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Keith couldn't have formed a rational thought if the house was on fire. That little smile from her, and his heart told him, yes, finally, take what she's giving.

Growling, he rolled her over and pinned her underneath him. Her lips found his again and he felt her arms go around his broad shoulders. He kissed her, her lips, her cheek, her jaw. When he kissed the pulse at her neck, she let out a little gasp. He smiled into her skin, so soft, and licked her there.

It was just her neck, no big deal. So why was she writhing under him like a snake? As Keith shifted his lips from one side of her neck to the other, she ran her hands over his shoulders and back. She loved the solid feel of him, the way his shoulders worked with the effort of holding himself up. But she wanted him closer. She sought his mouth again. Closer. She wriggled one of her legs from under his and brought it up to his hip. Closer. The word pounded an insistent rhythm in her brain as she shifted her hips beneath him, feeling his hardness against her. Closer, dammit. Closer. She ran her hands down his sides—he was so solid—and over the back of his jeans, then up to his waist, where she maneuvered a hand under his T-shirt. The skin of his back was hot; he had the same fever she did. She ran her hands up his back, feeling each muscle twitch under her fingers.

He sat up abruptly and she started to protest—don't you dare apologize now—but he looked at her, his green eyes dark with hunger, and tore the shirt over his head. She immediately reached for him, running her fingers over the dark hair on his chest, loving the sensation of rough hair over solid muscle. And he was solid. Her hand spanned across one pectoral in awe. Thank God for farm muscles. She ran her hands over his chest, over the roundness of his shoulders, drawing a line with her finger where his tan started. She'd had no idea a farmer's tan could be so sexy.

But then she was distracted by the feel of Keith's fingertips on her chest, slowly working the buttons on her shirt, gently brushing the skin between her breasts. He breathed out a word that sounded like “beautiful” and kissed her there, his tongue following his fingers as he pulled open her shirt, baring her bra to the sunshine. He ran his hands gently over the silk and lace, then moved his hands around to unclasp her bra in the back. It didn't work one-handed, so he used both. Mal sat up a little to give him more room. He wasn't getting it. And he was starting to curse, and Mal didn't want to risk losing the mood, so she slapped his hand away, unhooked her bra, and threw it across the blanket. They sat there for a second, half naked in the sunshine, and then he was on her again, pulling her close, gasping at the sensation of skin on skin.

Closer,
she thought again, and reached down for the clasp of his jeans. He did the same for her, and soon they both had their jeans around their ankles, too foggy with lust to figure out how to get them over their shoes. Mal just gripped Keith's shoulders tighter, held him closer. He pulled back for a second and reached into his pocket. In no time, the condom was on and Mal pulled him back to her, lifting up one knee to let him in. It was awkward, their legs tangled in their bunched-up jeans, but not so awkward that Keith couldn't find his way to the center of her, taking it slow and easy until she was full, and then, as her nails started to dig into his back, faster, harder, higher. She cried out his name as she went up and over, shaking, gripping his back. He dug his fingers into her hips, buried his face in her hair, and followed right after her.

 

 

What the hell had he just done?

Had
they
done, really?

Mal shivered in his arms. He ran his hands through her hair, down her back. He wasn't sure if she was cold or crying or what. He couldn't tell anything with her head buried in the crook of his neck. She felt good there, like she fit, but he didn't want to get too comfortable because what if she was upset? He thought probably she had enjoyed it as much as he had—enjoyed was an understatement—but now that he couldn't see her face, he didn't know. Did she regret it? Already? Jesus, what kind of animal was he—he found out she wasn't engaged to his brother and he waited, what, three days before he jumped on her? Yes, of course, he wanted her—from the moment he saw her he'd wanted her—but come on. He wouldn't blame her if she hated him.

“Keith.” Her voice was muffled against his chest.

“Hmm?”

“You're squishing me.”

“Oh!” He jerked his hands off her hips like she was on fire. Jesus, he was probably bruising her.

“Don't let go of me,” she said, placing a hand on his neck. OK. He could do that. He could hold her.

“You're freezing,” he said, running his hands up and down her shivering back.

“I'm naked and there's a breeze.”

He scooted them to the edge of the blanket and pulled the other end over them. His butt was still hanging out, but he wasn't the one who was cold.

“Hmm.” She sighed and snuggled into him, pulling the blanket tight across his back. He felt her relax and his heartbeat slowed to match hers. He closed his eyes.

 

 

“I don't know if I can get back up there,” Mal said as she gripped the sides of Bullet's saddle.

“You did a lot of riding today.”

Mal blushed.

