Through the open window, Ren heard a truck engine cutting off. It took a moment for the significance of that to register.

"Oh, G.o.d. That's Sam."

She bolted out of bed, searching frantically for her clothes. Which was when she realized they were scattered across the floor of the kitchen and lay in messy heaps in front of the fireplace.

Along with Jackson's clothes.

"Get up!" she urged as she tore free the top sheet and wrapped herself in it. "We have to get dressed. We have to-"

He reached the bedroom door before her and pressed it closed, preventing her escape. "Stop it, Ren."

She shoved at him with all her might, her nose burning with tears, her eyes blurring. "Let me out, Jackson. Please. If he comes in and finds-" She leaned her head against his shoulder as she heard the screen door slam.

It was too late now to hide what had happened this afternoon.

She imagined Sam wheeling himself into the kitchen, imagined him following the trail of clothes across the kitchen floor and into the parlor. Imagined him gazing down the hall toward the downstairs bedroom and seeing the closed door against which Jackson now leaned.

She stared up at Blackjack, all hope for the future deadened by fear of what would happen in the next few minutes. Any second her son would knock on the door and... she wasn't sure just what Sam would do.

The knock came. And Sam's voice asking, "Mom? Are you in there? Are you all right?"

She glanced up into Jackson's face and said, "I'm fine, Sam."

"Is he in there with you?"

No name, just an emphasis on the he and a great deal of contempt in Sam's voice.

"I'm here," Blackjack answered.

Silence on the other side of the door. Ren held her breath, wondering what her eldest son would do. There was no lock on the door. It had broken long ago and no one had bothered to fix it. It must be obvious to Sam what they had come into this room to do. And that neither of them was dressed, since their clothes were strewn across the floors of two rooms.

She knew Sam must be debating the wisdom of demanding that they show themselves. She was hardly decent, wrapped in a sheet, and Jackson, leaning against the door, wore nothing at all.

"I'm not setting foot in this house again until he's gone, Mom. And I mean gone for good," Sam said.

Ren met Jackson's gaze. She was being forced to choose... again. But really, there wasn't any choice this time. The die had been cast.

"I'm sorry to hear you say that, Sam. Because Jackson isn't leaving. He'll be living here with me from now on."

Ren could feel Sam's frustration through the door. Knew he was d.a.m.ning his crippled legs, which kept him from forcing the door and rescuing her from the dangerous ogre who'd stolen her heart from his father. Felt the tension build as she imagined him considering whether to get the shotgun from the parlor, knowing he would eventually realize that the rack over the mantel was out of his reach without help from someone standing on two functioning legs.

There were other guns. Other weapons. She knew Sam wanted Blackjack dead, but he didn't want to spend his life in prison for it, so he'd promised stealth and deception. Her body was wired tight, her heart pounding as she waited to see what her angry son would do.

"Call me tonight," Sam said at last. They could hear his chair being wheeled back down the hall, careening against one wall and then another. Could hear the screen door slam, and then the engine of his truck starting, being gunned viciously, and the shriek of gravel as his wheels spun and he sped away.

She dropped her forehead onto Jackson's shoulder. "We should have been more careful."

"We have nothing to be ashamed of."

She lifted her head and stared soberly into his eyes. "You're still married."

"Not for long," he said flatly. "I called DeWitt & Blackthorne this morning and got hold of my cousin. Harry thinks he can get me into court within a matter of weeks."

"Really?" Ren said. It was hard to believe that all her dreams might finally be coming true. Hard to believe in happily ever after.

"How are you going to deal with Sam?" he asked.

"I'm not sure there's much I can do," Ren confessed, pressing her cheek against Jackson's chest. "Plead with him to be reasonable. Try to convince him that we deserve a chance to be happy together. Tell him it will break my heart if he does anything to harm you."

She reached out to caress Jackson's shoulder blade with her fingertips, following the length of it to his arm, then letting her hand follow the ridge of muscle along biceps, triceps, forearm, all the way to his large, powerful hand. She intertwined her fingers with his.

"But I'm not giving you up," she said. "Not ever again."

