Blood Brothers

Prologue

As Gabe McBride’s plane touched down in England he didn’t have a clue that he was about to have a meeting with Destiny.

His cousin, Lord Randall Stanton, waiting for him outside Customs, didn’t look like Destiny. Randall looked, as he always had, like an English version of Gabe: same tall figure and broad shoulders, same dark hair and eyes, and lean, handsome features that had a strong family likeness. Their differences lay less in looks than mannerisms.

Randall carried his head with the proud air of an English toffee.

“You’d know he was a lord, just looking at him,” Gabe thought with an inward grin.

His own “air” suggested something entirely different. Generally it was one part horse, one part leather, one part bull rope rosin and several parts substances that polite society didn’t talk about. At the moment he’d done his best to scrub all that away. No sense walking into the drawing room smelling like a barn.

Drawing room! Now there was a term he didn’t use often. Didn’t reckon he’d said it aloud since the last time he was here-and that had been fifteen years ago. The very notion made him smile, a drawing room was such a far cry from the homely lived-in clutter of the Montana ranch he called home-when he was home.

Usually he wasn’t.

Usually he was going down the road from rodeo to rodeo. He’d be doing it now if it hadn’t been for getting hung up on that little spinning bull at the National Finals in Vegas last month.

“Shoulder separation,” the doc had said. “Again.” He’d looked at Gabe over the top of his glasses. “How many is that?”

“Five,” Gabe had admitted.

He didn’t like to think about it even now. Didn’t like to think about the surgery that had become inevitable, the months of recovery that would follow, the enforced idleness. A guy could get into trouble if he didn’t have something to keep him busy. A guy could meet a girl like Tracy…

Even now his mouth curved instinctively at the thought of Tracy. He’d known she was trouble from the moment he saw her, but that was how he liked ’em. Trouble, and sassy and all woman. She’d lured him into her bed, with no resistance from him, and had cost him a fortune in gee-gaws, which was fine.

It was her uptight brother with the shotgun who hadn’t been fine. Nor had the lively conversation they’d had in which the words “marriage”, “honest woman” and “decent thing” had occurred with alarming frequency.

Gabe, who had been taught from the cradle never to badmouth a woman, didn’t say that the words “honest” and “decent” were not exactly terms he would have used to describe Tracy. He’d just done his damnedest to assure the shotgun-toting brother that Tracy wouldn’t want to tie herself to a no-account bull rider with no more morals than a monkey. And then he’d promised to hightail it out of the country so she could find herself a “respectable” man.

Gabe wished all the respectable men in the good ol’ U.S. of A. the best of luck. He was off to visit his kin on the other side of the world.

That would keep him out of harm’s-and Tracy’s-way, and besides, it had the added benefit of pleasing his mother who couldn’t go because she was just recovering from the flu and Martha, his sister, who was spending the semester abroad in Brazil.

In fact, Gabe was rather looking forward to a brief vacation visiting his English relatives-especially his mother’s father, Earl Stanton, who was about to celebrate the fact that, in Randall’s words, “Someone let the old devil live to be eighty, without strangling him.”

But Destiny? Who needed it?

When you were young, healthy and in your prime, when there were always more ladies besides Tracy eager for your company, and you had enough money to indulge yourself, you made your own Destiny.

Which went to show how wrong a man could be!

Lord Randall Stanton broke into a grin at the sight of his scapegrace cousin loping out of the Customs Hall, and let out a yell that sat oddly with his elegant tailoring. It was met by an answering yell from Gabe, and for a moment the two young men pounded each other like schoolboys.

“It’s good to see you,” Randall said. “Even if it did take a scandal to get you here.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gabe declared innocently. “The old man’s eightieth-family duty, etc., etc., etc.-”

Randall just grinned. “Your mother called Grandpa just as I was leaving. Your secrets aren’t secrets any more.”

Gabe groaned. “Can’t trust ’em to keep their mouths shut, can you?”

“I’m sure Aunt Elaine is the soul of discretion. Usually. Wait until we’re in the car, and you can tell all,” Randall said.

Like hell he would. He and Randall might have shared a thousand secrets as boys, but when it came to women, Gabe drew the line. He followed Randall out to the parking garage, and whistled at the sight of Randall’s silver-colored Rolls-Royce.

“Does this come from the ancient family fortunes, or did Stanton Publications pay for it?”

“Stanton Publications,” Randall told him. “All the family estates do is soak up money. It’s the firm that makes it.” He settled behind the wheel and looked avidly at his cousin. “Come on. Give. All I know is, it’s something to do with a floozie called Tracy.”

Gabe cocked his head. “Do I detect a little envy in your voice, cuz?”

Randall scowled, then shifted his gaze to focus intently on fitting the key into the ignition. “Of course not.”

“It’s not a crime, you know. Every red-blooded male ought to meet a Tracy or two.”

“Or twelve or twenty,” Randall said drily. “Or have you had more than that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Gabe grinned as he leaned back against the leather seat and flexed his shoulders. “You should have a few floozies in your life, bud. It would make you a better human being.”

“Like you, I suppose?” Randall snorted.

Gabe shrugged negligently. “All work and no play makes Randall a dull boy.”

“Better than all play and no work,” Randall said firmly.

One of Gabe’s dark brows lifted. “Just a little testy, are we?” he asked as Randall negotiated the narrow lanes of the parking garage.

“You’d be testy too if you had Earl breathing down your neck every minute of every day.”

They called Cedric Stanton “Grandfather” to his face; they called him “the earl” when speaking about him to acquaintances; but they called him “Earl” behind his back because one summer in Montana when they were boys, an old camp cook had actually thought it was the old man’s name and kept yelling, “Hey, Earl! Come an’ get it, Earl!”

Now Gabe grinned. “Hey, that’s Earl. Just tell him to buzz off.”

Randall gave a short sharp laugh. “I’d as soon tell a pit bull to play nice.”

“So buzz off yourself. I don’t see any chain around your neck. Invisible leash, is it?”

Randall almost unconsciously tugged at his collar. “Feels like it sometimes.” He didn’t say anything else, just concentrated on the road. Morning traffic around Heathrow was a good excuse for silence. But in fact, he had to admit Gabe had touched a raw nerve.

The death of Randall’s parents in a car crash when he was eight had made him heir to the earldom and all its rights and responsibilities. His fearsome grandfather had left him in no doubt that he expected both sides of the equation to be kept up. Randall had learned estate management so that he could run the ancient family domains. He’d loved that part of his life. But it hadn’t been profitable. At least not profitable enough. He’d also needed the skills to run the publishing empire by which the Stantons stayed one step ahead of the game.

He enjoyed that work, too, but he hadn’t bargained for it eating away so much of his life. He’d bowed his head to the burdens, but sometimes a voice whispered in his ear that there was more to life than this; that it would be great to toss his cap over the windmill and forget the duties for awhile.

And when he was with his charming, light-hearted, devil-may-care cousin, the whisper threatened to become a roar.

Now his hands tightened on the steering wheel, so slightly that only the sharp-eyed Gabe could have noticed.

“So when do we hear of your engagement?” Gabe asked him.

Randall’s head jerked around. “What engagement?”

“To Lady Honoria, or Lady Serena or Lady Melanie Wicks-Havering, or whoever. Time you did your duty to the House of Stanton, my lad.”

“Stop sounding like Earl,” Randall said in a harassed voice.

Gabe laughed. “So you’ve evaded the pack so far? But how long can the fox stay ahead? Tally Hoooo!” Gabe’s imitation of a hunting cry was excruciating.

“If I had my hands free I’d ram something down your gullet,” Randall muttered. “We can’t all flit from flower to flower with no thought for tomorrow.”

“Like I said, the ol’ green-eyed monster seems to have bit you but good.”

“Go to hell, McBride!”

“Oh, I reckon I will,” Gabe said cheerfully, and settled back as if satisfied that he’d done his bit for international relations.

Earl was looking older.

Of course Gabe had seen him last three years ago when the old man had come to Montana for a month’s visit. Then he’d seemed spry and ageless, his thick shock of white hair framing a relatively unlined face, his bright blue eyes brimming with enthusiasm and his every word outlining some new plan-mostly, Gabe remembered, ones that involved work for Randall.

But now he saw lines in the old man’s face. He saw a faint tremble in Earl’s fingers when, at the eightieth birthday bash, the old man had raised his glass at his grandsons’ toast to “eighty more years as adventure-filled as the last eighty.”

He saw that some day Earl wouldn’t be around anymore.

But he also saw that it was just possible that Randall would die first-of overwork.

Gabe had been in England two days, and while he’d spent a fair amount of time with the earl, he’d barely seen his cousin after Randall had dropped him off at Stanton House in Belgravia and had left.

“Got to be in Glasgow for a meeting,” Randall said apologetically. “Catch you later.”

But he hadn’t. Since Gabe’s arrival, Randall had been variously in London, Glasgow, Manchester, Cardiff and Penzance. The most Gabe heard from him was a phone call or another apologetic message. He barely even made it to Earl’s birthday bash.

He rang to say he’d be a bit late, and when he finally blew in, he stayed long enough for the toast and a piece of cake, and then he excused himself to make calls about a buyout.

Gabe, on the other hand, had a wonderful time. He discussed horseflesh with a couple of his grandfather’s cronies, wrapped himself around a fantastic meal. He danced with all the pretty ladies-of whom there were plenty-and flirted with the prettiest of the lot-a stunning blonde called Natasha, who looked at him with big violet eyes and said, “You’re not much like your cousin, are you?”

“Nope,” Gabe replied cheerfully. “Thank God.”

When the party finally ended, Randall still hadn’t returned. He was probably off somewhere making more money for Stanton Publishing or stopping the cash from flowing out of the Stanton ancestral coffers.

Gabe glanced at his watch. “Have you ever considered giving him a day off?” He and the earl were in the library, cozily ensconced in deep leather chairs, quaffing the best single malt scotch Gabe had ever tasted, and Gabe thought the old man looked mellow enough to allow him to consider broaching the subject.

“Day off?” Earl snorted. “Day off? Nobody ever gave me a day off! Earls don’t get days off.”

Gabe smiled thinly. Poor old Randall. “Reckon I’m glad I’m just a lowly commoner then.” He raised his glass in toast. “To the rabble. Long may we loaf.”

Earl made a harrumphing sound. “You needn’t be so almighty proud of it, my lad. Most men, by your age, have something to show for their lives.”

“You, for instance?” Gabe knew damned well the old man had been a wastrel in his salad days. It had taken a very determined Lady Cornelia Abercrombie-Jones to take Cedric David Phillip Stanton in hand, get a marriage proposal out of him and put an end to his frivolous ways.

“We aren’t talking about me,” Earl said huffily.

“You’re not,” Gabe agreed, “because you know it will undercut your case. I don’t care that you were a hellion. In fact, I’m all for it, as you know.” He grinned. “I just think you ought to allow Randall a shot at a little hell-raising-before you croak and make sure he never gets a day off.”

“You think I’m about to stick my spoon in the wall?”

“Does that mean die? No, probably not. But someday you’re going to. And if Randall hasn’t lived, who can tell what he might do with the Stanton legacy, with all those ‘burdens’ and ‘responsibilities’ you keep loading on him. He might just throw it all away!”

Earl’s face turned bright red. “Randall would never-!”

“How do you know? Have you ever let him out past ten o’clock? Except on business?”

Gabe never heard the answer to that question because the next moment the library door opened and Randall returned. A satisfied smile lit his often sober face. “We’ve done it. We’ve got the Gazette!”

“Another Gazette?” Gabe groaned. “How many Gazettes, Echoes, Advertisers, Recorders and whatever else does that make?”

Stanton Publishing specialized in local newspapers, and owned eighty, all over the country.

“This is the Buckworthy Gazette,” Randall said triumphantly. “We’ve been after it for years.”

“Ah.” Gabe nodded in comprehension. The family seat was situated near the little town of Buckworthy, right down south in the county of Devon. It had always galled the Stantons that they couldn’t get their hands on the paper for their own locality. Now, at long last, Randall had triumphed.

Earl, of course, was over the moon. He leapt from his chair, rejuvenated, and slapped his grandson on the back, hollering his delight. “About time! Another few months and it would have gone right down the drain. Now you can turn it around, make it shine.” He glanced at his watch. “If you leave early enough tomorrow you can be down there by midday. It’s a Thursday paper. You’ll be in time to have some input on this week’s issue. No time like the present to begin putting things to rights. Sales haven’t been what they should be. You can start up an advertising campaign, too. And some sort of weekly contest. The one you did in Thrush-by-the-Marsh worked like a charm. Something like that!” Earl rubbed his hands together in glee.

But as Gabe watched, the enthusiasm seemed to drain right out of Randall, as if it were being choked off. As it probably was-by the added tug on the noose of even greater responsibilities.

“Whoa. Hey, hold up. You’ll choke him!” He looked at Randall and slid a finger around the inside of his collar.

Randall hesitated. His hand crept up and loosened his tie. His mouth opened. And closed again. He didn’t say a word.

Idiot! Gabe glared at him. Was he going to let the old man run him into the ground? Randall glared back.

Earl looked from one to the other of them. He frowned. “What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” Randall said at the same moment Gabe said, “Big problem! Here you go pushing more work off on him! I just told you, he needs a break!”

“And I told you there’s work to be done!”

“Get someone else!”

“Someone else?” Earl sounded as if he couldn’t believe his ears. He was working himself up, breathing hard and going red in the face. “The Buckworthy Gazette is the Stanton paper,” he roared. “Ours by right. And failing badly. It’s going to take a Stanton to turn it around.”

“But why does it have to be this Stanton?” Gabe demanded.

“Because Martha is on the other side of the world.”

“Martha is not the only other Stanton!”

“Well, no, there’s you,” Earl said witheringly, “I’d as soon ask a fourteen-year-old to run a bank as send you to turn the Gazette around!”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

“It’s work,” Earl pointed out.

“You don’t think it’s work to raise cattle? You don’t think it’s work to sort and ship and doctor a herd?”

“Your father worked hard,” Earl allowed.

Big of him! Gabe gritted his teeth. “I worked with him!”

“You lent a hand when you passed by.”

“Who do you think did it since Dad died last year?”

“You?” Earl almost seemed to chuckle. “I thought that’s why your mother hired Frank as foreman. Or maybe Martha did it or that little orphan girl, Claire. Your mother says she lives in jeans and does the work of three men. Who needs you?”

Gabe’s teeth came together with a snap. “Think again.”

“You don’t say you’re actually good for a job of work, surely?” Earl regarded him with tolerant amusement.

“I’m good for anything he’s good for,” Gabe snapped, indicating Randall.

“Ho, ho, ho!” Earl scoffed.

“Don’t ho-ho me, old man-”

“And don’t call me old man-”

“Look-” Randall ventured.

As one, the other two turned on him. “YOU KEEP OUT OF IT!”

“Whatever needs to be done, I’ll do it,” Gabe said defiantly. “And you-” to Randall “-give me the details of this paper, and go take a vacation. Or ‘a holiday,’ I suppose you’d call it.”

“What I’d call it is madness.” Randall shook his head fiercely. “You’ll bankrupt us.”

Gabe slammed his glass down on the table. “Sez who? You think I can’t run things? I’ll show you. I’m off to Devon in the morning!”

There was silence.

Randall and Earl looked at each other. Then at Gabe.

Gabe glared back at them. And then, just as the adrenaline rush carried him through an eight-second bull ride mindless of aches, pains and common sense, before it drained away, so did the red mist of fury disperse and the cold clear light of reality set in.

And he thought, oh hell, what have I done?

Slowly, unconsciously, he raised a hand and ran his finger around the inside of the collar of his own shirt.

Much later the cousins put Earl to bed, then supported each other as far as Gabe’s room, where he produced a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

“Seriously,” Randall said, “it’s a crazy idea…”

“Yep, it is.” Gabe poured them each a glass and lifted his. “To the Buckworthy Gazette!”

“You don’t have to do-”

“Yes,” Gabe said flatly. “I do.” He downed the whisky in one gulp, then set the glass down with a thump and threw himself down onto his bed to lie there and stare up at his cousin. Randall looked a little fuzzy.

Gabe felt a little fuzzy, but determined. “Seriously,” he echoed his cousin. “Remember when we were kids and you came to Montana for the first time. We became blood brothers, swearing to defend and protect each other against all comers. Well, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Randall shook his head. “I don’t need protecting!”

Gabe wasn’t convinced, but he wasn’t going to argue. He shoved himself up against the headboard of the bed and reached for the bottle again. Carefully he poured himself another glass, aware of Randall’s tight jaw, his cousin’s years of hard work and legendary determination.

“There’s another thing, too. You’re not the only Stanton,” he muttered.

Randall blinked. “What?”

Gabe looked up and met his cousin’s gaze. “I can do this.” Though, as he said the words, Gabe wondered if he was saying them for Randall’s ears or for his own. “It will be fun,” he added after a moment with a return of his customary bravado.

“But you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

Gabe held up his glass and watched the amber liquid wink in the light.

“That,” he said, “is exactly why it’s going to be fun.”

One

How hard could it be?

Gabe was determined to look on the positive side. There was no point, after all, in bemoaning his impulsive decision. He’d said he would do it, and so he would. No big deal.

Randall apparently did this sort of thing all the time-dashed in on his white horse-no, make that, sped in in his silver Rolls-Royce-and rescued provincial newspapers from oblivion, set them on their feet, beefed up their advertising revenues, sparked up their editorial content, improved their economic base and sped away again-just like that.

Well, fine. Gabe would, too. No problem. No problem at all.

The problem was finding the damn place!

