Chapter 11

Melanie stared at Grace. Grace stared back. She had the same mop of rusty-brown curls and the same scatter of freckles, but her posture was ramrod straight, and her gaze was direct to the point of a challenge. Melanie offered a smile. Grace didn’t return it.

Hoo-kay then. At least she had a pretty clear idea of where she stood.

And clarity was good, since this was the first time she’d spoken to Grace. Everything Melanie knew of the girl—woman now—was secondhand. Grace and Hank had been in the fourth grade when the McKennas settled their brood in Earnest. For reasons known only to Hank, he’d taken a liking to quiet, studious Grace. Lord knew, she hadn’t been a part of his usual crowd. Forget carousing with Hank and company, her uber-religious parents hadn’t even allowed television, movies, or pop music.

But somehow she had become what Hank called his little red-haired girl. She’d been the student trainer on the sidelines at football and basketball games, handing him water bottles and towels; taping his ankles better than any of the coaches, he’d bragged. And instead of the jocks or whatever girl Hank was romancing, he’d sat with Grace at lunch nearly every day until graduation. To be honest, without her help, he might not have been offered a diploma.

And all of that made the way he’d treated her more incomprehensible.

Wyatt’s phone rang. He checked the number, hesitated, then said, “I should take this call. Grace, would you show Melanie the apartment? She can decide whether she’d rather stay there or out at a hotel.”

Grace fired him a scorching look, then shrugged. “Sure.”

She circled the bar and snagged a key from a hook near the cash register, then gestured Melanie to follow her out the front door. Grace made an immediate left beneath the Bull Dancer Saloon sign to an identical dark wood door. Behind it was a set of long, narrow stairs lit by skylights in a roof a full two stories above their heads. Grace trotted up and Melanie followed, surprised that she was barely out of breath at the top.

“What’s the altitude here?” she asked.

“Eighteen hundred feet lower than Amarillo.”

Huh. She never would’ve guessed from the proximity of the mountains. She sucked in a deep, appreciative breath of the oxygen-enriched air. The one thing she hadn’t let slip was exercise—biweekly sessions with a personal trainer and pickup basketball games at her gym. Regular opportunities to sweat, curse, and throw elbows and body blocks were probably all that had kept her from throat-punching the Leech. If there was a summer league in Pendleton, maybe she could join…

She stopped dead.

Grace frowned at her. “Something wrong?”

“No, I…it just occurred to me that I can set my own schedule.” She would have free time. On weekdays. The possibilities swelled inside her like shiny bubbles. “I can jog outside in the daylight. Go to the post office. Do my banking in person.” She laughed again, downright giddy. “I could even go riding. You know…if I had a horse.”

Grace cocked her head. “Is that why you quit roping? No time?”

“Pretty much.”

There hadn’t been a specific moment when she’d thought, I can’t do this anymore. If someone had told twenty-year-old Melanie that she would choose not to rodeo, she would have laughed in their face. She’d been a winner at every level from local junior rodeos to a national collegiate championship. Why would she quit? But with every month of squeezing in increasingly rushed practices, never spending the time with her horses that she should, and her mind always divided when she was there, it had become more of a burden and less of a joy. Of course her performance at the rodeos had suffered—and that really wasn’t fun.

When her old horse had ambled into retirement, the colt that was supposed to be his replacement idled in the pasture until Shawnee had finally said, “If you’re just gonna let him go to waste, I’m taking him.”

It had been almost a relief. One less niggle on her conscience. Bad enough she couldn’t find time for her brother or to help her father more out on the ranch when Hank was off fighting bulls; she didn’t need to beat herself up over a horse, too. Or call home and listen to her dad complain about both of them. When Shawnee found a buyer for what had turned into an outstanding rope horse, Melanie had taken the check and her aging pickup and traded them for her shiny new SUV.

“I was busy,” she added, defensive under the other woman’s stony gaze. Grace, who’d had to manufacture her own opportunities in the arena, since her family had never owned a horse.

