Boone. A man who treasured his inheritance, his land, haunted and fearful that he could not make amends for his tragic errors....
After Boone’s illness two years ago, Roman had moved into the Llewlyn House and had joined his spread with The Llewlyn, making them easier to manage. He’d plowed through the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated in Boone’s illness...and had been shocked by what he’d discovered—the children who had stayed at Boone’s ranch through the years had been his grandchildren. As executor of Boone’s estate, Roman had sworn to draw those children back to Llewlyn soil and their heritage. Kallista and the rest had been protected by Boone Llewlyn; he’d threatened to cut off the payments to their irresponsible parents if anything happened to the children. Boone’s bigamist sons and their shallow, coarse ex-wives used the children to torture and bleed money from him. When he came too close, loving the children, the parents swooped in and reclaimed them. Big Boone couldn’t stand the thought of his grandchildren knowing that he couldn’t protect them, so he became their safety, their friend.
Ashamed of failing his sons, Boone would not have them desecrate the Llewlyn name—not in Jasmine, at least. His pensions kept them away and Big Boone’s shame had been a terrible secret that Roman had sworn to keep.
Roman’s own shame ran deep; he’d hidden his empty marriage from his family, deceiving them. In a family whose foundations were rock solid in marriage and love, Roman had discovered on his wedding night that his petite bride couldn’t bear for him to touch her. In public, Debbie had cuddled him, but behind bedroom doors...
Roman again rubbed the cheek that Kallista had slapped four years ago; the stubble was as rough and the memory burned, insulting his honor—his family’s honor. The Blaylocks were known as loving family men and Kallista’s accusations had scored his pride.
Across a small slope Roman’s dark empty house stood in the moonlight. Built years ago for his bride, a home for their daughter until she died, Roman Blaylock’s ranch home had been swept clean of his dreams. In the distance, the moonlit silvery squares of the windows taunted him, the Rocky Mountains rising sharply behind it. It was now an empty monument to what he had wanted—a family as close and loving as his parents’. His marriage had been a lie from the first, and Debbie’s child wasn’t his. She’d been his only teenage sweetheart, but Roman had felt more like a big brother than her beau. When she became pregnant with another man’s child, Roman had come to Debbie’s defense, giving her the protection of his name.
Roman slammed the emotional door shut on his pain. He had enough to think about, managing his own ranch, The Llewlyn, and acting as Boone’s executor.
The sprawling two-story, turn-of-the-century house was stuffed with collections and antiques and memories of the beloved children—The Innocents Boone used to call them—who had passed through its doors. Roman surveyed the vast farm, covered with goats, pigs, sheep and cattle grazing in the moonlit pastures and thought of Boone.
As a young rakehell, Boone had left Jasmine to see the world. Thirty years later, a changed and worn Boone returned permanently to his family’s land and began building his secret empire. Whatever he’d done in the past, Boone was determined to make amends. A big man, he was nevertheless gentle, beloved in the town and yet alone, as if the shadows were his safety.
Roman understood loneliness; perhaps that was what drew the two men together—lone wolves sensing pain in each other.
As executor of Boone’s estate, Roman had promised Boone on his deathbed to bring Kallista back to the land. Spoiled, fiery, and strong-willed, Kallista was the last woman Roman wanted to deal with—but he would, for Boone.
Roman ran his hands through his shaggy black hair. It had taken a year to find her, and tomorrow she’d arrive.
He ripped off his shirt and boots and to unwind the tension in his body, began the slow series of strenuous Tai Chi exercises Boone had taught him.
Kallista turned her key in the Bisque Café’s lock and stepped into the shadowy interior, closing the door behind her. For reassurance, she touched the dangling silver half-moon earrings Boone had given her. “Remember who you are. Remember me and this place as your home. Come back to me, Kallie-girl, and the land where you’ll be safe.”
Troubleshooting for Boudreaux Inc. at a French resort in Nassau, she was too late to see Boone one last time, but she’d come back. She spoke a variety of languages, skimming from one position to another as easily as shedding clothes and putting on new ones. And in her lifetime, the only home she’d known was with Big Boone Llewlyn.
She owed Boone Llewlyn her life and her soul. Roman Blaylock’s takeover of Boone’s beloved land and animals was obvious to Kallista; Roman had moved in with Boone before he died, and he’d taken over....
Moonlight skimmed through the big windows and settled upon the white ceramic bisque, shaped into tiny animals, plates, cups, statues and lamps. A row of dragons on the top shelf reminded her of Roman Blaylock’s big hand wrapped around a broken dragon tail, the shattered remains on his dirty Western boots.
He’d been rawhide rough that day, a six foot three cowboy with leather gloves tucked in the back pocket of his jeans, raw with dust and sweat and leather chaps, tracking down his petite wife and calling her out.
Debbie had been managing Kallista’s shop—began on impulse and on the advice of Hannah Blaylock, an interior decorator and a friend. While Kallista did not often visit Jasmine, she’d created the shop to please Boone, and he’d backed her financially. It pleased him to help her, and the Bisque Café in Jasmine was more his dream than her own. He’d once said it was like having her near—but she wasn’t finished seeking a sense of belonging that had always eluded her.
Boone had kept the books on the café, pleased that it made a small profit, and through the years, various managers had taken care of the daily business. Kallista had built the shop six years ago, and Debbie, Roman’s wife, had run it until four years ago, when Roman Blaylock had torn it apart in a brawl with his wife’s defender.
On one of her infrequent visits to Jasmine, Kallista had come out of the back room just in time to see Debbie’s wide-eyed horror and the smaller, slender man punch Roman’s rock-hard stomach. Roman had easily shoved him backward, blocking the next punch. The whole shop had seemed to pop and crackle as all the shelves, laden with unpainted bisque, quivered and toppled.
The other man had reached for Debbie, huddling over her, protecting her as would a lover. Roman’s burning black eyes didn’t flinch as pieces tumbled down upon him, hitting his head, his broad shoulders and bouncing off as if nothing could hurt him. He’d ignored the thin trickle of blood from his forehead as he’d said one word to Debbie and the man, “Go.”
The word sounded like a whip cracking and an icy shiver had shot up Kallista’s spine, instantly followed by rage. His head had snapped back from her slap, more from pride than from the blow and she’d remembered the fiery hell in his black eyes. Then that quiet, solemn cloak had ripped away and he’d looked like his Mescalero Apache and Spanish conquistador ancestors—untempered by civilization—jutting, blunt bones pressing against his taut dark skin, black brows drawn into a fierce scowl, gleaming black hair dusted with bisque chips.
“You’re not keeping Boone’s land, Mr. Blaylock. Not while I am drawing breath,” Kallista promised, tearing away her memory of Roman four years ago. She leaned against a wall, years of traveling lodged in her body, draining her. She dropped her flight bag to the floor and freed the tears burning her lids. Boone was gone. The man who had always been her anchor.
Through her childhood, she hadn’t known her father and her mother had dropped her on Boone Llewlyn, the man she’d come to love for a lifetime. A big rangy man, with a huge heart, an ugly face and gentle hands, Boone had shadowy ties