Sam had listened to his mother's latest ultimatum over the phone with tight jaws. No, she hadn't changed her mind over the past week. And she wouldn't. From now on, Jackson Blackthorne would be spending his nights at Three Oaks. She was counting on Sam to act like a sane, sensible adult. And if he didn't think he could behave himself, he could leave Three Oaks for good.

Sam felt a shiver run through him at the thought of leaving the only home he'd ever known. From the moment of his birth he'd been taught to care for the land. And that was what he intended to do. He'd find a way to deal with Blackjack that would get him out of their lives without ruining them in the process.

Sam mentally recited the advertis.e.m.e.nt he'd posted in the Bitter Creek Chronicle the morning after he'd discovered his mother and Jackson Blackthorne in flagrante delicto.

WANTED: Woman to do cooking and light

housekeeping. Room and board provided.

Call 555-3792.

Maybe he should have been more specific about his requirements. So far, he'd had four applicants, any one of whom could have done the job. But he'd found something wrong with each of them. Too much education. Too little English. Too old. Too young. He stared at the fifth applicant standing just inside his kitchen door. With her, he could describe the problem in one word. Pregnant.

And way, way too pretty. "Don't I know you?" he said as he wheeled his chair a little closer.

She smiled and he felt his heart skip a beat. "I'm Emma Coburn. I was two years behind your brother Luke in school."

"That would make you-"

"Nineteen and pregnant. And unmarried," she added, in case he hadn't noticed the lack of a ring on her finger. "Which is why I need this job. You might have heard my brother recently got married."

Bad Billy Coburn's marriage to Summer Blackthorne was all anyone had talked about the past week. "I heard," Sam said.

"There wasn't room at home for me and her both," Emma said.

Sam both understood and empathized with Emma's plight. But she was still too pretty. And pregnant.

"I need someone to cook and clean for me. Maybe do some bookkeeping on the side." He stared at her bulging abdomen. "You think you could handle that?"

"I'm not sick, just pregnant," she shot back.

"How far along are you?"

"Five months."

"What happens when the baby comes?" he asked.

"Pioneer women had to do ch.o.r.es even when they were nursing their babies. I can do the same," she said, her chin lifted pugnaciously.

He thought of how quiet his simple one-story house was every morning when he woke up. How empty it felt. He thought of being woken by a crying, hungry baby. Thought of that baby suckling at Emma Coburn's breast. It wasn't at all a carnal vision, but something natural and wholesome and good. A priceless moment of a husband's life he'd been robbed of when Owen Blackthorne had stolen his ability to father children, along with the use of his legs.

Sam had long ago made peace with never having sons or daughters of his own. If Emma came to work for him, he'd have the vicarious enjoyment of seeing her child grow up. It was a tempting prospect.

"You understand you'd be living here in the house with me," he said.

She glanced at his wheelchair. "Uh-huh."

He gritted his teeth. He knew that she, like so many other women, had taken one look and decided that being tied to a wheelchair kept him from being either a physical or a s.e.xual threat. He hated being dismissed as a man simply because he didn't have the use of his legs. He still felt desire. He still needed to be held. He still needed to be loved.

And he could still love a woman. He could still bring her pleasure.

"Do you have any questions for me?" he asked.

"I... uh... heard you're an alcoholic," she said. "I don't want to work for someone who... gets drunk."

Sam controlled his features but couldn't prevent the flush that rose high on his cheekbones. "I'm a recovering alcoholic," he said. "I attend AA meetings, and I haven't had a drink in four years, two months, and sixteen days. Anything else?"

She shook her head, and he watched her hair slide across her bare shoulders like silk.

It would be h.e.l.l looking at Emma Coburn every day, wanting her to notice him, and being ignored in return. But he needed help. And she had one qualification no other applicant had named. She needed the job because a Blackthorne had come into her life and made trouble for her.

"You're hired," he said. "When can you start?"

"Today. Right now." She took a step backward and pushed open the screen door, then leaned over and picked up a small cloth bag from the back porch. "I've got my things with me."

