A Montana Homecoming. Allison Leigh

the desk.

      She was sweating by the time she finished with the bedroom and the single bathroom, a state that wasn’t helped by the sight of the sheriff’s vehicle parked at the curb, or the presence of Shane studying the pile of supplies she’d purchased from the hardware store.

      “What are you doing here?”

      “What are you doing?”

      She gestured at the trio of weighty bags full of trash she’d pulled from the house. “What does the evidence tell you?”

      He didn’t look amused. “You shouldn’t be staying here.”

      She crossed her arms, staring down at him where he stood below the porch. “Because I have to take out some trash?”

      He picked up one of the bags and tossed it at the steps. The wood cracked sharply and splintered beneath the bag.

      “Well.” Laurel eyed the half-buried bag. “You can pull that out.”

      “You’re missing the point.” With no seeming effort, he hefted the bag free of the jagged wood without managing to tear the plastic. “That could be you falling through the steps.”

      “Instead, it was an innocent garbage bag. I’m staying, so if that’s your only reason for coming out here, you can go.” The sooner the better.

      He just gave her a look and held out his hand for the remaining bags. She tightened her hold on them. “I can manage.”

      “Hand me the bags, Laurel.”

      She made a face and dragged the bags over to him. His hands brushed hers as he took hold and lifted them off the porch, carrying all three around to the trash bins next to the garage.

      It was a fine time to realize that Shane Golightly’s touch still had the ability to make her mind go completely blank.

      He was back in seconds, and the hope that he would simply leave died rapidly when he stepped up onto the porch and lowered himself onto the faded wicker love seat near the door.

      She leaned against the wall. “What do you want, Sheriff?”

      He doffed his hat, balancing it on his knee. His hair was darker than it used to be. Particularly near the nape of his neck where it was cut severely short.

      The last time she’d seen Shane so closely, his shoulders hadn’t been quite so wide, his chest not quite so deep, his forearms, where his white shirtsleeves were rolled up, not quite so sinewy. And his deep-gold hair had been long enough at the nape for her fingers to tangle in it.

      She swallowed and looked away. Her gaze fell on his SUV. Sheriff.

      She swallowed again. “I saw your father earlier. I was sorry to hear about your mother.” Holly Golightly had been his stepmother, actually, but Laurel knew he’d considered her his only mother, since his natural mother had walked out on her family when he’d been very young.

      “Cancer. It was fast,” he supplied. “And a long time ago.”

      “Does that make it hurt less? Time?”

      His wide shoulders rose and fell. “Yeah. But it doesn’t stop us all from missing her. I moved back to Lucius when she got really bad, and decided not to leave again once she was gone.” The toe of his boot jiggled. “This place isn’t safe for you.”

      She exhaled, impatience swirling through her. “I’m a big girl. I think I can avoid the bad steps until they’re fixed.”

      “Who is going to fix them?”

      “I will.”

      His eyebrows rose. “Really.”

      “Yes, really.”

      “Gonna buy the lumber. Get the tools. Rebuild the supports that are rotting underneath.”

      “If I have to.” She propped her hands on her hips. “Women are perfectly capable of—”

      “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He stood. “I’m not getting into that argument with you. I know plenty of women who can frame a house better than men. My point is that you’re a—”

      “A what?” She angled her head.

      “A third-grade teacher,” he finished mildly, and smoothly circled her wrists, turning her palms upward. “Without a single callus on these pretty hands of yours to indicate you’re accustomed to this sort of work.”

      She curled her fingers into fists. He wasn’t being chauvinistic. His attitude was strictly based on what he knew—or thought he knew—of her.

      “I’m perfectly capable of learning.” And hadn’t she learned her lesson where Shane Golightly was concerned?

      His thumbs worked across the knobs of her knuckles. Soothing. “Of course you’re capable of learning anything. That’s not the point.”

      The point. Remember the point. “This house is the only thing left of my father. Maybe I don’t want to abandon it the way he abandoned me.” She pulled her hands away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of things to take care of this afternoon, not least of which is planning a funeral.” She reached for the screen door, turning away from him.

      “Laurel.”

      Why did hearing her name on his lips make her heart still skip? She didn’t want to hesitate, but she did. “What?” When he didn’t respond, she finally looked back at him.

      His eyes were unreadable. His expression no more helpful. Did she even know this man anymore?

      “Be careful,” he finally said.

      She nodded once. “I plan to be.” Then she went inside.

      Chapter Three

      The funeral service for Laurel’s father was on Friday morning, just three days after she arrived in Lucius.

      Beau Golightly handled most of the details. When they’d met to discuss the service, he’d told her that Roger had left a plan a few years earlier. What hymns he wanted sung. What scripture readings.

      The fact that Roger had left any sort of instructions had stunned Laurel.

      He’d even prepaid for an arrangement of flowers, had prearranged his burial, had done nearly everything.

      The only thing Laurel had done was purchase him a new suit, and she’d had to depend upon the funeral home director to advise her on the size.

      She could have avoided that particular embarrassment if she’d only had the nerve to enter her parents’ bedroom.

      But she hadn’t.

      Picking out the navy-blue suit, white shirt and burgundy striped tie at the new department store on the far end of town was the most familial task she’d performed for her father in twelve years. And he had to be deceased for her to even be allowed the task.

      She’d gone back to his house and had a glass of wine, after she’d delivered her purchases to the funeral home, and had felt guilty that she’d been unable to shed any tears.

      She should be able to cry for her father, shouldn’t she?

      Even now, sitting in the front row of the Lucius Community Church while a woman Laurel had never before met played “Amazing Grace” on the organ and Beau Golightly stood at the pulpit with his Bible in hand, and the unprepossessing casket rested ten feet away from her, Laurel wasn’t able to summon any tears.

      Maybe there was still something wrong with her, after all.

      There were no other mourners. She hadn’t expected there would be. Roger had worked for the town of Lucius all of his adult life. Even after the charges in her mother’s death had been dismissed against him, he’d kept his job with the town. He’d certainly never considered leaving Lucius to join her in Colorado, even though she’d asked him.

      There