Luke's Proposal. Lois Dyer Faye

want you to see me there.”

      “Chase,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “You’ll be in prison for two years. Don’t ask me to spend two years without seeing you.”

      Luke couldn’t imagine having to endure that long without Chase. His brother was only eighteen months older, and they’d been inseparable all their lives. He held his breath, waiting for him to answer.

      “I’m not asking you to never visit, Mom. Just—wait awhile, okay?”

      Luke drew a deep breath, struggling for control. Clearly torn by Chase’s request, Margaret met his gaze for a long moment before she sighed and gave in. “All right, but don’t forget to write.”

      “I won’t.”

      He bent closer and kissed her soft cheek. Luke saw Chase’s eyes close and knew he was dragging in a deep breath, storing away in his memory the smell of her perfume.

      Chase held his mother close one last time before he turned to his father and held out his hand. John McCloud pulled him into a tight hug. “Take care, son.”

      “Yes, sir.” He gripped his father, then stepped back and turned to Jessie. “Be good while I’m gone.”

      “I will,” Jessie echoed. Her deep blue eyes were brilliant with the tears that overflowed and slipped down her pale cheeks. She sobbed and flung herself at Chase, wrapping her arms around him, her tight grip desperate.

      Chase hugged her, smoothing a hand over the silky crown of auburn hair before he pried her little fists free of his shirt.

      Jessie didn’t make a sound, but her tears coursed down her face and dripped slowly from the soft, rounded curve of her chin.

      Chase’s gaze met Luke’s, their exchange wordless before they shared a short, hard hug.

      Then Chase turned to the officer and held out his wrists. Luke couldn’t suppress a growl of protest when the officer snapped the handcuffs in place.

      “This is standard procedure, Luke.” Chase’s look warned him not to interfere. Luke clenched his hands until the short nails bit into his palm as he struggled to contain his rage. The last glimpse Luke had of his brother was a shared glance as the patrol car drove away, leaving the four of them standing by the open grave in the rain.

      Fifteen Years Later

       Early Spring

      The bar was a dive. A man could search high and low through all the cowboy bars in Billings, Montana, and not find a rougher place.

      Which was precisely why Luke McCloud had chosen the Bull ’n Bash. He couldn’t think of anywhere less likely to be frequented by anyone he knew. Most of his neighbors from Wolf Creek were in Billings for the livestock auctions and he’d rather avoid them, especially Lonnie Kerrigan. He wasn’t in the mood for a fight, and a brawl was the usual result when Lonnie was drinking.

      Luke sat alone at a round table for four. He’d tilted one of the battered wooden chairs against the rough-cut lumber of the wall at his back and stretched out his legs to prop his boots on the seat of an empty chair. He drank from the longneck bottle of beer in his hand and swept the crowded, dim interior of the tavern with an experienced, assessing eye.

      A Dwight Yoakam tune blared from the jukebox near the door, and in the back of the low-ceilinged room, the crack of cue sticks against pool balls was accompanied by grunts of satisfaction or groans of disgust from the players. A haze of cigarette and cigar smoke curled around the cheap hanging lanterns that gave the bar its dim light. Shadows lurked in the corners and partially concealed the doorway leading to a back hall. The Bull ’n Bash was doing a fair amount of business for nine o’clock on a Wednesday night. The bartender was a blonde who’d seen better days, but she smiled and laughed at the jokes from the three old cowboys occupying the worn red vinyl stools at the bar.

      The sole waitress was washing glasses. Luke caught her eye and waggled his empty bottle. She smiled and nodded before drying her hands on the white towel tied around her waist.

      He watched her grab a full bottle, leave the bar and sashay across the room toward him. She was younger than the bartender, her lush body poured into skintight jeans and an off-the-shoulder white knit blouse. A curly mass of reddish-brown hair brushed her shoulders and tangled in long silver earrings.

      “Can I get you anything else?” she asked in a breathy, inviting voice as she set the bottle on the table in front of him.

      “No, thanks. How much do I owe you?” She named a figure, not bothering to conceal her interest as he shoved a hand in his jeans pocket, the faded denim pulling tight. He counted out bills and some change, and she cupped her palm to take them. “You’re sure I can’t get you something else, cowboy?”

      “Sorry, honey. Not tonight.”

      She pouted before smiling. “Maybe some other time.”

      “Maybe,” he acceded with a slow grin.

      Placated, she returned to the bar and the stack of dirty glasses.

      Luke pulled a silver pocketwatch from his jeans and thumbed open the case, squinting to read the numerals in the dim light. Nine-fifteen. He decided to finish his beer and head back to his solitary bed in the hotel six blocks away. He lifted the bottle to his lips, just as the door to the street opened and a woman stepped inside.

      She paused just over the threshold, her thick fall of black hair brushing against her shoulders as she turned her head, searching the room.

      There was something familiar about her, but Luke couldn’t place her. A slim black dress wrapped her from throat to midcalf, slender ankles and feet tucked into strappy, black leather shoes. A black leather bag the size of a small briefcase was slung over one shoulder. Everything about her said she belonged uptown in the cocktail lounge of Billings’s best hotel and not within the rough walls of the Bull ’n Bash. She turned her head, and the dim light from a lantern directly above the door gleamed on her glossy hair.

      Luke frowned, his inability to identify her nagging at him.

      Look in this direction, he urged silently, wanting to get a clear view of her face.

      Then she looked at him, her eyes widening with recognition. He stiffened, slowly lowering the nearly full bottle to the tabletop.

      The last time he’d seen Rachel Kerrigan walking down Main Street in Wolf Creek was nearly five years ago, but he’d know those gold eyes anywhere. The usual frustrating mix of lust and slow anger filled him. She faltered in midstride before continuing to weave her way through the tables toward him.

      She was only a few steps away before he accepted that it was him she’d been searching the bar to find. She halted on the far side of the table. “Luke McCloud.” It was less a question than a statement.

      “What are you doing here?”

      “I need to talk to you.”

      Luke let the silence stretch, purposely letting his gaze rake slowly from the top of her dark hair to her feet and back. Her skin was fair, with a sprinkling of tiny freckles across her cheekbones and the bridge of a small, straight nose. She had a soft, full mouth and a square little chin. Conservative pearl-and-gold earrings glinted in her lobes. Slim fingers gripped the leather strap of her purse, the nails neatly manicured.

      He’d heard the gossip that the Kerrigans were in financial trouble. It was public knowledge that ninety-year-old Marcus Kerrigan, confined to a nursing home for his final two years of life after suffering a debilitating stroke, had passed away three weeks ago. Rumor had it Marcus had left a will that split his ranch conglomerate equally between his surviving son, his widowed daughter-in-law and his three grandchildren. For generations the property had passed unbroken from father to eldest son and Luke figured the old man’s will must have enraged Harlan Kerrigan.

      None of which explained why Harlan Kerrigan’s niece needed to talk to him, a McCloud. He’d never made a secret of his contempt for the Kerrigans. And despite the unforgettable