Gabe scowled now as he drove Earl’s old Range Rover through the gray morning drizzle that had accompanied him from London, along the narrow winding lane banked by dripping hedgerows taller than his head.

He’d visited the ancestral pile before, of course, but he’d never driven himself. And he’d always come in the middle of summer, not in what was surely the dampest, gloomiest winter in English history.

He’d left way before dawn this morning, goaded by Earl having said something about Randall always getting “an early start.” He’d done fine on the motorway, despite still having momentary twitches when, if his concentration lapsed, he thought he was driving on the wrong side of the road.

It had almost been easier when he’d got down into the back country of Devon and the roads had ceased having sides and had become narrow one-lane roads. His only traumas then came when he met a car coming in the other direction and he had to decide which way to move. Finally though, he found a sign saying BUCKWORTHY 3 mi and below it STANTON ABBEY 2 mi.

He turned onto that lane, followed it-and ended up on a winding track no wider than the Range Rover.

He felt like a steer on its way to the slaughterhouse-funneled into a chute with no way out.

And there was an apt metaphor for you, he thought grimly.

The lane twisted again, the hedgerows loomed. The windshield wipers swept back and forth, condensation rose. Gabe muttered under his breath.

Where were the wide-open spaces when you needed them?

“Damn!” He rounded the next blind curve and found himself coming straight up the rear tire of an antiquated bicycle that wobbled along ahead of him.

He swerved. There was no time to hit the brakes. The rider swerved at the same time-fortunately in the opposite direction.

Gabe breathed again as he passed, leaving the bicyclist, who appeared to be an elderly woman swaddled in a faded red sweater over more clothes than were necessary to get through a Montana winter, staring after him, doubtless unnerved, but fortunately unscathed.

It wouldn’t have done to have flattened a local.

“I thought you intended to save the Gazette, not make headlines in it,” he could well imagine Earl saying sarcastically.

Earl had openly scoffed when Gabe had proposed to take care of things and be back in a week.

“A week? You think you’re going to turn ten years worth of sliding sales, bad management and terrible writing around in a week?”

“Well, two, then,” Gabe had muttered. How the hell was he supposed to know? He’d never saved a newspaper before. He barely even read them-beyond checking the price of steers and maybe glancing at the sports page.

“Two months,” Earl had said loftily. “If you’re clever.”

Two months? Gabe had stared. “I have to be back for calving and branding come spring!” he protested.

“Guess you’ll have to leave it to Randall then,” Earl had said with a bland smile.

Like hell he would!

He’d said he would rescue the Gazette. And damn it, he would. No matter how long it took.

He knew Randall, too, thought he’d blow it. He’d spent half the night before Gabe left giving him advice. “Just go in there and lay down the law. Speak authoritatively.”

“Be the lord and master, you mean?” Gabe said derisively.

“Exactly. Speak softly but carry a big stick.”

“Teddy Roosevelt said that.”

Randall blinked. “Did he? Well, he must have stolen it from us.” Then he’d clapped Gabe on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Everything will be right as rain if you just…well, no matter. If you can’t, you just ring me up.”

“No, I can’t,” Gabe said smugly. “You’ll be in Montana.”

That was the other part of the deal. Gabe would do his job if Randall would oversee the ranch.

“Nothing to it,” Gabe had reassured his cousin, though Randall hadn’t looked all that cheerful at the prospect. “Piece of cake.”

And this would be, too, he assured himself. And if it wasn’t, he’d get it done anyway. He’d show both Earl and Randall. He was tired of having everybody think he couldn’t last at anything for longer than eight seconds.

But one look at Stanton Abbey when he finally found it, and Gabe thought if he made eight seconds he’d be lucky.

He’d last visited Stanton Abbey when he was ten. He was thirty-two now. It hadn’t changed. Of course, twenty-two years in the life of Stanton Abbey was a mere blink of an eye.

The original building was seven hundred years old if it was a day. There had been additions over the years. The damp dark stone building sat on the hillside like a squat, stolid Romanesque stone toad with slightly surprised gothic eyebrows.

The surprise no doubt came in part from having had a Tudor half-timbered extension grafted onto one side and a neoclassical wing tacked onto the other. Since the eighteenth century nothing had been added, thank heavens. The upkeep on what was already there had kept two hundred years of Stantons busy enough.

Gabe had never really envied Randall the earldom. His first adult look at Stanton Abbey gave him no reason to change his opinion. In fact he wondered that Randall hadn’t said, “Thanks, but no thanks,” long ago.

When he was ten, Gabe had thought Stanton Abbey an endlessly fascinating place. He and Randall had chased each other down long stone corridors, had hidden from Earl in the priest’s hole and had raced to see who could first get through the garden maze.

Anyone who ventured into the garden now, Gabe thought as he stared at the brambles and bushes, had better mark a trail or he’d never be seen again.

Randall had tried to warn him.

“It’s a bit overgrown,” he’d said. “We keep up with the house. Got to, you know. It’s a listed building, grade one, and all that. And Freddie’s done a wonderful job with the renovations. Still, every time I go down it seems some timbers need replacing-and there’s been a spot of bother with the rising damp.”

Rising?

Drowning, more like. Gabe could feel it permeating his bones. Had he really committed himself to living here for the next two months?

In a word, yes. And he wasn’t about to turn tail and run. Earl would never let him live it down.

Well, if Randall could do it, so could he.

He’d just find Freddie the caretaker to let him in.

Frederica Crossman was not expecting visitors.

That was why she was still in her nightgown and down on her hands and knees on the stone-flagged floor of Stanton Abbey’s dower house at ten o’clock on Monday morning, trying to coax her son Charlie’s on-loan-from-school-over-the-Christmas-holidays rabbit out from under the refrigerator.

Charlie was supposed to have taken it with him, but he hadn’t managed to catch it before he left for school this morning.

“It absolutely has to be back today, Mum,” he’d told her, “or I’m toast.”

“I’ll catch him,” Freddie had promised blithely at ten minutes to eight. She’d been trying ever since.

Now she could almost reach the little creature. If only she had longer fingers…or the rotten bunny wasn’t terrified…or…

The knock on the door startled her. She jerked and banged her head on the desk next to the refrigerator. “Blast!”

Another knock came, louder and more persistent than the first.

Freddie didn’t want to answer. She knew precisely who it was-Mrs. Peek. Freddie had been expecting her ever since she’d learned yesterday that Stanton Publishing had bought The Gazette. Mrs. Peek, the village’s most ardent gossip, was bound to appear, eager for a cup of tea and the latest news.

Freddie was only surprised it had taken her so long.

When Lady Adelaide Bore, a member of another Family Of Note in the neighborhood, had run off with her groom, Mrs. Peek had known about it before the ink was dry on the farewell note.

A third imperious knock.

Irritably, Freddie pulled Charlie’s old mac around her like a dressing gown and, still rubbing the bump on her head, opened the back door.

It wasn’t Mrs. Peek.

It was a man. A lean, ruggedly handsome man with thick, ruffled dark hair and intense blue eyes. A memorable man.

Freddie remembered him at least. And she had no doubt that Mrs. Peek would, too.

It was Lord Randall Stanton. The heir.

Or was it? Suddenly Freddie wasn’t sure.

Freddie had met Lord Randall Stanton two or three times when he’d brought his grandfather down for a visit to the ancestral home. Lord Randall had always been charming, solicitous, unfailingly polite. Very public school. All his tailoring bespoke. She couldn’t imagine him being caught dead in blue jeans.

But blue jeans, faded and worn in exceedingly interesting places, were just what this man wore. Even more astonishing, he had a huge shiny gold object affixed to the center of his belt. A buckle? Freddie had seen serving platters that were smaller!

“Hi,” he said and gave her the famous Stanton grin.

His American accent settled one issue. Whoever he was, he wasn’t Lord Randall.

“Hello?” Freddie replied cautiously. She clutched Charlie’s mac tightly around her.

The grooves at the corners of his smile deepened. “I’m Gabe McBride. I’m looking for the caretaker of Stanton Abbey. Is he in?”

“He?”

It was not one of Freddie’s finer moments.

Caretakers were not always men. She suspected even the American Mr. McBride would be willing to admit that. But even he, she imagined, would expect a caretaker of either sex to be dressed by ten o’clock in the morning.

But before she could panic about that, she caught sight of the rabbit out of the corner of her eye as it dashed from beneath the refrigerator toward the old cooker. “’Scuse me!” Freddie exclaimed and plunged after it.

She expected Gabe McBride, obviously some relation to the Stantons as his likeness marched up and down the portrait hall at the abbey, to stand by and watch her make a fool of herself.

She was astonished when he joined her.

“Is it a rat?” He was on his knees beside her, all eagerness, his dark hair shedding drops of rain on the flagstone floor.

She shook her head. “A bunny.”

“A bunny? A rabbit?”

“Yes! Here, Cosmo! Cosmo, come here! There’s a nice bunny. It’s time for school, Cosmo.” She was crawling on the floor, trying to stretch toward the back of the cooker where she could see the rabbit hunched, its beady left eye looking straight at her.

“I’ll get it.” Gabe McBride flopped down on his belly next to her. He scrabbled forward, reaching for the bunny who, seeing he was outnumbered, feinted left, looked right and skittered right between the two of them and ran into the dining room.

Freddie bit off a very unladylike exclamation, leapt to her feet and, still clutching the mac around her, ran after it with Gabe McBride in close pursuit.

“You go that way,” he directed. “I’ll go this.” He jerked his head, directing her. “We’ll head him off at the pass.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He grinned. It was lethal.

It was a good job, Freddie thought, that she was on her knees already, else she’d be lying out flat on the flagstones that very minute. And letting the man have his way with you.

“Never!” she exclaimed aloud.

“What?” said Gabe McBride.

Freddie shook her head. “N-nothing. I was just saying we’re never going to catch him.”

“Sure we will. Just do what I told you.” He edged around the other way. “Be real still. I’ll flush him out toward you. Ready?”

Still reeling from her aberrant, wholly inappropriate thoughts, Freddie crouched, feeling like a goalkeeper at the ready, nightgown and mac draped around her.

Gabe McBride got on his belly again and stretched beneath the china cabinet. The rabbit watched worriedly. Gabe’s fingers got closer and closer.

“Yes,” she breathed. “You’re going to…”

Then all of a sudden, Gabe smacked his hands together in a loud clap. The rabbit shot out directly toward Freddie.

“Gotcha!” And she fell over on her rear end, clutching the rabbit gently in both hands. Her heart slammed against the wall of her chest.

From the exhilaration of the chase, she assured herself, not from the handsome American grinning down at her!

“Way to go!” He was breathing heavily, too, and his shirttails were pulled out and he had a button undone.

There came a knock. The door opened. “Yoo-hoo, m’dear?” called Mrs. Peek. “Anybody home?”

Freddie was a girl!

Well, actually she was a woman-and quite a woman at that, with her tumbling wavy dark hair and her flushed cheeks. Not to mention the womanly curves and heaving bosom Gabe had been treated to as they’d chased down the rabbit.

“I’m the caretaker,” she told him breathlessly as she carried the rabbit to its cage.

“You’re Freddie?”

“Frederica,” she said firmly. “My husband worked for Earl Stanton.” At his quizzical look she added, “Mark died four years ago.”

This entire conversation took place in the scant moments it took for them to return to the kitchen, rabbit in tow, and intercept an elderly woman in a red sweater who was making herself at home in the kitchen. She was, Gabe realized, the one with the bicycle he’d almost mowed down in the lane.

She was looking from one to the other of them, blue eyes alight with curiosity.

“This is Mr. McBride. Mr. McBride, meet Mrs. Peek,” Freddie-the-caretaker said briskly as she put the rabbit in the cage on the table.

Gabe nodded politely and shook the woman’s hand, but his attention never strayed very far from the delectable Freddie. He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her since she’d opened the door to him wearing that ridiculous too-small raincoat over what looked to be a nightgown.

A soft flannel nightgown with sprigs of some kind of purple flowers on it such as, his fashion-conscious sister Martha would have said, only sexless grannies wore. Martha would have been wrong. Big time.

Gabe sucked in another careful breath.

“Have you got a pain, Mr. McBride?” Mrs. Peek asked.

“What?”

“You seems to be havin’ trouble breathing.”

Well, yes. But mostly he was having more trouble controlling what Earl would doubtless call “his baser nature.”

Freddie-the-caretaker was enticing as all get out. Still, he didn’t think his grandfather would look kindly on his throwing the resident caretaker down on the kitchen table and having his way with her. Especially not with the old lady in the red sweater avidly looking on.

Mrs. Peek, he decided after a few minutes’ conversation, was very well named.

Nothing happened in the village of Buckworthy that Mrs. Peek didn’t know about. She certainly knew about him!

“Come t’run the Gazette,” she said, bobbing her head in approval. Then her brows arched behind her glasses and she looked from him to Freddie-the-caretaker with her loose hair and mussed nightgown and said, “And a mighty fast worker he is, too.”

“Mr. McBride came for the keys to the abbey,” Freddie said firmly. But while she contrived to sound firm and businesslike, her hands fluttered around, as if she was torn between smoothing her disheveled hair or clutching the raincoat even tighter.

As she was managing to do neither, Gabe just stood there and enjoyed the view. The prospect of spending two months in Devon was looking brighter all the time.

“Us could do with a cup of tea,” Mrs Peek said.

Freddie put on the kettle.

Mrs. Peek smiled brightly. “You’re the young lord’s cousin, then? The American. Has the look of ’is lordship, he does,” she pronounced. “He were right han’sum, too. Th’ earl, I mean. Cedric.” Mrs. Peek’s voice softened and became almost dreamy. Her cheeks were already red from the cold, but if they hadn’t been Gabe felt sure that the thought of Earl might have contributed.

Earl? Make someone’s heart beat faster? Now there was a sobering thought.

“You know my grandfather, Mrs. Peek?”

The ruddy color on her cheeks deepened. She looked a little flustered. “Us was…acquainted.”

Gabe bet they were. And very well acquainted at that. Mrs. Peek had to be seventy-five if she was a day, and it was a little hard to imagine her and Earl getting it on. But then it was a little hard imagining Earl once looking like him!

“I’ll give him your regards when I talk to him,” he said. “I just came down from Stanton House where we celebrated his birthday.”

That, of course, required a detailed description of the birthday party. Mrs. Peek was all ears. Freddie, to Gabe’s dismay, excused herself after she’d poured the tea.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “I just need to get more…presentable.” Her hands were fluttering still.

“Don’t bother on my account,” Gabe grinned.

Freddie clutched the raincoat across her midsection and said firmly, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“’Er’s a dear soul, our Freddie,” Mrs. Peek said the moment Freddie was out of earshot. “Always workin’, ’er is. Too much for one woman, keepin’ up wi’ the abbey, but can’t tell her so. Good job you’ve come. Right proper Stantons gettin’ the Gazette an’ old Cedric sendin’ his very own grandson to set things right. As well he should,” she said firmly. “This bein’ his old home, an’ all. Th’ neighborhood needs ’er gentlemen.”

Gabe looked over his shoulder, then realized the gentleman in question was him! He began to feel a bit of the responsibility Randall seemed to shoulder so easily.

“I’ll do my best.”

Mrs. Peek nodded eagerly “You’ve got plans?”

“Have to see it first. Check things out. Assess the situation. Develop a plan of attack.” He was pretty sure that was the sort of claptrap Randall would have come up with when pressed. “I’ll know more in the next few days.”

“That’s for sure.” Mrs. Peek smiled.

Gabe wasn’t sure what she meant by that cryptic comment. She finished her cup of tea, then got up. “Glad you’ve come, me han’sum. Wish’ee well.” Her blue eyes sparkled and Gabe had a glimpse of what Earl must have been drawn by all those years ago. Then, nodding with satisfaction, she added, “’Tis time.”

She was pedaling down the drive when Freddie returned.

Her hair was pulled up and pinned on top of her head, and she was dressed now in jeans and a bright blue loose-necked pullover sweater. She wasn’t quite as obviously delectable as she had been crawling around on the floor in her nightgown giving him a glimpse of long lovely legs, but Gabe had a good memory.

“Where’s Mrs. Peek?”

“On her way. She got what she came for.”

Freddie smiled. “She means well. She lives alone and she enjoys a cup of tea and a chat.” Freddie swished through the kitchen, picking up the cups and putting them in the sink. The jeans hugged her hips and thighs. Not bad. Gabe watched them sway, then dragged his gaze upward and his mind back to the point.

He cleared his throat. “I get the feeling she thinks I’m here for good. I’m not.” He wanted that clear right now. “I’m doing Randall…my cousin…a favor. I said I’d sort the Gazette out. I will. Then I’m gone. This is just a one-time deal. I have a ranch back in Montana. I’m a cowboy, not a lord.”

“A cowboy?” Freddie said doubtfully, as if it were in a foreign tongue. Her lips curved. She had very kissable lips.

Gabe wondered what they would taste like.

Had Earl wondered the same thing about Mrs Peek’s the first time he’d seen her? Had she been a pretty young thing, too?

Freddie wasn’t that young, he reminded himself firmly. She was a widow. She had kids old enough to go to school. That made her pretty old herself.

“How old are you?” he asked, unsure why he needed to know. He expected her to say forty or so. Mothers were. His own was nearly sixty, after all.

“Thirty-one.”

“Thirty-one?”

She was younger than he was! Gabe stared at Frederica Crossman, poleaxed. “How old are your kids?” It wasn’t a question as much as an accusation.

“Charlie’s nine. Emma’s seven.”

Gabe opened his mouth. He closed it again, having nothing at all to say. She was thirty-one and her kids were half grown!

That meant he could have kids that old!

No. He couldn’t!

He was barely more than a kid himself.

