The Calamity Janes. Sherryl Woods

Emma’s cell phone with her.

      “You look a little lost,” Ford Hamilton noted, pulling out the chair next to her. “Missing your phone?”

      She was startled by his intuition. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

      “Do you conduct a lot of business on a Saturday night?”

      “When necessary.” She frowned at him. “I still don’t want to be interviewed, Mr. Hamilton.”

      “I got the message. You don’t object to dancing with a journalist, though, do you? I promise I won’t take notes if you miss a step or two.”

      Emma hadn’t been on a dance floor in…well, too long. Listening to the oldies being played by the band reminded her that once she had loved to dance. She’d been good at it, too. If she could forget for a minute who and what he was, it could be fun.

      “Let’s wait for a fast dance,” she said, eyeing him with amusement. “Then we’ll see if you can keep up.”

      “No contest,” he retorted. “Anything you can do—”

      Emma laughed. “Don’t finish that thought. I might view it as a challenge.”

      “It was meant to be.” His gaze clashed with hers.

      To Emma’s astonishment, she felt a little tingle of anticipation in the pit of her stomach. Her pulse did an unexpected dip and sway that left her feeling giddy. Fascinating. Lately the only time she felt any stirring of excitement was in a courtroom. Discovering that Ford Hamilton could have the same effect was more than mildly intriguing.

      One dance, she promised herself. No more. Just for the sheer exhilaration of it. And if she felt a bit off-kilter, a bit breathless at the conclusion, she could blame it on the unfamiliar exertion. It certainly wouldn’t have anything at all to do with the man who was regarding her with such an amused glint in his blue eyes.

      The beat of the music slowed, as the band slid from one tune to another, but then the pace quickened. Emma recognized an old Chubby Checker hit.

      “They’re playing our song, Mr. Hamilton,” she said, reaching for his hand and drawing him onto the floor.

      He was a tall, lanky man, and the twist was definitely not his dance. He was a good sport about it, though, laughing when they drew a cheering, clapping crowd of her friends.

      At the end of the song, Emma was ready to claim victory, but Ford wasn’t quite so quick to release her. As the band began a slow song, he drew her into his arms. She went with less reluctance than she’d intended.

      For a beat or two, Emma held herself stiffly, but then the music, the scent of Ford’s aftershave, the gentle pressure of his hand against her back, had her relaxing into the rhythm. Her cheek fit perfectly against his shoulder. It was rare that she’d been with a man who had several inches in height on her own five-ten. She caught herself right before she sighed with the pure pleasure of it.

      This time, when the song ended, he released her, then took a step back. He seemed suddenly wary, as if the dance had been more than he’d bargained for, as well.

      “Thanks for the dance,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you around town.”

      His dismissal irritated her, but she managed to keep her voice and her expression cool. “I doubt that. I’ll be leaving on Sunday.”

      “On your next visit, then,” he said. “Or will that be a long time coming?”

      She didn’t like the implied criticism. “I get home when I can.”

      “Every couple of years is what I hear.”

      “Been asking a lot of probing questions tonight, Mr. Hamilton?” she inquired, disconcerted by the thought. A part of her had hoped she’d been wrong about him being like all the other reporters.

      “A few. You obviously lead a busy life.”

      “I do.”

      “Too bad it’s not fulfilling,” he said, then gave her a jaunty wave as he started away.

      This time she was the one calling him back. “Why would you say something like that?” she demanded indignantly. “Who have you been talking to?”

      “Deductive reasoning,” he said. “Besides, you admitted as much earlier.”

      “When?”

      “When I said I wanted to interview the town’s success stories,” he answered. “You gave me your interpretation of success, then all but said you couldn’t claim to have that kind of achievement.”

      Emma hadn’t realized her words had been so telling, or that Ford Hamilton was sensitive enough to pick up on what she’d left unspoken.

      “Well?” he prodded. “Are you denying it?”

      She forced a grim smile. “No comment.”

      He grinned. “I’ll take that as a no.”

      “And if you quote me on it, I’ll call you a liar,” she retorted.

      “Oh, this isn’t for publication,” he assured her. “It’s just between us. I like to tuck away useful information about the people I meet.”

      Something about the way he said it—the way he looked at her when he said it—suggested she might have been better off giving him the interview he’d wanted hours ago. This conversation had red flags all over it.

      Chapter 3

      Emma had expected to be on her way back to Denver first thing Sunday morning, but somehow Cassie and the others had persuaded her to stay over for a class picnic.

      “We’re playing baseball. We need you,” Cassie had insisted.

      It had been sometime after midnight, and Emma’s resistance had been low. After her conversation with Ford Hamilton about the lack of fulfillment in her life and Lauren’s suggestion that she was trying to prove something to her ex-husband, she hadn’t been looking forward to going back to Denver, anyway. It hadn’t taken a lot of persuasion to convince her to spend one more night in Winding River. The promise that she could manage her team had been the clincher.

      The women were doing surprisingly well against the men, largely thanks to Lauren. She distracted the men so badly that they’d had only two hits in six innings. They were even less successful at fielding the hits made by the women. As a result, the women were winning two to nothing. Emma didn’t trust such a slim lead. She wanted more runs.

      She glanced around in search of her star player. Emma finally spotted Lauren sitting in the shade, Ford Hamilton stretched out beside her, obviously hanging on her every word. Something that felt suspiciously like jealousy streaked through Emma at the sight of Lauren staring raptly at the charismatic journalist in his faded, formfitting jeans, sneakers and T-shirt.

      Irritated by her reaction, Emma turned away, wiped the beads of sweat from her brow, glanced down at her lineup and realized that Lauren was next up to bat. How was Emma supposed to manage her team to a victory when her star player was more interested in a good-looking guy than she was in winning?

      “Lauren, if it’s not too much trouble, could you take a couple of warm-up swings?” she called out testily. “It’s almost your turn to bat.”

      Lauren merely waved an acknowledgment, then turned back to Ford. He said something that made her laugh just as she stood up and strolled back toward the bench, hips already swaying in the suggestive way that had the men on the field all but panting. Cassie’s little bloop of a hit, which should have been an easy out, landed untouched in short center field, and she reached first base before a single male reacted. Emma grinned, her mood improving.

      “Everything okay?” Lauren asked, regarding her curiously.

      “Of course. Why do you ask?”

      “Something in your