Chapter One

When Clay Bodine came to town, folks took notice.

A rare sight it was to see the Wolf River County rancher drive into town in his dusty, black pickup. So rare the residents called his appearances a "Bodine Sighting." Before that black pickup even turned onto Main Street , phones lines were already sizzling, ears were already burning. Curiosity had more than one store owner sweeping a sidewalk they'd swept only an hour before, and window shopping--in spite of the one hundred plus degree heat--tripled in popularity.

For the most part, the good people of Wolf River minded their own business. But small towns were small towns, after all, and the fact that Clay had made himself so scarce for the past fifteen years had created an aura of mystery around him that simply couldn't be ignored. Not that folks didn't understand why Bodine had kept his distance. They understood completely. But still, what happened to Clay and his family when he was seventeen was water under the bridge. Though they might not have forgotten, everyone in Wolf River had long since moved past that difficult time.

Everyone except Clay.

Today, Clay's pickup had barely passed the Papa Pete's Diner before noses were pressed to glass, everyone hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive Texas cattleman. Inside the barber shop, bets were placed where Bodine was headed. George Simon, the barber, laid a buck down it would be Peterson's Feed and Grain, Hugh Foderman doubled the odds it would be the bank. Ronald Weeder put his money on the department store. Clay hadn't been shopping since last Christmas, Weeder said, and the man had needed new boots then.

When the dusty pickup passed the feed and grain store, then the bank, as well, Weeder grinned and stuck his hand out to be paid, only to watch as Clay drove right past the department store, too.

"I'll be damned," Weeder muttered, and all three men stared at Clay's tailgate.

"Where's he going?" Hugh craned his neck.

"Beats me," George said, scratching his ear. "`Cept the hotel, the drug store and that little antique store, ain't much down at that end of town."

"There's the library," Weeder added.

George and Hugh both hooted at the idea of Clay Bodine going to the library, then George said, "A buck on the hotel."

"Two bucks on the drug store," Hugh determined.

Only because he was stubborn as a mule, Weeder folded his arms and lifted one of his two chins. "I'm going with the library."

Stepping out onto the sidewalk to get a better view, the men watched Clay's pickup pass the intersection of Main and Bristle, then pull into a parking spot.

"I'll...be...damned." Weeder shook his head in amazement, then grinned at his dumbfounded buddies. "Pay up, boys."

Paige Andrews made prudent use of her lunch break from Wolf River Library by shopping at the drug store. She'd made a list just that morning--cotton balls, hair pins, reading glasses, in-sole cushions for her work shoes, a catnip mouse for Eudora and the most recent copy of Quilter's Monthly. She lingered over the magazines for a moment, even picked up a copy of Celebrity Circle and browsed through it, but since she didn't own a television set, most of the pretty faces inside the glossy pages were unknown to her.

Paige had been thinking about buying a TV. She knew she was probably the only person in Wolf River who didn't own one. For that matter, she was probably the only person in Texas who didn't own one. But her grandmother had not approved of whiling away one's time with "that sort of horsefeathers," so for the past twelve years, the only television Paige had watched had been at her best friend Rebecca's house, or her ongoing Friday evening date at Bernie Pratt's apartment.

Not that anyone would exactly call take-out pizza and watching Jeopardy with Bernie and his mother a date, but at twenty-six, that was about as exciting as Paige's personal life had been since she'd finished college five years ago.

Still, Grandma Millie had not approved of her only grandchild visiting a man's house unchaperoned. Though Paige had reassured her grandmother that Bernie was well-behaved, Grandma Millie had harumphed. "There better not be any hanky-panky going on, Paige Eloise Andrews," Grandma had said.

If only there were, Paige had always thought. Not that she considered Bernie her dream man. But he was always a gentleman, even when he kissed her goodnight. He never groped or pushed himself on her, though she had always secretly wondered what it would be like if maybe he had been a little more...forceful.

As if I were the type to instill that kind of ardor from a man, Paige thought with a silent sigh.

No, Bernie was exactly the right type of man for her. He had a stable job at the bank. He was comfortable to be around. He was dependable. All important, admirable traits in a man. Since Grandma Millie had passed away six months ago, Bernie had commented on more than one occasion that he didn't think it was a good idea for a young woman to be living alone, which led Paige to wonder if he was working up the courage to pop the question.

But the real question, Paige thought, was what would she say if he did?

Her shopping list completed, Paige paused at the candy display and picked up a package of red licorice whips to add to her basket. She had her a group of five-to-seven-year-olds coming into the library for storytelling this afternoon, and she always enjoyed giving the children a treat as much as they enjoyed receiving one.