“It’s not polite to ask someone’s age,” Freddie said tartly, “especially if you’re going to stare at me dumbfounded when I give you an honest answer.”

Gabe flushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m just…surprised. You look so…so young.” He’d thought she was an incredibly well-preserved forty.

He shook his head, still trying to sort it out. He’d never thought about aging before. Not himself at least. Earl, yes. The old man was whiter and frailer, even though his voice still boomed and his spirit never flagged.

Randall, too, had aged. There were marked differences between the boy Randall had been at eighteen and the man he’d become.

But Gabe hadn’t really thought it had anything to do with age. He’d just thought Randall looked old because he worked so damn hard.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Maybe they were all getting older. Earl at least had a life’s work to look back on with pride. And Randall, too, had something to show for it. So apparently did Freddie Crossman, mother of two half-grown children.

What about him? What about Gabriel Phillip McBride?

He looked down at his bull-riding championship belt buckle. Suddenly it didn’t seem like enough.

Two

She should have invited him to stay with them.

It would have been the polite thing, the responsible thing, certainly the financially sensible thing to do! After all, Freddie often opened the dower house to holidaymakers looking for a B &B.

But it wasn’t summer. It was January, as cold and bleak and wintry as it ever got in Devon. Her favorite time of year because for once she had time for herself and Charlie and Emma.

Nothing said she had to open her home to Gabe McBride-just because she owed his grandfather more than she could ever repay.

He’d never asked for repayment. He’d never so much as hinted.

But Freddie knew she owed him. The earl felt guilty about the death of her husband, Mark, though she had assured him over and over it was Mark who’d made the decision to sail the earl’s boat home that night; it was Mark who had taken the foolish risk; no one-least of all Lord Stanton-had commanded him to.

But the earl didn’t see it that way.

“He was working for me,” he said. “I take care of my own.”

The feudal blood in Lord Stanton’s veins ran deep. It didn’t matter that Freddie was earning a living, albeit meager, as a renovator and could make ends meet. She and her children were, he informed her, his responsibility. He would see to their welfare. Next thing she knew he arranged for them to move from their little flat in Camden to the Stanton Abbey dower house.

“I don’t know anyone in Devon!” she’d protested.

“You’ll meet them.”

“My business-”

“Will thrive. You renovate. Renovate the abbey.”

“My children-”

“Can go to school in fresh air and have acres and acres to play in.”

For every argument she had, the earl had had an answer. No one ever said no to the earl. Certainly Freddie never managed to.

So she was very grateful now that he hadn’t asked her to put up his grandson!

She didn’t know how she could have refused.

She only knew she would have had to!

Gabe McBride set off all the bells and whistles of attraction that Freddie was certain had well and truly died with Mark. It had been four years since Mark’s death, and she hadn’t once looked at another man.

But she had looked at Gabe McBride today.

Then she’d have handed him a key and sent him on his way. She wished she could have sent him clear back to America!

The feelings were all too familiar. The attraction all too strong. It was the same thing she’d felt for Mark.

And the very last thing she needed.

A cowboy, for heaven’s sake!

She’d already proved her susceptibility to one handsome devil-may-care man-Mark had been wild and dashing and reckless. It didn’t take much imagination to see that Gabe McBride, however much blue Stanton blood ran in his veins, was another red-blooded, risk-taking man.

She’d read his belt buckle, hadn’t she? It had proclaimed him a Salinas bull-riding champion.

Freddie wasn’t sure exactly what being a bull-riding champion was, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t anything safe.

No, sorry. No matter how much she owed the earl, she wasn’t offering hospitality to the likes of Gabe McBride.

Not a chance.

Gabe had always thought himself hale and hearty-resilient, capable of withstanding great extremes of weather. He was, after all, Montana born-and-bred.

He damn near froze his ass off in one night in Stanton Abbey!

“Get a good night’s sleep,” Earl had told him cheerfully when Gabe had rung before bedtime.

Sleep? Gabe doubted he slept a wink. He spent the whole day reacquainting himself with the Abbey and all night prowling the cupboards, looking for more blankets, piling them on, trying to sleep, shivering, then rising to go look for more.

He understood the meaning of “rising damp” now. It was what got you up to go find more covers.

Central heating had come along a good six hundred years after the abbey, and though it did its best, it couldn’t rise to the occasion. The pipes hissed and moaned. They sputtered and rattled. Gabe turned it off again.

After all, he wasn’t a sissy. He could cope.

He considered starting a blaze in a fireplace. But the fire-places were big enough to roast an ox in. Gabe reckoned he’d have to move right in with the wood to get the benefit of any warmth. In the end, he piled on every piece of clothing he’d brought, buried himself beneath every blanket he could find, and huddled next to the stove for the night.

He was sure Earl would call it bracing.

He called it ridiculous. But he didn’t seriously consider other options until he drove past the cozy warmth of the dower house on his way to the Gazette office in the morning.

All of the dower house chimneys appeared to be working. He remembered the kitchen had been cheerful, not echoing, the parlor welcoming, not forbidding, and the occupant…well, he’d been thinking about her all night.

He cast a longing glance over his shoulder as he drove past-and noticed a discreet little sign at the end of the dower house drive.

B &B FULL BREAKFAST £15. DINNER AT EXTRA COST.

He smiled. “Well, now why didn’t she mention that?”

Fixing the Buckworthy Gazette would best be accomplished, Gabe had decided by lunchtime, if he simply lobbed a bomb into the building, blew up the whole place.

Unfortunately that solution was out of the question.

“I say we set fire to it, throw ’em out on their ears, and start over,” he told Earl when the old man rang up later that afternoon. “The place is falling down around their ears, and they don’t give a rat’s ass. There’s not a computer in the building. The printing press looks like it came over on the Mayflower-”

“We didn’t go on the Mayflower,” Earl reminded him. “We’re still here.”

“And they’re still probably using the same damn one! I swear I saw a pen with a quill. I’m surprised there’s a telephone.”

“There wasn’t,” Earl said cheerfully, “last time I was there.”

“When was that?” Gabe wanted to know. “Last week?”

“Tut-tut,” Earl admonished. “Sarcasm won’t get you anywhere with these people. They are fixtures-”

“You can say that again.” Made of stone, if Gabe’s first impression was accurate.

They had all assembled in the main room when he arrived-two reporters, a receptionist-cum-tea-lady, the printer and the office manager all lined up in a row and bowed and scraped and tugged their forelocks when he’d come in.

He’d been appalled, but, taking a page from Randall’s book, had very firmly told them that things were about to change, that they were going to make a profitable paper out of the Gazette and he was going to tell them exactly how to do it.

“Yes, Mr. McBride.”

“Quite so, Mr. McBride.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. McBride.”

“We need a computer,” he told the office manager, Percy Pomfret-Mumphrey, a man as pompous and fussy as his name.

“A computer?” Percy squeaked.

“Software,” Gabe went on relentlessly. “We’ll need a database. A spreadsheet. We’ll want to enter the subscription list. The advertisers. We can look into offset printing,” he told John the printer. “And we need an answering machine,” he told Beatrice the receptionist who let the phone ring fifteen times-he’d counted-while she poured everyone a cup of tea.

“Offset printing?” John the printer wrinkled his nose.

“An answering machine?” Beatrice didn’t look as if she’d ever heard of one.

“Oh my, no.” Percy spoke for them all. “We can’t.”

“Why not?”

Percy gave a simple shrug of his shoulders. “We’ve never done it that way before.”

Famous last words.

“They’re completely resistant to change,” Gabe complained to Earl. “If it hasn’t been done that way, it won’t be done that way, can’t be done that way!”

An answer phone, Beatrice had told him, would hurt people’s feelings. “They’ll think we don’t want to speak to them.”

“You think they don’t get that idea when you don’t answer the blasted phone now?”

“They know I’m busy. They’ll ring back.”

To do offset printing would offend the Fuge brothers, John the printer had said. The Fuge brothers came every Wednesday and helped with the typesetting. “They’ll think they aren’t needed,” John told Gabe. “We wouldn’t want that.”

“Whose feelings would the computer hurt?” Gabe had asked.

“No one,” Percy said. “But we haven’t the electricity to handle it. Blow a fuse, we would. Shut everything down. Wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

“It wouldn’t take any more juice than an electric typewriter,” Gabe argued, then realized that they were all staring at him. He looked around. There were no electric typewriters, only manuals.

“We’re traditional here, you know,” Percy said. “We’ve a history to uphold. The Buckworthy Gazette is An Institution. The journalistic equivalent of Stanton Abbey, if you will!”

Well, that Gabe could certainly agree with. There was a hell of a lot of rising damp in the employ of the Buckworthy Gazette, too.

What would Randall do?

He could, of course, ask. But he wasn’t about to call Randall and admit ignorance.

“Well, things are going to change. I want all of you in my office for a meeting at three to discuss how we can turn this paper around.”

They all stared. Then they began to shake their heads.

“Something wrong with three?” Gabe inquired with deadly calm.

“We always have tea at three,” Beatrice said. Everyone nodded.

Gabe sucked in a breath. “Bring the pot. I’ll have coffee. Black.”

“We don’t have coffee.”

“Then that’s the first thing we’ll change.”

The day went downhill from there.

They didn’t have meetings on Tuesdays, Percy informed him.

“Well, we’re having one today,” Gabe said. “And if you don’t want to come, I suggest you start cleaning out your desk.”

There was a collective gasp.

Percy drew himself up to his full five feet seven. “You cannot threaten me, Mr. McBride. Nor can you fire me.”

Gabe lifted a brow. “No?”

“No.” Percy went into his own office where he opened a desk drawer and pulled out some papers. “It’s a condition of the sale. It guarantees my employment.”

Gabe skimmed them rapidly. It was there in black and white: if someone came to oversee the running of the Gazette, Percy Pomfret-Mumphrey was to be retained.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me I was getting Percy the Albatross hung around my neck?” he groused at Earl later.

“Ah, met Percy, have you?” Earl chuckled. “Well, I’m sure you can handle him. What did you say, two weeks and you’d have it all shaped up?”

“Two months,” Gabe said through gritted teeth. He banged down the phone.

Save the Buckworthy Gazette in two months? Two millennia, more like!

He shut the door on them all and pored over recent editions of the Gazette, determined to get a feel for the newspaper. He had to start somewhere, and the end product seemed like the best place to figure out where things had gone wrong.

It was just like rebuilding a herd, actually. You looked at the beef and figured out why things weren’t turning out the way you wanted them to. Then you set to work changing it. But you couldn’t do that unless you knew your animals and the lay of the land.

At ten to five Beatrice told him there was a call for him. Earl? Again?

“What now?” he barked into the phone.

“Gabe? How’s it going, then?” It was Randall, not Earl. A nervous, worried Randall, from the sound of him. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right! What do you think?” Gabe might have groused at Earl less than an hour before, but he damned well wasn’t going to complain to Randall.

One word from him and his duty-driven cousin would be on the next plane home.

“I just…thought you might need a little moral support.”

“Well, I don’t. I’m fine. No problem,” he lied through his teeth.

“Really?” Randall sounded dubious, but cautiously pleased.

“Nothing to worry about,” Gabe said. “A child could do it.” A child with access to explosives. “How are things at your end?”

“Fine,” Randall said quickly and with excessive cheer. “Couldn’t be better.”

So Mr. Competent wasn’t having any problems? Gabe felt oddly nettled. And more determined than ever to prove himself here. He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. “Well, go find something to do. Cut wood. Feed the cattle. Sit in front of a roaring fire. Relax, damn it. And stop calling me up!”

“I was only checking,” Randall said. “I’m…glad everything’s going so well.”

“It is,” Gabe said firmly. “Don’t call me again. Goodbye.”

It was six o’clock, cold and damp and well past dark by the time he left the office. He made three trips to his car, lugging every piece of business correspondence he could find, all the ledgers and the last five years’ worth of past papers to read. Then he got in and headed back toward the abbey.

He had no intention of going to the abbey, of course. He turned in at the dower house. It sat warm and welcoming on the hill, its windows cheerfully lit behind the trees. It was the one good thing in his life at the moment.

And in it was Freddie Crossman.

Freddie of the tumbling hair and the flowered nightgown. Freddie of the hip-hugging jeans and laughing eyes. He parked round the back, got out of the car and tapped on the kitchen door.

He could see her through the curtains behind the panes of glass. She didn’t look surprised, just concerned as she opened the door. He turned on his best Montana cowboy grin. “Saw your sign. B &B. Full breakfast. Fifteen pounds. Sounds good to me.”

Freddie’s eyes got huge. She started to shut the door. “Oh, but-”

“You’re not full.” He was positive about that.

“No, but-”

“I like rabbits,” he assured her. He tried to look boyishly charming. “And kids.” He could see two now peeking from around the corner of the dining room door. “And,” he added honestly, “I like you, Freddie Crossman.”

“Oh, dear.” Her hand went to her breast, as if it might protect her.

Now that he’d seen her again-beautiful and bright and tempting in spite of herself-Gabe could have told her: nothing would.

She let him in.

What else could she do?

Freddie had told herself all day long that she’d exaggerated her awareness of him, that she’d been overwrought by the elusive bunny yesterday and that was why the hairs on the back of her neck had stood at attention, that was why his soft Montana accent tantalized her, that was why she’d felt the same sort of zing somewhere in the region of her heart that she’d felt when she’d first met Mark. It wouldn’t last, she’d assured herself.

She was wrong.

Gabe McBride had every bit the same disastrous effect on her equilibrium and good sense tonight that he’d had earlier. She was a damn fool for opening her door to him.

But she had no choice.

She owed it to his grandfather. And even if she hadn’t, how could she tell her children, to whom she preached hospitality, that she couldn’t extend it here because Gabe McBride made her hormones dance?

Charlie and Emma were avidly curious about their guest.

Freddie introduced them, then sent Charlie to get Gabe’s things out of his car, while she showed him to one of the guest rooms in the converted attic. Emma followed, obviously entranced by this pied piper in cowboy boots and blue jeans.

“Why’s he wearing those?” Freddie heard her whisper to Charlie when they came back down. She was looking at Gabe’s boots.

“’Cause he’s a cowboy,” Charlie said.

Gabe must have overheard because he looked up at the boy and grinned. Charlie grinned back.

Freddie dished Gabe up a plate of the supper they’d just finished eating.

“Are you sure you’ve got enough?” he asked. “I can go down to the pub.”

“There’s plenty.” She motioned for him to take a seat. Both children came and stood, watching him eat. She tried, with jerks of her head and shooing movements with her hands, to get them to leave. They didn’t budge.

“Are you really a cowboy?” Emma asked. From the slightly worried look on her face, Freddie knew she was remembering Mrs. Peek proclaim a pair of renegade incompetent rob-you-blind plumbers as “cowboys” just last week.

“Not that kind of cowboy,” Freddie hastened to explain.

“How many kinds are there?” Gabe lifted a curious brow. He was tucking into the shepherd’s pie like he hadn’t had a square meal in weeks.

“The television kind and the kind that screw things up,” Charlie informed him.

Both brows shot up now.

“That’s what a cowboy is…over here,” Freddie explained.

“Not a compliment.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“We’ll have to work on that. You know about real cowboys, don’t you?” he asked Charlie.

Her son nodded emphatically. “Seen ’em on television. D’you shoot Indians?”

“No, I work with them.”

“Can you yodel and play the guitar?” Emma asked.

Gabe laughed. “I can see I got here in the nick of time,” he said to Freddie. “The Gazette is only half my job. I have to stay-to correct your children’s misconceptions about cowboys.”

The dower house beat the abbey by a mile. The rooms were warm, the meals were good, the bed was soft.

And even if he hadn’t managed to share it with Freddie Crossman-yet-he still enjoyed the pleasure of her company.

Sort of. Actually he didn’t get to spend much time with Freddie.

She was always busy when he was around-cooking, serving, cleaning, washing up. She barely sat still.

Good thing he liked to watch her move. He liked listening to her soft accent, too. It reminded him oddly-or maybe not so oddly-of home. His mother, after all, was British. Her accent was not that unlike Freddie’s.

But that was the only way she reminded him of his mother. And the feelings she evoked in him had nothing to do with her maternal qualities at all.

She was, though, clearly a good mother. Charlie and Emma were polite and well-behaved, but not at all like little robots. They were eager and inquisitive, and they followed him around like young pups.

He liked Charlie and Emma enormously. He enjoyed listening to Charlie try to explain cricket to him, and was always eager to be “taste tester” when Emma helped her mother make scones or a cake. He loved telling them stories of cowboying and rodeoing. It was a kick to watch their eyes get big and their jaws hang open. He gloried in wrestling on the parlor floor with Charlie and delighted in getting down on his hands and knees and letting Emma have horse rides on his back while Charlie pretended he was much too old to want to do anything like that.

Partly he liked it because it was fun. But mostly he liked it because it was guaranteed to get a rise out of their mother.

“Charlie, don’t pester,” she would say.

“Emma, leave Mr. McBride alone now.”

“They’re fine. We’re all fine,” Gabe protested. “Come on in. Sit down.” He patted the space on the sofa next to him. He knew she wanted to listen to his stories, too. He knew she was interested in them-in him.

Gabe McBride had been attracting women like honey did bees since he was twelve years old. He recognized the signs-even in a woman like Freddie who was determined not to show it.

“How come you’re stiff-arming me?” he asked her the third night he was there. He and Charlie and Emma had become fast friends by then, but Freddie still kept her distance. He’d done his best. He’d been funny and charming and he’d played with her children. No hardship there. He liked them. He’d taken them out to eat last night over Freddie’s protests. He’d gone to Emma’s school program this afternoon because Emma had invited him even though Freddie had tried to act like he wasn’t there.

