Blind-Date Bride. Jillian Hart

especially sour mood. No news there, right?

      A smile warmed her. She could hear Luke’s easy country cadence gently ribbing their older brother. They farmed land from their mother’s side of the family an hour’s drive from the city. She hadn’t grown up knowing her brothers, but after her hospital stay, they had kept in touch. Luke especially, who spent a lot of evenings on his computer.

      I’ve got two things on my mind. One—I know your trial is coming up in seven, or is it eight weeks? I’m not near a calendar. Anyway, we’re planning on coming down to be with you. Let us know the schedule in advance, if you can. I don’t know how the courts and lawyers do it, but any warning would make it easier on us here. We’ve got livestock and crops to consider, and we want to be there for you, kiddo.

      The trial. Bree took a deep breath. In with the good, out with the bad. But the shadows remained. She dreaded having to relive it all over again. She hated that she was going to have to testify and look at the surviving gunman, who would be sitting beside his lawyers looking innocent and misunderstood. When she knew the truth—the weight of Juanita’s limp body as she fought to clear an air passage, his violent shouting about wanting all of the money.

      Take another deep breath, Bree. She closed her eyes until the memories silenced. One day all of this would be in the past. One day she would say this experience, as bad as it was, strengthened her in spirit and in faith. It taught her how much she had wanted to survive her injuries, how much she loved her life.

      I’ve been e-mailing with Brooke, and I’ve got her halfway talked into coming back home ‘round that time for a visit. That sister of ours is having a hard time, but won’t admit it. How did the blind date turn out? If you’re interested, I know someone I could set you up with.

      Great. Double great. Another blind date. Why, when what were the chances she’d meet someone as perfect as Max? Although she had tried to stop thinking about him, he rushed into her thoughts. If only she could forget his stunning blue eyes, unassuming humor and manly tenderness. Or how he’d draped his coat around her shoulders like any romantic hero would, or that a girl could get lost in the deep comforting rumble of his voice.

      You weren’t going to go there, right? She turned her attention back to the computer screen.

      The other thing I’ve got to mention to you. I got a letter from Dad. Yes, he’s still in prison, but he’s coming up for parole. He wanted to borrow money. No surprise there, but heads up. He might be contacting you or Brandi next. Take care, little sister. Write when you can.

      Luke

      Dad. Up for parole. That was nothing but trouble. Brianna’s stomach cinched up into an impossibly tight knot. How old did you have to be until your past stopped mattering? Until the wounds of your childhood stopping hurting?

      She didn’t have any answers to that. She had stopped counting on her dad a long time ago, but his sins seemed to cling to her, part of the shadows, too. Those shadows dimmed the brightness, every last thought of Max and the hopes she had for her life.

      It was a long time until the darkness thinned and the shadows eased. Only then could she sleep.

      Chapter Four

      “Heard you bombed out big-time with that classy woman Dobbs set you up with.” His little brother took a shot and the basketball swooshed through the net—a perfect two points. Marcus pumped his fist in the air. “All right! I’m up four points on you now, old man.”

      “Watch who you’re calling old.” His growl was more bark than bite, but it was tradition between the two of them. “You got in a few lucky shots is all.”

      “It’s not luck. It’s called skill.” Marcus hopped after the ball and tossed it into the court. The echoing ruckus from the other one-on-one games bounced around the cavernous downtown gym.

      Max caught the ball, enjoying their good-natured banter. Hanging out with his bro was number one on his list of favorite activities. “It’s called false hope, because I’m going to make the next three baskets. Watch and learn.”

      “Pathetic.” Marcus’s basketball shoes squeaked on the varnished floor as he tried blocking.

      The kid was good, which was one reason why Max had given notice, packed his possessions and moved him from California to Montana. Not an easy transition for a man born and bred in the heart of the city, but worth it. He shot, he scored, and it was his turn to pump his fist. “You’re only ahead by one basket, hot shot.”

      “I’m not worried.” He dribbled the ball like a pro, loping with his long stride toward the basket.

      “You’d better be worried.” Max blocked, stealing the ball and dropping it through the net. “Who’s the king now?”

      “The game’s not over, bro.” The kid grabbed the ball, dribbling, setting up a nice layup and the shrill note of a whistle cut through the boy’s concentration.

      “Time to pack it up for the night,” the pastor, who oversaw the youth program, called above the noise. While groans and protests rang out, the gym full of teens stopped their games and began tossing their basketballs into the cans near the back door.

      “Saved by the whistle.” Max tapped the ball, knocked it out of the kid’s grip and gave it a toss. It sailed into the end basket, neatly missing everyone, and into the bin. “Another two points for me.”

      “Sad. I feel sorry for you. The only way you can beat me is to cheat.” Marcus winked, although he shook his head, feigning sympathy. “It only proves it. You’re washed up. Obsolete. It’s a wonder the police department doesn’t retire you. Can’t even beat a kid at basketball.”

      “I’m pathetic, I know, but next week, watch out.” The kid was good. And if things kept going as they were, he would graduate high school at the top of his class with a college scholarship in hand. They walked to the bleachers, keeping the conversation up as they pulled sweatpants over their workout clothes. Zipping up jackets, they headed out the door into the surprisingly cold evening.

      “Loser buys the pizza, so it’ll be your turn to treat. Again.” Marcus held out his hand to check the falling chunks of precipitation, for it was amazingly white. “Is that snow? Man, I can’t believe this place. I miss L.A.”

      “Tell it to the weatherman.” Personally, he didn’t care if it snowed all year long. All that mattered was that Marcus was in a good environment, doing well in school and keeping his nose clean. He beeped the remote and his truck’s door locks snapped open.

      “Hand over the keys, bro.” The kid’s palm shot out. “I won. I get to drive.”

      “You played a good game, Marcus.” Max hadn’t grown up in a touchy-feely home but he handed over the keys, sure the boy would understand that the gesture was meant to be affectionate. “Don’t you chip my paint job, you hear?”

      “Sweet.” Ignoring the warning, the kid loped toward the driver’s side. “I wish I had a rig.”

      “That money in your account at the bank is for college. Not a truck. End of story.”

      “Yeah, I know. I get it.”

      Hiding a grin, Max hopped into the passenger seat and buckled in. He was glad he’d come with his brother tonight. Being busy kept his mind off of certain subjects—work and, more troubling, Brianna McKaslin. Ever since he’d stayed up most of the night after reading that newspaper article, she’d taken up residence in his head. Days had passed, and he couldn’t explain why. She didn’t belong there.

      That didn’t stop him from remembering how she’d looked in the bakery. His first sight of her had been a mix of “wow” and “oh no.” She was too naive, too young, too perfect, too sweet for him. Her voice had been low and musical, a quiet melody that he wanted to hear again. He wasn’t a complicated man, and he knew what he felt was interest. She had the prettiest