Paige had barely reached the end of the aisle when she heard the excited murmuring of Sheila Gordon, the drug store clerk, and Daphne Pringle, a waitress from Big Bob's BBQ, coming from the front of the store. When Paige stepped around the corner, she saw both women standing at the front glass window.

"I'm telling you," Sheila said. "I saw him go in there."

"Were you wearing your glasses?" Daphne asked. "You know you're blind as a bat without them. It could have been one of his ranch hands."

"Of course I was wearing my glasses." Sheila gave an indignant toss of her short, red curls, then straightened her thick, tortoiseshell glasses. "It was him, all right. I saw him plain as the mole on Marilyn Monroe's face."

"It's just hard to believe." Daphne shook her pretty blonde head. "What in the world would Clay Bodine be doing at the library, of all places?"

Paige froze. Clay Bodine had gone into the library? Her library? Sheila must have made a mistake, Paige thought. Clay Bodine had never come into the library before. At least, not in the five years Paige had worked there.

Wouldn't that just figure, Paige thought, stepping closer to Sheila and Daphne. The most interesting man in town comes to the library where she works, and it's one of the few times she wasn't there.

The story of my life.

"There he is! It's him! It's really him!" Daphne grabbed Sheila's arm as Clay stepped out of the library and stood on the sidewalk. The black Stetson he wore shadowed his face, but there was no mistaking the six-foot-four-inch rancher.

"Ohmigod." Sheila uttered a low groan. "I think I might faint just looking at him. That man is fine."

Paige felt her own pulse quicken as she looked at the man herself. Clay had the solid, muscular build that came from the hard labor and long hours of working a ranch seven days a week. His legs were long, his shoulders strong and wide. Today he wore a denim jacket and jeans, a weathered, soft blue that matched his eyes, Paige knew, and remembered the day five months ago when she'd opened her front door and he'd turned those incredible eyes on her.

"Miss Andrews." He touched the brim of his black Stetson.

She'd been so stunned, she'd simply stood there and hadn't uttered a word. They'd only met once before, the summer she had turned eighteen and worked at the doctor's office before going off to college. Clay had brought his grandfather in for an eye infection and an exam, but Paige was certain that Clay wouldn't have remembered her, even though she certainly remembered him.

"I heard your '57 Chevy is for sale," he'd said in a voice as thick and dark as molasses. "That right?"

Paige had blinked, then nodded. Her grandmother had bought the car new, but had barely put ten thousand miles on the engine driving it to the grocery store and back. It had been parked in the garage and covered for the past twenty years, and was in perfect condition. Paige had considered keeping the vintage car, but she had her own little blue sedan, and the reality was, she needed the money to help pay funeral and medical expenses. Paige had put the For Sale notice on the bulletin board at Peterson's Feed and Grain just that morning.

"What's your price?" he'd asked.

Price? She hadn't even thought about a price. And staring into Clay's rugged, handsome face had seemed to rob her of the ability to speak, let alone think. "I--I don't know. Whatever you think it's worth, I suppose."

He'd stared at her for a long moment, which had only flustered her all the more, then pulled a check out of the pocket of his blue chambray shirt and handed it to her. "That's a fair price," he'd said. "You can hold onto it if you want to think about it for a while or ask around to make sure I'm not taking advantage of you."

"I'm sure you wouldn't do that," Paige had said quickly, then felt herself blush when his gaze narrowed and met hers. "But wouldn't you like to drive it first?"

"Not necessary. I know I want it. I'll come back later and pick it up."

He touched the brim of his hat again, then turned and strode away. He'd already gotten into his truck and started his engine before Paige even looked at the check. Eleven thousand dollars! She gasped at the unbelievable figure. That would not only pay for the funeral, but the rest of the medical expenses, as well.

The car couldn't possibly be worth that much. She'd tried to wave him back to tell him he'd made a mistake, but he'd already driven away. Who would pay that kind of money for an old car? Page had thought in amazement.

But she found out later, after she'd gone on the Internet, that a lot of people would have paid around that price, though Clay had given her top dollar without so much as driving, or even looking at the car.

"Do you think the rumors about his ex-wife are true?"

Sheila's question to Daphne brought Paige back to the present. Clay still stood in front of the library, his hands on his hips as he glanced impatiently about. Cars slowed to stare at him. He glared back.

"What woman would leave a man who looks like that?" Daphne stared longingly at Clay. "Plus the man has more money than he knows what to do with. A woman would have to be crazy to leave a man like Clay Bodine. Besides," Daphne added, "no one knows for certain if he really was married or not. She never came to town once in the three months they were supposedly married, then suddenly she was gone."