Now he tracked her down after the children were in bed. She was in the parlor, patching a pair of Charlie’s trousers, and she looked up warily. He came across the room and dropped onto the sofa beside the chair where she sat.

“Stiff-arming?”

“Acting like a prig.”

“Prig!” Freddie sputtered, her cheeks reddening.

Gabe grinned and stretched his arms over his head, easing tired muscles. It never ceased to amaze him how much more tired he got at a desk job than when he rode the range all day. “See. You admit it.”

“I never! I don’t! I’m not a prig!”

“Then you’re giving a damn good imitation of one. Loosen up a little. Let go. You’re beautiful when you smile.”

She scowled at him, her cheeks reddening.

“See? Like that.” He grinned and was rewarded by a twitch at the corners of her mouth. “And let the kids play with me.”

“I don’t want them bothering you. You’re a paying guest and-”

“And in the interests of good hospitality, you shouldn’t be making me feel like one,” Gabe said flatly. “You should be making me feel at home.”

“I’m trying, but-”

“Very trying,” he agreed. “Come on. One more smile,” he urged. “It won’t kill you. I’ll pay extra for it.”

Freddie laughed reluctantly. And her laugh made the exhaustion of the day go away. It made Percy’s pomposity and Beatrice’s worries and John’s disapproving silence fade into insignificance.

Gabe smiled, too. “That’s better,” he said softly. Then he reached out a hand and, with one finger, touched hers.

She jerked hers away, of course.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll stick with smiles. For now.”

He didn’t touch her again. He’d made the connection. That was what mattered.

“You’ve taken a boarder, I hear.” Mrs. Peek regarded Freddie over the top of her teacup.

It was four days since Gabe McBride had taken over their lives, and Freddie was sure that the news had reached Mrs. Peek within hours of the event. But the rain and sleet had been relentless until now. This morning it was no more than a fine drizzle. Mrs. Peek never let a fine drizzle slow her down.

Freddie concentrated on paring an apple for a pie. “He’s gone a great deal of the time. So it’s really no bother.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Mrs. Peek cackled. “Never a bother having a han’sum fellow put his feet under your table. Better yet in your bed.” When Freddie spun around to protest, Mrs. Peek said, “Time you married again, m’dear.”

“I’m not interested in marrying again.”

“Bah. Fine young gels need husbands. No sense pining away. Us never pined.”

When she wasn’t having a fling with Lord Stanton, Mrs. Peek had been marrying all and sundry. She’d been widowed at least four times-the last as the result of the death of Thomas Peek last winter.

“Seize your chances, m’dear. A good man doesn’t turn up on your doorstep everyday.”

The “good man” being, of course, Gabe McBride.

Freddie supposed he was good. By some accounts anyway. He was certainly working hard at the Gazette. And anyone who drove Percy crazy-which the village grapevine assured her he was doing-couldn’t be all bad.

But more than he was a good man, he was a dangerous one. At least when it came to Freddie’s peace of mind.

She hadn’t got a good night’s sleep since he’d arrived. She was too conscious of his footsteps above her head when she went to sleep at night, too aware of him whenever they sat across the table at mealtimes, and last night she’d almost jumped out of her skin when he’d deliberately reached out and touched her hand!

What did he think he was doing?

Don’t be daft, Freddie, she admonished herself. It was clear what he was doing: he was coming on to her.

Flirting with her. Looking at her as if it was only a matter of time until there would be more between them than the fifteen pounds a night he was paying for his room.

She resisted even thinking in terms of “bed-and-breakfast” where Gabe McBride was concerned.

The “bed” part seemed far too intimate.

“Be good for the little tackers to have a man around, too,” Mrs. Peek went on, unaware of the turmoil going on in Freddie’s mind. “Likes ’em, I can tell.”

And they adored him. The children were enthralled to have a real-live Montana cowboy living in their house. Once Emma had adjusted her definition of “cowboy,” she’d been as enchanted as Charlie. Freddie tried to stop them bothering him, but he brushed off her concern.

He let Charlie clump around the house in his cowboy boots and wear his belt hitched tight enough so that it circled her son’s narrow waist and proclaimed him the Salinas Champion Bull Rider.

To her dismay, he told both slack-jawed children exactly what a champion bull rider did. Last night she’d come upon all three of them, sitting on the bed in Charlie’s room, long after both children should have been asleep.

“It’s like ridin’ a whirlwind,” she heard him tell them. “Hangin’ onto a hurricane. You know what a hurricane is, Em?”

As Freddie came to stand in the doorway, ready to lower the boom, she saw her daughter’s eyes grow round and fill with excitement. “It’s a storm,” Emma said eagerly. “A big, big storm.”

“Right. Well, you just imagine havin’ that storm gathered right up underneath you. A ton of the meanest damn-er, darn-cow you’ve ever seen, just itchin’ to run you through with one of his horns. An’ he’s lookin’ at you, pawin’ an’ blowin’, snortin’ snot-”

“Bedtime,” Freddie cut in.

“Not yet, Mum!” Charlie protested.

“We can’t,” Emma begged. “We have to hear what happened. Truly! Please, Gabe, tell us!”

“Mr. McBride,” Freddie tried to correct.

Gabe raised his brows at her. “I told you. Friends use first names.”

And Gabe and her children were obviously friends. While Freddie had been trying determinedly to steer clear of him, Charlie and Emma had been doing their best to get close.

They were, Freddie told herself, just starved for some masculine attention. But a bull rider’s?

She could have wished for more discernment. A British “cowboy”-and all that that entailed-seemed almost preferable.

“It’s nearly ten o’clock!”

“Please, Mum,” Charlie’s eyes were alight with an enthusiasm she’d begun to fear she would never see again. He had been six when Mark died-old enough to remember, to long for the adventures they had shared, to miss his father dreadfully.

“I’ll make it short,” Gabe promised. “You wouldn’t want me to leave ’em hanging overnight, would you, Fred?”

And that was another thing! Fred!

He’d started calling her that the day after he arrived and had made the children giggle. Fred!

No one had ever dared call her Fred! Not even Mark-who was the most reckless person she’d ever known.

But Gabe did.

And now he just grinned at her, challenging her. His blue eyes were laughing, teasing her. It had been so long since anyone had teased her.

Freddie resisted the grin, she resisted the teasing in his eyes. But she couldn’t resist the story. She pressed her lips together. “All right. But make it quick.”

“Eight seconds,” Gabe promised solemnly. He patted the bed where he sat between Charlie and Emma. “Sit down, Fred. Get your daily dose of American culture.”

“I have laundry to fold.”

“You should hear, Mummy,” Emma said. “It’s scary!” She gave a little shiver and bounced next to Gabe, her expression gleeful.

“Eight seconds,” Gabe promised again. “Frederica.”

It was an olive branch. Of sorts.

Reluctantly Freddie sat.

It took longer than eight seconds. That was, apparently, how long a bull rider-the very words bull rider still made her shudder-had to stay on top of this bovine hurricane to make a qualified ride.

Qualified for what? Freddie wondered. The nuthouse?

In any case, it took five minutes at least for Gabe to embroider every one of those eight seconds, to describe every twist and turn, every dip and buck. His words permitted Freddie to envision every nasty moment from the instant the gate opened until he landed feet first in the dust and sprinted to climb over the fence while the bull tried to hook him from behind.

“But you made it. Didn’t you?” Emma asked him breathlessly when he stopped.

“Course he did,” Charlie said. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Gabe put an arm around Emma’s small shoulders. “I’m still here, sweetheart.”

The gentle way he looked at her daughter made Freddie’s heart squeeze tight. Or maybe it was hearing the endearment. Sweetheart. She hoped Emma didn’t read too much into it.

Gabe was, after all, just passing through. He was here to sort out the Gazette, that was all. He had a life back in Montana. He wasn’t going to stay.

Freddie stood abruptly. “Very nice. Very well told. Excellent story,” she said briskly. “Come along now,” she said to the children.

“But-” Charlie began, ready to angle for another tale.

Gabe stood up, too. “You heard your mother. Time to hit the hay.”

The phrase made Emma giggle. “Like a cow?”

Gabe ruffled her hair. “Like a cowboy. Or a cowgirl.”

“Are there cowgirls?” Emma’s eyes were big again.

“You bet. There’s one back home-” He smiled as if he was remembering someone special “-called Claire.”

His girlfriend? Freddie wondered. Was Claire eagerly waiting for Gabe to come back? Probably. She imagined American women were equally susceptible to his charm, even if they didn’t find him as exotic as she did.

Emma didn’t care about those things. “Can I be a cowgirl?”

Gabe nodded. “You go hit the hay now, and you’ve got a good start.”

Emma allowed herself to be herded toward her bedroom, but she hung onto his hand, talking as they went. “What else do cowgirls do?”

“Everything cowboys do,” Gabe replied with a grin. “Only they think they do it better.”

Emma giggled. “Will you teach me?”

“Emma!” Freddie protested. “Mr. McBride-Gabe-has work to do. It’s been very kind of him just to tell you stories.”

“He could show me other stuff,” Emma said stubbornly.

“Like roping.” Charlie followed them out of his bedroom. “I’d like to know how to rope. And brand. And-”

“No branding,” Gabe said, “But I’ll teach you to rope.”

“We don’t have a rope!” Freddie felt like the little boy with his thumb in the dike.

Gabe didn’t even seem to hear. “And maybe we could find a horse or two and go riding.”

“Enough!” Freddie raised her voice. “Bedtime.” She glared at him. “Eight seconds. You promised.”

He opened his mouth. Their eyes met. He closed his mouth. He nodded, then looked sternly from one child to the other.

“Hit the hay now,” he said gently. “Both of you. Cowboys-and cowgirls-do what the boss tells ’em to.”

Unfortunately there were no cowboys or cowgirls working for the Gazette.

So Gabe did it all. He called the local electrician to update the wiring. He ordered three computers and all the relevant software. He bought coffee.

And then he waited expectantly, as no doubt Randall would have done, for the Gazette employees to see which way their leader had pointed and hop to and get things done.

After a week-and-a-half, the lights were brighter. There were power points-the British not only didn’t understand him when he talked, they had different words for everything, even electrical outlets!-galore, but the computers sat on the desks unbooted and the software still hadn’t been opened.

Neither had the coffee.

The editorials were as pompous and as unrelated to village concerns as they’d ever been. And there were no new local advertisers even though he’d told Beatrice to call every shop in town.

Gabe was ready to tear his hair. So much for the voice of authority. So much for being lord and master.

It might work for Randall, but it damn sure didn’t work for him.

Of course Randall’s reputation for hard work and smart decisions preceded him. They knew they could trust him.

Gabe had no reputation. He was, he realized as he sat behind his desk, like a new foreman, untried, untested. Untrusted.

And just like that new straw boss, he’d have to prove himself. That was the problem here. He’d been trying to be Randall when he should have been himself.

He stood up. He flung everything he could find into his briefcase-God, a briefcase! What had he become?-and announced that he was going home.

“Home?” Beatrice looked up, startled. “To America?”

Percy was triumphant. “So much for cowboy ways,” he muttered as Gabe headed toward the door.

Gabe stopped and turned back. “I’m going to Mrs. Crossman’s to map out our route. I’ll be here on Monday bright and early,” he said, his gaze moving from one mystified face to the next and finally settling on Percy. A slow smile spread across Gabe’s. “Get ready to cowboy up.”

Three

There was supposed to be a ghost at Stanton Abbey. A Presence, with a capital P. A monk fretting about how he and his brethren were tossed out on their ears by Henry VIII. Freddie had never met him. She wasn’t inclined to believe in the presence of something not there.

Until Gabe McBride moved into her house.

Then, even when he wasn’t there physically-even when she knew he was well and truly out of the house, down at the Gazette or over at the pub-somehow he was still there.

Of course he was, she thought irritably. Charlie and Emma never stopped talking about him. They lived and breathed Gabe McBride.

“Gabe can do this…Gabe thinks that…Do you think Gabe would like to…Gabe’s teaching me to rope…Gabe’s teaching me to ride…God bless Mummy and Granny and Gran’pa and Gabe.”

Was it any wonder, Freddie thought, that she couldn’t get him out of her mind?

She blamed Charlie and Emma and Gabe himself, but she knew the fault was at least partly hers. There was some fatal flaw deep inside her that worked like a magnet, drawing her toward unsuitable men.

It might have helped if she’d been able to go out to work everyday. She could have distracted herself.

But as caretaker, she spent the day on the grounds and in the abbey where every time she turned around generations of Stantons, many of whom had the same dark hair and deep blue eyes as Gabe McBride, stared down at her. It was like being surrounded with two-dimensional versions of a man already inhabiting her head.

And then at night she went home to the real thing.

He was becoming like a member of the family, just as he preferred. The children were thrilled. Freddie was not. He was too handsome, too active, too…too…male.

He made her want things she knew she shouldn’t want.

He made the kids want things they shouldn’t want either-like adventure, excitement, danger. Risks.

“A little adventure never hurt anyone,” Gabe said. “They’re entirely too sheltered. They need a little excitement.”

Storytelling, Freddie thought. That was excitement enough. Gabe and the children disagreed.

When Freddie woke up Saturday morning, the house was extraordinarily quiet.

For a few minutes she thought that they’d all had a long lie-in. Then she realized that, while Gabe was grown up enough to appreciate the value of a late weekend morning, Charlie and Emma would never waste a Saturday morning on sleep!

Something was seriously amiss.

Freddie bolted out of bed, grabbed her dressing gown and ran to check the bedrooms. As she’d feared, both children were gone. She clattered down the stairs. Cereal bowls were rinsed and stacked on the counter. The table was wiped clean-except for a note.

“We’ve gone to be cowboys,” Charlie had written, “in Bolts’ field.”

Cowboys? In Bolts’ field?

Josiah Bolt raised sheep! No, surely not.

But half an hour later when she finally reached the stone wall bounding Bolts’ field, Gabe was showing Charlie how to lay a lasso over the head of a very bewildered sheep.

“You don’t rope sheep!” Freddie exclaimed, clambering over the stile.

Gabe just looked up and grinned at her. “I do.”

“Josiah will go round the bend! He’s not the easiest neighbor to get along with in the first place,” Freddie railed. “I know him! He’ll say you’re endangering the quality of the wool!”

Gabe broke out laughing.

“Trust me. He will,” Freddie said. “And it can’t be good for the sheep in any case. I mean, they’re not meant to be roped. And Stantons have always been in the forefront of agricultural responsibility. Quite looked up to, they are, and-”

Gabe shoved his hat back on his head. “You made your point. We won’t rope.”

Both children looked at him, crestfallen, then at Freddie, accusing.

“We won’t rope sheep,” Gabe amended. “We’ll find us something else to rope,” he promised the children. “Maybe we can borrow a cow.” He looked at Freddie. “Who keeps cows?”

“Well, the earl, of course. He has prize Herefords.”

“Not them,” Gabe said. “Earl’d have my hide. We need a retired cow.”

Within hours he had Stella.

Stella. She was big and brown and mud-caked and Mrs. Peek, who just happened to drop by, knew that Mr. Ware was selling her because her milk production was down.

“He don’t want to. ’Er’s a member of the family, like,” Mrs. Peek said. “But he’s a businessman for all that. And you know ’er’ll be for the knacker’s yard if he don’t sell ’er.”

“The knacker?” Charlie and Emma were horrified.

“We’ll have her,” Gabe said.

Mr. Ware delivered her to the dower house that afternoon. Gabe put her in the small barn.

“We don’t keep cows,” Freddie objected.

“Now you do.”

And apparently she did. The children were overjoyed. Gabe seemed as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was whistling as he brought Stella a barrow full of hay.

“Making her comfortable,” Freddie said sardonically.

“Hey, you’re the one who was carrying on about agricultural responsibility.”

“So I was.” She watched as Gabe forked the hay into the stall. “Who’s going to milk her?”

He blinked. Then something that might have been a flush peeked above the collar of his jacket. He scratched his ear. He chewed his lip. He looked around a little desperately.

“You’re a cowboy,” Freddie reminded him.

“I’ve never milked a cow.”

“Never?” She was amazed.

“Cowboys don’t!”

Freddie smiled. “They do now.”

She had to give Gabe credit.

He was obviously not keen on milking cows, but when she said, “If you can teach Charlie and Emma to rope, I guess I can teach you to milk a cow,” he cocked his head and looked at her, a small smile playing around his mouth.

“Guess so. If you’ll show me how.”

Freddie, who hadn’t milked a cow since she was twelve years old and spending the summer holidays at her grandparents’ small farm in Somerset, said blithely, “Of course.”

It would serve him right for her to be the one in control for a change.

Moments later, seated at Stella’s side with Gabe crouched next to her, his fingers beneath hers as she attempted to show him the right way to pull the teat, she had serious second thoughts.

She’d never thought of milking a cow as foreplay. Suddenly she did.

She tried to tell herself it was ridiculous, that Gabe certainly wasn’t thinking sexual thoughts while they were thus engaged.

But there was something excruciatingly intimate about their proximity, about what they were doing.

Their hands were touching. So were their thighs. His head was so close her hair brushed his cheek-and his brushed hers. She could hear the soft intake of his breath, could feel it on her lips when he turned his head to grin at her as the first stream of milk from the cow’s teat hit the bucket.

His mouth was that close…and moving closer.

“Never mind!” She practically leaped to her feet, knocking him sideways and almost tipping over the tin pail. “You’re right. Cowboys don’t milk cows. I’ll do it myself!”

He laughed up at her from where he sat on the straw. “You sure, Fred?”

Her cheeks were burning. “Yes, Gabriel,” she drawled. “I’m sure.”

The Gabriel bit was supposed to put him in his place. To annoy him the way being called “Fred” annoyed her.

