A Second-Chance Proposal. C.J. Carmichael

back his thick dark hair with his hands. As for his shoulder, he held it stiffly when he walked.

      Dylan acknowledged his injuries with a shrug.

      “You idiot. Do you think you could’ve found a more dangerous rodeo event than bull riding?”

      “Hey, I wore off a lot of anger on those babies. And won a good pile of money at the same time. Figured I could pay down the rest of your mortgage.”

      She refused to see anything sweet or honorable in the offer. “So now you’re trying to buy me off. As if I would touch your money.”

      He’d put up most of the down payment on the house, which they’d registered in her name for legal and tax reasons. In his note, he’d told her to keep it, sell it, whatever she wanted. Covering the mortgage payments while financing the renovations had been a struggle, but selling the house hadn’t been an option she could bear. Even though she would have loved to throw his portion of the down payment in his face. Of course, his face hadn’t been around for her to throw anything at.

      “I don’t need your money, Dylan. This place pays for itself.”

      “I heard you’ve been busy. Anyone staying with you right now?”

      “Just one guest at the moment.” But once the snow fell and skiing season started, she’d be full again, as she had been all summer.

      Dylan put a hand on his pack. “Which means you’ve got a few rooms available.”

      She should have seen that one coming. Folding her arms over her chest, she narrowed her eyes at him. “The answer is no.”

      “Cathleen, you’re hurting my feelings.”

      “We’ve already established your feelings don’t run much deeper than the bark on a birch tree.”

      He adjusted the position of his hat, balancing it carefully on the top of the canvas pack. “Well, you’re probably right about that. Fortunately, yours don’t, either. Got rid of the dress and the ring—wasn’t that what you said?”

      “Damn right.”

      “Well, then. Why not put me up? I’ll pay for one month up front.”

      “A month!”

      “At least. I’ve got a little unfinished business here in Canmore.”

      “Like what?”

      “Family business. Old scores to settle.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      He propped an elbow against the hot-tub edge and made himself comfortable. “You know as well as I do. I haven’t been able to forget about that poor kid.”

      Jilly Beckett. The memory of the teenager shot down in cold blood on the McLean ranch made Cathleen shiver, despite the heated water surrounding her. “The family had a memorial for her a year after it happened, Dylan. I went. For a sixteen-year-old, she was pretty accomplished.”

      “She would’ve turned eighteen this year. She’d be starting university….”

      “They never did arrest anyone.” There simply wasn’t enough evidence. Not that lack of proof had stopped people from drawing their own conclusions.

      “Cathleen, did you ever think I—”

      She shook her head. Like so many things, it was too late for him to ask that question.

      Pain pinched his features. “For the record, I didn’t.”

      “Don’t you think I know that? God, Dylan, you’re so dense sometimes.”

      He turned his head, facing out into the dark. “Ain’t that the truth.”

      Above their heads a cloud drifted by and the moon washed the deck in light. Dylan faced her again. “If I’m innocent, that means the real killer is out there. And you know what’s really scary?”

      She was almost afraid to ask. “What?”

      “He’s living with my mother.”

      “YOU THINK your stepfather shot Jilly Beckett?” Cathleen asked.

      “I do.” He glanced at her, then forced his gaze back out into the night. It was impossible to forget, for even one minute, that she was naked in the hot tub. Not that he could see much—beyond the dark outline of her breasts. But just knowing was enough.

      He’d come here with the faintest of hopes and almost no expectations, never guessing the gods would choose to mock him in this way. He had a need, like a deep thirst, to drink in the sight of her. Still, he’d noticed she got restless and uncomfortable if he looked at her for too long.

      “When did you arrive at this conclusion?”

      “It took me longer than it should’ve,” he admitted. “I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.” That he’d lost the love of his life. That he’d probably be an old man before he was finally able to ranch his own land again. That his own mother thought he was a vicious murderer…

      But last month he’d been hospitalized—first serious injury since he’d started rodeo life—and the downtime had given him plenty of opportunity for reflection.

      “Assuming you’re right, what can you do about it?”

      “I don’t know. But my mother is living with this creep. I’ve got to come up with something.” A conclusion confirmed by his recent conversation with Jake. He wondered if Cathleen had the same concerns. “Have you seen Rose lately?”

      “No. After our wedding was canceled, dropping in for coffee seemed inappropriate. How about you? Have you kept in touch?”

      He heard the recrimination in her voice, as if she expected the answer to be no. But he’d tried. “Mom didn’t answer any of my letters or accept my calls.” He rubbed a dirty spot on the knee of his jeans and wondered if he dared ask. What the hell, she could only say no.

      “I plan on dropping in on her tomorrow. I don’t expect she’ll be thrilled to see me, but if you were there, too, she probably wouldn’t slam the door in my face.”

      Cathleen had always been a favorite of his mother’s. When they’d announced their engagement, Rose had said she was glad because she’d thought of Cathleen as a daughter for many years already.

      “I heard she was ill and not accepting visitors at all.”

      “Yeah. Jake said as much, too.” And he didn’t know what to make of it. His mother had always been a little shy, but she’d been friendly and hospitable once she got to know a person.

      “Chances are that even if we drop by, she won’t let us in.”

      “Maybe. Maybe not.”

      She examined his face, then nodded. “I suppose it’s worth a try. It would be good for her to see you.”

      He stirred the chlorinated water with one hand. “You know Mom isn’t the only reason I came back to Canmore.”

      “You’re talking about your ranch, I suppose.”

      Actually, he’d been talking about her.

      “Lots has changed at the Thunder Bar M,” she told him. “The ranch isn’t even being operated anymore. Your mom and Max have moved into town.”

      “Yeah—Jake told me. He said Max hired some kind of caretaker to look after the place. Do you know who it is?”

      “Danny Mizzoni. He’s living in the main house, with his wife and two kids.”

      Dylan swore. “That drug-head?” The man had been convicted of selling narcotics to thirteen-year-olds at the local junior high. “Wasn’t he in jail when I left town?”

      “Danny was paroled a year after we were engaged. And Max was reelected mayor of Canmore, on a pro-development