Moon Over Montana. Jackie Merritt

within two days, she was on her way to Rumor, Montana.

      And here I intend to stay. Linda opened her eyes and felt unusually emotional. The beauty of the vast velvety sky with millions upon millions of sparkling stars touched her soul. Why on earth was she ruining her mellow mood by thinking about Paul?

      Of course, her mood wasn’t entirely mellow. There was Tag now, an intrusion on her peace, to be sure, but was that all bad? He was so darn attractive with his grin and open personality. She would be willing to bet that Tag Kingsley had very few, if any, secrets.

      And he was a carpenter. Could any other job suit her better?

      Deep into her own thoughts, Linda barely heard the snapping twig. Still, it brought her out of her reverie and back to the small piece of earth she inhabited. The yard around the building was dark. Over by the connected row of carports, one of which contained her SUV, were two lights, one attached to the roof on each end of the structure. A few windows in various apartments threw light. Her place was not one of them; she sat in total darkness.

      But there it was again! Someone was stealthily walking near the building. Linda noticed Tippy’s head rising from his front paws; he had heard—or smelled—whoever was creeping around out there. The little dog growled low in his throat, and Linda laid her hand on him to keep him from throwing a barking fit and waking up everyone in the building.

      She sat without moving, one hand on Tippy’s head, the other at her own throat, which seemed to be the place where her heart had leaped and was now pounding a breath-stealing cadence. For moments she sat frozen in that position, then became angry, mostly with herself. She was not and never had been a woman to freeze in fear. Whoever was out there probably had a perfect right to be.

      But then she heard a discordant scratchy sound that was absolutely foreign to anything she’d noticed before. Something wasn’t right, and whatever was going on seemed to be occurring in the vicinity of her front door!

      “What in the world?” she mumbled. At the same moment, Tippy eluded her calming touch, jumped up and began barking at the sliding door. “Hush,” she said sharply. Tippy stopped barking, but he whined and scratched at the glass door. “What is it, Tippy?” she whispered. Was someone who didn’t live in the building attempting a burglary this very moment? Maybe trying to get into her apartment?

      “You’re not getting away with it, buster,” she muttered as she hurriedly went inside and, without turning on any lights, made her way through her bedroom and down the stairs. Tippy raced ahead of her and began barking furiously. This time Linda didn’t hush him, and when she reached the door herself, she quickly snapped on the outside light and peered through the peephole. She saw nothing. Anger filled her. Just because whoever had been snooping around had been fast enough to elude her light didn’t mean he hadn’t been out there. Should she phone the sheriff’s department and make a report?

      Frowning, Linda pondered the situation. Was tonight’s intruder connected in some way to the parade of weirdos who had been knocking on her door in broad daylight, one of whom had walked in without knocking while she’d been gone today? She’d been so sure she had locked the door, she always did, but how else could he have gotten in?

      Oh my goodness, is he clever enough to pick locks? Had he come back after dark to walk in again?

      But at night she secured the dead bolt and the security chain on the door. Was he good enough to get past those additional precautions? If she had been asleep and he’d gotten in…? Linda shuddered a moment, then got hold of herself and thought, For pity’s sake, Tippy would have thrown a fit and woke not only me but the neighbors, as well!

      If a guy was haunting her for some unimaginable reason, he must be incredibly stupid to keep overlooking a live-in burglar alarm like Tippy.

      Incredibly stupid or incredibly desperate.

      Desperate to do what? Slowly Linda climbed the stairs. What did she have that a man she’d never met could want so badly that he kept returning and risking his own life, liberty and pursuit of happiness to get hold of? Oddly enough, she sensed no threat to herself. Both times that she had opened the door to the person in those pathetically comical disguises, all he’d done was get out of her face as quickly as was humanly possible. Maybe she should have called the law this afternoon and again tonight, but to tell them what? That someone had walked into the wrong apartment today and then tonight she had heard strange noises?

      “Not unless you want it getting around town that the new art teacher is a hysterical female,” she drawled disgustedly. She was not a hysterical female, not now, not ever and, with everything so quiet, the noises she’d heard—or thought she’d heard—could have come from a block away. “Get a grip, lady,” she told herself. After locking the sliding door and pulling the drape, Linda crawled into bed. Tippy settled down on the small rug at the foot of her bed. All was quiet again, and, ordinarily, Linda fell asleep within minutes of retiring. Tonight she stared into the dark for a long time.

      Whether she had imagined an intruder or someone had actually been sneaking around the building, the incident had left a mark. Linda hated admitting it, but the marvelous peace she had found in Montana seemed to be slipping away.

      But that elusive—and possibly imagined—intruder wasn’t the only Montana male chipping away at her peace of mind. Turning to her side, Linda let Tag overwhelm her thoughts. There was a raw sexuality between them that she’d never experienced before. It wasn’t just Tag’s adorable grin and twinkling eyes drawing her in, there was a feeling in the pit of her stomach that teased and taunted and dared her to be a real woman.

      Sighing softly, she admitted that she wanted to be a real woman. She wanted to explore her sensual side, which had certainly not been tapped or touched by Paul. It seemed almost impossible that she had stayed in a loveless marriage for so long. She had wasted years on a man who hadn’t given a damn that she never derived any pleasure from their lovemaking. And worse than that sin, he had refused to let her have children.

      A tear spilled from Linda’s eye and dribbled down her temple to her pillow. There was no question about it: the peace she’d found—or believed she had found—in Montana was definitely ebbing.

      Her last thoughts before sleep were as far from her intruder as they could be. They were about Tag. He was a carpenter with a child. He was handsome and sexy and funny and sweet.

      And he just might be her perfect match.

      In room six of the State Street Motel, Alfred lay facedown on his bed and wept with his fingers digging into the pillow. He hated the town of Rumor with every fiber of his being. He hated Montana with its wild animals—those horrid cows and horses included. He hated the hootie owls that scared the stuffing out of him every time they let out one of their bone-chilling cries. This place wasn’t fit for civilized human beings, and why in hell would Paul’s ex-wife move to such a godforsaken speck on the map? It was no damn wonder Paul had broken up with the bitch. She must have a screw loose or something.

      When she had turned on that porch light tonight, he’d nearly passed out. He’d gotten away only because self-preservation had taken over and caused his legs to run without a conscious, direct order from his brain.

      Alfred pounded the pillow in frustration. Tonight he had failed again, and he’d been so sure, when he’d spotted her dark apartment, that she had gone out. But being the pro that he was, he had cautiously checked each side of her end of the building before trying her door. He hadn’t heard even one yap from that crappy mutt of hers, which had reinforced his happy opinion about the apartment being empty. What did she do, sit in the dark and hope some poor unsuspecting stranger tried to get in?

      “Eeee,” Alfred moaned. His stomach was killing him. Rumor was giving him an ulcer. He longed for the lively streets of his old neighborhood in L.A. He ached for noise, for traffic and lights and people, for favorite hangouts with loud music and even louder patrons. The only place that he dared enter to get a beer was the dive next door, the Beauties and the Beat strip joint, and being Saturday night, there was plenty of noise coming from it. But he was afraid to show his face in there too often for fear that someone would start asking