Brock winced as he walked out of the front door of the Floyd County jail. The late spring Texas sun was relentless. Normally, it didn't bother him, but he was dealing with a hell of a hangover.

He'd gotten the shit kicked out of him last night and today he felt it over every inch of his body. The whole incident had come back to him when he'd looked into the polished steel mirror in the drunk tank this morning and seen his split lips. Ronnie had run his mouth and Brock had run his fists. His lack of control was humiliating.

As he walked down the steps, Brock looked up the main street of Honeywell, Texas. Saturday morning was always busy here. The Farmer's Market had started up on the square. There were a few vendors with baked goods and fabric things out, but not a lot of produce. It was a little early yet for the wide variety of fruits and vegetables that would be available later in the summer.

Everyone behind those tables—all people he knew—eyed him now as he slogged down the steps. Censure was in their gazes and he knew his parents would probably hear all about it before he got home.

"Shit," he muttered beneath his breath.

It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't have a ride. His truck was still at Spur’s. He glanced around, looking for someone he could bum a ride with that wouldn't give him too much flak for what he'd done.

As if drawn there, his gaze landed on the curvy, dark-haired woman at the curb. Payton Hanniford was leaning against the front fender of her little blue 4x4 truck, obviously waiting for him.

He had memories of her last night too, and he was even more ashamed of himself for how he’d treated her.

"Hey, Payton."

"Brock."

That was all she said. Then she just stood there waiting on him to say more.

"I acted like an ass last night, didn't I?"

"Yes. You did. But I understand you were just trying to defend your brother."

Brock nodded. Yeah, there was that.

"Thought you might need a ride to your truck."

He looked at her, standing there in the glaring sunshine, and felt humble. He'd shut her out hard the past couple of years, but she still stood beside him, the crush she'd always had on him stronger than ever.

The wind caught her blue-black hair, trailing it out like a flag in the breeze, a throwback to her Apache blood.

Her bright green, thickly lashed eyes, though, were true Irish Hanniford.

Her arms were crossed beneath her breasts, and she had her booted feet crossed on the curb in front of her. She looked damn appealing standing there glaring at him and for a moment he wondered why they'd never hooked up.

Damn. That was another time he'd been an ass.

"Yeah, I'll take a ride if you don't mind."

"I wouldn't be here if I minded. I'm just trying to save your family some hassle."

Damn it. He didn't even want to think about his parents.

Brock headed to the truck, trying not to cry out in pain as he climbed into the passenger side bucket seat. The truck looked cute on her, but it wasn't meant to haul his six foot three inch frame. He tried to reach under the seat to grab the bar to roll the bucket seat back to give his knees room but he only made it about half way before his ribs protested. Loudly.

"Here. I'll get it."

Before he could say anything Payton had leaned over his left thigh to reach the bar between his legs. She jerked up and his seat slid back a few inches.

As she pulled away, he watched a subtle flush crawl under her skin. "Thank you."

"No problem," she told him quickly, sliding a pair of sunglasses over her eyes. Her lips quirked into a grin.

Brock liked that he affected her. She was so collected around him most of the time. Guarded. Everyone else she joked and played with, but not him so much. She occasionally struck out with a jab and they were usually pretty pointed.

"Sheridan called me this morning and told me what time you'd be released. You ought to think about apologizing to him as well. You said some things about Cheyenne you didn't need to."

Brock scrubbed a hand over his face. In general he wasn't a drinker. The odd beer here and there was fine after a hot, dusty day, but last night he'd been hitting the whisky. And he knew better than to do that. Whisky was the quicker fucker upper for him.

His only excuse was that he'd been hit with a lot in the past couple of weeks. His dad's heart attack and the arm shattered in the fall from his horse weren’t just fresh in Brock’s mind— simply thinking about it made his blood run cold. He’d never forget seeing his father topple from the saddle or performing CPR on him, desperate to do it right and terrified of losing his dad. Then the Blue Star round up was off schedule, short-handed and Brock was so distracted he thought he might have done the whole thing on auto-pilot. Just yesterday they'd finally gotten the Johnson spring round-up complete.

"He knows I didn't mean it."

She glanced at him sideways, and he could read the aggravation in her pinched lips.

He sighed, conceding. "Okay. I know, damn it. I'll talk to him."

He lifted his hat and scraped a hand through his hair. He was used to being grungy, but being in jail made you a different kind of grungy. A shower right now would be incredible.

"Anybody else I need to apologize to?"

She stared straight ahead. "Nope."

Then he realized she'd been expecting an apology from him. Damn it. Man up, asshole.

"Payton, I'm sorry I was such a jackass last night. It seems like I'm always apologizing to you."

She sighed, resting an arm over the steering wheel as she stopped for a red light. "It's okay, Brock. I kind of expected to see you somewhere soon."

He frowned at her. "You expected to see me? Why?"

She gave him a considering look, as if wondering if he actually wanted her to answer. "Because you've had a lot thrown at you recently. Your dad almost dying in front of you, the Blue Star roundup then the Johnson roundup, Chad's wedding—I know you have a lot on your mind."

