He watched as her gaze shifted toward the front door, as though to send him out that way, before she realized his truck, with the Bitter Creek brand painted on the door, was parked out back. Sam already knew he was there.

A moment later Ren's eldest son rolled himself into the kitchen in his wheelchair. Blackjack had to admit there was a startling change in the boy-the man-since the last time he'd seen him, two years ago. Sam must be all of thirty-two or thirty-three now. He'd been in a wheelchair since he was eighteen, when Blackjack's son Owen had tackled him at football practice and broken his neck.

He seemed bigger somehow, broader, stronger. Blackjack realized Sam was no longer using an electric chair. He'd wheeled himself into the room with his own powerful arms and shoulders. Blackjack could almost see Sam's neckhairs bristle when he noted how close his father's mortal enemy was standing to his mother.

"What is he doing here?" Sam said, glancing from his mother to Blackjack and back again.

"I'm here to see Ren," he replied.

"If you've got ranch business, you can call me later. I'm busy right now," Sam said.

It was a dismissal, pure and simple.

Blackjack felt his own neckhairs hackle.

Ren placed a tentative hand on his arm and looked into his eyes, begging for understanding.

He understood, all right. Sam Creed was his stubborn, bullheaded father all over again. Blackjack wasn't about to let some pup's growl spook him, when the big, bad barnyard dog had never scared him away.

"I'm not here for-"

"Sam has taken over the day-to-day business of the ranch," Ren interrupted. "So I have more time to work with the horses."

Blackjack had employed Ren ever since Jesse's death to raise and train his quarter horses for cutting horse compet.i.tions. It had given him a reason to visit Three Oaks. He considered making up some business excuse for why he'd come, as Ren obviously hoped he would, to avoid the confrontation with Sam. But that was only postponing the inevitable.

The boy-he had to stop thinking of Ren's grown son that way; there was nothing boyish about him-might as well get used to the way things were going to be. He met Sam's distrustful gaze and said, "I came to see Ren for personal reasons."

"You have nothing to say to my mother that she wants to hear," Sam retorted.

"That's your mother's call."

Sam turned to his mother, apparently expecting her to agree that he should leave. "Mom?"

"I want Jackson to stay, Sam," she said in a quiet voice.

Blackjack breathed an inward sigh of relief but kept his satisfaction to himself. This showdown was between Ren and her son.

Sam turned to his mother and said, "He doesn't belong in this house. Dad would roll over in his grave-"

"What happened in the past is over and done," Ren said.

"Not for me," Sam snapped.

"If you feel you can't stay, Sam, I'll understand," she said.

Blackjack saw the astonishment flicker in Sam's eyes before he said, "You're siding with a Blackthorne over your own family?"

"I hope you won't make that necessary," she said.

"Luke isn't going to be any more pleased about-"

"Luke isn't here right now," Ren countered.

Sam wheeled his chair over to Blackjack, stopping with his knees only inches from Blackjack's, and said, "I want you out of my father's house."

Blackjack resisted the urge to back up. He could see the corded muscle on Sam's forearms where his Western shirt was rolled up, see the veins throbbing in his forehead. He was glad Sam didn't have a gun handy. He looked mad enough-mean enough-to kill.

"I'm here at your mother's invitation," he said. "When she tells me to leave, I'll leave."

"I'm telling you to leave. Now."

Blackjack perused the man-it was no boy who glared back at him-wondering what Sam would do. What kind of physical threat could Sam exert from a wheelchair? On the other hand, you never hit a man when he was down. How was Blackjack supposed to fight someone who wasn't able to stand and face him?

Blackjack glared back, unwilling to fight, unwilling to retreat.

In the end, it was Ren who blinked.

"Jackson," she said. "Please. We can talk later."

He could see how upset she was, how much this was tearing her apart. He could afford to be the bigger man and leave. This business with Sam was just a little wrinkle that needed ironing out. "All right, Ren. I'll go. I'll call you later."

When he saw the smug look on Sam's face, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something he'd regret. That boy didn't know it yet, but his reign in this household was coming to an end.

Blackjack turned to Ren, uncurled her balled hands and held them in his own. He wanted to say I love you, but somehow he couldn't get the words out with her son watching. He wanted to kiss her, but her eyes said Don't.

He squeezed her hands, then let them go. Sam was in his way when he turned to leave.

"Don't come back," Sam said. "We don't want you here."

"Get out of my way."

Sam backed up the wheelchair and made a mocking gesture toward the door. "Be my guest."

Blackjack stopped at the hat rack and settled his Resistol carefully on his head, then pushed open the groaning screen door and let it slam behind him. He resisted the urge to turn and say, I'll be back. In the Terminator movie, it was the villain who'd uttered those words, and he'd returned to wreak havoc.

