Gavin rubbed dry, scratchy eyes. Barely blinking for an hour had taken its toll.

Scarlett was still a flight risk, so during their interaction with the attorneys he’d kept his gaze glued on her like the warden at a women’s penitentiary.

Dirty thoughts of playing escaped prisoner and bounty hunter took root in his brain. Desire rolled over him at the image of frisking Scarlett against a wall. He needed to strap that shit down. Sex in this screwed-up situation was a recipe for disaster.

Damn. Now she was wearing nothing but an apron and a smile.

Stop. Think about baseball or your current marriage contract. That’ll kill your sex drive, Bain.

After they’d shared the terms of their agreement with Luanne and Jack, a quick contract was drawn up. Jack left before the ink dried. Luanne lingered for a bit then reluctantly left as well. No doubt she’d be on the phone with Scarlett as soon as possible to find out why her goody-two-shoes best friend agreed to this deal. He’d like to know the answer to that question himself.

“Well, that’s that.” He knocked his knuckles on the table.

“Yep.” She rubbed her temples. “The money will be deposited into my account tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

It pissed him off she was so unaffected by the fact that she’d let him buy her. He ignored the voice in his head that called him a hypocrite. Yes, he’d offered her the money, but she didn’t have to take it. Stupid.

He’d wanted her to be different.

She wasn’t.

Move on.

He slapped his hands on his thighs and rose. “Well, I guess we should go meet your father and Billy Jean.”

“Molly Jean,” Scarlett said.

“Okay, whatever.”

“Not whatever.” She jumped to her feet, got right in his face, and punctuated her words with a finger poke. “If this farce is going to work you’re going to have to play your part, buddy.” Poke. “Which means you will remember my relative’s names and not get into a fight with my father.” Poke. “Or anyone else in my family.” Poke.

He looked down at the finger jabbed into his chest and gently brushed it aside. “I am not going to hit your father. He's got to be what, sixty?”

“He’s fifty.”

“I don’t go around hitting old men, Scarlett.”

“Really? Because I distinctly remember an incident in which you punched a sixty-year-old man during an altercation at a coffee shop. I saw it on Entertainment Tonight.”

“You can’t believe everything you hear or see on TV.”

“So, it’s not true?”

“Well, yeah, it’s true. But that was eight years ago, and if the guy had minded his own business, he wouldn’t have gotten hit. I was throwing a punch at the guy in front of me.”

“How old was he?”

“I don’t know, maybe fifty-five.”

She stared at him longer than he thought completely necessary. “Well, clearly you’ve been misrepresented in the retelling of the dispute.” She shook her head, pursed her lips, and did a great impression of a disapproving headmistress. “No wonder they call you The Delinquent.”

“He hit me first. What was I supposed to do? Not protect myself?” Why was he defending himself? For some incomprehensible reason, he wanted her to understand. Ridiculous. He didn’t explain himself to anyone. There’d only been one person whose opinion mattered to him, and he was dead.

The sound of gunfire interrupted their conversation.

Gavin ducked for cover. “Holy shit, what was that?”

“It sounds like Honey’s gun.” She went to the window and pulled the curtains back to investigate.

“You recognize the sound of your aunt’s gun? Wait. Your aunt has a gun?”

“Yes, she has a handgun, it’s a revolver because a semi-automatic is too hard for her to handle. Daddy carries a shotgun with him on the tractor, but that was definitely a handgun, not a shotgun.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventy, why?”

“No reason.” Why? She had to ask why? “Are you packing too?”

“Yes.” She repositioned the bun she’d thrown her hair into and turned back to him. His incredulity must have been evident. “Gavin, this is Texas. We have the right to carry concealed. When a Texas child is born, they’re given a birth certificate, a social security number, and a gun permit—not necessarily in that order.”

When she saw his face, she laughed. “I’m just kidding. We’re not that cliché.”

Her deep, throaty laugh was infectious, and he laughed too. “Out of curiosity, what kind of gun do you carry?” His pretty little wife packing heat was hot.

“I carry a Springfield XDS, 9mm. It’s small, lightweight, and fits nicely in the built-in holster of my purse. Also, the grip safety makes the trigger pull very smooth.”

“Of course it does.”

“We better go see what happened with my aunt, Molly Jean.”

They stepped out onto the porch as Floyd strode into Scarlett’s small yard. “You heard Honey?”

“Yes, what was she shootin’ at?”

“Reporters.”

“What? She didn’t hit any of them, did she?” Scarlett stumbled a bit but caught herself on the porch rail.

“No. Evidently, there was a commotion down at the gate, so she took the four-wheeler and went to investigate.” He mounted the stairs to the porch and moved past them, tipping his head to Gavin when he passed on his way into the house.

They followed him inside the house. “Daddy, you’ve got to start hiding the keys to the four-wheeler. She has no business driving that thing.”

“Agreed.” He removed his cowboy hat and wiped his forehead with a bandana. “Anyhow, once Honey got down to the gate, she told them this was private property, and they needed to stay out. They didn’t seem to understand what she meant was, Stay off this property, or I’ll shoot. But she cleared it up for ’em.”

“Where is she now?” Scarlett asked.

