Allison Leigh: A Weaver Vow

She took the plate of cheesecake he was waving under her nose.

“When I need to be.” He dug in to his own helping. “Murphy and the twins are checking out some puppies at the horse barn.”

“Murphy knows we can’t afford a dog.”

“You didn’t have any pets when you were a kid?”

“A few of the families I lived with had a dog or a cat.”

“Families. As in foster families?”

She nodded. “This is really good,” she managed around an enormous bite.

“And you don’t want to talk about it,” he guessed. “The foster families, I mean.”

She caught a fleck of crust from the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. “Do you think your grandmother would give me the recipe?”

He smiled slightly. It was no easy task squelching the urge to kiss away the tiny golden crumb she’d missed. “She will if she figures you’re gonna give me a piece, too.”

There is a saying that you can never be too rich or too thin. ALLISON LEIGHdoesn’t believe that, but she does believe that you can never have enough books! When her stories find a way into the hearts—and bookshelves—of others, Allison says she feels she’s done something right. Making her home in Arizona with her husband, she enjoys hearing from her readers at Allison@allisonleigh.com or PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.

Allison Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Ray and Saing.

Thank you for sharing your slice of Alaska so generously with us.

The beauty all around you was exceeded only by your magnificent graciousness.

It was the yelling that got her attention.

Murphy . It was so easy to recognize his voice. Particularly when he was yelling at a few million decibels.

Her stomach sinking like a lead balloon, Isabella Lockhart instantly dropped her cleaning rag on the lunch counter at Ruby’s Café and raced for the door.

Locked.

Of course it was locked. She’d locked it herself just thirty minutes earlier. She darted back for the keys that Tabby Taggart had entrusted her with, finally spotting them on the stainless-steel work counter in the kitchen, where she’d left them after locking up the rear door.

She rushed back to the front entrance, fumbled with the lock, then burst out the glass door. Not only had the yelling continued, it was angrier than ever.

And it was all occurring smack-dab in the middle of Main Street, right there in front of the café, where a large, dusty blue pickup truck was parked.

Murphy, please don’t get into more trouble .

The whispered prayer was much, much too familiar. Moving here to Weaver had been supposed to change that.

She ran toward the truck, toward the yelling, then nearly skidded to a halt at the sight of the thin boy glaring up at a tall, broad man who was glaring right back at him.

What concerned her most, however, was the baseball bat clenched in Murphy’s white-knuckled fists. If he took the bat to one more thing…

She couldn’t bear to think about it.

“You damn well did know what you were doing!” The man’s deep voice was furious.

“It was an accident!” Murphy yelled back. “I told you that a hunnert times!”

“Murphy!” Isabella dashed between the two males, grabbing the bat as Murphy raised it. At eleven, he already topped five feet, and only the fact that she was wearing a bit of a wedge heel kept his eyes from being at a level with her own. She tugged on the bat hard, pressing her hand flat against his heaving chest, but his grip was equally tight. “Let it go!”

His mutinous brown eyes—so like his father’s that at first it had been a physical ache to see them each and every day—met hers and his knuckles turned even whiter around the wood. “No!”

She heard the man behind her mutter something, and then a large, tanned hand closed over the bat just above hers. “Give me that damn thing before you hurt someone,” the man snapped, and yanked it directly out of both her and Murphy’s battling grips. Then he tossed it into the cab of his truck and slammed the door shut.

Murphy’s voice went up half an octave as he unleashed a fresh round of curses that made her pale. “Dude! That’s my bat. You can’t just take my bat!”

“I just did, dude,” the man returned flatly. He closed his hand over Murphy’s thin shoulder and forcibly moved him away from Isabella. “Stay,” he spit.

Isabella rounded on the man, gaping at him. He was wearing a faded brown ball cap and aviator sunglasses that hid his eyes. “Take your hand off him!” Whatever the cause of Murphy’s latest altercation, this man had no right to put a hand on him. “Who do you think you are?”

“The man your boy took aim at with his blasted baseball.” His jaw was sharp and shadowed by brown stubble and his lips were thinned.

“I did not!” Murphy shouted, right into Isabella’s ear.

She winced, giving him a fierce look. “Go sit down.” She pointed at the wooden bench on the sidewalk in front of the café. Her head was pounding and she had to control her own urge to add to the screaming.

Whatever had made her think she could be a parent to Murphy? He needed a man around, not just a woman he could barely tolerate.

He needed his father.

And now all they had was each other.

She pointed. “Go.”

All gangling arms and legs and outraged male, Murphy jerked his shoulder out from the man’s grip and stomped over to the bench, throwing himself down on it.

She pulled her gaze away from Murphy and looked up at the man. “I don’t know what happened here—”

“Don’t you have any sense at all, stepping in front of him when he’s waving around a baseball bat?”

Isabella clamped down on her own temper. Whatever Murphy had done, it wouldn’t help for her to lose her own cool. “Murphy would never hurt me,” she said evenly, ignoring the snort the man gave in response.

She drew in a calming breath and turned her head into the breeze that she’d begun to suspect never died here in Weaver, Wyoming. She let it cool her face before she turned to face him again. “I’m Isabella Lockhart,” she began.

“I know who you are.”

She pressed her lips together for a moment. She’d only been in Weaver a few weeks, but it really was a small town if people she’d never met already knew who she was. Lucy had told her—warned her, really—about how different Weaver was from New York. That was why Isabella had hoped—still did—that the radical change might be the solution to her problems with Murphy. As long as she was able to hold on to him.

She focused on the man’s face—what she could see of it beneath the hat and sunglasses, at any rate. “I’m sure we can resolve whatever’s happened here,” she continued in the same appeasing tone she’d once used to great effect with outraged prima ballerinas, “but could we do it somewhere other than the middle of Main Street, Mr., uh—”

“Erik Clay. Since there’s no traffic to speak of, I don’t know what you’re worried about. But I am mighty curious how you think we’re going to resolve that.” He jerked his chin toward the bed of his truck.

He wasn’t known for having much of a temper, but considering everything, Erik felt like retrieving that baseball bat and bashing something with it himself.

Focusing on the woman in front of him was a lot safer than focusing on the skinny, black-haired hellion sprawled on Ruby’s bench.

She tucked her white-blond hair behind her ear with a visibly shaking hand. Bleached blond, he figured, considering her eyes were such a dark brown they were nearly black. It didn’t seem natural that anyone with such light hair would have such dark eyes. He’d never much understood the bleached-hair deal. But even pissed as he was, he wasn’t blind to the whole effect.