Not that that was such a good thing.

Automatically, his mind calculated range and bullet drop. He had learned the ballistics tables not long after he had learned the multiplication tables, and he knew them better. He wouldn’t use the figures now. It was just good to work the mind, that was all. Keep the wheels oiled and moving.

He had told himself to stay away from this place, to stay away from the blonde. But she had haunted him badly the last two nights and he had finally decided he needed to see if she had come back to the house.

This wasn’t the woman he had expected. She was blond, like the other one had been, but different. Much different. He could tell not only by the way she dressed, but by the way she moved, the way she sat. Relief flooded through him, weakening his limbs. The Ruger bobbed in his hands, suddenly weighing a thousand pounds. She wasn’t the one.

The woman laughed, a husky, healthy sound that floated up the mountainside and brushed across his ears like sweet music. Not like the other one. Her laugh had held an edge to it, a bitter sharpness. The echo of that laugh brought flashes of memory, like a strobe light in his head. Darkness. Dogs. The crack of a rifle. The sight of blood. The smell of death.

He dropped the Ruger down and pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets, as if the pressure might blot out the scenes. Panic rose inside him, clogging his throat, stiffening his lungs, making him shake. The images in his head tumbled into a confusing mix of the distant past, the recent past, the present. Sounds of war, sounds of laughter, screams of the wounded and the dying, orders, shots, explosions, the stench of death and decay and swamp. His heart pounded like an angry fist against his sternum. Sweat soaked his clothing, robbing his body of heat as the cool evening air closed around him.

Sucking in as much air as his aching lungs would allow, he held the breath and concentrated on pushing every thought from his mind. As the mental screen went blessedly blank, he exhaled slowly, counting the seconds, concentrating on slowing his heart rate.

Every moment of his life was like taking a shot-he had to stay centered, in control, tight within himself. Focus, aim, take a breath, exhale half, caress the trigger, start again. That was how he made it. One shot at a time. No distractions.

No pretty blondes with husky voices.

Taking up the rifle, he rose from his crouch and started up the mountain, letting the darkness swallow him up like a phantom.

SAMANTHA finished work at four for the first time in a week. The evening was hers. The thought made her stomach cramp with dread. She hated the idea of spending time alone in the small house she had shared with Will. It was so empty without him. The quiet pressed in on her until she could stand it no longer.

She couldn’t go into the tiny kitchen without seeing him standing there with messy dishes and pots and pans stacked around him, his grin exuberant as he cooked spaghetti. He always made enough for an army. The freezer compartment of the old refrigerator was virtually an icy wall of frozen spaghetti in Ziploc bags. She couldn’t go into the bedroom without seeing him sprawled across the mattress, naked, frowning in his sleep, or with those devilish blue eyes locked on her, one hand reaching out to her, inviting her to come make love with him.

Longing as strong, as desperate as the need to breathe, dug into her heart and tore it open all over again. The pain flowed through her like fresh, hot blood.

What went wrong, Will? Did I need you too much? Did you need more?

She thought of the way she had jumped at his offer of marriage. In her memory it was the most casual of questions. He had asked her with no more concern than if he had asked her to go off on a wild ride with him. And in her memory she all but pounced on him, grabbing on to him with greedy hands that threatened to choke the life out of him.

No matter how she looked at it, the blame always came back to her. She had been too demanding, too clinging, too needy. She wasn’t pretty enough or woman enough or experienced enough in bed. As angry as she was with him for walking out, as hurt as she was by his cheating, she always blamed herself.

That truth made her think of her mother, slinking around her father like a whipped dog, her eyes downcast, always apologizing for imagined sins. She hated to think that she compared with her mother in any way, had always hated to think that she was even related to any of those people in that shabby house with the weedy yard and the dirty-faced children. The guilt that thought brought was no more welcome than the truth that the Neills were her family.

She looked around the bar as she untied her apron, folded it, and tucked it into a cubbyhole. People were drifting in for happy hour. Smiling, beautiful, wealthy people. Couples. Her focus homed in on the women, who all seemed to hold some secret wisdom in their eyes that she couldn’t even guess at. They had it all. They had their husbands and their fancy cars and lavish homes and beautiful clothes. She imagined that when they looked at her they knew that she had nothing, was no one. All she had waiting for her at home was Rascal, the puppy Will had given her for her birthday two weeks before he left her.

“Are you all right, Samantha luv?”

Mr. Van Dellen leaned close to her, brows knit in question. She fought down the lump in her throat and murmured an answer she hoped would satisfy him.

“You’re sure?” he asked. “Because if you need to talk to someone or-”

“No, really, Mr. Van Dellen. I’m fine. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

He pressed his lips together in way that made her think he was holding back a challenge to her statement. She tried to smile, shrugging off his concern. He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t call her on it either.

“All right,” he said on a sigh, and moved off to answer a call from one of his customers.

Samantha felt the tension seep out of her like air from a balloon. She couldn’t talk about her troubles with him. He was nice and all, but everybody knew he and Mr. Bronson were… well… queer.

She didn’t like the way the word sounded even in her own mind. It seemed harsh and mean, when Mr. Van Dellen and Mr. Bronson were both very kind to her. But she couldn’t get past her upbringing either. The thought of two men… together… She gave a little shiver of revulsion. No, she couldn’t talk with Mr. Van Dellen about Will. He couldn’t possibly understand.

The problem was, she didn’t know a soul who would understand. Not for the first time in her life she wished for a real friend and for the courage it took to be a part of that kind of friendship.

With a heart that felt as heavy as the purse she slung over her shoulder, she started for the side exit and stepped directly into the path of Evan Bryce.

“Samantha!”

The smile that stretched across his face was one for old friends, and it threw her off balance more than their near collision had. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bryce,” she mumbled. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Don’t apologize,” he ordered with a mock frown as he settled a hand on her shoulder. “And you call me Bryce. All my friends do.” She started to object, but he gave her shoulder a little squeeze, his pale eyes shining. “Come on. We are friends, aren’t we?” he said with a big square grin. “I don’t loan my handkerchiefs out to just anyone, you know.”

Samantha ducked her head, blushing at the memory of crying on his shoulder. God, he was Evan Bryce and she was just Sam Neill from the wrong side of town, just a little nobody. She couldn’t be a part of Bryce’s crowd any more than a mutt dog could run with greyhounds.

Bryce studied her reaction from under his lashes. “Come join us,” he said, steering her toward his table.