Sarah's Legacy. Brenda Mott

a little surprised when a young African-American woman greeted her with a welcoming smile.

      Bailey hit it off with Camille right away. With her almond-colored, almond-shaped eyes, tiny waist and hair that flowed in soft waves past the belt loops of her Levi’s, Camille was like a porcelain doll. Yet she was anything but fragile. She’d lost her husband, who’d been a bullfighting clown, to a rodeo accident two years ago. They’d been newlyweds. A lot of women would have curled in around themselves and let grief consume them, but not Camille. She’d worked two jobs until she’d saved enough money to buy the bed-and-breakfast, determined to get on with her life, unwilling to let her sorrow interfere with her dreams. She’d named the place Bea’s in honor of her grandmother, the strong-willed woman who had raised her.

      Bailey strode up the walkway to the back door of the B&B. A group of cats had gathered on the back stoop, some sitting, some sprawled contentedly. A yellow one got up, greeted her with a meow and laced itself around her ankles. Like Bailey, Camille had a soft spot for animals, cats in particular. Every stray in the neighborhood seemed to find its way to Camille’s back door. She fed them, loved them and spent her money to get them neutered. Many got homes; the rest just stayed at Camille’s.

      Bailey paused to give the cats a little attention, then went inside. Camille was in the kitchen.

      “Hey, stranger.” A smile lit her face. “How goes the move?”

      “Not bad, but I’m in a jam.”

      “Already?” Camille shot a faux glance at her watch. “And here I’d allowed you at least a few more hours before you got yourself into trouble. Whose loan did you turn down this time?”

      Bailey laughed. “No one’s. I need some cooking tips.”

      Camille stared at her as though she’d just announced she’d like to run naked across the town square. “What—did the grocery store run out of frozen dinners?”

      Bailey explained her dilemma. “I should’ve just admitted I can’t cook, but damn it, Trent was looking at me so smugly. There’s got to be something I can make that’s not too difficult.”

      “Mmm-hmm.” Camille nodded. “Something like cold cereal.”

      “Cute.” Bailey graced her with a mock scowl. “Come on, Camille, I’m desperate.”

      “In that case, you’re in luck.” Camille pointed one perfectly shaped nail at her. “But this is going to cost you. I may want to refinance my loan sometime.”

      “No problem,” Bailey said.

      “Trent Murdock, huh?” She pursed her lips and made an appreciative noise as she moved toward the kitchen counter. “He’s a tasty dish himself. Did you say you were having him for breakfast, or over for breakfast?”

      “Camille!”

      “Just asking.” She held up one hand in a gesture of peace and with the other flipped a dish towel away from a huge cutting board to reveal what was underneath. Two dozen, made-from-scratch, perfectly formed, raw-dough cinnamon rolls lay curled there. “Will these work? Trent doesn’t have to know you didn’t make them.”

      Bailey groaned. “You know I love your cinnamon rolls. But I’m not so sure I’d feel right telling him I baked them myself.”

      Camille shrugged. “You will be baking them yourself. Don’t lie. Just don’t tell him I made the dough.”

      Bailey quirked her mouth. “That’s treading the line of truth a little on the thin side.”

      “Suit yourself. You can always fry him a couple of eggs.”

      She rolled her eyes. “What if I burn the rolls?”

      “You won’t. All you have to do is set the oven temperature and keep an eye on them. Nothing to it.”

      “That’s easy for you to say.”

      BAILEY DROVE to the grocery store while Camille prepared her homemade rolls for travel. She couldn’t very well claim to have bought groceries if she didn’t have any bags to carry in from the car. She purchased orange and grape juice, milk and instant coffee, not sure what Trent liked to drink with his breakfast. She also bought a few other items, including more sandwich fixings in case he decided to stay for lunch. The way he’d talked, building a fence could take a while.

      The thought of spending the day with Trent gave her shivers. He was far too appealing. It would be easy to get herself into trouble with a man like that, but as long as she was aware of the potential for disaster, surely she could avoid it. She wanted no part of any man who preferred being a loner. The man she hoped to find would have to be outgoing, with a strong desire for a family. A lone wolf like Trent Murdock hardly fit that bill.

      After thanking Camille profusely for the cinnamon rolls and placing them carefully inside a paper grocery sack, Bailey headed home. Trent did little more than glance up and wave as she pulled into the driveway and made her way into the house. He looked hot—in more ways than one. He’d taken off his shirt, and his muscles bulged as he worked the posthole digger. Bailey tore her eyes from him and told herself the roiling in her stomach came from having had only a cup of yogurt before working on the fence this morning.

      In the kitchen, she placed the half-dozen cinnamon rolls on a baking sheet Camille had loaned her and slid them into the oven. Now, if she could only manage not to burn them. She put away her meager groceries while the rolls baked, and to her delight, they had turned a perfect golden brown by the time she pulled them from the oven. So what was that smell?

      Frowning, Bailey gripped the tray with one oven-mitted hand and slid a spatula under one of the rolls. Terrific. In spite of the top looking fine, the bottom was scorched and appeared decidedly crispy. She’d watched Camille bake everything from rolls to pie to homemade bread, and she always made it seem so easy. What on earth had gone wrong?

      Bailey flicked on the ventilation fan over the stove and slid the rolls onto a platter. Okay, so she wasn’t Martha Stewart. She’d just have to slice the bottoms off and call it good. Maybe Trent wouldn’t notice.

      A short while later, the rolls were slightly cooled, frosted with the glaze Camille had put in a plastic container. Standing back, Bailey admired her handiwork. They looked pretty good, and the fan over the stove had done its job. The aroma of cinnamon prevailed over the odor of burned dough. She should be able to pass off the rolls just fine.

      Bailey nearly jumped at the rap on the door. Trent opened the screen and poked his head in. “What does a guy have to do to get a glass of water around here?” he asked. Then he inhaled deeply. “Mmm, something smells good.”

      “I’m sorry. Come in.” Bailey moved toward the refrigerator. “I meant to bring you a glass of water. You looked really hot when I drove up. I mean…”

      He cast her an amused glance as he pulled off his gloves and tucked them in his back pocket. “I know what you mean.”

      Bailey poured cold water from a pitcher over a tall glass of ice cubes. Trent raised the glass to his mouth. She watched his throat move as he swallowed, her gaze drifting over his tanned skin, slick with perspiration, across his broad smooth chest…and lower. A single drop of moisture slid down his washboard stomach and disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

      She licked her lips just as Trent lowered the glass and met her eyes. He rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek and gave her a look that said she was busted. Starting guiltily, Bailey moved toward the kitchen counter. “I hope you like cinnamon rolls,” she said, pulling two plates from the cupboard.

      “Sounds good,” he said, setting his empty glass in the sink. He helped himself to the bottle of dish soap on the counter and washed his hands. They were strong hands, with long fingers and wide palms. And she’d bet Trent knew just the right way to run them over a woman’s body.

      Bailey jerked her gaze away. “Would you like milk, juice or coffee? I don’t drink coffee, but I’ve got instant if that will do.”