A Cowboy's Plan. Mary Sullivan

in an intricately detailed, multihued vest. A deer wore a saddle of gold and silver, as if a wee elf might hop on for a ride any minute. An owl wore a finely decorated house robe and carried an icing book tucked under one arm and a chocolate candle in the other, as if he were preparing to sit for a cozy read before he headed to bed for the night.

      Cellophane, gleaming and crisp, covered the animals. A huge polka-dot bow gathered the plastic above each animal’s head.

      Why would anyone want to sell this store? Was he nuts?

      If she owned Sweet Talk, she’d polish the wood every day, and dust the cellophane on the animals, and smile when she sold them to customers. To children.

      She covered her mouth with her hands, awed by this big, whimsical treasure box of a shop.

      Around and through all of it drifted sugar and spice, scents so yummy her mouth watered.

      Oooooh, Cheryl would have loved it here. Her girl would have adored it. Had she ever come in with Hank and Amy? Janey hoped so.

      The wonderful feeling that was haunting her, that was calling from the darkness of vague memories, burst full-blown into her consciousness.

      Grandma.

      She hadn’t thought about her grandmother in years. This memory came from when Janey had been even younger than Cheryl’s six years. Grandma had visited a few times and, every time, had doled out in equal portion hugs and candy, the only times Janey had ever tasted it.

      Janey gazed at the wonder of the shop, that it should, after all of these years, call a long-lost part of herself into the light.

      Those visits had thrilled the solemn child Janey had been, had represented the few happy memories in her poverty-challenged life, the only good memories from her childhood.

      Then Grandma had died and Janey had rarely had candy again.

      She’d give anything to feel that euphoria, that joy even if only for a day. The only other time she’d felt anything better had been at Cheryl’s birth.

      Man, she could definitely work here.

      Children would come into this store, but Janey would deal with their parents. She could make children happy without handling them.

      She felt like laughing and whispered, “Who made this store? Whose idea was it?”

      “My mother’s.”

      Janey startled at the sound of the voice. On the other side of the counter stood a young man, taller than her, maybe six feet, his brown hair cropped soldier-short.

      She’d only met him the one time a year ago, and she’d forgotten how good-looking he was, what an impact that chiseled face made.

      Perhaps five years older than her, shadows painted his brown eyes. Janey knew all about shadows. Dark lashes too thick and pretty to be masculine ringed those eyes, but the square jaw framing the deep cleft in his chin was purely male.

      He didn’t smile, just wiped his hands on a towel and watched her without blinking. How long had he been watching her?

      Janey sensed a kindred spirit in the woman who’d started this shop. “Can I meet your mother?”

      “No,” he answered and Janey’s spirits plummeted. “She’s dead.”

      “Oh,” Janey breathed, “I’m sorry.”

      He smoothed a long-fingered hand down the apron he wore over a short-sleeved, blue-and-white-striped shirt with a button-down collar. She didn’t know men still wore those. Not young men, anyway.

      His dark brown eyes did a perusal of her and the easy warmth of the last few minutes dissolved. She waited for the criticism she knew was about to come. She stood out too much in this small town.

      Well, he could kiss her butt. She wanted this job and she was going to get it.

      For a split second, his features hardened, his lips flattened, before he apparently remembered that she was a customer.

      “I’m C. J. Wright. I own this place,” he said, his voice almost as rich as the chocolate she smelled melting in a pot somewhere. “Can I help you?”

      C.J. HAD SEEN this woman before, when she’d stood in his store with Amy Shelter, when Amy had returned from Billings to marry Hank.

      C.J.’s memory hadn’t exaggerated. She looked like a punker. Or a Goth woman.

      That day the young woman with Amy had looked real sad—like she’d been crying day and night for weeks.

      She didn’t look sad today, though. She looked tough and determined.

      The unrelenting black of her dress echoed the big platform boots, the black lipstick and nail polish, and the half inch of mascara coating her lashes. Looked like she’d applied it with a trowel.

      Her plain dress, black cotton hemmed at the knee, should have been conservative, but it hugged every curve like it was made of burned butter and hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. He’d never seen anything like her in Ordinary. With her piercings and the tiny tattoo on the inside of her left elbow, she looked too much like Vicki for comfort.

      Damn.

      In her defiant stance, one hip shot forward and one black-nailed hand resting on it, her head cocked to one side, tough and cynical, he saw himself as a teenager. She was no longer an adolescent, but not by much.

      No way did he want her here reminding him of his younger days, of times and troubles best buried.

      He threw down the towel he’d dried his hands with. He had his life under control. He’d sown all of the wild oats he ever intended to. These days he had the best reason on earth to behave well.

      Something about her tough beauty called to him, but he resisted. God, how he resisted.

      She wasn’t beautiful. She was trouble.

      Pure, cleansing anger rushed through him—anger at himself. The days when he found a woman like this attractive were long gone. He hadn’t spent the past year reinventing himself to be drawn back into the wildness a woman like this inspired in him.

      Get your shit together, buddy.

      With an effort that left him shaking, he pulled himself under control.

      “Can I help you?” he asked, cordially, as if she was any other customer.

      She pointed out the window and said, “I want that.”

      He looked out to see BizzyBelle wandering down the middle of the road. Nuts, she’d gotten out of her pen around back, again. Bizzy had to be the wiliest cow in Montana.

      He turned to the woman on the other side of the counter. She still pointed out the window.

      “You want my cow?” he asked. Wow, crazy.

      “Your cow?” She turned a stunned face toward the window, saw Bizzy and blinked. “No, not the cow. That.”

      His gaze shifted to the two bright green papers in his window and his hope soared.

      “You want to buy my store?” he asked. “Really?” In four months, he hadn’t had one single nibble and time was running out.

      “No,” she said. “I want the job.”

      “Oh, I see.” The job. No. No, he didn’t want her here every day. Just his luck, he needed an employee and the only candidate was this Goth creature who would probably scare most of his customers away. Nuts.

      “What are your qualifications?” he asked.

      She shrugged, as if she didn’t care whether or not she got the job. “I can count money. I can put stuff in a bag.” She’d obviously never gone job-hunting before. She showed neither deference nor humility, nor, come to think of it, any eagerness to please.

      “That’s it?” Nervy chick, coming in here with no