But she laughed when she turned to see Keith's neck turning red, too.

She mounted, with Keith's blushing help, and they rode back. Keith was downright talkative—for Keith, anyway. Great outdoor sex really seemed to open him up. He pointed out spots where he and Luke used to play cowboys, where Katie snuck up on Luke and one of his girlfriends and put a frog in her purse.

“We heard her scream clear across to the barn.”

Mal laughed. “I bet Luke was pretty mad.”

“At first, but I think he got a lot of mileage out of comforting the girlfriend.”

Mal thought for a second, thinking of the most delicate way to say this. “So, how much of a slut is Luke?”

Keith looked back at her with a smile. “He's a guy, he's not a slut.”

“From what I've heard, he's had a new girlfriend every week since he was twelve. He's sort of a slut.”

“Maybe. He's just . . . unsettled.”

“Unsettled? Like crazy?”

“No, that's not what I mean. He's not like me and Katie. We're homebodies, me more than Katie. Even going to vet school in Lexington was tough for me.”

“You didn't like school?”

“I didn't like the city. Too many people, too much traffic.”

Mal had been to Lexington. She was definitely never taking Keith to DC.

Not that she was taking him anywhere.

“So you left the big city to come back to the farm?”

“Well, back to Wild Rose, but my plan was to take over Dr. Monroe's practice. Then . . .”

“Then?” Mal knew what came next, but her poor jealous heart needed to hear him say it.

“Then Vanessa died, and our baby. And I've just been . . .”

“Managing?”

“Yeah.”

She wanted to know what he planned to do now, if he would stay at Wild Rose forever. But he muttered, “It's been three damn years,” and she was afraid to ask him about the future.

“There's so much of her here. It's hard for me to forget.”

“Is that what you want? To forget?”

“No! No, of course not. I just wish there was a way for me to . . .”

“Move on?”

“No. That means forgetting her.”

“Do you really think you'll ever forget her?”

“I don't know. I just know it's been three damn years and sometimes it still feels like it was yesterday.”

Mal didn't say anything. What could she say? She was grateful for the horse distance between them. It helped her curb the impulse to reach for his hand, or to touch his cheek.

“Sorry. This is weird for me to talk about, considering.”

Considering they just had sex on a blanket.

Great,
Mal thought.
Now here comes the regret.

“I guess being close to someone again just brought it up. I haven't, you know, since . . .”

“Really? Three years? Wow.”

He looked back with a crooked smile. “I'm feeling insulted here.”

“Actually, I'm a little flattered.”

“You should be. I mean—” Keith flushed. “I mean I wanted to do that. With you.”

Mal smiled. “Good. Me, too.”

They were back at the barn. Keith dismounted and helped her down.

“So, do you want to do it again?”

“Now?”

“No! I mean, not that I don't want to, but, um, I mean go out some time. After you get divorced. Since you're not engaged to my brother and all.”

One week later, Mal stood in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush poised, and contemplated her face. It was the same face she'd always seen, sort of average-looking. A guy she went out with when she was a freshman told her it was appealing because it was so symmetrical. Not beautiful, but appealingly symmetrical. That's what she got for thinking an art student would be romantic. That was a long time ago. Not long before she met Michael, though, which made it feel like even longer. She had the feeling that she was looking at herself from a distance, her foggy reflection just starting to come in clearer. Maybe she needed glasses.

The badness of her hair was taking on a certain urgency. Katie's friend, Jack, was coming over this afternoon to check on the horse he was boarding at the Wild Rose. It had been a long time since Mal had seen anyone from the outside world, it seemed. In the week since she and Keith had made love (she still blushed at the thought), her time had been taken up with working at Dr. Monroe's, coming home and helping Libby, and trying to help the Carsons around the farm, then dropping into bed exhausted. The time or two Katie had gone out with friends, Mal was too tired to join them. She hadn't even had time to go out on that date with Keith. It seemed that whenever she was free, he was meeting with suppliers or had an urgent farm job to take care of.

Beyond just seeing an outsider for the first time, she was also a little wary of Jack—he was a hairdresser in Lexington.

It had been a few months since her last trip to the salon; once Michael wasn't insisting on it—or paying—she didn't see the point. She had changed so much since she'd arrived at Wild Rose. She could handle a wheelbarrow. She used her first paycheck to buy a pair of work boots. The urgency she had been feeling to go back to her old house and get her old clothes—she was starting to see different options. Wheelbarrows and work boots. Huh. Anyway, blond hair made her look washed out, made her brown eyes dim. Of course, the massive roots she was currently sporting weren't helping at all. Not that Keith seemed to mind. He found her plenty attractive.