But he just grinned. “My mother named me after the angel.”

“Your mother named you after seven other Stantons,” Freddie retorted. “I see them hanging in the abbey every single day. Glowering down at me.”

Gabe’s grin widened. “And you think of me.”

“I do not!”

“Liar.” His voice was soft and teasing and set all the hairs on the back of her neck to standing at attention.

She couldn’t argue because Charlie and Emma suddenly barreled into the barn.

“Is she milked? Can we start ropin’ now?” Charlie asked.

“Not yet,” Gabe said. “She needs a little cooling off time.”

His gaze met Freddie’s. She blushed. Then she picked up the pail and started toward the house. “I’m going to fix dinner,” she said, trying to sound casual and indifferent. “You three can play cowboy for another hour.”

“Not without Stella,” Charlie said glumly.

“There’s nothing to do if we can’t rope Stella,” Emma added.

“Take Mr… take Gabe up to the abbey,” Freddie suggested. “Maybe you can rope the ghost.”

They often took B &B guests to the abbey. Regaling visitors with the tale of the Stanton Abbey ghost was always good fun. And whom better to tell than the man whose ancestors had usurped the ghost’s home?

“What ghost? What are you talking about?” Gabe looked both wary and baffled, as if afraid Freddie was having him on.

“Didn’t you ever hear about the ghost?” she asked.

“Randall used to make up stories about one,” Gabe said. “I never believed him.”

“Perhaps you should have,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Charlie will tell you all about it,” she promised.

Charlie needed no further urging. “It’s a monk,” she heard him telling Gabe. “Almost seven feet tall and carrying his head under his arm-”

“Charlie!” she admonished.

“Sorry.” He grinned at Gabe. “He’s still got his head. But he goes howling through the abbey on moonless nights, ’cause he’s unhappy that Henry VIII threw out the monks and…”

They wandered out of earshot, off in the direction of the abbey, and Freddie breathed a sigh of relief.

“He might have kissed me,” she told Stella, still trembling just slightly from her narrow escape.

Stella, her mouth full of unchewed hay, looked back with bovine indifference.

Dinner was ready and the table was set. The door banged open, and Gabe and the children stamped into the kitchen.

“We’re gonna stay at the abbey!” Charlie yelled.

“An’ see the ghost!” Emma shouted.

“An’ write a story about it,” Charlie went on.

“Tonight,” Emma finished.

Freddie stared at them-then at the man standing behind them. “I beg your pardon?”

“We’re going to spend the night in the abbey,” Gabe said. “Check out this seven-foot tall headless monk. Write him up for posterity-in the Gazette.”

That was what Freddie thought she’d heard.

“I really don’t think…” she began, then her voice faded as she realized all three of them were holding their breath. Charlie’s and Emma’s looks beseeched her.

“We won’t be scared, Mum,” Charlie said stoutly. “Promise.”

“Course not,” Emma added, then chewed on her lip. Freddie saw her daughter’s fingers edge out to grip Gabe’s strong thigh. His hand slid down to cover Emma’s smaller one.

“Charlie’s always wanted to,” Gabe said. “He said you promised he could when he found an adult willing to do it.” His clear blue eyes challenged her. “I’m adult,” he told her quite unnecessarily. “And I’m willing.”

Freddie swallowed. Her fingers knotted.

“If you’re worried, come along.”

“Come along? You mean, spend the night…” Again her voice faded, this time from breathlessness.

Gabe nodded. “Spend the night,” he affirmed. “With me.” He winked at her.

Heat crawled up Freddie’s neck and face.

“And us, too,” Emma put in, blissfully unaware of the adult subtext.

“She knows we’re going to be there,” Charlie said scornfully. “What do you say, Mum? Will you come?”

All three of the looked at her again, breath bated, eyes sparkling-the children’s with enthusiasm, Gabe’s with something…something else.

She shouldn’t.

But she had, in fact, told Charlie he could do it in the company of a willing adult. And now, heaven help her, he had one.

And Emma wanted to go, too. She could hardly expect Gabe McBride to deal with both of them. They were her children, after all.

It was only for one night. The abbey was huge. There was nothing to say they had to be, all of them, in one room.

“All right,” she said at last, to the sound of an incredible exhalation of pent-up apprehension. “Yes.”

If Earl could see them now, Gabe thought with a hint of a grin as he folded his arms behind his head and looked around the dimly lit master bedroom of Stanton Abbey.

There they were, all four of them, piled-amid sleeping bags, flashlights, empty cups of Horlicks and the remains of two packets of chocolate biscuits-in the ancient sumptuous bed that had held generations of lordly Stantons for the past umpteen hundred years.

Earl would have a fit.

Freddie had had a fit on his behalf.

“We can’t stay there!” she’d protested when Gabe had led them into the bedroom.

“You said this is where he appears.”

“I know, but-”

“So how can we see him if we’re not there?” And ignoring her protests, he’d herded them all in and begun to spread sleeping bags on the bed.

“We’re really going to stay here?” Charlie’s eyes had gone wide and round at the sight of the huge high bed with its heavy brocade curtains and canopy.

“All n-night?” Emma wanted to know. She’d looked nervously from Gabe to her mother, swallowing hard.

“Not-” Freddie began.

“-all night,” Gabe finished. “Only until we see the ghost. Unless-” he grinned at the children “-you fall asleep.”

They’d stared at him, astonished. As if! they seemed to say.

Now it was barely midnight, and both of them were already zonked.

Of course it had taken a lot of energy to jump at every creak and rattle, to shiver at the sound of an owl overhead, to gasp, “What was that?” at the drafts that blew in around the window frames and moved like a spiritual presence through the room.

No wonder they were tired.

As close as they’d come to seeing the Stanton Abbey ghost was a mouse that had scuttled from one side of the room to the other. Emma’s shrieks had scared the mouse almost as much as it had scared them.

After that, and after Freddie’s exhortations to settle down, they’d subsided into watchfulness. They’d watched for the ghost. Freddie had watched them.

Gabe had watched Freddie.

In the dim light he could barely make her out, but it didn’t stop him trying.

It had been a stroke of genius getting them all in here together so he had the leisure to look his fill. During the day he was gone. At meal times she was flitting about and the children were clamoring for his attention.

But tonight, once the chatter had died down and the children had settled, Gabe had had the opportunity at last to simply look at Freddie Crossman.

He’d have liked to do a lot more than look.

It didn’t seem to matter how much he berated himself for this obsession with a totally unsuitable woman-an English-woman! a widow! the mother of children!-he’d stopped telling himself she was too old for him, but everything else still applied-he couldn’t quell the attraction he felt.

It’s because there’s no one else, he told himself every day.

But in fact that wasn’t true.

Just yesterday he’d met two of Buckworthy’s beauties in the street outside the Gazette. Their grandmother had introduced herself-and them-to him.

“Aurora Ponsonby,” she told him, “an old friend of his lordship.”

It took a minute for Gabe to realize she was talking about Earl. Then he’d done his best to be polite and make small talk with them, though he’d have much preferred to be making mincemeat out of Percy because Percy had followed him out to deliver a long-winded spiel about something else that had never been done before.

He’d barely noticed the Ponsonby females. It hadn’t occurred to him until later that there was calculation in the introduction, that Aurora Ponsonby had been extolling her granddaughters’ virtues rather heavy-handedly. Did she consider him a catch, then?

Didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested in being caught.

But he was interested in Freddie.

He wondered how smart this had actually been, getting them on the bed together, when absolutely nothing could happen.

Well, maybe not absolutely nothing…

He flexed his shoulders against the headboard of the bed and eased himself closer to her.

“They’re asleep. We can go,” Freddie whispered.

“Hmm?”

“You said-”

“We’d wake them up when we go. We’re not going yet.”

“We can’t stay here all night!”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she began. Then abruptly stopped. She looked at him quickly in the dimness, then just as quickly, she looked away. “We have to go,” she muttered, but she sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

“Just a little longer.” He grinned faintly. “Who knows? The ghost might really show up.”

“You don’t believe that now any more than you did when you were ten.”

“Oh, I’m a lot different than I was when I was ten,” he told her, his voice rough with a desire his ten-year-old self had had no inkling of.

Freddie plucked at the sleeping bag that was tucked around her and Emma. Then she let out a soft sigh and settled back once more. He breathed a little easier.

“You’ve worked really hard on the abbey,” he said after a few minutes. Even though it still seemed like the dampest, coldest place on earth to him, the guided tour she had taken him on earlier in the evening taught him just how much upkeep was required and how well she’d done.

“I try,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m the best person for the job, but Lord Stanton insisted…”

“How long have you been doing it?”

“Since my husband died. Mark worked for the earl. He died in a storm bringing the yacht back from Calais, and for some reason his lordship felt responsible. He shouldn’t have,” she said earnestly. “It was Mark who was reckless. Mark who took the risk. No one asked him to!” She stopped abruptly, apparently aware that any further exclamations might wake the children.

“Do you…” He stopped, unsure how to ask, still, for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely, needing to. “Do you still miss him?” Now there was a stupid question! She’d loved him, married him. Of course she missed him! “A lot, I mean?”

For a minute Gabe didn’t think she was going to answer, and he knew the question was as impertinent as it had been awkward. “I’m sorry. I had no right. I-”

“I miss him,” Freddie answered. “But it’s kind of a hollow feeling now. An emptiness. Not pain anymore. Sometimes, I just get angry. I think, ‘what a waste.’ He’s missing his children! He’s not going to see them grow up.” Her fingers knotted on the sleeping bag again.

And Gabe, before he could stop himself, reached out and wrapped his hand around hers. He thought she might pull away so he tightened his grip just a little.

But after a split second’s resistance, Freddie’s hand relaxed in his. Slowly Gabe let his breath out, rubbed his thumb against her knuckle. Curved his fingers around hers. Didn’t move. Just sat. Breathed.

Desired.

Wanted.

Freddie Crossman.

A lot.

A whole lot.

He ran his tongue over suddenly parched lips. He shifted, trying to get a little more room inside his jeans. His thumb moved to caress the side of her hand. Her skin was so soft. He knew she worked hard, but her fingers still seemed softer than any he’d ever touched. He brought them to his lips.

Freddie sucked in a sharp breath. Gabe felt a faint tremor in her hand. He sensed one running through her whole body. But she didn’t pull away as he pressed his mouth lightly against her fingers.

“G-Gabe?” There was only a hint of protest in her voice. It was breathless, and she sounded as hungry as he was.

“Mmm.” He didn’t move his mouth, just murmured against her hand, let his tongue slide out from between his lips and touched it to her fingers.

“Gabe!” Shock, but no less hunger.

“Fred.” Hell of a thing to be whispering! It almost made him laugh. His lips curved and he nibbled her fingers, then he eased himself around the sleeping Emma and took her mother into his arms.

She came willingly, all the time saying softly, “We can’t do this!”

“Sure we can.”

“The children-”

“Are out like lights, both of them.”

“We can’t- We’re not-” She stiffened.

“We won’t,” Gabe promised, soothing. “Just kissing, Fred. Just…touching.”

“P-promise?”

He promised-and meant it.

He didn’t need an audience for what he wanted to do with Freddie Crossman. He didn’t want their first time to be furtive and groping and quick. He wanted to take his time, to love her fully. And he was no callow boy. He might want her desperately, but he could wait.

In the meantime, though, he could heighten the pleasure for both of them. He could kiss and stroke and nibble and touch. So he did.

He moved slowly, taking his time, relishing the experience. And after a few moments of tension where Freddie barely seemed to breathe, finally, slowly, she began to relax in his embrace. Her lips touched his cheek, nuzzled his neck, sent a shiver of longing right down to his core.

Gabe bit his lip. You promised, he reminded himself. You’re tough. In control.

Oh, yeah.

“M-maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,” he whispered hoarsely, pulling back, edging away.

She blinked, looked at him, worried. “N-no?” She sounded crestfallen.

“I want-” But he couldn’t blurt out what he wanted. She knew. He bent his head and sucked in a harsh breath. “I want it to be right.”

He lifted his gaze to see if she understood. He wasn’t even sure he understood exactly what he meant by that. He just knew this wasn’t it.

She looked confused, then her expression cleared. A small smile touched her lips. “Oh, Gabe,” she whispered. And then she leaned toward him and touched her lips to his; her tongue touched his.

So much for control.

“Fred!” He jerked back, gasping.

“Huh? D’ja see ’im?” Charlie’s eyes blinked open.

Freddie yanked herself upright against the headboard. Gabe, aching, gritted his teeth and tried to answer. “Just heard a noise. Pounding sound.”

The blood in his veins. Throbbing. Pulsing. Beating him to death.

Charlie rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Stupid ghost,” he muttered. He scooted up the bed and laid his head in his mother’s lap. His eyes shut. He slept.

Over the children Gabe and Freddie looked at each other. She smiled a little wryly.

“Maybe we should just go home,” he said.

Freddie sang as she folded the laundry. She did clever little dance steps while she dusted the parlor. She hummed as she cooked dinner.

“Glad to see you’re smiling more,” Mrs. Peek had said just this morning when she’d stopped by.

“What?” Freddie hadn’t been aware of any such thing.

“Of course, that han’sum Gabe McBride’d make any woman smile.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Freddie lied.

But Mrs. Peek just smiled. She was in love with Gabe herself, and not just because he was “han’sum.” Because on Monday when she’d come by as Gabe was leaving for the office, he asked her to come work for him.

For the first time in her life, Mrs. Peek had been speechless. She’d stared at him with round, astonished eyes. “You want us to work for ’ee, Mr. McBride?”

“You bet I do. You understand this community a whole lot better than plummy Percy.” And he’d put her bicycle in the back of the Range Rover and the two of them had gone off to the Gazette together.

Later he told Freddie he reckoned Mrs. Peek was a woman to ride the river with.

“What?” Freddie looked at him, mystified.

“It’s what we say about a good hand. You can trust him with your life. Mrs. Peek’s like that. Besides, she’s a natural for the staff. She has a finger in every pie-and an ear in every house. She’s without a doubt the best news gatherer in the county. Stantons might as well pay her for doing what she’s going to do anyway.”

Best of all, Percy had had a fit about it.

It was the beginning of the end for Percy.

Mrs. Peek gathered news. Gabe wrote it.

“I’ll do the editorial this week,” he told Percy the day he hired Mrs. Peek.

“But we’ve never-”

“You bet we haven’t,” Gabe cut in, “but we’re starting to. Now.”

And when Percy had continued to bluster, Gabe had said, “You know how we settle these things in Montana?” He’d curled his fingers into fists.

Percy mumbled, shuffled, and, according to Gabe, “high-tailed it out of the office just like that. He didn’t seem to want to slug it out,” Gabe said. He was wearing a wide, satisfied grin.

Things continued to improve at the Gazette.

Gabe commandeered Beatrice. He made his own coffee, bought a box of tea bags for everyone else and told her she was now in charge of advertising.

“Me?” Beatrice stared at him.

“Why not you? You know everyone in Buckworthy.” He took her door to door in Buckworthy, introducing himself and Beatrice to each and every shopkeeper.

“They all know me,” Beatrice protested.

“That’s the point. They know you, not me. You’re going to help us connect. You’re going to help the Gazette figure out how to help them.”

So with Beatrice at his side, Gabe went around the entire village, shook every hand and sat down to discuss the Gazette. He asked each one how to make the paper best serve the town and the surrounding villages. It was the first time in memory anyone had asked. The shopkeepers talked to him. They talked to Beatrice. And, as always, they talked to Mrs. Peek.

“We need a lot more Mrs. Peeks,” he told Freddie. “One or two per village.”

“Try the Women’s Institute.” She could just imagine what they’d say when a booted, jeans-clad Montana cowboy showed up among those sedate, virtuous ladies. Gabe McBride would really give them something to pray about.

She thought he wouldn’t go. But she learned very quickly not to underestimate Gabe McBride.

“Great idea,” he told her afterward. “It helped that they’d read my editorial in today’s paper. They seemed to know who I was.”

Freddie could have told him they’d known who he was the minute he set foot in the county. But she couldn’t have predicted his success-on his own terms.

“He’s a breath of fresh air,” Mrs. Peek said.

Freddie thought, a whirlwind more like.

Certainly he’d swept through her life and turned it upside down. He’d made her heart beat faster, her pulse race. He’d made her feel alive again.

She was exhilarated. And scared.

She shouldn’t be humming and dancing and singing, and she knew it.

There was no future for her and Gabe McBride.

He’d made no secret that he wasn’t stopping. He was going home to Montana in weeks, days even. He’d made no bones about being single and determined to stay that way.

She wondered about this Claire he’d mentioned, but a few circumspect questions convinced her that he wasn’t interested in Claire-or any other woman. He was playing the field.

And yet…

And yet the night they’d spent together in the bed at the abbey, he hadn’t pressed. Of course he wouldn’t. How could he with Emma and Charlie there. But he’d kissed. His eyes had promised. And he’d said, “I want it to be right.”

As if sometime it would be.

Freddie wanted it, too. Desperately. She wanted Gabe.

She was a fool.

She couldn’t help it.

Four

Percy didn’t give in easily.

Gabe didn’t care. And not only because he relished a good fight.

Once he figured out that the same determination that went into riding a bull and working cattle would help him with the Gazette, once he understood that he didn’t have to be Randall to succeed, life got a whole lot easier.

And if Percy wanted to draw himself up to his full five feet seven and say, “Over my dead body,” every day, well, that was fine with Gabe.

It would give him that much more time to stay with Freddie and the kids.

