The music was loud and the bar crowded, but he'd been to Sexy Sadie's so often that it felt like home. They ordered drinks-he paid for the first round-then made their way to the back corner to play some darts. This wasn't a place Cheyenne frequented. He suspected the upwardly mobile group she hung out with visited the trendy clubs in Sacramento, if they ever pulled themselves away from worthier pursuits long enough to make the drive. Sexy Sadie's was a down-and-dirty honky-tonk, or as much of one as there was to be found so far from the Deep South.

Dylan had heard the band before and liked them. They played a wide range of music-country, pop, even some blues.

Their group found a table in the corner. Then he watched Cheyenne lose a game of darts to Mack. Although he caught her watching him whenever she thought he wasn't looking, she seemed to gravitate toward his youngest brother. He guessed she felt safer with the baby of the family than she did with him.

"I'll take you on," he told Mack. Usually, he didn't play darts, and if he did it didn't matter whether he won. He found pool more of a challenge. But tonight he concentrated on winning because he wanted to take control of the game.

Mack knew exactly what Dylan had in mind. After he lost, he winked as he relinquished his darts and went to the bar for another drink.

Dylan played Rod and Grady, overlooked Aaron because Aaron always offered him more competition than the others and he didn't want to risk losing before he could get to Cheyenne. To be polite, he first asked Presley if she wanted the challenge, but she motioned toward her sister. "Play with Cheyenne. That's what you're after, anyway. Aaron and I are going to dance. But before we do-" she pulled out a twenty "-I'm putting this on her."

"Did you see her play Mack?" Dylan asked.

Outraged, Cheyenne elbowed him in the ribs. "So I had a bad game! I'm usually a lot better than that."

"Sure you are," he said. "I'm just saying your sister might not want to put money on it."

"I can take you," she insisted.

He stepped up to her and grinned when she didn't back down. "You think so?"

She lifted her chin. "I'm certain of it."

"How certain?"

She dug through her purse and slapped another twenty on the table. "Certain enough to put up my own money."

Leaning so close he could smell her perfume, he lowered his voice. "I was hoping you might put up something I'd be more interested in winning."

"Like?"

"Dinner. Tomorrow night."

"Nice," Presley said. "He's direct. I like a man who knows his own mind. Now my money's on him."

Cheyenne could also appreciate a man who wasn't afraid to go after what he wanted, who didn't play games or pretend. Dylan seemed fearless in that regard, which somehow reassured her. If he knew what he was doing, maybe being attracted to him wasn't so risky.

But then she reminded herself that they were talking about one of the Amos boys-the ringleader, no less-and that he had a history of going from one woman to the next. Just because he made her feel special right now didn't mean his attention wouldn't wane in a few days or weeks. It could be that she was just the latest in a long line of women who'd caught his eye, that he liked the challenge she presented.

"So what do you say?" he asked.

She pursed her lips. "Depends."

"On..."

"What you're putting up."

"What do you want?"

She studied his face as she considered her answer. She'd made a similar bet with Joe over their card game. He'd offered automotive services. Dylan could probably have provided that, too. But she wanted something more meaningful. "Twenty honest answers."

This seemed to throw him. "To what questions?"

"Whatever I ask," she said, grinning.

He finished his beer. "Give me a sample."

She laughed at his sudden reluctance. "They'll be tough."

"Personal?"

"Very."

"Painful?"

"Possibly."

With a grimace he picked up his darts. "Good thing I don't plan to lose."

Cheyenne was determined not to lose, either. And she didn't.

"You hustled me!" he complained when she won it with a bull's-eye.

"My mother used to manage a pool hall."

"What?"

"It was one of the few jobs she kept for longer than a week. We stayed the whole summer, the summer before we moved here."

"So you were...what? Fifteen? Sixteen? That's not old enough to hang out in a pool hall, not if they serve alcohol."

"I was fourteen and Presley was sixteen, and they definitely served alcohol. But we lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. My mom slept during the day, while the place was closed. We weren't allowed to turn on the TV, because the noise would wake her. And we weren't allowed to leave the premises because she didn't want to worry about us getting into trouble. So we'd let in the boys who lived next door and play darts and pool with them all day." She took a sip of her beer. "Told you I was good. You just chose to believe what you think you saw."

"So you threw the game with Mack?"

"I could tell you were watching." She shrugged. "Fortunately, Mack was good enough to make it look easy."

"I'll never be able to trust you again," he said with mock outrage.

"Soon I'll know your deepest, darkest secrets. Frightening, isn't it?"

He grew serious as his eyes searched hers. "What will you do with that knowledge?"

A glance at the others told her they were preoccupied and no longer listening. "Decide whether or not I want to get back into bed with you."

He finished her beer. "You already want to get back into bed with me," he said with a sexy grin.

They danced. They laughed. They stayed out late. Cheyenne was a little tipsy by the time Dylan brought her home. He'd stopped drinking after one beer and those few swallows he'd had of hers. Although he hadn't made a big deal about becoming the designated driver, hadn't even mentioned it, she suspected he'd taken on that responsibility to make sure they all got home safely.