“Over at the house startin’ supper. You know her, watch TV, read a little, shoot some reporters, and make dinner. All in a day’s work.”

“Good God, hillbilly gangsters,” Gavin whispered. The family being armed hadn’t been a consideration when he’d insisted on accompanying Jack to Texas. A laugh stuck in his throat as Scarlett’s words about babies getting gun permits came back to him. He had a ridiculous picture of a cherub-faced child with a cigar hanging from its mouth and a gun belt around its tiny waist, a bottle in one holster and a baby-sized semi-automatic in the other.

Floyd set his hat on the coffee table and folded his bandana before putting it in his back pocket. “Scarlett, darlin’, you want to tell me why reporters are trying to trespass on my property?” He rolled up one sleeve of his denim shirt and then the other. “Would it have anything to do with this fella?” He jerked a thumb toward Gavin. “Sally Pruitt called to tell me I have a new son-in-law and I’m guessing this is him.”

Gavin’s pulse stuttered when the older man leveled a glare at him. Clearly, Luanne wasn’t the only person who’d happily castrate him. He fought the urge to cover his crotch, but shifted slightly to the side to protect the family jewels. The last time he’d been this obsessed with his balls was in middle school. Then, as now, you never knew who might kick you in the nuts for the sheer hell of it.

“You know Sally Pruitt is the biggest gossip in town.”

Floyd turned to Scarlett, and his face softened some, but Gavin could see he wanted an answer. Her father didn’t say a single word, and she folded like a cheap suit.

“Yes, he is.”

What a wuss. It was time he took control of this situation. He looked Floyd in the eye and extended his hand. “Mr. Kelly, I’m Gavin Bain.”

A flash of movement was the only warning he had before the older man’s fist connected with his jaw, and the lights went out.

* * *

“Daddy,” Scarlett yelled, and dropped to her knees at Gavin’s side.

Floyd flexed his fingers, stepped over Gavin’s prone body and headed for the kitchen. “He’ll be fine, I barely tapped him.”

“You knocked him out.”

“Only because I knew where to hit him, he’ll come around in a minute.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. Stop worryin’.”

Scarlett lightly slapped Gavin’s cheek and his dark stubble tickled her palm. A scar ran from his temple to below his left ear at his hairline. She gently traced over it, feeling the bumps and ridges. Her fingers drifted into his hair, and she cupped his head. The feel of his hair triggered another lost memory.

The lights of the Las Vegas strip barely penetrated the heavily tinted windows of the limousine. Swaddled in the cocoon of the dark limo, she hiked her dress up and straddled his lap. Her fingers tunneled through his soft tawny hair. “I love your hair.” She held his head at the perfect angle for a heart-stopping kiss. “Your lips.” She made her way to his eyelids and kissed each tenderly. “Your eyes.”

He leaned his forehead against hers, holding her face in his hands. “I’ve never known anyone like you. I could drown in your sweetness.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll save you if you do.” And she kissed him again.

She’d sat on his lap—in a dress. Her cheeks flamed. Apparently, when Gavin was around, uninhibited Scarlett took control. This was going to be a long six months. Because the more she was with him, the harder it was to remember why that kind of behavior was inappropriate.

Ice clattered from the dispenser in the refrigerator door, making her jerk her hand away. She cringed when his head bumped against the floor. Oops.

There was something she needed to say before Gavin woke up. “Daddy, I know you’re worried, but I want to assure you this is not me turning into mama.”

He dropped some of the ice onto the floor, and it skated under the refrigerator. “We don’t talk about your mother.”

“But—”

“Scarlett.” The way his face closed down let her know the subject was closed.

The tiny fissures in her heart widened at her father’s immediate dismissal. It had been like that since the day her mother left. Her wanting, needing, to talk about things, and her father’s unwillingness to discuss the subject.

“Where’s your mop, Scarlett?”

“In the utility room.”

“This floor’s wet, so be careful.”

The man loved her. She never doubted it. But sometimes she’d catch him watching her like she might spontaneously dance naked in public or do some other irresponsible, Mary Kelly thing, kind of like he was doing now.

He handed her a baggie of ice and placed another on the knuckles of his right hand.

As soon as she placed the bag on Gavin’s jaw, he sat straight up, eyes crazed. “Jesus. What the hell happened?”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, son. I just welcomed you to the family. Count yourself lucky my shotgun is in the truck.” Floyd folded himself onto the sofa and looked at each of them. “Now, you two want to tell me what the Sam Hill’s going on?”

Gavin held the ice to his jaw and looked at her. She looked at him, and they had a complete conversation in that split second.

Go ahead, daddy’s girl, tell him.

Oh no, pretty-boy, this is your show, you tell him.

You saw him hit me, right?

This was your idea.

He’s your father.

You forced me.

Really?

Fine.

“While I was in Las Vegas I met Gavin and…well…it was love at first sight.” That was sort of true if you substitute lust for love.

“Did ya now?” Floyd leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, resting one booted ankle on his knee.

She sat next to her dad and attempted her best grade-school-photo smile. “Yes.”