It amazed him how involved he’d become with Freddie and her family in a few short weeks. The sheep roping led to the cow roping. Nightly stories of life in the west led to him tracking down videos of movies about cowboys and about rodeo. Charlie and Emma had never seen a bull ride. So he called Randall and made him overnight them a video of the National Finals.

He’d made up his mind to refuse to discuss the Gazette, but Randall hadn’t even asked. Gabe forgot to ask about the ranch.

He got the video converted to the proper format and showed it to the children with rousing success. He loved watching Charlie and Emma, their jaws dropping at the sight of the spinning, twisting, bucking bull-and the cowboy trying to make his eight-second ride.

And that led them to wanting to do some riding of their own.

“Absolutely not!” Freddie said. “You are not teaching my children to ride a bull!”

“Horses, Fred. Broke ones. They can’t be cowboys-or girls-if they can’t ride.” And, taking Freddie’s reluctant silence as approval, he went looking for some horses to borrow. Mrs. Peek, bless her heart, knew exactly who to contact. And the next day he had horses for all of them.

Even Freddie.

At first she protested. Then he reminded her that they were her children. Didn’t she want to supervise what they were learning? Didn’t she want to witness their triumphs? Be there when they succeeded?

So she came. And she rode. In fact she was a good rider.

He was the one who fell off!

It was downright embarrassing. And it wasn’t even his fault. It was the damned pheasant-and the skittish horse-and most especially that ridiculous little English saddle. There was no place to get a grip!

“Are you all right?” Freddie and the children bent over him worriedly.

His pride was hurt. And his rear end.

Gabe scrambled up. “I’m fine,” he muttered, swatting at the mud that caked the back of his jeans.

“Yoo-hoo!” In the distance, at the edge of the road, he spied Mrs. Peek, red sweater flapping, as she waved from where she’d parked her bicycle. She whipped out a little notebook and began to scribble.

Gabe groaned.

Freddie laughed, delighted. “I wonder what the headline will read.”

“Editor axes new local writer,” Gabe grumbled. “Literally.”

But Freddie, still laughing, just shook her head. “She’s taking her job seriously.”

Gabe laughed ruefully, too, acknowledging the old lady’s dedication. She was thrilled to be published. Her first column of local news had come out last Thursday “over Percy’s dead body,” and she’d been walking on air since.

Everywhere Gabe looked now, he saw a red-sweatered Mrs. Peek, pedaling her bicycle furiously in pursuit of more local coverage, hoping to scoop Mrs. Bolt and Mrs. Nute from the Women’s Institute.

He could only hope that his getting thrown came during an otherwise heavy news week.

He seemed happy here.

Freddie watched him play with the children, teach them to rope and to ride. She watched him cheer Mrs. Peek on and exult with every triumph that brought the moribund Gazette further from the brink of extinction. She watched him sprawl easily in the parlor and look at her from beneath hooded eyes, making it obvious that he was looking for “the right time.”

And even though she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t help thinking things she had no business thinking-about what it would be like to love-and be loved by-Gabe McBride.

He would leave.

Of course he would leave. There was never any doubt. He talked about the ranch constantly to the children.

“Back home…” he would say. “On the ranch…”

It sounded wonderful-a land so vast and empty with its high snow-capped mountains and broad valleys that she could scarcely imagine it.

So he called Randall again and asked him to send pictures of the ranch, of the family, of his rodeo career.

The children were spellbound. So was Freddie.

“Wow,” Charlie breathed. “It’s awesome.”

“Is that the bunkhouse?” Emma wanted to know as they sat in the parlor, the pictures spread out all across the table. Gabe held her on his knee. Charlie stood next to him, pushing the photos around, looking at first one and then the next, then going back, as if he couldn’t take it all in.

“That’s a lot of cows,” Emma said, pointing at one of a round-up.

“An’ a lot of cowboys,” Charlie said, awestruck. “I wish I could be a cowboy.”

Gabe ruffled his hair. “Maybe you will be someday.”

Freddie, seeing the hero-worship in her son’s face, bit her lip to keep from saying sharply, “Don’t hold out false hopes.”

There was such a light in Charlie’s eyes these days, such a bounce to his step, she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. He hadn’t been this bright-eyed and eager since before Mark’s death. And even though she knew she shouldn’t encourage him to pursue this cowboy business, she still couldn’t deflate his hopes.

Not now. Not yet.

After all, Charlie knew how unlikely it was. He wasn’t a baby anymore.

He knew that Gabe would leave. Gabe had never made it a secret that his time in Buckworthy was limited. So Charlie couldn’t be crushed when it actually happened.

And he would always have the memories later on.

That’s what Freddie told herself anyway. She hoped it would be enough.

And not just for Charlie.

“That’s enough for tonight,” she said briskly after they’d spent most of another evening poring over the pictures. “It’s past bedtime.”

“But we’ve got all the rodeo pictures to look at!” Charlie protested.

“Please, Mummy,” Emma beseeched. “I wanta see Gabe ridin’ a bull!”

“You’ve seen Gabe ride a bull on the video.” She had, too. Until she’d closed her eyes in stark terror.

“But-”

Gabe pushed back his chair and set Emma on her feet. “Real cowboys follow orders. Move it.”

And they did. All it took was one word from Gabe and they scampered off.

“They were going to do what I told them to,” Freddie muttered.

“I know.” Gabe smiled at her. “I just wanted to hurry ’em along a little.” The way he was looking at her, smiling at her, sent a shiver of awareness up her spine.

“Why?” she asked warily.

“Because of this.” And he reached out, drew her gently into his arms and kissed her.

It was a hungry kiss, a deep kiss, a kiss that told Freddie that Gabe had been thinking about it for a good long time-probably as long as she had. And it felt so warm, so wonderful, so right, that she was returning it before she had a chance to think.

It had been so long. She had been so lonely.

She hadn’t realized until Gabe arrived how lonely her life had become. There were the children, of course. They loved her, and she them. They challenged her, and she tried to keep up with them.

But until Gabe there had been no man. No one to meet Freddie face-to-face, toe-to-toe, one-to-one.

She’d thought she didn’t care, had believed she hadn’t had time to miss it.

She was wrong.

The touch of him, the heat of him, the strength of him-all of it-told her she’d been very, very wrong.

And when he sat back down and took her with him, brought her down on his lap and still never stopped kissing her, she went right with him, as hungry as he was, as desperate as he was.

His fingers tugged her shirttails from her trousers. His hands slid up beneath, caressing her heated skin. She murmured against his lips, felt his tongue press for entrance, and opened up for him. Against her bottom she could feel the press of his need for her, hard and insistent. She shifted, turning in his arms, rubbing against him through wool and denim.

He groaned.

“Mummy! I left my-oh!” It was Emma. Halfway down the stairs, eyes popping out of her head, face as red as a beet-as red as her mother’s face.

Freddie leapt out of Gabe’s arms, shoving away so hard she almost knocked his chair over. With one hand she tried to smooth her hair. With the other she stabbed ineffectually at her shirttails, trying to tuck them back in.

“You what, Em?” she croaked. Oh, heavens, her voice didn’t even work!

“L-left my m-maths book down here.” Still Emma hesitated on the steps, tipping from one foot to the other, her eyes going from her mother to Gabe and back again. She looked as if she might burst.

“Come get it then. Put it in your book bag or you’ll forget it in the morning.” Freddie gave up on the shirt. She tried to sound brisk and set about scraping the photos into a pile, as if she had been cleaning and the heightened color in her face was merely from exertion. She couldn’t look at Gabe.

Emma did. She studied both of them as she came slowly down the steps, and Freddie knew she wasn’t fooled. Her eyes sparkled. She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling as she got the book from the sideboard and, with one last look, scurried back upstairs again.

“Charlie!” Freddie heard her whisper loudly. “Guess what!”

It was Freddie’s turn to groan.

Gabe laughed.

“It isn’t funny!” she said, stricken.

“Well, not in some respects,” he agreed, adjusting his jeans carefully and wincing as he did so. “But, hey, it happens.”

“Well, it won’t happen again.” She didn’t look at him. She moved quickly, putting the photos into the folders Lord Stanton had sent them in. Then she stacked them in neat piles. Her hands shook.

Gabe came up behind her and she felt his breath on her neck. Her fingers curled into tight fists. “We’ll be more careful,” he agreed, dropping a kiss on the nape of her neck and slipping his hands around her waist.

Freddie darted out of his embrace. She shook her head and spun around and wrapped her arms across her breasts. “No. We can’t.”

“What do you mean, we can’t? Can’t what?”

“Can’t…that.” Freddie couldn’t say it. Wouldn’t let herself say it! She shook her head again, angry at herself for having let things get that far. “We can’t,” she repeated.

“Can’t…kiss?” He sounded somewhere between amused and incredulous.

She steeled herself against him. “That’s right.”

“Can’t…touch?”

“No.”

He cocked his head. “Why not?”

As if she could give him a logical reason! “Because…because…it won’t do!”

“Oh for God’s sake! Don’t do that ‘lady of the manor’ act. ‘It won’t do,”’ he mocked theatrically. “Why the hell not? You want me. I want you!”

Fortunately, before Freddie could blurt out, “Yes,” she managed a split second’s thought.

“Our bodies,” she began with the precision of a governess splitting hairs, “are not the sum of us. While our bodies might wish closer contact, our minds, our hearts, our souls…feel otherwise.”

“Mine doesn’t.” Gabe looked straight at her with his clear blue gaze.

Freddie turned away. She hugged herself tighter. “Well, mine does.”

She couldn’t want him-couldn’t love him! Because that’s what it would mean if her heart and mind and soul felt the same way her body clearly did.

And he didn’t love her, either.

It was just that she was here. She was handy. He didn’t have anyone else. What would be an evening’s recreation for him would be a blow to the heart for her.

Determinedly Freddie shook her head again. “No,” she repeated. “Please. It was a…a mistake.”

“Was it?” Gabe didn’t move, just stood there looking at her. His hands hung loosely at his sides. And then, as if he couldn’t help it, he reached for her. “Freddie.” His voice was soft but insistent. Urgent. Beseeching.

She shook her bowed head resolutely. “No, Gabe. Please. Don’t ask me.”

His hands dropped, but still he didn’t move.

Finally she made herself look up at him, meet his gaze. “You said real cowboys follow orders, do what they’re supposed to.”

“And we’re not supposed to touch each other?” he challenged her.

Their gazes locked.

Gabe stood there, not even breathing while Freddie held her breath, too, and prayed for the strength to resist.

Resist. Resist.

She managed to shake her head. “No. We’re not. This is…tempting. But it’s not… It’s too…dangerous.”

“Dangerous.” He repeated the word as if he was trying it on for size. He seemed to chew on it a bit, then his mouth curved bitterly at one corner. “Final word?”

One last chance. Are you going to grab it, Freddie? she asked herself. “Final word,” she muttered.

“Whatever you say, Fred.” And he turned and walked out the door.

In the morning he called Earl. “I’m outa here.”

The old man coughed, sounding like he’d choked on a crumpet. “Gabe? Is that you? For God’s sake, man, what’s going on down there? Every time I ring your office some snippy little pigeon tells me you’re too busy to come to the telephone!”

So, Beatrice had learned. Well, good. Gabe supposed he was glad.

It was what he’d come for, wasn’t it? To turn things around.

“What did you say?” Earl demanded. “What are you out of?”

“Here,” Gabe said flatly. “I’ve been here six weeks. That’s long enough.”

Earl made a disapproving clucking sound. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be dismayed. You lasted longer than I thought even if you didn’t get the job done.”

“I got the job done!”

He told his grandfather he’d remedied the lack of local news. He told him about his new correspondents-Mrs. Peek and her cohorts from the Women’s Institute. He told the old man that the local touch brought back a bit of advertising. Beatrice, given a shot of confidence, had helped out enormously.

“They’re advertising with us now,” Gabe said. “Revenues have increased sixfold.”

“Sixfold?” Earl was gasping for air.

“So far. It’s a risk, admittedly. If they don’t see an increase in business from the ads, chances are they won’t keep it up after six months or so. But I’ve got six-month commitments out of most of them. That ought to give whoever you bring in a chance to solidify things.”

“That fellow Percy-”

“Not Percy,” Gabe said. “Not if you want it to work.”

“Really?” Earl was intrigued. “Who would you suggest?”

“Beatrice. The one who wouldn’t let you talk to me.”

“The secretary?” Earl sputtered.

“She keeps the office running. She’s a quick study. She knows which side her bread is buttered on. She understands the business side of things. And she makes a damn fine cup of coffee.” She’d demanded that he teach her.

“Humph. Coffee? Ugh. Beatrice, eh? I’ll think about it,” he said. “I want all these recommendations on paper. I want a rundown of all the figures since you arrived. I want a starting point and a current update.”

“I’ll fax them to you.”

“Bring them. You’re coming to see me before you leave certainly. Aren’t you?”

Was he?

Gabe guessed he was. He would have preferred to simply hightail it right out of the country without having to undergo Earl’s scrutiny. But who knew when he’d see the old badger again? And he wanted the satisfaction of showing his grandfather he’d done far better than the old man had expected, didn’t he?

Of course he did.

But mostly he wanted to be gone.

He didn’t want to have to sit across the table from Freddie any longer and look at the woman who wanted him with her body but not with her heart and soul. He didn’t want to see her, to listen to her, to talk to her.

There was no point, damn it!

“When are you coming?” Earl asked.

“Soon,” Gabe promised. “By the end of the week for sure.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised when he said he was leaving.

He’d ridden in, rescued the Gazette, and was about to ride off into the sunset. It was exactly what cowboys did.

All the same, she felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach when he said he’d be leaving on Friday.

Both Charlie and Emma looked positively stricken. Then Charlie said hopefully, “Just to go to London? To see your grandfather?”

“I’m stopping there,” Gabe agreed. “Then I’m going home. To Montana.” His tone was firm, his words determined, but he didn’t look at any of them.

After the first instant Freddie didn’t look at him either. She saw Charlie swallow and Emma bite her lip. It was all she could do not to bite her own. At the same time, she told herself it was just as well.

Better than having him hanging around. Smiling at her. Teasing her.

Tempting her.

She didn’t know how long she would be able to resist him on a daily basis. The memories of a night of loving Gabe McBride might be wonderful, but he made no promises-they had no future.

Not that she wanted one.

He was like Mark-a man who took risks.

Freddie couldn’t risk. Not again. She couldn’t even let herself love him and cherish the memories. They would never be enough.

“But I don’t want him to go,” Emma said plaintively that night when Freddie was tucking her up in bed. Her lower lip stuck out and she looked pleadingly at her mother.

“You knew he was going to. He only came to get the newspaper sorted out, that’s all,” Freddie said firmly.

“Doesn’t have to be all,” Charlie said from the doorway where he slouched in his pajamas, arms folded across his chest. “He could stay. You could ask him to stay.”

“I could do no such thing, Charles Crossman! I would never!”

“Well, you ought to,” Charlie said stubbornly. “He’d be a good father.”

As much as she wanted to, Freddie couldn’t deny that. But she pressed her lips into a tight line. “He’s not interested in being a father.” And even if he were, he was not the man she would choose.

“He likes us,” Emma maintained. “He likes kids. He said so.”

“I’m sure he does. And perhaps someday he’ll have his own,” Freddie said, and was surprised how much the thought hurt.

“But not us.” With one last accusing look at his mother, Charlie slumped back to his own room.

Freddie stared after him, feeling equal parts dismayed and helpless. Try to understand, she wanted to implore him. But she knew it was pointless.

He was a child. He wanted a father.

Gabe was handy. Gabe was fun. He was a little boy’s ideal.

But that didn’t make it possible.

They roped the cow until it was cross-eyed every day for the rest of the week.

They sang “The Streets of Laredo” and “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and “The Double Diamond” and every other cowboy song Gabe knew.

They watched movies-westerns every one. Shane. Stagecoach. Red River. All by popular demand. Charlie and Emma’s demand. They couldn’t get enough. And Gabe was quite willing to give it to them.

He was annoyed at Freddie, angry that she’d rebuffed him, hurt, if the truth were known. At least he guessed that’s what that aching feeling somewhere in his midsection meant.

He didn’t like being toyed with, tempted, led on-and then told to take a hike.

She was chicken. Afraid of him-of her feelings for him.

He wasn’t afraid of his feelings for her. He hadn’t even really thought about them. Feelings weren’t something Gabe was very good at. Not analyzing them, anyhow. If he felt something, he damn sure wouldn’t turn his back on it like Ms. Frederica Crossman!

Well, the heck with her.

But not with her children. He had a few more days to spend with them, and he was going to be sure they knew that life was worth living, that risks were worth taking.

“You guys are doin’ great,” he told them.

“I never met a better cowgirl,” he told Emma. “Not even Claire,” he added, fingers crossed, and was sure Claire wouldn’t mind if she ever saw the way Emma beamed.

“You just keep pluggin’ and someday you’ll make a hand,” he told the boy.

“A hand?” Charlie echoed.

“A good cowboy,” Gabe translated.

Charlie grinned. “Like you.”

Charlie believed in him. Emma believed in him. Beatrice believed in him.

So, grudgingly, did Percy Pomfret-Mumphrey, over his dead body. Even Earl seemed to believe in him at the moment.

Everyone believed in him but Freddie.

“Right,” he said firmly. “You be a cowboy like me.”

“An’ ride bulls,” Charlie said.

“Definitely,” Gabe agreed, glad the kid wasn’t a chicken like his mother.

Charlie cocked his head. “Do all cowboys ride bulls?”

“Only the best.” He winked. “No. Only rodeo cowboys,” he said. “And not all of them. I didn’t start out ridin’ ’em, either. I started out ridin’ sheep.”

“Sheep?” Both children stared.

“When I was a boy. Mutton bustin’ we called it.”

