Falling in love. It seemed impossible, a bad joke, a bizarre dream. He was arrogant, bad-tempered, hard to the point of cruelty. What was to love?

The vulnerability in those world-weary gray eyes when he looked out across the land that had been his family’s home for a hundred years, land that was being taken away piece by piece. The gentleness of his big, rough hands when he touched an animal. The gentleness of those hands when he touched her. The fierce tenderness of his lovemaking. The loyalty to an uncle most people would have shipped out of sight and out of mind. His determination to carry the weight of the world on his broad shoulders and never utter a word of complaint.

He was a complex man, not some cardboard cowboy. He was all sharp angles and hard edges protecting an inner core most people would never try to reach. He wasn’t just pride and bravado. He was a man whose way of life was being threatened. He was a man used to controlling his own destiny, and now that control was being wrested from him by strangers. He was a man who had been raised to show no weakness, but she knew he was afraid-for his home, for his livelihood.

For his heart?

It was dangerous to hope so. Dangerous and fool-hardy. She hadn’t come here looking for love, just acceptance. She didn’t want to love a man who made it a chore and a challenge. Every step would be a fight and she was so weary of fighting. Fighting her parents, fighting her own nature, fighting to fit in where she didn’t belong. She just didn’t want to fight anymore. She wanted life to be simple and sunny.

But life was neither of those things. Life was as complex as Rafferty, full of hard edges and shadows, and she couldn’t sit back and let it pass. She had come to Montana as a first step of being true to herself. Part of that truth was Rafferty. Part of that truth was loyalty to her friends. She had a friend who was dead, and if she didn’t find out why, no one else would. No one else cared.

Anger shimmered through her all over again as she thought of J.D.’s attitude. He’d never made his feelings for Lucy a secret, but she hadn’t expected him to be so callous. He wanted to pretend a woman he had been intimate with had never existed, to bury her memory and ignore the circumstances of her death.

Because he was that cold, that unfeeling? Or because he didn’t want anyone to know what had really happened?

Del. Was J.D. protecting his uncle? Could Del have shot Lucy in cold blood? Would he even have known what he was doing? His world was peopled by ghosts. His days were nightmares and he clung to the ragged edge of sanity by callused fingertips.

Head pounding, Mari wandered to the doors of the deck. She pulled them open and leaned a shoulder against the frame and looked out over the valley as the first light of dawn pinked the sky. Fog blanketed the low ground in thin, gauzy strips and ribboned among the dark trunks of the trees. The scene was like a photograph, sepia-toned and faded, like a memory. The coolness kissed her face with the scent of pine and cedar and damp grass. Down along the creek an elk raised its head from the water and its high, eerie call carried up the hillside.

Tears leaked from the corners of Mari’s eyes and trickled down her face. She loved it here so much. Why couldn’t it simply be the haven she wanted?

“Why does it have to be so hard?” she whispered aloud, the words laced and strained with pain, with confusion.

No one answered her. Not God. Not inner wisdom. The valley was silent. The elk moved on. She was alone.

Her guitar stood next to the door, tucked into the small corner where the wall met the kitchen cabinets. She reached for it like a child reaching for a security blanket. She pulled it into her arms and hugged it tight as she wandered out onto the deck.

“It’s just you and me, old pal,” she whispered, lovingly caressing the strings.

She climbed up onto the table and sat with her legs crossed, oblivious of the dew that had gathered thick on the glass, the oversize green robe tucked around her like a blanket. Closing her eyes, she lay her head down close to the body of the guitar and began to play. The piece was poignantly sweet, achingly tender, full of longing, brimming with need. It asked no questions, voiced no opinions. It was feeling, pure and simple, raw and painful. Everything her heart felt. Every bruise upon her soul. And when it was over, she just sat there in the quiet and hurt.

“That was damn pretty, Mary Lee.”

Bolting from her meditation, she jerked around, eyes wide. Will stood leaning against the corner of the house. Propped up by it was more like it. His shirt was torn, his face was bloody, his right eye was ringed with purple swollen flesh, and there was a gash in his forehead. He tried to give her a crooked smile, but winced halfway into it.

“Oh, my God!” Mari gasped, scrambling down from the table. “What happened?”

“Had a little accident,” Will said, grimacing as he straightened away from the wall.

He didn’t add that he was lucky to be alive. At the moment he didn’t feel lucky. He felt as if the entire batting rotation of a major league baseball team had gone after him, swinging for homers. His head hurt, his ribs hurt, he had a wrenched knee, and had popped his old bum shoulder out of joint. A good hard slam up against a tree trunk had remedied the latter problem, but it still hurt like holy hell.

“A little accident?” Mari cried, anxiously looking him up and down. “You look like you took on a Mack truck!”

“It was a Ford,” he said, rubbing his tongue over the edges of the three teeth he had chipped. “It looks worse than I do. Lucky for me I’ve got nine lives.”

“I’d say you just used one of them up, tomcat. What are you doing here? You should be in a hospital!”

“Well…” He started to sigh, but his lungs stiffened up at the pain. “Do you think I could sit down while I explain this? I just walked the better part of a mile to get here.”

“Jesus! You can sit in my car while I take you to the hospital.”

“No. No hospital. I’m suffering enough. Trust me, Mary Lee, if I didn’t die during the night, I’m not going to. No hospital. All I want is a ride home, if you’d be so kind.”

She rolled her eyes and muttered something wholly unflattering about cowboys as she took him into the house and seated him at the pine harvest table in the great room. Will watched through a haze of pain as she ran off in search of first-aid supplies. She came back with a towel and washcloth, a bowl of warm soapy water, a bottle of alcohol, and a box of Band-Aids. She scowled at him as she set about cleaning the gore from his face.

“Spill it, Rafferty.” She wrinkled her little nose. “God, I guess maybe you already did. You smell like a brewery.”

“Beer tends to slosh a bit when the truck is rolling.”

“If someone lit a match, we could use you for a torch. What the hell is the matter with you, driving drunk? Do you have a death wish, or were you just out to kill and maim some innocent victims?”

“I don’t need a lecture, Mary Lee,” he growled. “Ouch! Damn, that hurts!”

“Sit still and stop whining. If you weren’t already so beat up, I’d beat you up myself.”

“Don’t bother. J.D. is gonna kick my ass good.” He spread his hands and bared his teeth in a parody of his infamous grin. “See the Amazing Will Rafferty fuck up again! He dazzles! He mystifies! He takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’!”

Mari gave him a look. “I fail to see the humor in nearly getting yourself killed.”

“It’s subtle. More like irony, really. Pull your robe together, Mary Lee. I’m getting a free show here. Not that I mind, but I’m in no condition at the moment.”

She stepped back, fuming, and tightened the belt around her small waist. “If you’re not in imminent danger of death, I guess I can go get dressed. Make yourself a cup of coffee if you can stand up. I’ll be right back.”