* * *

Gavin bit his cheek to keep a straight face. She tried to communicate matrimonial joy, but her appearance was less happy bride and more clown-with-a-knife. Eyes wide and a slightly wild, a gigantic smile combined with smudged mascara and riotous red hair added up to clown on a killing spree.

“Then why am I just now hearing about this, and from Sally Pruitt of all people?” Gavin didn’t miss the knife-edge tone in Floyd’s voice.

“Well, we…we were—”

“We wanted to tell you together,” Gavin interjected.

Scarlett gave him a grateful smile and took her dad’s hand. “Yes, we wanted to tell you together.”

Her father leaned forward and placed the bag of ice on the coffee table. He looked at them both. “Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then.”

They embraced, and she wiped a tear on his shoulder then pulled back to look into his face, with a genuine smile this time. “I love you, Daddy.” Gavin relaxed. He hadn’t been sure she could sell the lie.

Floyd extended his hand to Gavin. “Welcome to the family, Gavin.”

Gavin flinched. Who could blame him? His jaw hurt like hell. He cautiously took the proffered hand. “Thank you, sir.” Floyd’s grip of death communicated three words clearly—watch yourself, son. It was clear the man knew something wasn’t right, he just hadn’t figured out what yet.

“Okay.” Floyd nodded his head like that was settled. “Now, tell me why Honey’s got all those reporters to use for target practice.”

“I’m afraid that’s my fault. I’m a musician, and I’ve had some success. The media seem to be interested in the story, must be a slow news day.”

Self-deprecating, nice touch.

“Where’s Lindsay Lohan when you need her, huh?” Gavin chuckled, and Scarlett laughed hysterically. Not the oh, that’s so funny hysterical but more, I’m bat shit crazy hysterical. She needed to calm the hell down, or her father was going to be more suspicious than he already was.

It was clear Scarlett’s father didn’t have a clue what Gavin was talking about. Still trying to read his daughter’s situation, Floyd turned to Scarlett, and then glanced back at Gavin. His eyebrows arched and his lips pursed when he took in tattooed arms, messy hair, and muted rock star attire for the first time.

“Know anything about horses?” Floyd asked.

“Not a thing.” Unease crawled up his back at the wicked gleam in the other man’s eyes.

“Well, that’s okay. You can learn.” Floyd sat up straight and narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t planning to take my girl away from her family are you?”

Gavin wasn’t, but if he was, he might think twice about it. Floyd Kelly was not a man you messed with. Scarlett said he was fifty, but he didn’t look it. Thick brown hair, void of any silver, framed a rugged face, and the right hook and muscled forearms indicated he was in great shape. The only sign of aging was the sun-beaten wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Those suckers only made his hard-eyed stare more menacing. Gavin had been on the wrong end of that kind of stare before, and he’d put Floyd’s up there with the best.

All the menace and wrinkles disappeared when he laid his hand on his daughter’s cheek. “You’re happy, darlin’?”

She leaned into his touch. “Truly, Daddy, I am.” She was good, Gavin almost believed her. Of course, fifty thousand dollars was enough to make anyone happy.

When the two embraced again, Gavin gripped the arm of the chair to keep from sprinting from the room. Watching this scene made him uncomfortable and confused the hell out of him. Floyd had to be hurt to find out about the marriage from someone other than his daughter, so he should be mad or upset. But all Gavin saw was love and acceptance.

He didn’t understand parent–child relationships—it was like deciphering a foreign language he knew he should be able to speak but couldn’t comprehend. Hell, his dad was no more than a drive-by sperm donor and his mom a drug addict who forgot she had a five-year-old at home, alone. He’d grown up a ward of Washington state, unloved, undisciplined and unimportant.

Envy punched him in the gut so hard he almost doubled over. An old bitterness, like a sleeping dragon, roused and stirred to life.

He’d been such an idiot as a kid. How many times had he watched families and wonder what it’d be like to have one of his own? Or he’d fantasize his mom got clean and came back for him.

His sober mom wouldn’t pick her skin until blood-crusted sores appeared, or ignore his existence. She’d be beautiful, with clean, shiny hair, clear skin, and warm, laughing eyes, eyes that looked at him and really saw him. Sometimes he could even imagine her waiting for him when he got home from school with fresh-baked cookies, and she’d ask him how his day had been. They’d talk, do homework, and his life would be pretty close to perfect.

When reality predictably came crashing down, he’d cry like someone had died.

Gavin made a promise right then and there to the stupid little bastard he’d been back then. If Tara’s baby was his, he’d move heaven and earth to make sure that when the boy was thirty years old he wouldn’t sit around grieving a family that never existed.

Hey, you play the hand you’re dealt, man.

Even if it’s a crap hand. For him, it was a string of foster families, beatings, a screwed-up system, and weird-ass women who thought he was stud meat by the time he was fifteen. It wasn’t pretty, but he’d survived. His best songs came from that well of pain and anger, so it wasn’t a total waste.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

He rubbed the dull ache in his chest. It scared the shit out of him. Either he was in cardiac arrest, or he was beginning to wish for things he could never have. He hoped it was a coronary, because that long-forgotten desire for a family had the power to shred his soul. A heart attack would only kill him.