Chapter One

Dear Marcy,
I am taking a train across the country from the West Coast. I need to travel light, with a wardrobe that will include casual to dressy. Do you have any tips on how best to pack for a long trip, yet travel light?
Angie in Anaheim

Marcy stared out the window of her private sleeper car, watched the Texas landscape rumble by in a blur of thick mesquite. July heat shimmered off the sparse landscape, while cattle, mindless of the passing train, grazed languidly under the midday sun. In the distance, a tall metal windmill twirled like a child's toy in the hot, summer breeze.

It was like looking at a picture postcard, Marcy thought, resting her head back against the leather upholstered seat. A deep blue sky. White, puffy clouds on the distant horizon. The gentle rocking of the railroad car--

The shrill ring of her cell phone.

Fifteen hundred miles between herself and Los Angeles and still it wasn't enough.

Marcy glanced at her wrist watch. Eight-thirty LA time. She'd been waiting for the call, knew that her manager would be picking up the message she'd left her right about now: Helen, this is Marcy. I'm taking the next three weeks off. Please cancel my appointments and have Anna reschedule. Thank you.

Helen Dunbar would not be a happy camper.

At the insistent ringing, Marcy sighed. Just get it over with, she told herself. She knew she'd only prolong the inevitable if she didn't. Pulling the phone out of her navy blue blazer pocket, she took a deep breath, then pushed the green button.

"Hello, Helen."

"Marcy, honey," Helen said, out of breath. "I got your message, and I'm on my way over to your place. We'll have some coffee and talk."

"There's nothing to talk about." Marcy could picture her manager now, dragging a brush through her cropped red hair, meticulously scanning her day planner and mentally reviewing the day's events, all while she talked on her speaker phone. "And there's no point in coming over. I'm not home."

"What do you mean, you're not home? Where are you?"

Marcy stared out the train window again, noticed a hawk soaring over the plains. The magnificent sight stirred something in her blood, gave her courage. "I'm gone."

"Gone? What do you mean, gone? You can't be gone," Helen insisted. "We have an editorial meeting at 1:30 today to go over the November issue. We still have to discuss the article on creating a vintage table runner from grandma's linens, plus we need a new and creative way to stuff a turkey."

Marcy had a suggestion, but twenty-six years of manners and etiquette kept her from saying it. "Helen, I told you, I'm gone. I've left Los Angeles . In fact, I've left California."

"You what!"

There was a crash at the other end of the line, then Helen's muttered cursing about coffee on a new suit.

"I told you I needed some time off this month." Marcy pulled the bridal shower party and wedding invitations from her canvas tote bag and laid them on her lap. "I'm taking it."

"Marcy--" Helen sighed patiently "--honey, we talked about this and agreed this isn't the time. You have an interview with Stylish Homes on Wednesday, a meeting on Thursday with the topics coordinator for the premiere of your TV show, then a celebrity charity luncheon at the Ritz-Carlton on Friday."

The thought of endless meetings, long hectic days and hurrying from one event to the next had Marcy instinctively reaching into her purse for an antacid.

She stared at the small, tin pill box in her palm, tossed it back into her purse, then reached for her emergency bag of chocolate-covered cherries instead. Sugar might not calm her nerves, she realized, but it would certainly make her feel better. "We didn't agree this was a bad time, Helen. You agreed."

"Marcy, we need you," Helen said firmly. "We'll find a better time and then I promise you can--"

"No."

There. She'd said it. She'd actually said no. Amazingly, the sky didn't spit lightning and the train hadn't derailed. Helen, on the other hand, had apparently been stunned into silence.

"No?" Helen said quietly after a long moment. "What do you mean, `no'?"

"I mean no." The breath Marcy had been holding rushed out. "I'm not coming back."

After another long pause, Helen said hesitantly, "Marcy, honey, are you feeling okay?"

"Helen." Marcy struggled to keep her voice even and firm. "Last month I asked you not to schedule the next three weeks for me."

"Sweetie, I didn't think you were really serious, and you never were clear why you wanted so much--"

"And the month before that," Marcy interrupted, "I asked you not to schedule the same three weeks."

