“Dad!” A bellow from the house interrupted them, and they looked toward the six-year-old boy, clad only in his underwear, framed in the doorway. “Can I have some ice cream? Hey, ’Laney’s back! Did you bring me something?”

Laughing, she called back, “It’s in my bag.” He whooped and ran back into the house. “It’s a carving of Huitzilopochtli, a deified ancestral warrior-hero.”

“Did you bring me anything?” The suggestive timbre in Joe’s voice had a delicious shiver chasing over her skin.

“Just me.”

His face lightened in a rare smile. “That happens to be exactly what I wanted.” There was a look in Joe’s eye, seductive promises that she was anxious to test. “I can’t wait to have you all to myself.” But then he glanced toward the house and said, “But first I have a six-year-old preparing for the nightly bedtime battle.”

“I know. I can wait.”

“Really?” His tone was light, but there was a flicker across his expression. “I was kind of hoping we were done waiting.”

She looked at him without answering. She knew he was asking about their future, and it was a question they’d learned to avoid since her answer only seemed to bring them both pain. But that was before she’d spent three long months away from him. The gnawing pain of missing him had clarified a great many things she’d once had trouble understanding for herself.

“You’re right.” She stopped and waited for him to face her. And wanted desperately to erase the cautious mask that had slid over his features. “You have waited. I’m sorry for that. I thought…” She struggled to find the words.

There had been a time in the not-too-distant past when she’d thought she’d never have a sense of belonging to any place. Or anybody. That to do so would mean losing a part of herself. But as soon as she’d set eyes on Joe again, the certainty that had been growing in her over the last few months had bloomed. She belonged here. With this man, wherever he was.

“It doesn’t matter what I thought. I love you, Joe Youngblood.” The savage joy on his face ignited an answering emotion and when his arms closed fiercely around her, she hugged him just as tightly. “You had to wait too long for me to say it. To realize it. But I don’t think you’ll have to wait long to hear it again.”

“Good.” He cupped her face in his hand, his eyes searching hers. “Then we’re done waiting?”

“Yes.” They headed toward the house, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, gazes locked. “We’re done waiting.”

Kylie Brant is the award-winning author of twenty-two novels. When she’s not dreaming up stories of romance and suspense, she works as an elementary teacher for learning disabled students. Kylie has dealt with her newly empty nest by filling the house with even more books, and won’t be satisfied until those five vacant bedrooms are full of them!

Kylie invites readers to check out her Web site at www.kyliebrant.com. You can contact her by writing to P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616, or e-mailing her at kyliebrant@hotmail.com.