Blackjack didn't want to ruin anything. He just wanted to spend the rest of his life with the woman he loved. But as he cranked the engine on his pickup, he stared at the two figures highlighted through the screen door and muttered, "I'll be back."

Chapter 6.

SUMMER STARED AT THE RING FINGER OF HER trembling left hand, which was bare of the four-carat square-cut diamond engagement ring which had sat there for the past year. "I didn't think it was possible to get married so quickly and simply," she said to Billy. "No blood test, just a license and a few words said by a magistrate." No wedding band. Not even a kiss at the end of the ceremony. But that would have been a travesty since the entire marriage was a sham.

She'd been chattering since the moment the ceremony ended and Billy had hustled her into her Silverado and headed for the Castle. Her pickup had air-conditioning, but Billy had said he needed the fresh air and rolled down all the windows. She felt hot and sweaty, and the scorching wind, heated by the unrelenting sun on the asphalt, whipped her hair into her mouth every time she opened it to speak. And she couldn't seem to shut up.

She caught her lower lip in her teeth to stem the tide of nervous words and stared out at the mesquite trees in the pasture, their roots running hundreds of feet beneath the ground, doing battle with the gra.s.s for the scarce water that was sufficient to keep only one of them alive. She bit at a cuticle, then heard her mother's voice in her head telling her what an uncouth habit it was. She dropped her hands into her lap, then loudly cleared her throat, hoping Billy would say something, maybe ask if she was all right.

At which point she would tell him no. She had no idea why she felt so agitated, but Billy was doing nothing to allay her anxiety. Right now, he was busy imitating a stone statue.

"Why don't you say something?" she said. "What are you thinking? What are you feeling? Talk to me, Billy."

"I was wondering how fast we can get that $25,000," Billy replied. "The sooner I pay off Debbie Sue, the better. I want that custody hearing canceled."

Summer felt her heart sink. Of course Billy's first thoughts were about his son. That was the whole reason he'd suggested getting married. But she couldn't help feeling hurt. She'd told Billy she was marrying him to thwart her parents, but she hadn't been able to keep herself from romanticizing the situation.

Sure, they were marrying for convenience, but once upon a time, Billy Coburn's kisses had curled her toes and made her heart gallop. She had to admit that deep down she'd been hoping he'd fall madly in love with her. They'd be short of cash for a couple of years, but eventually she'd have her trust fund and they'd live happily ever after.

The reality was she had two rough, Spartan years ahead of her. And Billy wasn't acting the least bit romantic.

"When and how do you want to tell your parents?" Billy said.

Summer grimaced. "Will you think I'm a coward if I say I'd rather let them find out on their own?"

He glanced sideways at her. "You're my wife now. If you want me there when you tell them, just say the word. Blackjack doesn't scare me."

Summer grinned, but the moment of levity vanished when she thought of what a confrontation between her father and Billy might be like. She shuddered when she imagined the same scene with her mother. "I can't do it right now," she said. "Just let me grab a few things from the house."

"Want me to come in with you?" he said as he stopped her truck at the back door to the Castle.

"No. I'll be quick."

The house seemed empty, but it often did. The servants moved quietly about their duties, and her mother likely was hidden away in her studio at the end of the hall on the second floor, creating another artistic masterpiece. Eve Blackthorne's acclaimed Western oil paintings were featured in galleries all over the country.

Summer had often envied her mother's talent-and resented the time she spent in her studio creating "perfect" paintings from photographic images of Western life, carefully correcting each flaw the camera had captured on film. Her mother painted the world as it might be, not as it was. Sometimes Summer wanted to paint back in a fly-blown sore on a cow, or the rot in a mesquite fence post, or put back in the too-narrow s.p.a.ce between a cowgirl's eyes, so her face was distinctively her own.

But she didn't have her mother's talent. She didn't have any talent, for that matter. Oh, she could sit a horse pretty well, and she could dance the two-step and the cotton-eyed Joe with flair. And challenged by her father, she'd mastered the computer programs necessary to manage Bitter Creek.

But she didn't have a college degree. She couldn't sew or cook. She had no idea how to play an instrument or sing on key. And she didn't know squat about babies.

What on earth had she been thinking when she agreed to marry Billy Coburn? She was going to end up being one more responsibility loaded on his already overburdened shoulders. He was going to hate her for taking advantage of the situation when he saw how inept she was with Will.

But she couldn't help being what she was. Maybe she had been spoiled, growing up in a house where everything was done for her. That didn't mean she couldn't learn. And she would.

As Summer tiptoed down the upstairs hall, stepping around the places in the wooden floor that she knew would groan, she vowed that Billy would never have cause to be sorry he'd made her his wife.