"But opportunities keep sprouting up like daisies. How can I not pick them?" Helen's voice softened. "Honey, I know it's been a grueling pace for the past four years. But it's paying off now. Life With Marcy Pruitt has quadrupled subscriptions, your Life and Home how-to column is syndicated, your last book hit the Times non-fiction list and your cable show is starting up in five weeks. You're practically a household name. Sweetie, there are a lot of people counting on you. There'll be time later to take off. I promise. Right now, we need you."

Marcy closed her eyes, felt the gentle rocking of the train underneath her. Maybe she was being selfish. Wanting time to herself, especially when everyone around her was working so hard, too. She didn't want to let anyone down. Didn't want to disappoint them.

And three weeks was a long time.

Marcy looked at the invitations again. Clair Beauchamp had been the only person in Marcy's life who had gone out of her way to make friends with the girl who didn't fit in. A painfully shy girl who wore horn-rimmed glasses and a simple, chin length haircut.

How ironic it was that what had made her so different when she was growing up, was now her trademark.

Clair had asked her to be her maid-of-honor and she had said yes. She would not change her mind. Tucking the invitations back into her bag, Marcy straightened her shoulders. "I've left extensive notes and the project files with Anna. She knows them as well as I do, probably better. She can sit in for me until I get back."

Helen gasped. "You want your personal assistant to run your company! For God sakes, please tell me you aren't serious."

"I'm very serious. Anna has been with us for two years now. She's more than capable. You'd know that if you'd give her a chance."

Marcy thought it best not to mention that Anna was also the only person who knew where she was going and why. If Helen had known, Marcy knew she'd never have been able to pull this off.

"Marcy, look, I know she's a good kid." Helen's voice turned frantic. "And I admit, she's a hard worker, too, but--"

"Sorry--" Marcy ran her fingertips back and forth over the cell phone receiver "--you're breaking up. Gotta go."

"Marcy, no, please, listen to me, there's something you don't know. Something I should have told you. We need to talk in person. Just tell me where you--"

As if I'd fall for that, Marcy thought. Still, afraid she might weaken, she turned her phone off and slipped it back into the pocket of her blazer.

For the past four years, every aspect of her life had been carefully orchestrated. Meetings, TV appearances, more meetings, book tours, radio shows, fund raising events. More meetings. She still loved her work as much as she always had, but in those four years, she hadn't taken one day for herself that wasn't connected to business in some way.

She was taking it now.

Nervous, but excited, Marcy folded her hands neatly on her lap, then looked out the train window and smiled.

Evan Carver stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling office window and stared down at the Olympic-size swimming pool. The heat had brought out an interesting array of hotel guests today. On the east side of the pool three elderly men in Hawaiian shirts and cowboy hats played pinochle under the shade of a blue-striped umbrella. On the west side, a very pregnant brunette herded two little blonde girls toward the shallow end, away from a group of teenage boys playing an enthusiastic game of beach ball volleyball in the deep end of the pool.

And finally, stretched out in lounge chairs on the south side of the pool, lay an entire row of sun-kissed, bikini-clad females.

Evan smiled.

He was single, between construction projects for the next three weeks and staying at a hotel with a convention of swim suit models.

Life couldn't possibly get any better.

"That's odd, she's not answering her cell phone."

"Hmm?" Evan glanced over his shoulder at his brother's fiance. She sat at her sleek, cherry wood and glass desk, looking more like one of the models at the pool than the owner of an upscale hotel. Her suit jacket was the same deep blue as her eyes, her shoulder length dark hair almost as black as her knee-length skirt. And while he could appreciate her fine, feminine qualities, Evan already thought of Clair Beauchamp as the sister he'd never had. "Who's not answering her phone?"

Frowning, Clair replaced the receiver in its cradle. "Marcy. All I'm getting is her voice mail."

Oh, right. Marcy. Clair had mentioned her maid-of-honor was coming into town today for the bridal shower tomorrow, then staying until the wedding. "Maybe she turned it off," he suggested.

