The Cowboy and His Wayward Bride. Sherryl Woods

about Harlan Patrick. He’s been on my mind a lot lately.”

      â€œI see.”

      Clearly he didn’t intend to give away a thing without her asking a direct question. “How’s he doing?” she asked finally.

      â€œStill misses you, if that’s what you’re asking. I suspect he always will. Never seen a man as lovesick as he was from the minute you left town.”

      That wasn’t what she’d been asking, but in some tiny corner of her heart, she was glad to hear that he hadn’t forgotten her. Talk about conflicting emotions. Her life was riddled with them.

      â€œYou’ve seen him in the last couple of days?” she asked, broaching the subject of his whereabouts cautiously.

      Harlan hesitated. “Now that you mention it, his daddy did say that the boy had taken off unexpectedly. Never did mention what it was all about, though. Business, I suppose. You want me to have him call you when he gets back?”

      Laurie sighed heavily. She had a feeling there would be no need for that. The timing of his unexplained departure had to be more than coincidence. If she knew Harlan Patrick, she’d be seeing him any day now, as soon as he could get someone to give him her concert itinerary.

      â€œThat’s okay,” she said, then added quietly, “thank you.”

      â€œThanks for what?”

      â€œFor not hating me.”

      â€œOh, darlin’ girl, I could never hate you,” he said, his tone sympathetic. “There was a time when you were practically family. As far as I’m concerned, you’re as good as that now.”

      â€œBut I brought so much pain into Harlan Patrick’s life.”

      â€œAnd so much joy, too,” he reminded her. “Don’t forget that. Sometimes the best you can hope for in life is that it all evens out in the end. You take good care of yourself and come see me next time you’re home. I’ll get the piano tuned, and we’ll have an old-fashioned sing-along. I can’t carry a tune worth a hoot, but it’ll be fun all the same.”

      â€œI will,” she promised. “Give Janet my love, too, will you?”

      â€œOf course I will. You take good care of yourself, Laurie. Don’t forget all the folks back here who love you.”

      As if I could, she thought, but didn’t say. “Goodbye, Grandpa Harlan. I miss you.”

      Only after she’d hung up did she realize there were tears streaming down her cheeks. For the first time in more than six years, she realized just how much she missed home. And when she thought of it, she didn’t remember the little house in which she’d grown up, didn’t even think of her mother, though she loved her dearly. No, she remembered White Pines and the close-knit Adamses, who back then had been more than willing to accept her as one of their own.

      And she remembered Amy Lynn’s daddy and the way she’d always loved him.

      * * *

      He might as well have been traveling in a foreign country, Harlan Patrick thought on his first day in Nashville. He’d taken off without thinking, without the slightest clue of how to go about tracing a woman who didn’t want to be found.

      On the flight, which he’d piloted himself, he’d had plenty of time to try to formulate a plan, but images of Laurie and that baby had pretty much wiped out logic. All he’d been able to feel was some sort of blind rage. Aside from a friendly tussle or two with his cousins growing up, he wasn’t prone to violence, but for the first time in his life he felt himself capable of it. Not that he’d have laid a hand on Laurie, but he couldn’t swear that her furniture would be safe. Smashing a few vases and chairs might improve his mood considerably.

      Then again, it probably wouldn’t. Satisfaction probably couldn’t be had that easily.

      After landing, he rented a car and drove into downtown. He found a hotel smack in the center of things and dragged out a phone book. It was then that he realized just how little he really knew about Laurie’s life in the past few years. An awful lot of it had been played out in public, of course, but that wasn’t the part that would help him now.

      â€œWell, damn,” he muttered staring at the Yellow Pages and trying to figure out which talent representative or which recording studio to call. He couldn’t even remember which record label produced her albums, even though he had CDs of every single one of them. It was hard enough listening to her songs without learning every little detail of the life that had stolen her from him.

      He plucked a scrap of paper out of his pocket and glanced at the number, then dialed her house first, though he recognized it was a long shot. She was on the road and she’d told him that she’d never gotten around to hiring a housekeeper because she wasn’t comfortable with somebody else doing cleaning and cooking she was perfectly capable of doing for herself.

      When no one answered at the house, he searched his memory for some offhand reference she’d made to the new people in her life. Unfortunately, though, the few days they’d had together just over a year ago hadn’t been spent doing a lot of talking, at least not about the things that hadn’t mattered. That baby was living evidence that they’d spent most of the time in bed, remembering just how good it felt to be in each other’s arms.

      â€œOkay, Harlan Patrick, think,” he muttered under his breath.

      For all of its skyscrapers and new construction, Nashville was still a small Southern town in some ways. Surely the music industry was tight-knit enough that everyone would know everybody else’s business. He picked a talent agency at random and dialed.

      â€œHi, sweetheart,” he said to the drawling woman who answered. There was enough sugary sweetness in her voice to make him feel right at home with a little flirting. He had her laughing in a matter of seconds.

      â€œYou are sooo bad,” she said in response to his teasing. “Now, tell me what I can do for you.”

      â€œActually I’ve got some business to do with Laurie Jensen. Any idea how I can get in touch with her?”

      â€œLaurie Jensen?” she repeated, her voice a degree or two cooler. “I’m sorry. We don’t represent Miss Jensen.”

      â€œCould you tell me who does?”

      â€œWhat kind of business did you say you were in?” she asked. This time her tone was downright chilly.

      â€œI didn’t, darlin’, but it’s an ad campaign. We were hoping to get her to do the spots for us.”

      â€œI see,” she said. “Well, maybe you ought to have your ad agency contact her people. That’s the way it works.”

      Harlan Patrick tried to hold on to his patience. “Don’t you see, sugar, that’s the problem. I don’t know her people.”

      â€œAny reputable ad agency will,” she said, and hung up in his ear.

      Harlan Patrick stared at the phone, stunned. Then he sighed ruefully. Obviously he wasn’t the first person to try a ruse to get to a Nashville superstar. He resigned himself to an afternoon spent working his way through the phone listings.

      He didn’t waste time trying to wrangle information from unwilling receptionists. The minute he discovered the agency didn’t represent Laurie, he moved on to the next. It was after six when he finally struck paydirt—or thought he had.

      â€œNick Sanducci’s office.”

      â€œYes. I’m trying to arrange a booking for Laurie