She blushed, remembering the strong hold he'd had on her head as he kissed her. It was a strange thing, watching in the mirror as the blush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. She was not a very cute blusher, she thought. She looked sort of like she had a disease. But, well, she was willing to put up with that if it meant . . .

If it meant what? Was she really going to participate in any more blush-worthy activities with Keith? He made her feel . . . amazing. He felt amazing. He was warm and giving and completely transformed by their intimacy. How did he see her? Dark roots and disease-blushed? Had he told her she was beautiful? This man of few words, how had he made her feel beautiful?

What the hell was she thinking? What did it matter? She was here temporarily. Just until she figured out what to do next. Just to get some space from Michael, get her head on straight, get divorced, and move on. She could do anything she wanted, go anywhere. What was she going to do, live on someone else's horse farm and be a bookkeeper, sneaking around with a man who made her feel beautiful? She had never in her adult life been independent. She had never had her own apartment, one all to herself. She had never been alone, no matter how lonely she felt in her marriage. She could go to Arizona, or Milwaukee or Kansas. Or Italy. She'd never been to Italy. She could sip vino and eat pasta until her pants didn't fit, and work as a bookkeeper at some little tourist shop on the Mediterranean.

Mal snorted. Even in her wildest fantasies, the best career she could come up with was bookkeeper. Well, so what? It made her happy; she could make a living at it. She was already doing that in just a few weeks at Dr. Monroe's. She could stay here and get an apartment in town—if Hollow Bend even had apartments—and work for Dr. Monroe and . . .

No. If she stayed, she would want Keith, and he had too much baggage. She had too much baggage. Once was enough. She wouldn't fight for a man's affection again, because it was a fight she knew from experience she would not win. Bad enough to lose to a suburban bimbo; there was no way she could compete with a ghost.

Her phone rang, nearly vibrating off the bathroom counter. She grabbed it without thinking—Luke had said he would call her back today—and answered with her mouthful of toothpaste.

“Mallory?”

She spit into the sink. “Hi, Michael.”

“Let me guess, you're still in Kentucky.”

“Yes. I'm going to find out today when my ride back to DC will be available.” Luke better have a frigging amazing excuse for making her wait.

“Well, listen, this weekend might not be a great time.”

She froze. “What?”

Michael sighed. “I didn't want to have to tell you this until after you signed the papers, but it's taking so long that I just can't wait.”

“What is it, Michael?”

“The truth is, Mallory, I've met someone else.”

Relief floated out of her chest like a thousand butterflies. Very frigging poetic. “Bunny?” she asked tentatively.

Michael coughed. “I know what you're thinking, how could I betray you like this with your best friend?” Mal didn't quite remember Bunny being her best friend, but she kept quiet as Michael continued. “It just sort of happened. She was such a rock for me when you were freezing me out.” Freezing him out after she asked for a trial separation but he still wanted her to cook him dinner. Freezing him out after she caught him in bed with a nurse, then Bunny, then another nurse. Then two nurses.

But Michael was pretty good at justifying his philandering—Mal was frigid, Mal was fat. The only thing new was Michael actually admitting that he and Bunny had a thing. He continued, “Eventually, well, I started to see all the things I loved about her. She's gorgeous, she takes care of herself—”

“I'm very happy for you, Michael. You two deserve each other.”

“After what I went through with you, I'm glad you recognize that. Bunny would never play games with me the way you did.”

“When did Bunny divorce Dr. Ashton-Pierce?”

Michael sighed. “They're still working on it. Dr. Ashton-Pierce is not giving up on her that easily, not that I blame him.”

Mal knew she shouldn't ask, but she couldn't help it. “Is this going to cause trouble for you, though? What about the hospital?”

“I can take care of myself, Mallory.”

“But Dr. Ashton-Pierce is your boss—”

“Yes, I'm well aware that he is above me, but frankly, he's an incompetent doctor. He's getting old. If the hospital isn't careful, he's going to make a major mistake and they're going to have a lawsuit on their hands. Bunny and I are getting out while we still have a chance to make something more of our lives.”

“Michael, that sounds risky—”

“That's how it always is with you, isn't it! I take one step forward with my life, and you want to pull me back down to your pathetic level!”

“Michael, I—”

“Well, guess what, Mallory, I don't need you anymore. I never needed you! Bunny has shown me what a
real
wife can be like. I don't have to tell her that she needs to lose weight or dress better. She's
perfect
. She
gets it
. She gets
me
.”

