She’d been sixteen and headed to live with relatives in Tuscaloosa when her mama’s car broke down in Pine Hills. One thing led to another and they’d stayed. Harper’s mama got a job managing a Laundromat, where Harper spent every day after school when she wasn’t sneaking off with Macon. Now he figured there wasn’t a landmark in town where he hadn’t made out with her, in the old cemetery, the rock quarry and on the sloping banks of Star Point Lake. Even Ansel, with whom Macon had been thick as thieves since birth, didn’t know how much time he’d spent with Harper, since her mama was so strict that they’d kept their meetings as secret as possible.
Her mama had died the year before Bruce had, but Macon had never stopped hating the woman. She’d had her suspicions about what Macon and Harper were doing, and anytime she saw Macon in town, she’d pull him aside, her blue eyes narrow and fierce and her voice cracking from the Camels she chain-smoked. My baby girl’s smarter than you. She don’t need your kind. You and me know you’re just using her, trying to get the one thing boys want. But she’s got herself one of those scholarships, so the last thing she needs is you.
Macon had been young and rebellious enough that he could have told the woman what he thought of her, but he hadn’t, out of respect for Harper. In her own way, Macon guessed the woman had loved Harper. And loving Harper, at least, was something Macon understood.
But she’d turned out to be her mama’s girl all the way. She’d rebelled, but not before that twisted woman had filled her head with dire warnings about men, just because she was backward and because a man had left her when she was pregnant with Harper. The summer they were out of school, Macon begged Harper to leave home and run away with him, and she’d finally said she would.
That night, he’d waited in the truck under a canopy of trees not far from Big Grisly’s Grill, alternately peering down the road and staring into a night as starry as Harper’s eyes. Where are you? he’d thought with panic. Don’t stand me up. Don’t let your mama win.
But she had.
And then she’d married Bruce and given birth to Cordy. Now Macon lifted his gaze from the horses in the corral, realizing he’d been half admiring their dreamless ease, their thoughtless pleasure. Why couldn’t his life be that damn simple? “What?”
Diego’s black eyes narrowed. “Stewing about the widow?”
Macon shook his head. “Just hoping that new fence’ll hold.”
“Don’t let her get you down,” said Ansel. “You saw her son, Cordy, last Saturday when he came over here to help herd cattle. He’s ready to leave the nest, so Harper’s just looking for distractions. She’s like her own crazy mama, always meddling.” Ansel frowned. “Wait a minute. Back in high school, was there more going on with you and Harper than we knew about?”
Plenty. “’Course not.” Crossing to the desk, Macon stared at big block letters that stated: “Everything you read in Texas Men magazine is a lie. Here is the real Macon McCann.” Attached was a photo of a grizzled, leather-faced, bearded man three times Macon’s age. Macon held up the photograph, forcing a smile. “This guy makes Cam look pretty.”
Cam laughed. “Don’t take your love troubles out on me, son.”
“They’re not love troubles,” Macon grumbled, wishing his father would simply turn over the ranch to him. Since he wouldn’t unless Macon married, Macon had no choice but to fix things so the Texas Men respondents could write him back.
Macon snuggled his hat down on his head and after a moment’s hesitation dug in a pocket for the keys to his truck. “I reckon I’d better head over to the Moodys’,” he explained. He tried to tell himself that he no longer felt betrayed or cared that she hadn’t loved him. Things just hadn’t worked out. Still, Harper had no right to open his mail, and the words she’d written to Chantal Morris played in his mind. Hold out for the man of your dreams…. Macon McCann is not the man for you, nor would he be a good father for your—or anyone else’s—baby….
How had Harper known what kind of father he’d make? She’d never given him a chance. “Figure I’d better go over there,” he repeated gruffly. “At least give her a piece of my mind.”
“Careful that’s all you give her a piece of,” Ansel warned.
“Careful you don’t start makin’ bacon, Macon!” added Diego.
Cam cupped a hand around his ear. “You hear that sizzling sound, Diego? You smell something burning?”
“Hooee,” hooted Diego. “It’s Macon. He’s hotter ’n chili peppers on a branding iron.”
Macon set his lips grimly, bracing himself for the sparks that always flew between him and Harper. Fact was, in the old days, he and Harper’s explosive arguments had always landed them in bed—or more likely the floor, or a bed of pine needles, or the back seat of the nearest available vehicle. But it had been years since they’d shared that unbridled lust. Then, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Then, the resolution to any heated exchange was reached only one way—with her undressed and Macon hot and heavy between her legs.
But that was then, and this was now.
And now, stepping through the screen door into the scorching Texas heat, Macon assured himself he could confront her at her house without incident.
Now, everything was going to be different.
2
“HERE COMES TROUBLE,” Harper whispered, pressing her fingertips to the door screen, her heart hammering as Macon’s red pickup truck came down her tree-lined road. She never should have left her work station today to freshen up. Leave it to him to check his P.O. box while she was finger combing her hair and experimenting with eyeshadows. She hadn’t worn makeup since Bruce died, but now Macon was back in town, and she didn’t want him to think she wasn’t aging well.
This would teach her.
Earlier, she’d returned to the mail counter to find the lobby empty and Macon pushing through the door, pink stationery fisted in his hand. She’d quickly hunkered guiltily behind a display until he was out of sight.
As Macon now nosed his truck beneath the willow tree that served as her carport, Harper reminded herself that she had nothing to fear. In fact, she should take great pleasure in telling Macon the truth about why she’d written to all those women.
Macon got out of the truck and slammed the door. Pretending he wasn’t aware she was staring at him from behind the screen, he glanced around the yard, his gaze resting momentarily on an old sandbox. Harper hadn’t removed it, compelled, she supposed, by the same maternal force that made her hold on to Cordy’s craft class artwork, skateboard and first mountain bike. She watched anxiously as Macon casually assessed the house, taking in the sweeping, white-railed wraparound porch, porch swing and petunias spilling from the weathered pine flower boxes Bruce had built.
When their eyes met, her fingertips curled on the door screen as if the flat surface could provide her with support. All at once, she couldn’t think straight or breathe, and she kept trying to swallow, but she couldn’t do that, either. She wished Cordy was home, then she felt guilty for wanting to use her teenager—my and Macon’s teenager, she thought with breathless panic—to shield her from his own father. It was wishful thinking, anyway, since Cordy was gone, spending the night with his best friend.
Breathe, she coached herself as Macon approached. It should have been easy, but just like delivering Macon’s mail from all those women, it wasn’t. Besides, she was too busy worrying about the bags only she noticed under her eyes, and about how, after her thirtieth birthday, cellulite had dappled her thighs overnight while every other inch of her started leaning like the Tower of Pisa.
Macon, of course, had never looked