Man From Montana. Brenda Mott

and the breeze had caught the flames, sending them skyward. From there, they must’ve enveloped a hanging wicker flower basket suspended from the porch beam before the beam itself caught fire.

      Kara dived for the water faucet, turning the handle on full blast as Danita pointed the hose at the porch. But the charcoal fluid must’ve splashed the porch. The accelerant gave the fire enough of a boost to quickly climb the beam toward the shingles. And like that, the roof was on fire.

      “Call 911!” Danita shouted.

      Kara was already scrambling for the cell phone in her purse.

      The volunteer fire department arrived within minutes. Siren blaring, the old-but-still-reliable truck ground to a halt at the curb. Kara stood out of the way with Danita, and watched the men battle the flames. Local police officers arrived to help keep the crowding neighbors back. And because there generally wasn’t a lot of excitement in Sage Bend, population eight hundred seventy-five, it took five officers arriving in three police cars to do the job.

      The fire chief, Shawn Rutherford, came over to speak with Danita and Kara, and take down a report of what had happened. Tall, with thick hair that was more black than silver, Shawn had the sexiest dark eyes Kara had ever seen. And those eyes seemed fastened on Danita.

      When he walked away, Kara nudged Danita in the ribs. “Hey, I think he likes you.” She grinned, wanting to take her friend’s mind off her troubles. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous,” Danita scoffed. “He was only looking at me because we were talking.”

      “Mmm-hmm. He talked to me, too, but he didn’t look at me like that.”

      “After what my swine of a husband did, a man is the last person I want near me—ever again.” Danita clutched her hair with both hands and stared at the smoldering porch roof. “Argh! Thank you, Phillip, for turning me into an arsonist!”

      Kara draped her arm around her friend’s shoulders. “When Phillip sees you out on the town with a hot fireman on your arm, he’ll wish he’d never cheated on you.”

      Danita snorted. “Sorry to disappoint you, girlfriend, but Chief Rutherford stands a better chance of putting out the fires of Hades than he does of getting me out on a date.” She crossed her arms. “And may Phillip rot in hell while he tries.”

      THAT NIGHT, Kara lay against her pillows on the bed she’d shared with Evan, and stared at his picture. Here she was, out of her mind missing her husband, while Danita was cursing hers and wishing him dead. Life sure didn’t seem fair.

      Oh, Evan, how can you be gone? Please, God, let me wake up tomorrow morning and find it’s all been a bad dream. She lifted the five-by-seven photograph from the nightstand and clutched it to her breast, letting the tears come. She’d loved Evan since junior high, and they’d had a good life—a great life—together.

      Kara closed her eyes, and images of Evan’s funeral came back as clearly as if it had been yesterday. Snow falling from a lifeless, gray sky…Evan’s friends acting as pallbearers. Big, macho construction workers who’d broken down and wept like babies over their friend’s coffin. And Evan’s mother, Liz—a widow herself… The poor woman needed tranquilizers.

      Why? The question was one Kara still had no answer to.

      She visited Evan’s grave every week, often with Liz. But somehow she felt foolish, sitting beside a cold, marble stone. Evan wasn’t there. His spirit was here, with her—always.

      But tonight the bedroom felt empty.

      The knock on her front door startled her. Lady barked and raced for the living room. Quickly, Kara dried her eyes, and placed Evan’s picture back on the nightstand. Who would be knocking at this hour? It was nearly nine-thirty. She hurried after the collie.

      Kara peered through one of the glass rectangles on either side of the door. A man stood on her porch.

      Leaving the safety chain in place, she flicked on the porch light and opened the door a few inches. Her gaze immediately met his. He was good-looking beyond reason, his sandy-brown hair just long enough to touch the collar of the denim jacket he wore over a fancy western shirt. Tall, he looked down at her.

      “Hi.” He smiled. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I saw your lights on and thought you might not be asleep.”

      Kara stared at him through the crack. “Can I help you with something?” she asked.

      “Actually, yes. I’m Derrick Mertz. I live over there.” He gestured toward the mint-green house diagonally across the street from her. “And I’m afraid my kitten is stuck in the tree in your backyard.”

      Didn’t serial killers often use the ruse of a missing pet to lure their victims? Later, the body turns up in the woods, bones scattered by wild animals. The news reporters always marveled that a crime like that could happen in such a quiet, close-knit community.

      “I wasn’t aware the house had sold,” Kara said, preparing to slam the door in his face. She couldn’t remember if the realtor’s sign had still been there when she’d driven past today.

      His smile disarmed her. “Actually, I haven’t got much of my stuff moved in yet. But I brought my cat over, and he got out the back door. He’s going to make me late getting to work if I don’t catch him quick. Mind if I go into your yard?”

      What could she say? “I guess that would be fine. I mean, sure. The gate’s on the other side of the house.”

      “Thanks.” He turned and hurried down the steps.

      Kara closed and locked the door, including the dead bolt. “Some watchdog you are,” she said to Lady as the collie merely wagged her tail. “You could’ve at least growled at him.”

      Kara hurried to the kitchen and peeked through the curtains at the well-lit yard, spotting a dark orange, half-grown kitten in the branches of her cottonwood tree.

      Kara pulled on her Tony Lamas and stepped outside, Lady at her heels. Derrick stood at the base of the tree, speaking in a gentle, coaxing tone. His voice gave Kara goose bumps, but she told herself it was only the chilly night air.

      “He’s cute,” she said, nearing the tree. “Hey, kitty.”

      The cat meowed, the bell on his collar jingling as he stretched hesitantly toward the next lower branch.

      “Come on, Taz,” Derrick coaxed. “I’ve got to go back to work, buddy.”

      “Where do you work?” Kara asked, folding her arms against her chest for warmth. She should’ve grabbed a jacket.

      “The Silver Spur,” he said. “I’m a bartender and aspiring country singer.”

      Kara couldn’t help but smile. “You play in the band?”

      “Every other Saturday, and most Fridays. Tonight I’m just bartending. I’m on my dinner break. Wasn’t really hungry, so I thought I’d run out here and finish unloading a few things…check on Taz.” He turned back to the kitten. At about six foot one or so, Derrick was able to stretch his long arms up and finally grab the wayward Taz.

      The tabby yowled and dug its claws into the front of Derrick’s shirt, hissing and spitting as it caught sight of Lady. “Ouch, you little varmint.” Derrick cradled Taz against his chest. “Thanks again.” He held out his free hand. “I didn’t catch your name.”

      Hesitantly, she took it. “Kara Tillman.” His hand was strong, his fingers callused from playing the guitar.

      “Nice to meet you, Kara.” He eyed her boots and jeans. “A cowgirl, huh?”

      “Well, a wanna-be anyway.” She smiled again. “I’ve got a horse, though.”

      “Do you like country music?”

      “Sure.”

      “Why don’t you