"Judith Parcher insists that Clay did her in," Sheila whispered. "She says he buried her on his property somewhere and told everyone she'd run off."

"Judith Parcher's a lunatic and an old biddy," Daphne said defensively.

"She also swears she saw Elvis bull riding at the rodeo last week."

Both Daphne and Sheila laughed at that, and even Paige found herself smiling at the absurdity. She'd lived in a small town long enough to know that most rumors were based very little on fact. The Life of Clay Bodine, as told by the people of Wolf River , would sit nicely on a library shelf next to all the other great works of fiction.

And if she wrote the book, Paige thought as she watched Clay glance at his wristwatch, it would sit on the erotica shelf. Since he'd bought her grandmother's car, Paige had more than one fantasy about the sexy rancher, though she'd never tell that to a living soul--not even her best friend, Rebecca. Paige especially liked the one where he made love to her in a barn stall on fresh hay, and then there was the one in the meadow, beside a creek where Clay--

"He's coming this way!"

Sheila shrieked, then made a mad dash toward the cash register, then stood casually behind the counter. Daphne shot for the magazine rack and snatched up a magazine, pretending to be engrossed in the pages.

Not wanting to be caught standing at the window, Paige quickly stepped away, but stumbled over a display of bagged dog food. Her basket tumbled from her arm, and the contents scattered across the floor.

He hadn't time to stand around on street corners all day and be gawked at, Clay thought as he strode across the street. He had a mare that had already bagged up in preparation to foal, ten missing cows in the far east section of his ranch and a pile of paperwork that was quickly spilling over the sides of his desk.

He'd rather face a cornered, angry bull than that mountain of paperwork, but from the time he'd taken over the ranch after his grandfather had died, Clay had vowed never to trust anyone with his ledgers but himself. He'd kept that vow, but the cost had been burning the midnight oil on more nights than not--which had left him little time for other midnight activities of a much more pleasurable nature.

A situation he intended to remedy very soon, he thought, and walked into the drugstore. A bell tinkled over the door and Sheila Gordon, a woman he'd dated once in high school, looked up from behind the cash register, then placed a dramatic hand over her well-endowed chest.

"Why Clay Bodine--" Sheila's eyes were big and round behind her thick glasses "--what a surprise."

"Sheila." Clay knew that Sheila, along with Daphne Pringle, had been watching him from the window. He glanced over at Daphne--who was supposedly reading an issue of Ranch and Farm Science--and watched her lift her gaze with feigned surprise. Clay had never dated Daphne, but had known her from high school, too.

"Hi, Clay," Daphne purred. "Haven't seen you in ages around here. You're looking good."

"Thanks." He spared the blond a nod. "You, too."

A sound from behind the magazine rack caught Clay's attention. He looked down and saw the soles of a pair of black leather loafers.

"Is there something I can help you with, Clay?" Sheila asked hopefully.

"No, thanks."

Daphne's smile widened as he moved closer, then faded when he moved past her. He stepped behind the magazine rack and saw Paige on her knees, reaching for a small, cloth mouse the same pale shade of gray as the long-sleeved, calf-length dress she wore. She'd obviously dropped her shopping basket and was occupied with picking up its spilled contents. Several long strands of wispy, sandy-brown hair had escaped from the tight knot at the base of her neck. "Miss Andrews."

She stiffened when he knelt beside her, then looked up slowly. "Mr. Bodine."

Even her eyes were gray, he noted, with a tint of green around the iris, fringed by thick, dark brown lashes. He hadn't noticed her eyes when he'd come to her house a few months ago. Nor had he noticed her skin was pale as a baby's and appeared to be just as smooth and soft, too.

But he'd had no reason to look then, either.

He reached for a package of foot pads lying on the floor and handed it to her. Her cheeks colored bright pink as she snatched the package from him and threw it into her basket. "Thank you."

They both reached for the bag of red licorice at the same time and when their fingers brushed, she yanked her hand away as if she'd been burned.

Good Lord, but the woman was jumpy, Clay thought.

He tossed the bag of licorice into the basket, then--much to her distress--took hold of her elbow and helped her to her feet.

"Could I speak with you for a few moments?" He held onto her arm, had the distinct feeling she would have run if he hadn't.

She stilled at his question, then blinked slowly. "You want to speak...with me?"

Clay could practically feel Daphne and Sheila's eyes burning into his back. "Somewhere private?"

"I--" Page clutched her basket tightly to her "--is this about the car?"

With Daphne and Sheila hanging on every word, he could hardly tell Paige why he needed to speak with her. "Yes," he said loud enough so the other women wouldn't need to strain to hear. "I wanted to talk to you about the car."