"Marcy never turns her phone off."

"Out of range?"

"She shouldn't be." Clair glanced at the crystal framed clock on her desk, then picked up her phone and pushed redial. "She's taking a train in from LA and I'd hoped to reach her before she gets to the station. I told her last night I'd be picking her up, but the editor-in-chief of Texas Travel showed up two days early and wants a tour of the hotel by yours truly."

"I'll pick her up for you," Evan said absently as he watched one of the boys in the pool bounce a wet beach ball on the stomach of a well-endowed blonde. Smart kid, Evan thought with a smile.

"I appreciate the offer." Sighing, Clair hung up the phone. "But it's really not necessary. I can send a hotel car."

"It's no problem." To the delight of every male within eyesight, the blonde stood and strolled to the edge of the pool, then with great flourish tossed the ball back. "Besides, didn't I tell Jacob I'd watch over things until he gets back from Philadelphia tomorrow?"

"He's in Boston ." Clair rose from her desk, then moved beside Evan and stared down at the pool. "I'm glad to see you take the job so seriously," she said, arching one brow. "Maybe I should send a hotel car."

Turning from the window, he grinned at her. "What time is her train getting in?"

"Eleven-fifteen," Clair said hesitantly. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Just tell me what she looks like and I'm on my way."

Clair moved back to her desk, then picked up a magazine and handed it to him. "Here."

Life With Marcy Pruitt?

The cover of the magazine depicted the familiar brunette with black, horn-rimmed glasses sitting in a field of lavender. Her dress was lavender, as was the bouquet of flowers she held. The title read, "Lavender Fields Forever."

When Clair had said her friend's name was Marcy, it had never occurred to Evan she'd meant that Marcy. "Marcy Pruitt is your maid-of-honor?"

"You've heard of her?"

"Sure." Evan flipped through the articles in the magazine: making place cards from scraps of wallpaper; preparing an elegant dinner in less than thirty minutes; a master bedroom makeover. "Didn't she write a book?"

Clair nodded. "Two books. `The Easy Life With Marcy Pruitt,' and `The Ultimate Easy Life With Marcy Pruitt.' How-to tips for the average homemaker. She's made quite a name for herself since our college days."

"You can say that again." Evan glanced at the cover again. She was kind of cute, he thought, in a quirky, homespun kind of way. "So is she single?""

Clair plucked the magazine away. "Yes, she's single, but trust me, she's not your type."

He winked at her. "Darlin', every woman's my type." "Maybe I shouldn't trust you with her," Clair said, arching her brow.

"Me?" Evan placed a hand over his heart. "I'm harmless."

"Of all the things you aren't, Evan Carver, it's harmless." But she smiled as she said it. "Also, we're keeping Marcy's trip here as quiet as possible, so she's going to be traveling incognito. Look for a big, white hat."

"That's incognito?"

"For Marcy it is." Clair pulled a cardkey out of her jacket pocket. "I'm putting her in the suite across from yours. Think you can behave?"

He gave her a crooked smile. "I'll manage to control myself."

"That's what your brother told me when I first met him." Clair waved her engagement ring at Evan. "Now look at us."

"Don't worry." Evan backed up as if the ring was made of kryptonite. "I'll deliver your friend safe and sound."

And right after he did--Evan glanced out the office window again--he intended to hightail it straight down to the pool.

At precisely 11:15, Marcy stepped off the train with the other passengers. It felt as presumptuous as it did ridiculous to wear the oversized, wide-brimmed hat and take off her glasses, but she preferred to err on the side of caution. Though the odds of anyone paying her any mind at the train depot--which was exactly the reason she'd chosen a train instead flying--she wasn't willing to push her luck or jeopardize her new found freedom.

Suitcase in hand, she skirted a group of giggling adolescent girls wearing bright blue T-shirts that read CAMP WINNEMONKA . Based on all their energy and excitement, Marcy assumed the girls were on their way to camp, not returning.

