A Home Of Her Own. Cathleen Connors

she said casually over the hammering of her heart. “You’re looking good.”

      It was a gross understatement. Time had turned the gangly beau she remembered into as fine looking a man as could be found gracing the pages of any slick magazine ads. In truth, Buck Foster was far more appealing than any of those glistening boy toys with their fake smiles and steroid-enhanced muscles. His worn boots matched a pair of jeans that accentuated the fact that this was a real working cowboy. Melodie wondered if that Western-cut shirt he was wearing had been custom tailored to accommodate his well-muscled upper body. One good flex would surely rip the seams out.

      You’ve filled out nicely, she almost blurted out. Not that such drop-dead good looks needed to be underscored by any such fawning observations.

      Buck’s broad shoulders filled the doorway, blocking her as effectively as any bouncer intent on keeping riffraff out of an establishment. Hair the color of dark, spiced rum showed no hint of gray yet. It was styled just as she remembered it in a no-nonsense manly cut that made Melodie smile inwardly. Needless to say, an upscale salon like the one Randall had frequented would hold no allure for a man such as Buck Foster.

      She stuck her trembling hands into her pockets.

      How did I ever let this one get away? she asked herself.

      Stupidity. Sheer stupidity came the resounding response.

      Memories, long suppressed, washed over her. It was with a certain amount of embarrassment that she remembered how hard she’d worked just to get him to notice her all those years ago. If Buck had any awareness of her girlish crush on him back then, he’d never so much as given a hint of it. Melodie recalled with aching tenderness the times she perched herself atop the corral fence like some raucous love bird, chattering inanely. It was upon that splintery old fence that she had fallen hopelessly in love with her mother’s hired hand, the one that everyone in the community was so quick to condemn.

      One day in particular stuck in her mind. It seemed it happened just yesterday. A wild-eyed bronco had just tossed Buck into the air like some rag doll, leaving him to take cover in the dust amid a flurry of hooves. Tears streaming down her face, Melodie screamed in alarm.

      With all the dignity he could muster, Buck had picked himself up off the ground, dusted himself off and limped over to where she sat clenching the rail fence in white-knuckle terror. She’d urged her heart to start beating again as he braced himself by placing both hands on either side of her trembling body. It seemed that the entire world was contained in the span of Buck’s loving arms. The scent of horseflesh and sweat and blood and pure cowboy filled her lungs. She feared she might actually swoon as he proceeded to brush aside her tears with the pad of his thumb.

      “Don’t you worry about me, Little Bit,” he’d assured her. “I’m indestructible.”

      Vowing to be the one to prove him wrong, Melodie threw her arms around his neck and whispered fiercely, “No you’re not. You’re far more breakable than you know.”

      He’d laughed, and the sound had inflated her heart like a cheap red balloon.

      “Thanks for your concern,” he’d said. “Nobody else ever much cared whether I lived or died.”

      The memory alone still had the power to dust Melodie’s flesh with goose bumps.

      Seeing her shiver, Buck reluctantly stepped out of the way.

      “Since you own the place,” he growled, “I guess there’s no need to invite you in.”

      Deliberately avoiding his eyes, Melodie trained hers on the middle button of his shirt—right where his heart used to be before she’d ripped it out and fed it to the wolves. It took every ounce of Buck’s self-restraint to keep from slamming the door right in her face. A face, he noted with a trace of all too human satisfaction, that looked far more drawn than he remembered it.

      In comparison to his six-foot-two-inch frame, Melodie looked very small indeed standing there upon the front step like some stranger stranded in a freak spring storm. Little Bit he used to call her when she was just a tagalong pest clamoring for his attention. Buck could discern no sign of that impish child in the tired-looking woman standing before him. Years of bitterness and anger left him unprepared for the sight of her looking so vulnerable and still so darned pretty with snowflakes clinging to those unbelievably long eyelashes.

      Something twisted painfully in Buck’s chest. He had once heard that amputees could actually feel an itch in their missing limbs. Maybe he was experiencing similar symptoms.

      Hating himself for feeling anything at all for this woman, he donned a sardonic smile.

      “Welcome home, Little Bit,” he said, gesturing as grandly as any of the butlers he’d seen portrayed on television. He was not, however, moved to carry the charade so far as to help her off with her coat.

      She shrugged it off without comment and hung it on the wooden peg in the entryway. Though made of wool, the garment was inadequate for Wyoming’s harsh weather—much like its owner, Buck thought ruefully to himself. Its classic Southwestern design was slightly out of place as well, serving as a reminder that this native had abandoned her birthplace for the warmer clime of Arizona.

      Melodie flinched at the sound of the old endearment that Buck flung so carelessly at her feet. She had forgotten how cold this little house could get, and the chilly reception she’d received nudged the temperature several degrees lower. Memories of her mother standing at the stove came back to her with all the pungency of Grace’s mouthwatering cinnamon apple pie. So strong was the image that Melodie almost stepped up to the stove to warm her cold derriere like she had in times gone by.

      Unfortunately without her mother’s love to warm it, the little house was as frosty and unwelcoming as Buck’s eyes. Those amber orbs reminded her of a cougar warily sizing up its prey.

      Focusing on her surroundings seemed safer than meeting those eyes directly. The faded floral wallpaper in the kitchen seemed as depressing to Melodie as the matching mail-order curtains that hung limply over the sink. Linoleum, scratched and freckled by the sun, was beginning to curl in the corners. Dusty knickknacks seemed glued to their spots on equally dusty shelves. Nothing much seemed to have changed since Melodie’s childhood—other than the fact that everything seemed smaller, colder, paler….

      Like a corpse set out for viewing.

      Melodie shuddered at the thought of tomorrow’s funeral. Sagging wearily into a pearl-colored vinyl chair, she rested her elbows on the matching dinette table and allowed herself a heartfelt sigh.

      “Sorry to hear about Randall,” Buck offered, his voice flat.

      Guarded.

      Melodie glanced at him sideways trying to discern just how much he knew about her husband’s death. She so hoped to leave that heartache behind her in the deserts of Arizona. The last thing she needed right now was to be reminded that she was supposed to be a grieving widow when, in fact, it was her mother’s passing that truly left her feeling gutted and bereft. As tragic as Randall’s suicide several weeks ago had been, it had given Melodie a sense of freedom denied her throughout their complicated and troubled marriage. As it was impossible to gauge Buck’s sincerity, she merely nodded her head to acknowledge his proffered condolences. Genuine or not, she appreciated his civility under such strained circumstances.

      “Would it be too much to ask for a cup of coffee?” she asked, deliberately changing the subject.

      At the request, Buck’s expression tightened. He’d be hanged if he was going to wait on her. He wasn’t the same whipped, eager to please, little puppy she remembered anticipating her every whim.

      “Do I look as if I have Maitre d’ stamped on my forehead?”

      A smile twitched at one corner of Melodie’s mouth. “Not that I can see,” she admitted. Gesturing toward the coffeepot on the counter, she asked, “Mind if I help myself?”

      “Knock yourself out.”

      Accepting his open hostility with the tiniest