She crept into her bedroom, closed the door, and leaned back against the cool wood, staring wistfully around her room. It was everything a young girl could want. A pink canopied bed. A collection of stuffed animals, which she'd used for company when she'd felt alone. An enormous mirror above her dressing table covered with taped-up pictures of her and her family.

She crossed to the mirror and began pulling off pictures. One of her as a three-year-old with flyaway blond curls, holding Trace's hand and staring up at him with a grin on her face. Of her at seven in messy pigtails and ragged jeans, standing between Owen and Clay in their football uniforms. Of her at fifteen in a ponytail, sitting on her horse holding a first-place ribbon for barrel racing, her father smiling up at her.

There were no pictures of her with her mother. Or with friends.

She grimaced and headed for her walk-in closet. She'd just married her best friend in the world. And if she didn't hurry up and pack, he was liable to head for home without her. She grabbed a travel bag from the floor of her closet and opened it on the bed, then began rooting through drawers for underwear, the T-shirts she slept in, and jeans. She was wearing her favorite pair of boots.

Her Western shirts were all ironed and starched on hangers. She found a hanging bag and stuffed in about a dozen. She debated whether to take any dresses, then figured if she hadn't gotten married in a dress, she wasn't going to have much need for one.

Unless they went to church. She knew Billy didn't go to church, but his mother did. She pulled a Von Furstenberg-like print jersey dress from the closet, rolled it in a ball and stuck it in the travel bag with her jeans. She considered the strappy Manolo Blahnik heels she normally wore with the jersey dress, then chose a pair of plain black ColeoHaan pumps and dumped them in on top of the dress.

She looked around the room for anything else she might want or need in the next couple of weeks. She hurried to the small chest beside her bed, opened the top drawer and pulled out her diary-although she called it a journal now-and flipped to her latest entry.

Broke up with Geoffrey tonight. Feel awful. And surprisingly free. And frightened, because Momma is pushing me to make up with him again. Just want to go to sleep and wake up and have everything be all right.

Billy came home and he has a son! I was never so shocked in all my life. Billy looks so different. His hair is just as long as it ever was, but he seems broader in the shoulders and taller and leaner. I've always thought he was handsome, but I actually felt b.u.t.terflies in my stomach when I looked into his eyes.

Summer was appalled to see that she'd gone on for another two paragraphs describing everything she could remember about Billy Coburn in minute detail. Was she really so fixated on him? She didn't dare take the chance of letting Billy see any of this.

She stuck the diary back in the drawer and shut it. Surely at some point she would be returning to pack away her things. She'd have to forgo writing in a journal until then. She turned back into the room, wondering what else she would need.

And realized she'd forgotten about cosmetics and toiletries-and medications. She got her birth control pills out of the medicine cabinet, then grabbed toothpaste, toothbrush, comb, and brush. She considered whether to take her scented soap and expensive shampoo, then grabbed both. The day would come when she had to use unscented soap and cheap shampoo, but there was no sense denying herself a few luxuries in the meantime.

She grabbed the small bag that held her makeup. She didn't use much, but she didn't feel dressed in the morning without some mascara and lipstick. She made herself leave everything else.

She unzipped her travel bag enough to stuff the makeup inside, then looked around to see if there was anything else she couldn't do without. And spotted the stuffed teddy bear that sat in an honored position in the center of her bed.

The bear was small, made of dark brown terry cloth, with a red and green plaid ribbon tied around its neck that had frayed on the ends. One of the two b.u.t.ton eyes was missing. She picked up the bear and hugged it to her. She had left Brownie at home when she'd made her forays into university life. And missed him terribly.

But she wasn't a child anymore. Or even a lonely young girl. She was a married woman.

"It's time for me to leave, Brownie," she said to the bear. She laid him back on the bed in his place of honor, then reached for the two bags she'd packed.

An instant later, she dropped the bags and grabbed Brownie. "You can keep Will company," she said to the bear as she unzipped the travel bag and stuffed him inside.

And me if I get lonely...

She opened her bedroom door, picked up her bags, and walked out the door.

And ran right into her mother.

"Oh. Excuse me."

"Does this mean you've made a decision?" her mother asked, eyeing the two bags.

"I can't marry Geoffrey," Summer said.

"I always knew you were selfish," her mother replied. "I never thought you were stupid."

Summer gripped her bags tighter, wishing there was some way to stop the humiliating flush burning its way up her throat. She'd always yearned for her mother's approval, strived to earn it, yet somehow never quite measured up. That didn't mean she didn't love her mother, and respect her. She offered the only explanation she could, hoping it would be enough. "I don't love Geoffrey."

"You're being ridiculous. Go unpack those bags while I call Geoffrey and-"

"It's too late for that."

"Geoffrey will forgive and forget. I'm sure you can smooth everything over-"