Miss Lizzy's Legacy. Peggy Moreland

she forced a smile. “Well, I guess I’ll call it a night. See you in the morning.”

      “Sure thing. We start serving breakfast at eight.”

      Once in the privacy of her room, Callie shrugged out of her jacket, then held it by its sleeve while she dug in the pocket for the messages Frank had given her. She tossed the jacket to the bed as she opened the first.

       Call Stephen—214-555-5622.

      She sank down on the bed and unfolded the second message.

       Call Stephen. Urgent—214-555-5622.

      She fell back, groaning, her hand moving to shove her hair from her eyes. In the note she’d left him, she had asked for space, time. Obviously, Stephen wasn’t going to honor either request.

      A knock at the door had her jackknifing to a sitting position. Frowning, she scooted off the bed and crossed to the door. Standing on tiptoe, she peered through the peephole. All she could see was unrelieved black, which in itself was enough to identify her visitor. The outline of a Stetson pulled low on the man’s forehead only served to confirm who stood outside.

      Grimacing, she flung open the door. “A little late for a social call, don’t you think?”

      He planted a hand on either side of the frame and leaned toward her, his gaze boring deep into hers. “Who are you?”

      A frown puckered between her brows at his threatening look, and she took a cautious step back. “Callie Benson.”

      “So you said.” He stepped inside, blocking any chance of her slamming the door in his face. “But what I want to know is what you are. Why you’re here.”

      Unconsciously, she lifted a hand to her throat, wondering if Frank would hear if she screamed loud enough. “I told you, to find information on my great-grandfather’s mother.”

      His hand arced out, fanning the air narrow inches from her nose. “Cut the bull. Mary Elizabeth Sawyer never had any children.”

      Callie fell back a step. “I beg your pardon?”

      “She never had children. None that lived, anyway.”

      “She most certainly did!” She whirled to grab her purse. “I have the papers right here to prove it.” She dug in the depths of her feed-bag style purse, pulled out yellowed documents and thrust them under his nose. “See for yourself. William Leighton Sawyer, born June 14, 1890, Oklahoma Territory. Son of Mary Elizabeth Sawyer.”

      Judd looked at the paper, then shoved her hand aside. “There’s a tombstone out in Summit View Cemetery that carries the same information.”

      Callie’s mouth dropped open, then clamped shut with an indignant click of teeth. “I’ll have you know my great-grandfather is William Leighton Sawyer, and he might be old, but he’s very much alive.”

      “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”

      “A reporter!” she repeated, her voice rising in anger and frustration. “No, I’m not a reporter. I’m a—” She threw up her hands, unable to believe she was even having this conversation. “I don’t owe you any explanations. Now get out of my room, or I’ll call Frank and have you thrown out.”

      When he didn’t move, she reached for the phone. He caught her arm at the wrist and pulled it to his thigh, dragging her to stand nose-to-nose with him. “You came to find me, didn’t you?”

      Callie’s chest swelled in anger. “What are you? Some kind of egomaniac? I don’t know you, and furthermore, don’t care to know you. Now, if you don’t mind,” she said through clenched teeth as she tried to wrench free of him. “Get your hands off me.”

      Instead of releasing her, he tightened his fingers on her wrist, making her wince. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never heard of Judd Barker.”

      She lifted her gaze to his and glared right back at the cold, hate-filled eyes pinned on her. “No, I’ve never heard of—” She stiffened as the name clicked a hidden memory, one of headlines with the name in bold, dark type. Judd Barker—Country Western’s Favorite Son Gone Bad.

      She wasn’t a fan of country music, but like every other person who’d ever stood in a grocery checkout line, she’d read the headlines on the tabloids racked there. She would have dismissed them for the sensationalistic trash they were, except she’d also seen the cover of “People Weekly” magazine and read the story within. Judd Barker Charged With Rape Of Fan.

      He watched her eyes darken in fear and felt the kick of it in her pulse through his fingertips. Her reaction both sickened and angered him. “So you have heard of me.”

      “Ye-yes,” she stammered.

      “And you came to see for yourself what kind of man would rape a defenseless woman and maybe get a front-page story for your trouble? Well, take a good look, sweetheart. This may be the only chance you get.”

      Her head wagged back and forth in mute denial before she found her voice. “No. No, I told you. I didn’t come here to find you. I came to trace my great-grandfather’s mother.”

      He twisted her hand behind his waist, dragging her body flush against his. He fisted his other hand in her hair, yanking her head back, forcing her face up to his. “Liar.”

      Unwanted tears budded in her eyes. Her neck ached with the strain of looking up at him, but she was no match for his strength. Refusing to show her fear, she met his gaze squarely. “I’m not lying. And if you do not remove your hands from me by the time I count to three, I’m going to scream bloody hell and have everyone in the hotel in this room.” She narrowed her eyes, levering a note of threat into her voice as she added, “With one charge of rape of against you, you might have a hard time explaining your presence in my room. One. Two. Thr—”

      His face came down, his lips crushing against hers, absorbing the scream that built in her throat. Her heart slammed against her chest at the first shocking contact. He’s going to rape me, she thought incredulously as she instinctively strained against the hand that held her face to his. Or kill me, she thought on a shudder. And she didn’t know which would be worse.

      With every ounce of strength within her, she fought him, twisting her wrist within fingers cinched like a steel band, shoving against a chest, iron-hard with padded muscle. Her attempts to escape were futile for his mouth continued to punish her for a wrong she couldn’t name.

      Her wrist throbbed from the effort, her neck ached from the strain, yet she continued to struggle as his lips persisted in their bruising assault.

      Then it changed. Everything. In the span of a heartbeat, his fingers loosened in her hair to cup her nape, his grip on her hand disappeared only to reappear, softer, gentler, at her waist. The lips on hers no longer punished, but teased; his tongue hot and wet, tracing the seam of her lips, skimming down her throat to savor the smooth skin there.

      She found the sudden change from abductor to seducer as debilitating as his strength had been only moments ago. She knew that nothing held her to this man any longer, but she couldn’t—didn’t—pull away.

      Instead, she curled her fingers into his shirt and clung. Against the flat of her palm, his heart beat. The back of her hand monitored her own heart’s thundered response. Passion, the kind she’d dreamed of but wasn’t sure existed, heated the blood coursing through her veins, turning her skin to fire, her sanity to a pile of ash.

      He lifted a hand to nudge off his hat. It hit the floor, bounced against her leg then rocked slowly to a stop at her feet. Her fingers climbed up his chest to anchor on his shoulders. Her chest heaved with each intake of breath, her nipples hardening with each scrape of silk against cotton.

      Her reaction to him both shocked and repulsed her. This man was a total stranger...a suspected rapist...and yet there was nothing strange about the way she felt in his arms. There was a familiarity in the way they responded to each other, an instantaneous spark of recognition that