Stepping to the side, Marcy set her suitcase down. No sign of Clair, but over the heads of the people hurrying through the station, Marcy couldn't help but notice a dark-haired man who stood several inches above most of the people in the depot. Arms folded over his broad chest, he was watching the passengers who were still pouring off the train.

Heavens.

Marcy knew very little--okay, she knew nothing--about men, but her lack of experience certainly didn't prevent her from appreciating a fine male specimen when she saw one. She was on a vacation, after all, so why shouldn't she enjoy the scenery? And anyway, it wasn't as if he'd notice her. Men who looked like that rarely gave her more than a cursory glance.

He stood like a rock in the swiftly moving stream of people. Six-foot-three, she thought, maybe taller. Rugged was the best word to describe the man, though handsome was certainly a close second. Based on his tanned face and muscled arms, she decided he probably worked outdoors. Square jaw. Strong chin. Large hands. Hair dark and thick, slightly wavy on the ends, skimmed the collar of his black T-shirt.

His eyes--brown?--narrowed slightly, and Marcy followed his gaze, noticed an attractive redhead stepping off the train. The woman smiled at the man and when he smiled back, Marcy felt her pulse skip. If she'd thought him handsome before, well, when he smiled, he was downright lethal.

You are one lucky woman, Marcy thought with a sigh.

But then, surprisingly, after the redhead hesitated a moment, she walked the other way. Curious, Marcy couldn't pull her gaze from the man, wanting to know who he was waiting for.

A slender blonde stepped off the train, definitely a possibility, Marcy thought, but she was greeted by two little girls and a man. Then a pretty brunette wearing a halter top and tight capris appeared. That had to be the one, and Marcy glanced back at the man to see his reaction.

"Excuse me."

Marcy jumped at the unexpected touch on her arm. Two women, fortyish, both wearing CAMP WINNEMONKA CAMP COUNSELOR T-shirts, stood beside her.

"Aren't you Marcy Pruitt?" the one with short, curly brown hair asked.

Marcy's stomach dropped. "Me?"

Not exactly a lie, but not an admission, either.

"I told you it wasn't her, Alice ." The second woman, a pencil thin platinum blonde, squinted and leaned in closer. "She doesn't look anything like her."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Betty Lou." Exasperated, Alice shook her head. "She looks exactly like her. Put your glasses on."

"I don't need my glasses," the blonde argued. "It's not her."

"It is so." Alice looked back at Marcy and smiled. "Your article last month on homemade greeting cards was brilliant. Who would have ever thought to use old buttons and scraps of ribbon like that?"

"She's too skinny," Betty Lou insisted. "And too tall."

Alice rolled her eyes, then put a hand beside her mouth and whispered, "Don't mind Betty Lou. She just likes to be contrary."

"I'm not deaf, you know," Betty Lou harumped, then folded her arms and looked Marcy up and down. "I'm telling you it's not her."

"Marcy." Alice sighed. "Will you please tell my friend I'm right?"

If there was one thing that Marcy couldn't do well at all, it was lie. But if she told them the truth, she might as well go back to Los Angeles now. Her throat tightened, and she looked from one woman to the other. "I, well--"

"Darling. There you are."

At the sound of a deep male voice, Marcy turned.

And froze.

The man she'd been staring at was now standing directly behind her, smiling down at her.

Had he just called her darling? Obviously he'd mistaken her for someone else, but before she could correct him, he pulled her into his arms. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

Marcy was too shocked to react, let alone speak. When he dropped his mouth down on hers, her heart slammed against her ribs. He tightened his hold on her and the feel of his chest against hers was like pressing against a brick wall.

Then he slid his mouth across her cheek and whispered in her ear, "Clair sent me."

His warm breath sent shivers up her spine. It took a moment for the words to make sense. Clair sent me. "Clair?"

"Clair. You know, your friend."

Wondering if he might have made a mistake, Evan lifted his head and stared at the woman. He supposed she did look a little different from the pictures he'd seen in her magazine. Not only because she wasn't wearing her renowned glasses, but something about her face looked softer, and her eyes, though wide as a frightened doe, were the color of spring sage. He couldn't see her hair because of the ridiculous hat she had on, but based on the light brown bangs skimming the top of her eyebrows, he was fairly certain he had the right woman.

