A Wedding In Willow Valley. Joan Elliott Pickart

done that two seconds before.

      Darn the man, she thought. Doesn’t he ever have any leftovers in his refrigerator at home he could eat for lunch? Or get an urge for fast food, like the rest of the population? Oh, no, not Ben. He had to show up here at the Windsong Café day after day and cause her heart to race and memories to assault her.

      Ben. Oh, Ben, Laurel thought, still not moving. There was a time when they had shared everything—hopes, dreams, secrets, plans for the future, their hearts, minds, bodies, the very essence of who they were. They’d been so much in love, so connected that they’d envisioned themselves as one entity.

      But that was then, and this was now, and since she’d arrived back in Willow Valley they’d attempted to avoid each other. When they did meet, they were polite, exchanged brief greetings, but never made eye contact. They were strangers now, separated by ten years and shattered dreams. She would continue to keep her distance from Ben just as she’d done since she’d come home.

      There was just one thing wrong with that grand plan, she thought dismally.

      She was still deeply in love with Benjamin Skeeter.

      Ben sat in the first booth and swept his gaze over the café. It had the same motif as it had when Jimmy and Jane Windsong had opened for business years before. It had red vinyl booths along the front to afford a view out the windows, stools at the counter and wooden tables in the space beyond. An old-fashioned jukebox was against the far wall, and plastic-coated menus were nestled between metal napkin holders and the salt and pepper shakers.

      It wasn’t fancy. Never had been. But it was homey, inviting. The food was down-home cooking—hamburgers and fries served in red plastic baskets, meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy, chili and corn bread, pot roast and vegetables and other offerings that a person might have enjoyed at their mother’s or grandmother’s table.

      Lush plants hung in woven baskets suspended from the ceiling by nearly invisible wires. The wall where the jukebox stood also boasted an enormous corkboard where pictures drawn by children were held in place by pushpins. Visitors as well as local kids were invited to add to the ever-changing display, and crayons and paper were available on the tables.

      “Hey, Sheriff,” someone called.

      “Hey, Cadillac. What brings you into town?”

      “I need me some feed for my goats,” Cadillac said from where he sat on a stool at the counter. “Figure I’ll have me some of Missy Windsong’s meat loaf while I’m here.”

      “Good thinking,” Ben said. “Things quiet on the rez?”

      Cadillac shrugged and turned back to his lunch, and Ben knew that was the end of the conversation. When Navajos were done talking, they were done. Where they stopped speaking in an interchange didn’t always make sense, but that was just the way it was. Always had been, always would be.

      Good ole Cadillac, Ben mused. No one knew his age, and his weathered face said he could be anywhere between forty and sixty. Whatever his last name was, it had been so long since it had been used he doubted anyone remembered what it was, maybe even Cadillac himself.

      He was a little slow in the thinking department and loved gossip more than breathing, it seemed. But he had a heart of gold, would give a man the shirt off his back if he figured that guy needed it more than he did.

      “Lunch?”

      Ben glanced up to see Laurel standing next to the table with a pad and pencil in her hands.

      “Hamburger, fries, coffee,” Ben said, shifting his gaze to the tabletop. “Please.”

      Laurel wrote on the pad, spun around and hurried away.

      There were, Ben thought, about ten people staring at him at this point to see if this was the day that more than a lunch choice would be communicated between him and Laurel Windsong. Ever since she’d come home, people who knew Ben and Laurel’s history had been watching and waiting for something—anything—to happen between them.

      But nothing ever did.

      And nothing ever would.

      What they’d had together was over, long gone, smashed to smithereens the day that Laurel left Willow Valley for Virginia. Why she was back all of a sudden, he didn’t know, but it had nothing to do with him. She’d stopped loving him ten years before, and maybe someday he’d figure out how in the hell to stop loving her.

      Laurel clipped the paper with Ben’s order onto the revolving metal circle at the top of the pass-through window between the kitchen and the main section of the café.

      Darn, darn, darn, she fumed as she refilled Cadillac’s coffee mug. It had happened again. Just because she’d asked Ben Skeeter what he wanted for lunch, just because she had been so close to him, could smell that unique fresh-air aroma of his, see the thick black hair she used to run her fingers through when they… Just because Ben existed, for crying out loud, her heart had gone crazy and her hands had trembled slightly when she’d clipped the order slip into place.

      Ben was tall for a Navajo, she mused, just over six feet, and filled out that uniform to perfection, the tan material accentuating his tawny skin and dark hair. His chiseled features with high cheekbones, straight blade of a nose and oh-so-kissable lips were a study in masculinity personified.

      This had to stop, Laurel thought. If Ben ever became aware of the reaction she still had to being in close proximity to him, she’d be totally mortified. Being near her certainly didn’t bother him, that was for sure. Granted, he didn’t meet her gaze, but that was because he still hated her for leaving Willow Valley ten years ago.

      His voice was flat when he spoke to her, even sounded rather bored when he ordered his lunch, and he didn’t bother with the simplest social questions of how she was doing, or her opinion of the weather.

      No, she was nothing more to Ben Skeeter than a bad memory. If it wasn’t for the fact that he truly enjoyed the food at the Windsong Café he probably wouldn’t even come in there. Ten years had thoroughly erased any feelings he had for her.

      A woman in her early thirties entered the café and called a greeting to Laurel, bringing her from her tangled thoughts. The attractive woman took the booth in front of Ben’s and scrutinized the menu as Laurel came around the counter, zoomed past Ben without a glance and stopped at the second booth.

      “Hi, Marilyn,” Laurel said. “It’s so nice to see you. How’s business at the beauty shop?”

      “Busy, busy,” Marilyn said. “My feet are killing me already and it’s only lunchtime. I decided to have a Windsong special to fortify myself for the afternoon instead of the yogurt I brought from home.” She looked at the menu again. “Mmm. What do I want? Here we go. A BLT on whole-wheat toast and a glass of milk. Oh, dear, don’t tell me that May baked some goodies.”

      Laurel smiled. “Okay, I won’t inform you that May made fresh cherry pie, pumpkin with whipped cream and an apple cobbler to die for. Those words will not pass my sealed lips.”

      “You’re cruel,” Marilyn said, laughing. “I haven’t been able to resist May’s cobbler since I moved here, as evidenced by the width of my hips. I’ll have some, of course.”

      “Got it,” Laurel said, writing on the pad. “And there’s nothing wrong with the width of your hips, Ms. Montgomery.” She paused. “Marilyn, I’m trying to decide if I should cut my hair.”

      “No,” Ben said sharply, before he was even aware that he had spoken.

      Laurel’s head snapped around to stare at Ben in shock at the same moment that Marilyn shifted in the booth to look at him, and Cadillac spun on his stool with the same intention. Jane Windsong was just placing Ben’s order in its red plastic basket on the pass-through ledge, and her hand halted in midair. Three other men next to Cadillac at the counter dipped their heads to steal a peek at Sheriff Skeeter.

      “Oh? You don’t think Laurel should cut her hair, Ben?” Marilyn said,