An Honorable Man. Darlene Gardner

what she’d requested when the hip, young stylist who was the new hire at her hair salon asked if she was feeling adventurous. Her intention to have her hair cut boy-short never made it past her lips.

      Sierra fished a tie out of her purse and hastily pulled her hair into a loose twist, the way she usually wore it, silently berating herself all the while for her stunning lack of courage.

      “Hello, Dr. Whitmore.”

      The greeting pulled Sierra out of her daze. The woman passing her on the sidewalk in the heart of the picturesque downtown of Indigo Springs was a patient at the practice where Sierra worked in partnership with her brother.

      “Good day, Mrs. Jorgenson.”

      The woman gave her a tepid smile and kept walking.

      Good day.

      Had Sierra really just said that? The woman was roughly her age. She should have uttered a casual hello and addressed her by her first name, like a normal person would have done.

      It was time she faced up to the terrible truth her ex-boyfriend, Chad Armstrong, had slammed her with when he broke up with her last month.

      She was boring.

      Mind-numbingly, nobody’s-in-a-rut-deeper-than-I-am boring.

      Even more dull than Chad himself, who could kill a conversation with his pharmacist shoptalk when he bothered to say anything at all.

      If the charge wasn’t true, she’d be headed out of town to meet an old college friend for a wild weekend of clubbing. She’d have asked her brother to cover for her rather than refusing the invitation because she was on call.

      She didn’t have any firm plans for this weekend at all, which was why she was heading back to the office. Even when Whitmore Family Practice closed early, as it did every Friday afternoon, Sierra could always find some paperwork.

      She spotted a flyer advertising next weekend’s Indigo Springs Arts and Music Festival alongside a splashy modern painting in the window of an art studio. The other tourist-themed businesses on the pretty, hilly street—restaurants, bike and ski shops, souvenir stores—sported similar notices. She was wondering why a banner promoting the event hadn’t been strung over Main Street, when she saw the man.

      He wore dark shades even though the sun wasn’t particularly bright. In a short-sleeved black polo shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, he was seemingly oblivious to the slight chill typical of the latter part of April. The section of sidewalk where he stood with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans was shaded by a red maple tree, its vibrant leaves forming a backdrop that caused him to appear ridiculously masculine. The smell of flowers in bloom wafted on a breeze, a further contradiction.

      She snuck a glance at him as she approached, appreciating the sensuous line of his mouth, the wave in his thick dark hair and his solid build. He looked to have three days’ growth of beard, which somehow made him seem more sexy. So did his height. She judged him to be at least six feet two, maybe even six-three.

      “Excuse me.” The timbre of his voice, soft and deep and without an accent she could detect, reached out to her. “Sorry to bother you, but can you recommend a place to stay?”

      That meant he was a visitor, unsurprising in a place marketed as a year-round tourist destination. Besides, if this man lived in Indigo Springs, she would have noticed him before now.

      “Try the Blue Stream Bed-and-Breakfast. It’s up the street a few blocks.” She pointed to indicate the direction. “If that’s full, I’d give the Indigo Inn a shot. It’s back the other way.”

      “Have you stayed at either of those places?” he asked.

      “No, I haven’t. Some locals book a room at the B and B just to sample the blueberry scones the owner serves for breakfast, but so far I’ve resisted.”

      “So you live here in Indigo Springs?”

      She wished he wasn’t wearing those shades so she could see whether the color of his eyes complemented his long, straight nose and strong jawline, which was partially obscured by dark stubble. “I do.”

      “Can you steer me toward me a good place for dinner tonight?”

      “Can I ever.” She gestured across the street to a Thai restaurant with a bright red door. “That place has the best pad thai I’ve ever had. It’s so good I could eat it every day of the week.”

      He didn’t hesitate. “Then how about having pad thai tonight? With me.”

      The breeze cooled the interior of Sierra’s mouth, alerting her that it must have dropped open. “You want me to have dinner with you?” she repeated, just in case she’d misunderstood.

      “Sure. Why not? You could save me from eating alone.”

      A thrill traveled through Sierra before reason took over. “Thank you, but I can’t.”

      “Are you married?” he asked.

      “Well, no.”

      “Engaged?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “In a relationship? Wary of strange men who approach you on the street?”

      She laughed. “No to the first two questions. Yes to the third.”

      “Not much I can do about that.” He gave a small shrug, emphasizing the play of muscles in his shoulders. “Thanks for the recommendations.”

      He started walking in the direction of the B and B, leaving Sierra exactly where she’d been before the unforeseen encounter: chiding herself for allowing her life to turn stale.

      So what had she done the first time she got the opportunity to do the unexpected?

      She’d let her unexpected opportunity get away.

      “Wait!” She followed up on her cry by pursuing the stranger. He turned, those eyes still covered by shades, the quirk of his sensuous mouth the only thing betraying his curiosity.

      “Are you married?” she asked.

      “Never been.” He lifted a left hand bare of rings. The base of his hand was broad, his fingers long, his knuckles lightly dusted with hair.

      Lots of married men didn’t wear the evidence, yet she could tell instinctively that he really was single. Chad, with his roots in Indigo Springs and stable job, was the type of guy you could settle down with. Her father had told her that all the time. He’d warn her against this man. Because this man was the kind you took to bed. She fought not to blush at the thought and asked, “What’s your name?”

      “Ben Nash.”

      It suited him, strong and to the point, like the man himself.

      “Mine’s Sierra.” She started to add the Whitmore surname, then caught sight of the sign above the doctor’s office. Sierra had worked hard to get where she was, but she longed for this man to treat her like a woman, not a physician. He had no notion she’d developed into the biggest bore who’d ever lived.

      “Hello, Sierra.” He stuck out one of his strong hands, which immediately engulfed hers in warmth, sending a shivery sensation through her. “I guess this means we’re not strangers anymore.”

      That had been her intention. She was through standing back and letting life pass her by. Earlier today she’d wondered how to dig herself out of her rut.

      Now she knew.

      “I can’t make it for dinner.” She tried lowering her voice to a flirtatious murmur. “Would you like to meet for drinks instead?”

      SIERRA SMOOTHED her hands over the tight jeans that hugged her body like denim Saran Wrap, glimpsed down at the deep, daring vee of her clinging black top and fought the impulse to sprint to her bedroom closet.

      She didn’t think she moved, but her spike heels were so high she wobbled a little anyway.

      The