Four-Karat Fiancee. Sharon Swan

      “Maybe he plans to fill them with willing women,” Amanda suggested, just a bit archly. No one, not even her, would argue the fact that the Heartbreaker Saloon’s owner had a longstanding reputation as a ladies’ man. “He must be getting tired of entertaining his, ah, women friends in the back room he’s living in behind the bar.”

      “He doesn’t seem to have, er, entertained anyone for quite a while,” Finn confided in a low murmur, proving that even Jester’s most scholarly resident wasn’t opposed to a bit of gossip. “Not from what I’ve heard, that is.”

      And where he’d heard it was at Dean Kenning’s barbershop. Amanda was all but positive of that. Finn and Dean were still great cronies, even though Henry Faulkner, their longtime friend, had recently passed away.

      “Well, it hardly matters to me,” she said. “I don’t care who the man in question entertains as long as he does it quietly.”

      Irene and Finn exchanged a look at the pointed tone of that last word. “Yes, well, I have to go,” the older woman wasted no time in saying, as though afraid that, if the female half of the battle of the sexes got started on the subject of the male half, the shaky truce Amanda suspected many were watching with interest might collapse—just as the picnic pavilion at Jester Community Park had strangely collapsed last month, prompting an ongoing sheriff’s investigation.

      “I believe I have to leave, too,” Finn said. “I appreciate your getting those books for me, Amanda.”

      And with that, they both were gone, leaving the Ex-Libris’s owner to her own devices. The proud owner, Amanda couldn’t deny, aiming her gaze around the front of her store. With its wide display window containing an attractive assortment of current literature and its walls covered by tall mahogany bookshelves backed by flocked wallpaper featuring a delicate lilac stripe, it was as classy a place as she’d been able to make it—right down to the lilting notes of the “Violin Masters” CD that currently played softly in the background.

      Only the shipping cartons stacked everywhere marred the scene. If they weren’t picked up tomorrow, she would make another call and be even more blunt if she had to about expecting them to be taken back. She hadn’t spent several years after college working for a major bookselling chain in Seattle for nothing. She could get things accomplished.

      In fact, she’d risen to the position of assistant manager before concluding that big-city life didn’t really suit her. What she wanted was a bookstore of her own in the small town she thought of as home. So she’d come back with her hard-earned savings in hand, and now, at the age of thirty, she had more than enough experience behind her to get things done.

      In the business world, at any rate. There was still, Amanda knew, the fate of four young children to consider. And there, she was far from sure how much she could do.

      She only knew she had to try.

      BY THE TIME Amanda put the gracefully scribed Closed sign in the front window at six o’clock, she wanted nothing more than to go home and soak in a hot tub. Even beyond that, she knew what she needed was the good night’s sleep she’d failed to get for the past several evenings. Maybe, she mused as she tallied the day’s receipts, taking something with her to read besides the intricate mystery she was currently in the middle of would help. And with that thought, her gaze landed on the copy of Midnight Passions still resting at one side of the counter.

      Why not? she asked herself. It would indeed be something different, and that could be just what she needed to relax a bit.

      What Amanda didn’t want, and her nerves certainly didn’t need, was to catch sight of one of the Heartbreaker Saloon’s patrons weaving his way toward her as she left the Ex-Libris at just after six-thirty. She recognized Guy Feldon. He was one of the people who had followed hard on the heels of Jester’s newfound wealth.

      “Millionaire, Montana,” was how the press had dubbed a place little more than a pinpoint on the state map, and the town had been flooded with reporters. Thankfully, the relentless press coverage seemed to have died down, although some residents’ private business was still being leaked to the media. More than a few of Jester’s citizens suspected that one of their own was acting as informer, but no one really knew who was responsible.

      The burly man currently approaching with unsteady steps wasn’t with the media, however. No, Guy Feldon appeared to be basically an opportunist who wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of another’s good fortune. He usually played the part of the lazy drifter, but more than one person had remarked on spying a cunning glint in his eye.

      Now his gaze was trained on Amanda, and she by no means liked what she saw in it. When it raked her from head to toe, even the fact that most of her body was covered by the classic wide folds of her beige raincoat brought little comfort.

      “Well, hi, sugar pie,” Feldon drawled, his speech slurred.

      Sugar pie? Amanda’s teeth clenched in response. It didn’t take a genius, she thought, to see that she was headed for trouble. Or, rather, trouble was headed for her.

      “Cat got your tongue?” Feldon came to a wavering halt right in front of her. “Have to say I envy it if it does.” His mouth curved in a leer.

      “I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of my way,” Amanda replied with brisk directness. Living in a big city had taught her the value of maintaining a firm front in an environment where crime was an unfortunate fact of life. One of the benefits of returning to Jester was that she never so much as felt uneasy walking alone on an empty street—never until now.

      “Too bad I’m of no mind to step aside.” Feldon leaned in. Even in the dimness of a twilight sky, his face looked nearly as flushed as the red checks on his flannel jacket. “I might be persuaded, though, if you gave me a sample of what I’m missing.”

      You should live so long, Amanda reflected with disgust. She took a better grip on the book she held, hitched her sleek shoulder bag higher, and prepared to move on. “If you don’t let me pass, I’m turning around and heading to the sheriff’s office.”

      Feldon’s hand snaked out to grab her arm. “I don’t think so,” he muttered, his expression suddenly as dark as his shaggy black hair.

      Amanda knew it was too late to run. But she could shout for help, she decided even as another large hand came up to cup her chin hard enough to keep her lips clamped shut.

      “Maybe I’ll just take, since you don’t feel like giving,” Feldon said, leaning closer, then closer still. Amanda did her best to struggle, but he was almost twice her size. Her pulse began to pound as all-out panic threatened.

      And then he was yanked right away from her by someone who stared daggers at Guy Feldon from under the wide brim of a tan Stetson before sending the burly man lurching into the street with a well-placed fist to the jaw.

      For once, Amanda was actually glad to see Dev Devlin.

      A few people poked their heads outside at that point, as if just aware that something was up on Main Street. Amanda took note of it with a quick glance around her even as most of her attention remained fixed on the two men steps away.

      “Come on, Feldon,” Dev said in a near growl, his fists still clenched. “Let’s see you take on someone more your size.”

      “Damned if I won’t,” the other man shot back.

      Amanda watched what happened next, thinking that it was like a scene straight out of an action movie. Fists flew with abandon and several grunts were exchanged when they found their target, but it wasn’t long before a clear victor emerged as Dev sent his opponent flying with a particularly solid punch.

      “More?” he asked after taking a few rapid strides forward to stand over the burly man sprawled in the street.

      Feldon looked up. “I’m done.”

      “Well then, so are we,” Dev said, “unless the lady wants you dragged over to the sheriff’s place so she can press charges.”