“Well, now you won’t be so busy,” Grace said. “For a while, anyway.”

“What about you? Are you still roping?”

“Yeah.” Abrupt. Conversation over. Grace paused to unlock the first door on the left and opened it with a flourish. “Welcome to the Madam’s Suite.”

Melanie stopped dead again, this time in shock. It was…wow.

The so-called suite was a single large room, the floor a dark polished hardwood with a gorgeous scalloped area rug, pink florals set off by black. The window hangings were layer upon layer of creamy sheers, draped and looped around oak rods in a way that was both airy and sensual. Every piece of furniture was a work of art. An elegant ladies’ desk and chair stood between the windows, and the sunlight gleamed off a burnished-oak curio cabinet in one corner, filled with delicate crystal and china. By the opposite wall stood an honest-to-God swooning couch, the frame elaborately carved scrollwork with velvet upholstery the color of a dusty-pink rose.

And dear sweet heaven, just sleeping in that bed was probably sinful enough to send a girl straight to hell, let alone…

Melanie tore her gaze off the brass canopy, the silk drapes, and the acres of lace-and-satin comforter. She turned to find Grace trying not to smile. Melanie grinned back. For an instant, there was nothing between them but the perfect ridiculousness of this room.

Melanie threw her arms out. “Why?”

“Wyatt says he’s going to rent it out for special occasions. Anniversaries, weddings…but honestly?” Grace shrugged. “I think he was just having fun.”

Fun. Odd. It wasn’t a word Melanie associated with Wyatt. Even when he was laughing on the surface, there was always a part of him held in reserve. Watching. Weighing. Separate. Joe and Hank threw themselves into their work with a kind of joyful exhilaration, but Wyatt was as cool as a sniper in the arena.

Completely at odds with the over-the-top extravagance of this room.

“The bathroom’s back there,” Grace said, gesturing to a silk-paneled trifold screen that mostly concealed the door, along with an old-fashioned sideboard that—on closer inspection—held a coffee maker, a small toaster oven, and a microwave.

The bathroom floor was black-and-white tile, with a huge, freestanding slipper tub and an antique, marble-topped dresser as a vanity. There was nothing practical here. It was all an elaborate but beautiful inside joke.

“So?” Grace asked. “Whaddaya think?”

“It’s fabulous.” Melanie hesitated, then added, “What’s it going to cost me?”

“That’s between you and Wyatt.”

Grace dropped the key on the desk and started for the door, obviously done with the tour.

“Grace, wait. I just wanted to say—”

Grace stopped and threw up a warning hand. “Don’t. That is not your apology to make.”

“But I should have—”

“What? Handcuffed yourself to his wrist?” Grace’s poof of a ponytail bristled as she shook her head. “We’ve both been stupid about Hank. I got over it. You might want to give it a shot.”

Melanie felt her face hardening. “He’s my brother. My blood. That’s forever.”

Grace stared at her for a beat, something in her expression making Melanie’s breath catch as if she’d stepped onto a ledge and felt it give beneath her weight. The younger girl turned away abruptly.

“Grace.” Melanie reached out a hand, then pulled it back when Grace swung around. “Can we make a deal?”

“Like what?”

“I’ll forget why you’re in Oregon if you’ll do the same for me.” When Grace hesitated, she threw in a pleading smile. “I would really like to be friendly, even if we can’t be friends.”

Grace nodded stiffly. “I suppose I can try.”

Okay. Points for honesty. “Thank you.”

They stood for a few beats, neither knowing what came next. Then Grace said, “I need to talk to Wyatt. You coming?”

“Not right now.” Melanie tucked the key into her pocket, checked her reflection in an ornate wall mirror, and wiped stray mascara from under one eye. She looked tired. Road worn. Forgettable.

Perfect.

She smiled at her reflection. “Tell Wyatt I’m going to have lunch and do some exploring.”

And have a drink. Or three.