“Michael—”

“Don't talk back to me! You never respected me! Well, listen to me, Mallory. I've got these divorce papers here, and when I'm ready, you're going to sign them, not before, not after. And if you can't get that redneck boyfriend of yours to deliver you to me, I swear I will track you down and make you sign. When
I'm
ready. Do you hear me? Do you?”

“Yes, Michael.”

“Good, I—”

Mal hung up. She looked in the mirror, her hand shaking, her knuckles white on the phone. He was moving on. She was glad. They would get divorced. She would have Luke drive her back to DC and make Michael give her the papers.

But she knew Michael. She knew he would find a way to keep her tied to him forever. A panic welled up in her chest and she couldn't breathe. She would never be rid of him, no matter how far she went. He would keep this tie to her always. He would never divorce her—what was the point in trying? She looked down at the phone in her hand. It was ringing again; he was calling her back.

“No!” she shouted, and threw the phone against the bathroom wall, where it shattered.

She turned back to the mirror, eyes wild and red, hair sticking out, with a stupid fake blond dye job that he had insisted on, so she could match the other wives. She looked nothing like them. She looked like a ridiculous brunette with a lousy dye job.

“That's it.” She sniffled, straightening her shoulders. “No more.” She dug around in the drawer until she found a pair of scissors. She had at least an inch of hair to work with. Just an inch of her natural hair color. She barely knew what that was anymore. Brown, obviously. Boring, plain. But it was hers, dammit. It was
her
.

 

 

When Katie found Mal an hour later, she was still standing in front of the mirror, scissors in hand, surrounded by piles of blond hair. Most of the blond was gone from her head, but there were still several ragged inches on the ends.

“Holy crap, Mal,” Katie whispered. “What the hell did you do?”

“I was trying to give myself a bob. I'm hoping if I stare at it long enough, it will start to look good.”

“It's not . . . bad, precisely. A little, um, patchy.”

“I was trying to make it even. Maybe if I—” She reached up for a longer piece behind her ear.

“No!” Katie grabbed the scissors. “No. Don't . . . don't cut any more, OK?”

Mal dropped her head into her hands. “I was just trying to get rid of the blond.”

“OK. Uh, oh, God, Mal, don't cry, please.” Mal's shoulders shook.

“Mal, it's not that bad. It's kind of, you know, punk.” Mal's shaking moved to her whole body, and she had to sit on the bathroom floor. When she moved her hands away, there were tears streaming down her face. And, Katie was relieved to see, a huge smile.

“I've never cut my own hair before,” Mal said when she got her breath back.

“Really? I never would have guessed.”

“It's really terrible, isn't it?”

“I am definitely the wrong person to ask about style advice. But I don't know, it is a little funky. It could suit you.” Katie pulled out her cell phone. “It just needs a little help.”

An hour after that, Mal was surrounded by even more hair. And a small-framed man in a cowboy hat.

Katie's best friend, Jack, stood behind her, wielding his hairdresser's scissors uncertainly.

“Are you sure? That's awfully short. Not that you don't have the face to pull it off, honey,” he added quickly.

“I don't care what it looks like, I'm just sick of being a blonde.”

“I know we just met, but so am I.”

“Exactly. So if you just chop it all off, my natural snooze brown will grow back.”

“I did bring my kit,” he said, indicating a large red toolbox in the doorway of the bathroom. The top was flipped open to reveal more scissors, combs, and strange tubes of things Mal was, unfortunately, very familiar with.

“Can't you just cut it? See what it looks like?”

“Well, since those Carson boys are taking such good care of my horse, I might as well give the lady what she wants.”

As Jack chopped the remaining ends of her fried blond hair off, Mal closed her eyes. The gentle
pft, pft, pft
of the scissors near her scalp was oddly relaxing. Jack kept up a quiet hairdresser's banter with her as he tugged and snipped: Where are you from? How long have you been here? Your husband did what? Mal wanted to sit there forever. Finally, she understood why women went to the salon so often—the quiet conversation, the peaceful attention of having a man touch your neck, turn your head, assess your face like it was a masterpiece.

“I don't think we'll color it. You have some subtle red tones I could play up, but let's get you used to the cut first. Besides, I don't want to get color on Miss Libby's floor or I'll be down there all day scrubbing it out. And I can think of much better things to do on my knees in this house.”

Mal kept her eyes closed, but raised an eyebrow.

“Those Carson boys, mmm,” Jack said as he started to section her hair. “I had my hopes up for Luke—he's so easygoing and I thought I saw him looking my way a few times. Turns out his gaydar is way off and he thought I was making a move on his sister. Still, that protective-mother-bear routine—” Jack shivered.