quite hidden. I…didn’t think you were still in Lucius, she said. I saw the sign outside your dad’s church. He’s still pastor there. And there was a name I didn’t recognize listed as the associate pastor. Um, Morrison or something.

Morrissey.

She nodded and leaned slightly against the opened screen door. Her position was clear. She had no intention of inviting him in.

But she was still curious.

Hell. So was he. If he’d had any way of reaching her, any way of knowing where she was, he would have notified her himself about her dad.

I’m sorry about your father. He should have said that right off. No wonder he hadn’t ended up in the ministry. Unlike his father, Beau, Shane’s people skills were miserable. He took care of his townspeople’s safety. He left it to people like his father to take care of their sensibilities.

Her head tilted a little to one side, and a few strands of silky hair drifted from the knot to lie against her slender throat. Her hair was darker than he remembered. Almost the color of walnuts. Back then, it had been streaked with blond from the summer sun, a shifting mass of burnished gold that had felt like silk against his rough fingers.

Condolences? she asked. I know what you thought of him. What everyone in this town thought of him.

He was still your father. He wasn’t sorry about Roger. But he was sorry if the loss hurt Laurel. He was always sorry when something—or someone—hurt Laurel.

Her lips pursed a little and her lashes swept down, hiding her expressive brown eyes again. Yes, she murmured after a moment. He was. Thank you.

If you need any help with the arrangements, just ask.

She lifted her hand and tucked the stray strands of hair behind her ear. She pushed the screen door the rest of the way open. It was so worn, it merely settled open with a sigh and she stepped out onto the porch. Even with her high-heeled shoes—pretty for her ankles, but still a conservative tan color—she didn’t reach past his shoulder.

How could he have forgotten how small she was compared to him?

I’m not sure my father would have wanted a religious service, she admitted. "His lawyer, Mr. Newsome—I can hardly believe my dad had a lawyer—said he didn’t have a will when he notified me about his death. He didn’t say if Dad had specified any instructions at all. Only that he’d asked Mr. Newsome to contact me. Her voice faltered a little. I, um, I haven’t had a chance to go through any of Dad’s records here yet." The prospect clearly held little appeal for her.

He couldn’t blame her. Even under the best of circumstances, such a task would be difficult. The lawyer might not have known, but your father went to Sunday service every week. Talk to Beau. He’ll be able to help you figure it all out.

"He went to church?"

Regular as rain, he assured. But he couldn’t fault her for her skepticism. Unlike Roger, who had never gone to church until after his wife died, Laurel had once been a regular presence at Lucius Community Church. Her grandmother had taken her every Sunday, and then when Lucille died, Laurel had continued going on her own.

Until the summer she turned eighteen.

Twelve years ago.

A lot had changed that summer for the Runyan family.

And for Shane.

So, Laurel finally said, as if she were anxious to move on from the notion of her father having discovered religion. Your name wasn’t alongside your father’s on the sign at the church. So I guess your ministry took you elsewhere, after all.

I didn’t go into the ministry. Don’t know why I ever thought I could.

Her eyes widened again at that, and for a long moment she stared at him. You’d planned it all your life.

Planning doesn’t mean the same thing as having a calling.

She finally unfolded her arms and propped one hand on the doorjamb near her shoulder, which let the lamplight behind her shine through the fine weave of her lightweight blouse. He could clearly see the outline of her bra beneath it.

"But you’re here. In Lucius. So what do you do?" she asked.

Look at you and still want. He wasn’t quick enough to cut off the realization. I’m the sheriff, he said.

She closed her hand over the screen door latch, that brief moment of softening, of near welcome in her demeanor drying up as surely as the grass in the yard behind him had.

"Sheriff. I see. No wonder you wanted to check things out at the Runyan place. But as you know, my father’s dead. There’s no one here anymore for the law to come after."

Without another glance at him, she stepped back into the house and firmly pulled the screen door shut.

Then she turned away, closing the wooden door with a thud. He heard the lock sliding into place as she disappeared into the house where, twelve years ago, her father, Roger Runyan, had gotten away with killing his wife.

Laurel was shaking.

The moment the door slammed shut behind her, she reached out for the arm of the couch and shuffled around to sit before her legs simply quit functioning.

Shane Golightly.

She closed her eyes, her hand pressed against the base of her throat.

She’d known that returning to Lucius—to this house—would stir up memories. She could handle memories.

Most of them.

But why, oh why, hadn’t she prepared herself for this? Why had she let herself believe that he would’ve followed through, chapter and verse, with his long-ago plans?

Because the Shane she’d known had never deviated from his chosen course. Not ever.

Except for her. She’d definitely been off the path for Shane.

Foolish Laurel, she whispered aloud, and nearly jumped out of her skin at the imperious sound that drowned out her hoarse whisper.

A fist pounding on the front door.

Laurel, open the damn door.

Her heartbeat skipped right back into triple time. She stared at the door, half expecting it to open even though she’d flipped the flimsy lock.

Laurel. He’d moved to the grimy picture window next to the door and was looking in at her through the limp curtains. As if he had every expectation of her jumping right to her feet. I’m not leaving, he said, and he didn’t even have to raise his voice to be heard through the thin pane.

Voices had always been easily heard through the walls of the Runyan place. Particularly the raised voices.

She didn’t want to open the door. She didn’t want to see Shane. She didn’t want a lot of things, and for that reason alone, she forced her muscles into motion and rose from the couch. He moved away from the window and was standing in front of the screen again when she unlocked and pulled open the door. She leaned her shoulder against the edge of it and was glad he couldn’t see the death grip she had on the inside knob.

Weren’t sheriffs supposed to wear khaki-colored uniforms and badges in full view to warn all innocent bystanders of their position? Shane was wearing a charcoal-gray shirt, open at the throat, and blue jeans that fit entirely too well.

I’m busy, Sheriff.

I could see that through the window. His voice—droll though it was—was deeper. Everything about him seemed deeper. His gray eyes. His golden hair. His…intensity.

"Where are