He was used to caring for people, she realized. He was good at it, probably because he'd been doing it most of his life. She wondered if his brothers knew how lucky they were that he'd stepped up and been able to fill their parents' shoes. She understood the value of what he'd done for them, because she'd never had anyone to give her that kind of care and protection.

She wished Presley was home so they could talk, but her sister was still with Aaron. No one could find them when it was time to leave. Cheyenne worried about what they might be doing, afraid they'd gone off to get high. But she didn't want to think about that right now. She was still engrossed in the afterglow of a wonderful evening.

"How is she?" she asked Marcy as she walked in.

A middle-aged mother of five, Marcy was sitting in the living room reading a book, which she slid into her purse. "Fine. It's been quiet around here. I've written down all the times she woke up, was fed and received her medication."

"Great. Thank you." Cheyenne reached for her wallet so she could pay Marcy and found a note in her purse. Presley had written something on a napkin from the bar.

She didn't take the time to read it. She wanted to send Marcy off first.

"I'm available over the rest of the holidays, if you need me," Marcy said.

"We'd feel too guilty bothering you when you should be with your family."

"I'm happy to help out here and there. You need a break every once in a while."

"Thanks for the offer. I'll keep it in mind." Cheyenne walked her to the door. Then she locked up and returned to the sofa, where she read her sister's brief message.

I love seeing you have a good time. So does Dylan. He's crazy about you. I can see it in his face.

P.

Smiling, Cheyenne leaned her head back as she remembered various parts of the evening. Although Dylan had accompanied her to the door, he hadn't kissed her good-night. She'd wanted him to, but in another way she was glad he intuitively knew better than to resume anything physical. She liked the friendship they were establishing. It was a better starting place, a far less frightening approach to including him in her life, whether as a friend...or more.

Her phone rang. She glanced at caller ID and laughed. "Hello?"

"I'm ready for one question," Dylan said.

"Just one?" On the drive, when she'd suggested he start to fulfill his twenty-answer debt, he'd scowled and put her off.

"I prefer to handle it over time," he replied, which was what he'd said then, too.

"What if I go easy on you at first?"

"Then you could get two."

Covering herself with the throw blanket she kept on the arm of the couch, she pulled up her feet. "Have you ever been in love?"

"That's supposed to be an easy question?"

"It's not?" It was certainly one she was dying to know the answer to. His name had been connected to a lot of different women over the years, but she'd never heard about a steady girlfriend. That didn't mean it couldn't have happened. She hadn't been paying much attention, especially since Joe returned to town.

"How is that easy?"

"Yes or no will handle it."

"But I'm not sure what the truth says about me."

She pictured him standing inside her front door as he had that first night. She no longer saw the scar at his temple as a defect. It was just part of him, and it added character to his face. "Give it a shot. I'll tell you what it says about you, or at least my interpretation."

"Never been in love," he admitted. "Until recently, my life's been almost entirely devoted to survival." He hesitated. "So what do you make of that? Are you now assuming I can't fall in love? That I'm not capable of it?"

"I'm assuming the people you've loved, so far, are your brothers."

"Not a bad thing," he said, verifying her response.

"Not a bad thing at all."

"Okay, I'll let you ask one more."

She planned to choose wisely. There was so much she wanted to learn about Dylan Amos, and he wasn't easy to know. In her opinion, that was why he was so misunderstood. "What do you want most out of life?"

It took him a few seconds to respond. "I'm not sure," he said when he answered. "I guess...success. No, more than that. Balance. What do you want?"

"Freedom," she decided.

"What kind of freedom?"

"Freedom from my past. Freedom from all the questions and suspicions."

"What questions and suspicions?"

She inhaled deeply. She'd never told another soul, except her mother and Presley, about the memories that didn't seem to fit the life she'd known. But there was something about Dylan that made her trust him. Maybe that was because they'd slept together. She'd already shared a deeper intimacy with him than anyone else, and he'd kept that secret by hiding her car behind the barn so his brothers wouldn't see it and by treating her as he had tonight, without too much familiarity, when they were with others.

Or maybe she trusted him because he'd been through enough to understand certain nuances that would be lost on Eve or Callie or Gail-or any of the guys she hung out with, for that matter. Although her friends had each suffered tragedy and faced difficulties, some more than others, they'd always been affluent, popular, attractive, well-liked and secure. They didn't have to wonder who they were and where they came from. Even Dylan didn't have to do that. But Cheyenne was willing to bet he could relate to her pain and confusion better than anyone else.

"I have these memories." She told him how empty and odd she felt when it snowed, about the blonde lady and the birthday party and the pretty room with the canopy bed. "I have no idea who that woman is, but she was significant to me, you know? I can feel it, deep in my bones. It's almost as if...as if I miss her."

"Have you asked your mother about it?"

"Of course."

"And?"

"She says she's never met anyone like the person I describe. She accuses me of making it all up. She says I think I'm too good for her and Presley, so I've created this fantasy to explain why."

"Is there any proof that Anita might not be your mother?"

"None. Except she can't even tell me where I was born."

"What does it say on your birth certificate?"

"What birth certificate?"