Charlie looked speculatively out across the field beyond the long-suffering cow. He ran his tongue over his lips. “I’d like to try that. Do you think Mr. Bolt would mind?”

Actually Gabe didn’t. He’d had a chat with Josiah Bolt when he and Beatrice were doing their rounds of shopkeepers and had met him in the hardware store. Josiah had actually laughed at Gabe’s tale of them roping his sheep.

“Come on,” he said now, seizing on the idea. One last thrill.

They found the sheep in Bolt’s field near the road. And while Gabe held one big ewe steady and kept her next to the hedgerow, Charlie clambered up and settled down onto her back. His eyes were wide with excitement, his cheeks bright red.

“All set?” Gabe asked. Then with one hand he reached up and took off his Stetson and settled it on the little boy’s head.

Charlie looked up at it, then at Gabe, awe-struck.

Gabe grinned. “For luck,” he said and tugged it down until Charlie barely peeked out.

The boy grinned. Then, lips tight, knuckles white, he nodded.

“Let ’er rip!” Gabe let go and gave the ewe a light smack. She bolted across the field with Charlie clinging fiercely to her back.

Darn good thing Freddie had gone to town. She would be having a fit right now if she could see her first born hurtling across the field clutching the back of a good-sized ewe with both hands while he yelled “Yeehaw!” at the top of his lungs.

“Ride ’em, cowboy!” Gabe whooped.

Charlie rode. The sheep careened through the field, but Charlie stuck tight. Not until it swerved right and plunged down a sharp hill did Charlie, still shrieking, crash to the ground.

“Charlie!”

Gabe spun around to see Freddie getting out of her car. She scrambled over the wall, then ran toward them, hair streaming behind her, face stark white with terror. “Charlie!”

Gabe started toward her, then turned and went to Charlie instead. “He’s all right!” he called over his shoulder. “He’s just had the wind knocked out of him.”

Charlie, still gasping, tried to struggle up. There was blood on the boy’s lip, and his face looked a little blue from lack of air. Gabe knelt beside him and patted Charlie’s ribs.

“Hurt anywhere?” he asked, keeping his body between Charlie and his mother.

“N-no,” Charlie managed. “P-pretty g-good, huh? Huh, Gabe?”

But before Gabe could reply, Freddie swooped in, practically knocking him out of the way. “Dear God, Charlie! Are you all right?”

The boy gulped, started to answer, apparently realized a stutter wouldn’t do, and swallowed, to nod wordlessly instead. He swiped a sleeve quickly across his bloody lip.

Freddie started to gather him close, but the boy squirmed away. “M’all right, Mum!”

“He is,” Gabe agreed.

Freddie whirled on him. “Like you’d care! What were you trying to do? Kill him?”

“Kill him? He was riding a sheep, that’s all. Bustin’ mutton.”

“Busting his head, more like!” Her hands were trembling. She made fists of them quickly, then opened them again, shook them out. She glared at him, her normally rosy complexion ash white. Then taking a deep shuddering breath, she turned to Charlie. “That’s enough. No more sheep.”

“But-”

“Come along. We’re going home. Now.”

“He wasn’t hurt,” Gabe intervened. “Not much, anyway,” he added, determined to be perfectly honest. “And it isn’t as if he’s the only kid to ever bust a mutton. Other kids do it. An’ he wanted to ride one.”

“It doesn’t matter what he wanted! I’m his mother! I say what he does. Not him! Not you!” She had Charlie on his feet now and was steering him toward her car.

Gabe kept pace. “You’ve got to let him try things, Fred. You can’t keep him wrapped up in cotton wool his whole life!”

“I can do whatever I want! I’m his mother. You’re…you’re…a cowboy! Here today. Gone tomorrow. Passing through!” Her eyes were flashing, her hair was wild, her breasts were heaving beneath her jacket. She was beautiful and tempting.

And right.

He was passing through.

He had no say. Charlie wasn’t his. He had no rights.

Not unless she gave them to him.

Fat chance.

“Fine,” he said after a long moment. He shrugged with all the nonchalance he could muster. He reached down and snagged his hat off the ground. “Have it your way, Fred. Teach your children that risks are bad, that it’s always better to play it safe.”

He set it on his head, then gave the brim a tug. “I wouldn’t. If they were mine, they’d learn to be cowboys-in the best sense of the word.”

There was apparently nothing in the bill of sale of the Buckworthy Gazette that prevented Percy from quitting, which was exactly what he did when Gabe promoted Beatrice to office manager on his last day at work.

“Me?” Beatrice said, astonished.

“Her?” Percy gasped, appalled.

“That’s right,” Gabe said to both of them. “That way I’m sure the paper will be in good hands.”

And he wanted it in good hands. The Gazette was the one thing he had done right, the one thing he was happy about.

The only thing that mattered, he told himself. It was why he had come, after all.

Freddie had been…Freddie had been a distraction. Beautiful. Lively. Tempting. Fun.

Annoying. Irritating. Downright infuriating.

It was a damn good thing he was going home.

He knew Freddie felt the same way.

For the rest of the week, they steered clear of each other.

She fixed his dinner, but she declined any help with the washing up. She sat in the room and read while he told the children stories, but she never joined in. She didn’t come and sit in the parlor with him after the children were in bed, either. She never let herself be alone with him.

Because she was chicken.

Well, fine. If that’s the way she wanted it, it didn’t matter to him.

They barely spoke all week. He thought they might not speak at all, that he might just get in his car and drive off and she’d never say a word.

But when he came in from work his last afternoon, she handed him a stack of clean folded laundry and said in proper landlady-ish tones, “I think that’s everything then.”

Everything.

All that had passed between them in these few weeks-all the joy, all the laughter, all the smiles, the looks, the touches, the kiss-had all come down to nothing more than a stack of laundry.

He looked at her. She was already on her way back to the kitchen.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

He carried the clean clothes back to his room and began packing his bag. He moved slowly, deliberately. He’d put off packing so he could visit with the kids while he did it. He’d expected them to be waiting for him when he got home this afternoon. But the house had been empty except for Freddie.

“Where are they?” he’d asked when he came in.

She’d shrugged vaguely. “They went off to play somewhere.” Her tone had been dismissive, almost airy.

Gabe knew she was glad, grateful they weren’t hovering over him, stretching things out, asking for one last story. It proved how little he mattered to them. He could see the satisfaction in her eyes.

He’d nodded, certain then that they’d be back before he left.

But it took him ten minutes to pack. Now he was done.

He stripped the bed, tossed the sheets in the wash, folded the duvet, packed, then repacked his bag. He couldn’t wait much longer.

He had told his grandfather he’d be there late tonight so he needed to get moving. Reluctantly he zipped the duffel and picked up his jacket, then headed for the door. Turning, he took one last look back at the room, memorizing it.

Why? he asked himself savagely. So you can drag out the memory and think about it when you’re back home where you belong? So you can remember all those nights in that lonely bed? So you can recall hopes dashed and dreams thwarted? So you can miss Freddie and the kids?

“Oh yeah. Good idea,” he mocked himself.

He didn’t need this. He didn’t need them. Not any of them. Not Freddie who had wanted him and insisted she didn’t. Not her children who clamored to be cowboys, but who, the minute he said he was leaving, vanished, not caring a whit.

He shoved his arms into his jacket, then grabbed the duffel and headed down the stairs. Freddie was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes at the sink. From the stiffness of her shoulders, he knew she’d been listening for him…waiting.

“I’m going now,” he said brusquely. “Tell the kids I said goodbye.”

“Yes.” She turned, blinked, swallowed, smiled. Her smile looked just a little strained.

Gabe felt a small measure of satisfaction. He smiled back, a polite, distant smile-the sort you gave the innkeeper who’d made your stay pleasant. He headed out the door. “Watch out for runaway rabbits,” he said over his shoulder.

“What? Oh-” She managed a little laugh. But she followed him out at least and stood on the porch to watch him go.

They stared at each other again. No laundry between them now.

The “everything” no longer reduced to that-the memories, the might-have-beens crowding in, piling up.

Then in the stillness, Gabe heard the sudden pounding of swift footsteps coming down the gravel drive.

“Mummy! Mummy! Gabe!” It was Emma, feet flying, cheeks blazing. “Come quick! Charlie’s gone up to Dawes’s field to ride the bull!”

Five

It was Freddie’s worst nightmare.

Worse than her worst nightmare. So bad-so fraught with the potential for disaster-that she would never let herself think or dream about such a thing! She was frozen where she stood.

“Come on!” Gabe was grabbing her hand and towing her to the car. “Show me where they are,” he commanded Emma. “And tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Heck,” Freddie corrected faintly. But as her fingers knotted and her heart lodged in her throat, she really thought hell felt more like it.

Emma pointed the way. “Ch-Charlie…thought it would…be a good idea,” she told Gabe, her words coming in bursts as she gulped enough air to say them. “T-to prove he could do it. S-so you’d t-take us w-with you!”

“Jesus!” Gabe let out a sharp exhalation of breath. “Your mother told you-”

“But if he p-proved it-if he did it-she wouldn’t have to worry a-anymore,” Emma cut him off determinedly. She gave Freddie a look that was both nervous and defiant. “Charlie said so!”

That wasn’t how it worked, Freddie wanted to tell her. Mothers worried. It went with the role. Sometimes-since Mark had died-worrying seemed to define her role. For all the good it had done. Her fingers knotted tighter.

Please God, don’t let anything happen to Charlie.

They were almost to Dawes’s field now. Freddie could see Mrs. Peek’s old bicycle propped against the hedgerow.

“What’s Mrs. Peek doing here?” Gabe demanded.

“She came up while I was sitting on the wall waiting for Charlie. An’ she never just goes by, you know. She always stops to talk. An’ she asked what I was doing. An’ I thought…I thought maybe she’d write a story about it, about Charlie being so brave an’ all and then we could send it to you an’ you’d come back an’… She told me to go get you quick. She said she was going to try to find Charlie before the bull did.”

Gabe leapt out of the car. “Wait here!”

“I’m coming!” Freddie was hot on his heels when he stopped suddenly and she slammed right into him.

“No,” he said fiercely, “you’re not! The last thing we need is somebody else out wandering around in that field. I can’t take care of all of you. You stay here with Emma. She seems to be the only one with any sense.” He flicked Emma a quick strained grin, then focused again on Freddie. “You’re staying, got that?”

“I-”

“Just say you’ve got it. You’re the one who doesn’t take risks, remember? Don’t change your mind now.”

“But-”

“Got it. Say, I’ve got it.”

“I’ve got it,” Freddie said desperately, frantically. She knew Gabe was right, even though every maternal instinct wanted to insist it was her duty-not his-to go after Charlie. “Stop wasting time badgering me! Just find Charlie and get him out of there!”

Gabe had been scared a few times in his life-the first time he’d ridden a bull, the night his father had had a heart attack, the day his mother said, “I guess we’ll have to sell the ranch if you don’t want to run it.”

He’d been scared enough of his inadequacies never to have done any rodeo bullfighting at all. And he quaked in his boots whenever he heard his name mentioned along with the words commitment and marriage.

But he’d never been as scared as he was now.

A boy-a little boy!-was out looking for a bull to ride.

Because of him.

A little boy might get trampled, gored-killed!-because of him!

Because Charlie worshiped him. Because he wanted to be like him. Because Gabe had opened his big mouth and said he wouldn’t coddle his children.

“If they were mine, they’d learn to be cowboys,” he’d said after the sheep-riding fiasco, like he knew everything, like he had all the answers, like he was some blinkin’ god!

Gabe’s relationship with the Almighty was casual, but steady. Any man who rode bulls for a living and courted disaster on a daily basis was generally on speaking terms with God.

Gabe spoke now. He murmured one prayer after another as he strode across the field, eyes darting this way and that, looking for Charlie’s navy anorak or Mrs. Peek’s red sweater or, in the best of all worlds, neither of them-only the bull.

“I didn’t mean it,” he told God. “Well, maybe I did. But I was only trying to help. I don’t want her raisin’ ’em to be sissies. I never meant for him to do somethin’ dumb. So take care of him, huh? And You damned-er, darned-well better take care of Mrs. Peek, too!”

As he crested the hill, he glanced back once to see Freddie and Emma perched on the wall, arms hugged across their chests, eyes intent on him. He wished he could yell back that he’d found them, but the field rolled on, trees and rock outcroppings scattered here and there.

No Charlie. No Mrs. Peek. No bull.

Gabe hurried on, yelling Charlie’s name as he went, then stopping to listen for a response.

And then he saw the bull.

Huge, brown and mud-caked, the animal was pacing agitatedly between two beech trees, twitching his tail, snorting and huffing and pawing the ground.

Gabe stopped dead. He looked around for Charlie or Mrs. Peek and was relieved not to see either of them.

Then he heard Charlie’s voice. “Gabe! Hi, Gabe! We’re up here!”

Gabe looked around desperately. But he only saw the field, the rocks, the trees. And, of course, the bull.

Then a leg dangled down from one of the trees. “Here! In the trees.”

Suddenly the other beech shook, too. A pair of dark brown brogans and heavy woolen stockings appeared.

Mrs. Peek had climbed a tree?

The bull spotted her legs and snorted. It whuffled, blew and charged.

“Look out!” Gabe yelled.

The legs disappeared up into the branches just as the bull crashed against the tree. The ground beneath Gabe’s feet trembled. He muttered an imprecation under his breath, looking around wildly for inspiration.

And for a refuge, as the bull, after having hit the tree, turned around and spotted him.

Gabe remembered a rodeo clown buddy who said, “Time slows down when I fight a bull.”

As far as Gabe was concerned, it never slowed down enough for him to be sure he’d get out of the way. That was why he’d never tried bullfighting.

He was going to have to try it now.

He’d have to attract the bull, entice it, get it to run at him and away from Mrs. Peek and Charlie. It was the only way they could escape.

Slowly, keeping an eye on the bull, Gabe pulled off his jacket. If the bull got it, ripped it out of his hands, he’d move on to the hat. If it got the hat-well, he wouldn’t let himself think that far ahead.

He didn’t think about what would happen if the bull got him instead of the jacket, either. He flapped the jacket, moving away from the trees. The bull was curious, but not enthralled. He looked back at Mrs. Peek’s shoes.

“Use our sweater!” Mrs. Peek called. “Us was tryin’ to distract ’im with it. It’s down there.” A hand dipped down below the branches of the tree and pointed.

Gabe looked and, sure enough, he spotted her faded red sweater lying on the ground.

“Us’ll divert his attention,” she called.

“Right.” He wasn’t going to argue. She was reasonably safe in the tree, and the bull was once more looking her way.

Mrs. Peek lowered her legs again. She kicked them. She waggled them. She called, “Yooo-hooo, toro! Over here!”

The bull snorted and turned in her direction. Warily Gabe moved to snatch up the sweater. Then, clutching it, he shouted and waved it in the direction of the bull.

The bull stopped. It stared.

Deliberately Gabe flapped the sweater again. He started walking slowly parallel to the bull, away from the trees…trying to get the bull to charge.

One second it was staring. The next it was racing toward him. And Gabe learned it was true, what his buddy had said.

Though it all happened in the blink of an eye, somehow Gabe saw every step, every ball of mud the bull’s hooves flung high.

He waved the sweater, flimsy and insubstantial, out to his side and leapt back as-whoosh-the bull pounded past.

Breathing like each gulp would be his last, Gabe sidestepped, moving even farther from the trees. If he could get behind them and the bull came after him, they would be left in the clear.

He moved. He flapped the sweater. He said, “Come on, you big fat son-of-a-gun. Let’s see how fast you can run.”

Not all that fast, please God, he prayed.

Once more the bull charged. Gabe dodged, stumbling this time, falling to one knee and wincing as the bull skidded and turned to come at him again.

Desperate, Gabe staggered to his feet.

“Come on! Come on! A miss is as good as a mile!” He’d twisted his knee as he fell, the same knee he’d hurt more times than he could count when he’d ridden bulls. He gritted his teeth as the pain stabbed him. “Come on!”

The bull came. It lowered its head and charged-and snagged the sweater, ripping it out of his hands.

But at least he was behind the trees now, across the meadow away from Charlie and Mrs. Peek.

Beyond the bull, Gabe saw Charlie swing down out of the tree. As the bull came at him once more, Mrs. Peek descended, too. They glanced in his direction.

“Go on!” Gabe yelled. “Go!”

And the instant before he had to spin away, he saw Mrs. Peek grab Charlie’s hand and run with him up the hill.

Once they were out of sight, Gabe took a breath.

And panicked.

He had no sweater, he’d dropped his jacket before the bull had made its first pass. It turned at the hedgerow by the far end of the field and looked back at him.

Two-thousand pounds of muscle and horn and meanness was all that stood between him and safety.

All?

Gabe almost laughed.

He took off his hat. Slowly he flapped it up and down. He took a step, then another, moving toward the bull this time, not away. “Come and get me,” he said softly. “Come on. Once more. You’ve only got one more shot, buddy. Miss one more time and I’m outa here.”

Get me and I’m outa here, too. In a box.

The bull lowered its head. It snorted. It pawed.

It ran straight at him.

“She was amazing,” Charlie was babbling with admiration. “Just like one of them bull fighters on the telly!”

Freddie had her arms around both of them, hugging them, almost sobbing in relief. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you. If you hadn’t-I don’t know what I’d have done if-”

But Mrs. Peek shushed her before she could even speak the unspeakable. “Us gave ’im a little breathing room,” the older woman said modestly. “Us’d still be sittin’ up in those trees if it weren’t for your Mr. McBride.”

Mr. McBride. Gabe.

Freddie looked around frantically. “Where-”

“He’s fighting the bull, Mum!”