"Is that all you have?"

She shrugged. "I don't need much."

"There are three bedrooms. Help yourself to either of the ones I'm not using. Then how about fixing supper while I work on the books?"

"Anything particular you'd like to have?" she asked.

"I'm hungry, so something quick. There's hamburger in the fridge. See what you can whip up."

He wheeled himself down the hall and felt her following a short distance behind him. She smiled tentatively at him as he entered his study.

"I'll call you when supper's ready," she said.

"Fine," he said, closing the door in her face. The s.e.xy female sound of her voice had raised gooseflesh on his arms. He felt like a teenager with his first crush. Not that he could feel everything he would have felt as a teenager. He felt nothing from the waist down. Thanks to Owen Blackthorne.

He turned on his computer, determined to work, but all he could see was Emma Coburn's heart-shaped face, her shiny, fire-engine-red hair, her huge, vulnerable eyes. And her lithe body-with that precious bulge in the middle.

Well, why shouldn't he have a beautiful woman to look at across the breakfast and supper table? There was nothing wrong with looking. He sure as h.e.l.l didn't have to worry about her looking back. She already had a lover out there somewhere.

Now that he thought about it, he remembered that once upon a time Emma had had a crush on his younger brother Luke. He remembered Luke at sixteen, furious that Emma wouldn't leave him alone, saying that she was always trailing after him like a lovesick puppy.

Well, she certainly hadn't been pining for Luke lately. Some other cowboy had obviously caught her eye. Sam wondered who the fellow was and why he hadn't married her. Sam would have given his eyeteeth to have a kid of his own. The man who'd walked away from Emma Coburn, whoever he was, was a d.a.m.ned fool.

Sam imagined Emma lying on the bed beneath him, then erased that image. He'd be a dead weight on her. He rearranged the two of them in his mind so he was lying on the bed and she was sitting across his hips. Imagined her hair draped across his naked torso. Imagined her stripping off that T-shirt she was wearing and seeing a plain white bra underneath. Imagined reaching up to cup her breast, feeling the warmth and weight of her through the soft cotton. Imagined- Sam heard a quiet knock at the door and Emma's announcement, "Supper's ready."

"Be right there," he replied. For once Sam was grateful that his mind hadn't produced the hard-on it would have before his body had been damaged. At least Emma would have no idea of the direction of his thoughts.

As he left his study, he sniffed the air, wondering what she'd done with the hamburger. She'd set the table using paper napkins, because he didn't have any cloth ones, and picked some black-eyed Susans from the flowers growing wild around the back porch and stuck them in a jelly jar that sat in the center of the table.

"I wasn't sure if you wanted coffee," she said. "I found iced tea in the fridge. Which would you prefer?"

"Iced tea," he said as he wheeled himself into place at one side of the square wooden table. She'd set her plate on the opposite side, rather than next to him, which put them a little farther apart, but made it easier for him to enjoy looking at her.

"I decided on sloppy joes, because they're fast," she said, "and because I couldn't find any hamburger buns."

She set a couple of slices of white bread on his plate and spooned a large helping of the saucy hamburger mixture on top.

He took a bite and gasped. "Spicy," he wheezed. He couldn't speak again until he'd taken a drink of tea. Even that didn't ease the burning on his tongue. He pulled off a piece of bread that wasn't covered with sauce and ate that.

"I saw the jar of jalapenos on the refrigerator door and figured it would be okay to add a couple."

"No problem," he said, taking another sip of tea to counter the effect of the hot peppers. "It's good," he added to ease the crease of worry in her brow. "Really good."

She smiled and his stomach did a strange flip-flop.

He couldn't afford to let himself care. Not when he knew he was asking for heartbreak. He made it through the whole meal without a word, but in the end couldn't stop himself from asking, "Who's the father?"

She was taken aback. "I don't see where that's any of your business."

"It might be. If he decided to hunt you up and marry you, I lose my hired help."

"That isn't going to happen," she said, her eyes lowered to her empty plate.

"What makes you so sure?"

She glanced up, then down again. "He doesn't even know about the baby."