"Is something wrong with it?" The distress in her gray-green eyes turned to worry. "If there's a mechanical problem, maybe I can have Wayne at the repair shop take a look at it and I'd be more than happy to--"

"It's more of a paperwork issue," he said. "If you'd just give me a few minutes, I'm sure we can clear it up."

"You can use the back office," Sheila offered eagerly. Both women had stopped trying to pretend they weren't listening. "Larry won't mind. He's out for the rest of the afternoon, anyway."

"Thanks." Clay moved toward the back of the drugstore toward the pharmacist's office, tugging Paige along with him. She held onto her basket as if it were a life preserver and she was drowning.

Inside the small, cluttered office, Clay closed the door behind them, then let go of Paige's arm. She stepped quickly away.

"I hope you haven't changed your mind, Mr. Bodine," she said nervously. "The car--"

"Just call me Clay," he said evenly. "And this isn't about the car."

"It's not?"

He shook his head. "I lied about the car so no one would know the real reason I wanted to speak with you."

She furrowed her brow. "The real reason?"

"Look, Paige, in about fifteen minutes, it's going to be all over this town that you came into the back office of the drugstore with me. Now that doesn't bother me in the slightest, but I suspect it might bother you."

As if to confirm his statement, she shifted awkwardly.

God, but this was going to be harder than he'd thought. He'd spent the past two days going over this moment in his mind. What he would say. How he would say it. But now that he was actually standing here, he couldn't remember one word. Something about this woman disarmed him. Maybe the expression of innocence shimmering in her eyes, or maybe the sound of absolute amazement in her voice.

Dammit, anyhow. He tugged his hat off and dragged a hand through his hair. "Paige--is it all right if I call you Paige?"

"All right."

"Why don't you put your basket down and sit?" He gestured toward the chair behind the pharmacist's desk.

"Thank you, but I'd rather stand."

"Please." He wasn't used to saying the word and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. "I promise this won't take long."

She hesitated, then sat, but still kept a death grip on the basket.

Clay walked to the office door and opened it. Daphne and Sheila jumped back, then quickly scurried off. Shaking his head, Clay closed the door again and faced Paige.

"How much do you know about me?" he asked.

His question obviously confused, as well as surprised her. "What do you mean?"

"I assume you've heard about me, about my family, and all the other rumors that have circulated over the years."

"I--" She glanced away, then said quietly, "I've heard."

"So you know that my father embezzled a large sum of money from the bank fifteen years ago, and that he went to prison?"

She brought her gaze back to his. "Yes."

"And you know that I paid the money back?" he asked. "Every penny, and interest, too?"

"Mr. Bodine--"

"Clay."

"Clay," she said his name hesitantly. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"You also probably heard that my mother left Wolf River right after my father was arrested," he went on without answering her question. "She couldn't face the humiliation. I was fifteen at the time."

Clay watched Page's face soften, saw the familiar expression of pity in her eyes. The knot in his gut tightened. He didn't want her pity, dammit. He didn't want anyone's pity.

He expected the typical "I'm sorry" from her, but when she set her basket down, then folded her hands over her knees and kept her gaze on his, quietly waiting, the knot in his gut loosened.

"I went to live with my grandfather on his ranch," he continued. "The Rocking B. When he died four years later, I inherited twenty thousand acres and a small herd of cattle. In the past eleven years I've increased the herd tenfold and established myself as a reputable horse breeder."

"Dutton's Disciple won the blue ribbon at the county fair last August," she said almost wistfully.

He lifted a brow at her comment, thought it odd that she would have known his top stud horse had won a prize almost a year ago. He wondered what other surprises the Wolf River librarian might have for him, then forced his attention back to the reason he was here.

"Almost six years ago," he went on, "I married the daughter of a wealthy businessman in California , but she--Nancy--left me after three months of living on the Rocking B and filed for divorced. In spite of the various rumors that have circulated, my ex-wife is not locked in my basement."

"I hadn't heard that one," Paige said, her eyes wide. "I heard--"

When she stopped herself, then bit her bottom lip and glanced away, Clay almost laughed. "She isn't buried on my property, either, if that's the one you heard."

Paige stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head. "I still don't understand why you're telling me all this."

"Just give me a minute and you will." He let out a long breath, then continued, " Nancy was killed in a boating accident in the Caribbean last month. Her parents contacted me to give me the news."

"I'm sorry," Paige said quietly.

While he'd certainly never wished Nancy any harm, it still surprised him that he felt nothing for his ex-wife. No grief. No sadness. Just...nothing. "I'm not here for sympathy."

"Then why are you here?" she asked. "What is it that I can possibly do for you?"

Clay leveled his gaze with Paige's. "You can marry me."