Brock blinked and turned to look out the side window. Was he really that transparent? Yeah, he supposed he was. "I'm not sure why I behaved like that. I'm honestly happy for him. I think Lora is a fantastic woman, at least what little I've seen of her. And I know Chad's in love with that little girl. Mama and Daddy are too. And Chad and I, well, we talked a few things out. We're not too bad right now either."

Brock nodded, almost to himself. Yeah, that was all truthful.

The light turned green and she pressed the accelerator, giving him a surprised sidelong glance. He hated feeling like she could see inside of him, but he kind of appreciated it too.

Payton always called him on his shit. Nobody else would do that.

Over the years he’d missed seeing that chiding look in her pretty eyes. Hell, he missed seeing her. But they'd all grown up and gone on to do what they wanted, for the most part. None of them saw each other much anymore.

"You stink," she said, her nose wrinkling up.

Brock sighed, wondering what it would take for the earth to just open up and eat him. "A guy in the tank puked on my pant legs and boots. You have no idea how bad I want a shower right now."

She looked at him in consideration, then slowed the truck and hung a Louie right in the middle of the almost deserted street.

"What are you doing?"

"You said you wanted a shower. Besides, you've still got blood on your face."

He glanced around and realized they were on the road toward her house. "Ah, Payton, I'm okay. You don't have to do this."

"I know, but maybe it'll keep your parents from freaking out any more than they already will when they find out you were fighting. Your dad can't be upset right now and your mother doesn’t need anything else to worry about."

Brock sighed and rested his head back against the headrest. Yeah, maybe she was right.

Francine and Garrett Lowell loved Payton like a daughter. She and his younger siblings Emily, Cheyenne and Chad, had all hung out a lot together. Brock had gotten used to seeing her in his house. And he'd gotten used to feeling her gaze on him as they matured.

Although he was several years older than Payton, Brock had been aware of her crush. He hadn't done anything to outright discourage it, but he hadn't done anything to encourage it either.

Until she'd turned twenty-one. Then everything had gone to hell in a hand basket.

In his mind's eye, he could see her as she'd been that night. Her eyes sparkling with excitement, her lips slicked with color. For some reason that night when they'd gone out as a group, it had struck him how mature she'd appeared, her black hair styled in an up do and dark makeup on her eyes.

While everyone around her had cut loose celebrating her birthday, Payton had sat quietly at the bar drinking everything in, a Mona Lisa smile spreading her lips. There was a half empty beer she'd pushed aside, preferring to drink a cola.

"Aren't you going to drink that," he'd asked, motioning to the beer.

She shook her head, the skin of her nose wrinkling just a bit. "I just can't appreciate it."

He'd reached across in front of her and snagged the bottle, lifting it to his lips. He felt her gaze on him, watching every move he made, and it sent a curl of heat through his gut. It didn't help that when he fit his lips to the curve of the bottle, he could taste something fruity, like the Chapstick she always carried in her pocket. He looked at her lips. Plump, full, a little damp from her Coke.

Before he could think better of it he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers.

The shock that had gone through them both was staggering. It had rocked him back on his heels and widened her eyes… and made him want to kiss her all the more.

The interest and need was in her tentative touch, and it was so opposite of the brazen buckle bunnies he normally hung out with. Instead of being slightly nauseated from lipstick and liquor, need had fired in his blood.

That had shocked him enough that he’d turned and walked away. There was no way he would be partaking of her particular delicacy.

Brock opened his eyes when the truck slowed and turned. Payton had done a lot with the little ranch she'd bought. The long, low ranch house Old Man Petry had let go had been re-sided with rough cut poplar, stained and the yard landscaped with drought resistant plants. The old barn had been patched and re-sided as well, erasing years of neglect. Several horses lifted their heads from grazing and nickered. One heavily muscled black gelding stepped to lean into the fence, ears pricked.

"Mineer looks good."

"Thanks," she murmured. "He's still a shit, but a well-fed spoiled one, I have to admit."

Payton parked the truck and climbed out.

Brock reached down and unfastened the seatbelt, grunting as he heaved himself out of the seat. Damn ribs. He had a feeling they would be aching him for a while. It had been so stupid getting tangled up with those boys, no matter how hard they prodded him.

Payton walked up the paving stone walkway to the side porch door, unlocked it and walked in.

"Why do you lock your doors?" he asked her when he followed in behind her.

She'd been digging in the cupboard above the washer, but she leaned back enough to glance at him. "Had a couple kids in here the other day. Nephews of old man Petry. They didn't know he'd moved in with his other daughter, though I thought the changes I made to the house were pretty obvious. Anyway, they'd helped themselves to my food and kicked back on my furniture to watch TV. I was a little irritated."

Brock could imagine. Payton had a hell of a temper when it finally sparked.

"Did you kick them out?"

She tossed a grin over her shoulder. "Of course, I did. And I wasn't nice about it either."

Her head disappeared into the cupboard again.

"Why don't you take your clothes off?"

Brock froze, wondering if he'd heard her correctly. His body suddenly flared with heat, in spite of the pain he was in.