Evan dropped Marcy back to the ground, then slid an arm around her waist. "Who are your friends, darling?"

"They--" Marcy's voice cracked "--they think I'm Marcy Pruitt."

" Alice does," the blonde said. "I don't."

"Be quiet, Betty Lou." Alice narrowed her eyes and stared at Marcy. "She looks just like her."

"My wife gets that all the time." Evan laughed and yanked Marcy closer. "She can't hardly go anywhere someone doesn't ask for her autograph. Isn't that right, sugarplum?"

"I--ah." Marcy nodded. "It happens sometimes."

"What did I tell you?" Betty Lou crossed her arms and smiled at Alice . "Marcy isn't married. So now who's contrary?"

"I swear you could be her twin sister," Alice said, shaking her head. "It's amazing."

"You'll have to excuse us now, ladies." Evan picked up Marcy's suitcase, then winked at the women. "But I'd like to get my wife home and give her a proper hello, if you don't mind."

Betty Lou grinned and took hold of Alice 's arm. "We don't mind atall. Sorry we bothered you."

Even as she was being dragged away, Alice kept staring.

For good measure, Evan squeezed Marcy again, then spun her around and headed in the opposite direction through the thinning crowd. "Well, that was close, though I'm not sure we convinced Alice and she just might--"

"Wait." Marcy yanked on his arm. "Wait!"

"What?" He stopped so abruptly she had to grab her hat to keep it from flying off her head.

"Who are you?"

"Evan." He glanced back to see if anyone was watching them, then pulled her around a corner and into a hallway that led to a lost baggage claim office. "Evan Carver."

"Carver?" Her brow furrowed, then lifted with recognition. "Jacob's brother?"

"The one and only." He grinned at her. "Clair tried to call your cell phone to give you a heads up, but you didn't answer."

"I turned it off." Nibbling her bottom lip, she studied him carefully. "Clair didn't mention you'd be picking me up."

"She had an unexpected meeting. If you're nervous about me driving you back to the Four Winds, you can call Clair's office and--"

"I'm not nervous." She pulled her arm away and straightened her shoulders. "You just caught me off guard. It's not every day a strange man kisses me and calls me his sugarplum."

"Sorry 'bout that." He grinned at her. "Clair told me you wanted to keep your trip quiet. When I saw those two women with you, I was trying to help."

"Actually, you did help," she said, then shoved her hands into the pockets of her blazer. "I--I'm sorry. I don't mean to appear ungrateful."

The flush on the woman's cheeks brightened her face and made the green in her eyes appear darker. He realized he'd surprised her, but shoot, that little peck could hardly be considered a kiss.

She had tasted good, though, now that he thought about it. Like cherry--and chocolate, too. And her lips had been amazingly soft.

When a man and woman walked around the corner and glanced at Marcy, Evan moved in closer to shield her from their view. He waited until they moved past, then straightened.

"Shall we get the rest of your luggage?" he asked.

She glanced at the bag he already held. "That's all I have."

He furrowed his brow. "You've only got one suitcase for three weeks?"

"Packing is really about making decisions on what you really do or don't need and sticking to a list." She shifted the canvas tote higher on her shoulder. "Light-weight garments that mix and match and don't wrinkle, two pair of shoes, one pair of sandals, travel toiletries and a hat."

"Sounds like you wrote the book."

"Just a short article in last month's travel section."

"Really." Apparently, she hadn't realized he'd been teasing her. It seemed that Miss Marcy Pruitt was wound a little tight. "So have you written any articles on how to escape from a crowded train station without being seen?"

"That's scheduled for the January issue. I'm still researching that one."

For a split second, he thought she was being serious, but then he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. So the woman did have a sense of humor, after all. That was good, especially since he'd be spending the next thirty-five minutes in the car with her.

Grinning, he took her arm. "Ready to make a run for it, Miss Pruitt?"

"Ready when you are, Mr. Carver." She pulled her hat lower, then slipped her glasses back on. "Lead the way."