Oh, God. She remembered when Gabe and the children had been watching the rodeo videos. Emma had been fascinated with the bullfighting clowns.

“Were you ever one of them?” she’d asked Gabe eagerly.

“Not on your life, sweetheart. There are some things even I’m not fool enough to tackle.”

But today he was.

Freddie closed her eyes. “Oh, Gabe. Oh my God, Gabe.” She hugged her arms across her chest. She wanted to vault the hedgerow and race down the meadow and scream his name, demand that he come. And she knew she didn’t dare.

She knew there was no point. She would cause more trouble. As if he needed more trouble…

“Gabe!” Charlie shouted.

“Gabe!” shrieked Emma.

And Freddie opened her eyes, looking down the field wildly-and in vain.

Then she looked where her children were looking-where Charlie was running-and saw Gabe, dirty, disheveled, but-thank God-in one piece, coming up the lane toward them.

She started toward him, then stopped, watching as Charlie hurled himself into Gabe’s arms. She saw those arms go hard around him, saw Gabe crush the boy against his chest and bury his face in Charlie’s hair.

“Don’t ever-don’t you ever-do a thing like that again!” His voice was ragged as he let the boy down, but kept a hand on him.

“I only wanted to ride ’im,” Charlie said. “You do.”

“It’s different,” Gabe said, his voice still rough. “Way different.”

“But-”

Gabe put his arm around Charlie’s narrow shoulders. “Listen,” he said. “You don’t have to prove yourself to me or to anyone. Then, with his arm still around her son, he looked up at Freddie. “I’m sorry.”

It was the last thing she expected him to say. “S-sorry?”

He nodded. “He did it because of what I said, that I wouldn’t coddle them. I’m sorry. I had no right.”

“It’s…it’s all right,” Freddie’s voice faltered. “He’s all right. You’re all right.” She wanted to go to him, to put her arms around him the way he had around Charlie, to hug him, to prove to herself he was all in one piece, safe. Alive.

She gave him a watery smile, praying that she wouldn’t be soppy and start crying. She was trembling all over.

“All’s well, ends well,” Mrs. Peek said. “An’ what a story us’ll have!” She rubbed her hands together and her eyes sparkled with excitement.

But Gabe shook his head. “I’m writing this one.”

Her face fell.

“And we’ll have Dodd the photo out to take your picture.”

“Our picture?” Mrs. Peek blinked owlishly.

Gabe grinned and put his other arm around her. “If it hadn’t been for you, Charlie’s adventure with the bull might have turned out a heck of a lot worse. In next Thursday’s edition we’ll have a story-and a picture. This time, Mrs. Peek, you’re the news!”

He knew words didn’t change things.

Yes, Charlie was safe. But he had been at risk. He might have been killed or seriously injured out there.

It was all his fault, and Gabe knew it.

Even though Freddie smiled and said it wasn’t, she was very quiet all the way home. She tried not to fuss over Charlie- Gabe could see that. But he could also see that she had to almost forcibly keep herself from touching him, patting him, stroking his hair. And every time she turned away from Charlie to look at him, almost instantly her gaze skated away again.

As if she couldn’t bear to look at him.

Well, she wouldn’t have to. Not much longer.

He should have left at once, but he needed a shower. He needed to put on some of those clean clothes she’d washed and folded for him. He couldn’t turn up at Earl’s looking like he’d just stepped out of the rodeo arena. He didn’t want to have to explain.

By the time he’d cleaned up, though, Freddie had supper on the table.

“Please,” she said, “eat with us,”

And the children said, “Please, Gabe.”

Truth be told, he didn’t want to say no. All the momentum that was supposed to have got him out the door had vanished in the field. All the adrenaline that had kept him going was gone.

It was a simple meal. Pork chops. A lettuce salad. Bread and butter.

It was the best meal he’d ever eaten.

It stuck in his throat.

Because in just a few minutes-an hour at most-he was going to have to leave it all behind-leave this house, these children.

This woman.

He watched her every move. Every time she turned away, his eyes followed her. They traced her steps, her shape, her smile. She smiled at the children. Once or twice she even spared a smile for him. He memorized them, stored them away for the not too distant future when those memories would be all he had.

“Tell us a story, Gabe,” Emma begged after dinner was over and the dishes were done.

“I-” He was going to say he couldn’t, that he had to leave. But he couldn’t get the words past his throat.

It would be easier, he told himself, to go if the kids were in bed asleep, not standing there watching him drive away. So he said, “I know a short one.”

“About bulls?” Emma asked.

Gabe saw Charlie shudder. “No,” he told the little girl. “This one’s about a lord.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Freddie start. But he deliberately didn’t look at her.

He sat down with the children and began his tale. He told them about a pair of cousins-“blood brothers”-because once upon a time they’d pricked their fingers and mingled their already shared blood and promised they would always look out for each other. But then they grew up and grew apart.

One went to be a cowboy. The other was groomed to be an earl.

“Tell us about the cowboy,” Emma begged.

But Gabe shook his head. “You know all about the cowboy.”

He told them about Randall instead. He told them about duty and responsibility and commitment. He told them about putting other people’s needs first and sticking to what needed to be done.

“Sometimes it isn’t much fun. And it doesn’t always look heroic, but it is,” he said. “Just like Mrs. Peek-doing what she always did-but she might have saved your life today.”

“You saved my life,” Charlie insisted. “You fought the bull.”

“I wouldn’t have even known where you were if Mrs. Peek hadn’t sent Emma to get us.”

“But still-”

Gabe shook his head. “I’m no hero.”

He glanced at Freddie, hoping she heard.

She was sitting on the far side of the room, the mending in her lap. She didn’t come and sit down to listen. He didn’t blame her.

He hoped, though, that she heard enough of what he was telling them that she would know how much he regretted what had happened.

He said, “You remember that story even if you forget all the rest.” Then he stood up. “Time for bed.”

Charlie hugged him fiercely. Emma said, “Don’t go, Gabe. Don’t go.”

But as he gave her a goodnight kiss, he said, “I have to.”

They went upstairs and he gave them each a last hug, then left Freddie to say her goodnights to them. He went back down and stood for just a minute, looking around, letting it all seep in. The memories. The children. The woman.

Then he picked up his duffel bags once more.

“Gabe?”

He turned. Freddie stood on the stairs. She looked pale, fragile. Breakable. Hurt-because of him.

“Please. Wait.”

He didn’t want to wait. Didn’t know how much more he could stand.

But Freddie came down the stairs. Her fingers knotted together. “You said you were sorry. But I’m the one who should be saying it. It’s just… I think about Mark. He did foolish things. Risky things. He…died! Charlie…”

She broke off. The tears that had been threatening since the moment Emma had pounded up the drive with the news spilled over now. She put her hands to her face. “Oh, help.”

He had no choice. He dropped the duffel and went to her. “Charlie didn’t die,” he said thickly. “And he won’t try it again. He won’t do what Mark did, either. He’ll learn. We all do stupid stuff as boys. It’s part of the definition.” He took hold of her arms, but that didn’t seem enough, so he wrapped them around her, drew her in. “He was up a tree, Freddie. Scared, but safe. He learned his lesson.”

“But you…you could have…”

“I should have gone up the tree, too,” Gabe said wryly, “but I didn’t want you having to call out the fire brigade. How would that have looked? What a British version of a cowboy I would have been!”

He saw the faintest hint of a smile touch her mouth. She looked up into his eyes. “You’re a wonderful cowboy. The best. Thank you.”

He snorted softly. “Don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

“You saved Charlie. And-” she faltered for a second “-you taught me a lesson, too.”

He looked at her blankly.

Freddie went up on tiptoe. “That there are some risks worth taking,” she whispered and she touched her lips to his.

He only meant to comfort her. Truly. He only wanted to share on a deeper level all that they had shared today.

It was, perhaps, the one time in his life he’d held a beautiful woman in his arms and had not been hoping for more.

But somehow comforting and sharing turned to touching, to caressing, to kissing, to loving. And when Freddie took his hand and led him back up the stairs to her room, he didn’t say no.

He’d wanted her forever. Couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t gone to sleep thinking of Freddie Crossman and awakened with thoughts of her in his mind.

But still he had to ask. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

The last thing he wanted was to have her wish it had never happened. “You’ve been under a lot of stress. You’re overwrought because of what almost happened to Charlie.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” And then she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him again.

There was tenderness in this kiss-as there had been in the earlier one. But now there was desire, too.

Gabe knew about desire. Knew about desperation. His whole body seemed to throb with it, with his need of her.

“Freddie,” he warned, voice shaking as he gave her one last chance. He still had-he hoped-a thread of control.

Until she tugged his shirt loose from his waistband and slid her hands up underneath, caressing his heated flesh, making the blood pound in his veins. And he was gone. Lost.

He kissed her hungrily, eagerly. His fingers fumbled with the buttons on her shirt. She made quicker work of his, then peeled the shirt off his shoulders and ran her hands over his chest. Then, as if she hadn’t already lit his fire, she pressed a dozen tiny kisses here and there.

He muttered. He stumbled trying to shed his jeans and get out of his boots. With her hands Freddie both soothed and excited him.

“Shhh,” she whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.” And if there was the barest hint of emphasis on the word I, Gabe wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it. But in any case, it was true. He was the one who would be leaving.

But not now. Later.

In the morning.

Not yet.

They tumbled onto the bed, and then, as if by some unspoken accord, their movements slowed, became languid, their touches gentled.

Gabe was no young buck, desperate to fulfill his body’s urgings. He wanted her, yes, desperately. But he could take his time-enjoy, appreciate, savor the softness, the smoothness, the suppleness that was Freddie Crossman.

He stretched out on the bed and leaned up on one elbow to survey her.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Ah, yes.” With one finger he traced a line from the tip of her nose across her lips to her chin, then down between her breasts. His fingers lingered there. His mouth touched there. Freddie shivered. She clutched at him.

“Gabe!” Her voice was urgent, needy.

He smiled. But it was a strained smile because he was needy, too. Needing Freddie. He kissed each breast. His fingers moved down, found her-slick and soft and ready for him. She squirmed under his touch.

He shut his eyes. Bit his lip. Held his breath.

“Come to me, Gabe!” She reached for him, ran her hands over him, found the hottest, hardest part of him, making him exhale harshly.

“Freddie!”

“Now, Gabe,” she urged. And then she brought him home.

That was what it felt like. Home. Where he was warm and safe and loved. Home-where he belonged.

Sex had always been fun for Gabe. It had never made him want to weep before. Now it did.

For love. For joy. For the pure unadulterated beauty of the way they fit together-body and soul.

And then because even that could be better-and he knew it-he began to move. Slowly at first. Savoring every second. Making himself wait. Making Freddie wait. Watching her in the moonlight. Watching the way her lips parted, the way her back arched and her body trembled. Feeling the way her body tightened around him.

And then his concentration shattered. He shattered, too. Right along with her.

He had never been more broken. He’d never felt more whole.

She had no willpower.

A stronger woman would have been able to resist. A stronger woman would have thanked Gabe McBride for saving her son’s life-then waved him goodbye and breathed a sigh of relief when he went away.

Not Freddie. Not now. Not tonight.

Tonight, God help her, she needed his touch. She needed his warmth. She needed him!

It was true, what she’d told him. In those awful moments when she hadn’t known where he was-if the bull had spared Charlie and gored Gabe-she’d felt an awful despair, a wrenching sadness, a hollow sense of loss.

For whatever they could have had.

For what might have been.

She didn’t expect forever. She knew better.

When she’d married Mark, she’d expected forever. She’d counted on it. And she’d been devastated by his death. She’d fought to protect Charlie and Emma from any such risks. She’d hoped-by refusing to get involved with anyone else-to protect herself from further pain.

She was past that now. She knew better.

There was no way to protect oneself from pain. There was no life without it. There was just pretended indifference. She knew now that was worse.

To let Gabe go without loving him would be worse.

She knew he was going back to Montana. In the morning he would be gone. But at least she would have tonight. And if the memories caused her heartache, they couldn’t be worse than the fear and anguish she’d felt before she’d known he was safe.

She lay now, watching him sleep, and reached out to tug the duvet up around his shoulders. At her movement, he smiled faintly. He reached out an arm and drew her close.

Tears pricking behind her eyelids, Freddie snuggled in. A ragged breath caught in her throat. She pressed a kiss against his jaw. “I love you,” she whispered.

He didn’t hear her.

It was just as well.

Gabe didn’t get out before the kids got up.

He was, thank heavens, not still in their mother’s bedroom. But he wasn’t out the door yet, either. It had been too wonderful lying in bed with her, too tempting to stay just a little longer, to make each kiss last, but not the last.

But then Freddie had heard Emma padding around and she’d almost bolted out of bed, grabbing for her robe as she did so.

“They can’t-” she hissed. “They can’t find you in here!”

“They won’t,” Gabe swore. But even after she’d disappeared into the bathroom, he lay there a moment longer, just breathing, looking, touching-taking it all in.

Then he dragged himself up and pulled on his clothes. He made the bed. Found a single long hair on Freddie’s pillow. He curled it around his finger, then touched it to his lips.

He wanted- He needed…

“Will you get out of here?” Freddie was back, bustling in with her robe wrapped tightly around her. The color was high in her cheeks. Her mouth looked wonderfully well kissed. The sight made something inside Gabe twist hard.

“Gabe! I don’t want to have to explain!” She looked desperate. And desperately unhappy, too.

Because he was going? Or because he hadn’t gone last night?

Did she love him?

He didn’t know. But even if she did…

“Gabe!”

“I know! I know!” He poked his head out. The coast was clear. He could hear Charlie and Emma both moving around now, but neither had appeared. He slipped downstairs.

His bags sat where he’d left them by the door.

He had only to walk across the room, pick them up and walk out. He could be out the door in five seconds flat. In his car in five more. There would be no more goodbyes. No more Charlie and Emma.

No more Freddie.

He shut his eyes. His fingers curled into fists. He didn’t move.

Why not?

Because, damn it, it wasn’t easy to ride off into the sunset when it was barely eight o’clock in the morning!

Footsteps clattered down the stairs. He turned to see both Charlie and Emma. Their eyes lit up when they saw him still there.

“Gabe!” They came hurtling down, only to stop dead when they spotted his bags still by the door. They stared at the bags, then looked back at Gabe. He gave a vague lift of his shoulders, then reached for his hat and clapped it on his head.

Emma sniffled. Charlie blinked rapidly.

“It was…pretty late by the time…I…reckoned I could just…leave this morning,” he explained.

Behind them Freddie appeared. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a hunter green sweater. Neat and tidy. But her hair was still down-loose, flowing. The way it had been all night when he’d buried his face in it, wrapped his hands in it, rubbed his cheek against it.

He felt something lodge in his throat.

Freddie was stone silent, just looking at him. Her face was pale. Pained. Not like the woman who had loved him last night. Like a woman whose heart was breaking.

Was it?

Was he walking out on her when she wanted him to stay? Did she want him to stay?

Staying meant marriage. It meant commitment. It meant responsibility. All the things that Gabe had been running away from for years.

It meant being like Randall.

Or…did it mean doing all those same things but in his own way?

“Can I come and see you, Gabe?” Charlie asked. “In Montana? Someday?”

“Charlie!” Freddie admonished.

But Charlie ignored her. His eyes were fastened on Gabe’s. “Can I? Can I come an’ learn to be a real cowboy? Someday?”

Someday.

Gabe thought about someday. He thought about all the somedays that would stretch out endlessly before him-with no Charlie, no Emma, no Freddie-if he walked out that door.

And suddenly, without thinking further, he blurted, “Why wait?”

“What?” Charlie and Emma and Freddie said together.

“Why wait?” he repeated. “Come with me. No time like the present.” He spoke quickly, grabbing the notion, hanging on desperately, as if it were the rankest bull he’d ever rode. “I love you,” he blurted. “You could marry me, Fred, and we could move to Montana. All of us. What do you say?”

The children’s eyes lit up like Christmas trees.

Freddie looked poleaxed.

And Gabe, having reached the eight second mark of the scariest ride of his life, bailed. He couldn’t wait and watch her reaction, couldn’t face the judges’ marks. He strode quickly out the door.

Freddie stared after him. Astonished. Disbelieving.

Hope sang inside her-and yet, shaking her head, she wondered if she had just imagined the whole thing. Had he said, I love you. You could marry me and come to Montana with me?

Had he said that-and then walked off?

Out by the car, Gabe, damn him, was whistling!

Desperate, she ran after him and grabbed his arm. “Look at me.”

He didn’t. The color was high in his face as he shook her off. He stowed his bags in the boot of the car. “I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I-”

And then she understood. Or dared to hope she did.

This was the way Gabe always was, whistling in the dark, shaking in his boots whenever he really cared, determined, and yet at the same time pretending it didn’t matter.

She took hold of his arm again. “Gabe. I love you, too.”

He stopped moving. But he still didn’t speak.

“I know you’re not Mark. And I know I’ll be scared sometimes, but no more than you’re scared now, Gabe. Please. Look at me and ask me. Ask me again. I need you to. Please.”

Slowly he turned to her. He looked at her long and hard and deep-and gave her his heart in his eyes.

“I need you, too,” he told her hoarsely. “You make me want to commit, be responsible, do all those grown-up things that Earl thinks will make a man of me.”

“You’re man enough already.”

He grinned. And then he kissed her, long and hard and deep, while Charlie and Emma danced and cheered. With a look he shushed them, then turned back to her. “I love you, Fred. Marry me? Come to Montana with me?”

Freddie touched his cheek, first with her hand, and then with her lips. Then she slipped her arms around him and laid her head against his heart.

“Yes, Gabe,” she said. “Oh, yes.”