A Second-Chance Proposal

Was there a tactful way to tell a man that he would never inspire love and longing the way another had once done? She didn’t think so.

“You want children, don’t you?”

“Children? James—”

“Well, so do I. I bet we’d have beautiful children, Cathleen.”

He held out his hand and she avoided his touch by going to pour that second Scotch, taking care to make it mostly water.

“This property of yours—of course you know it butts up to the far corner of the McLean ranch. Can you imagine how rich we’d be if we developed all along this stretch of Thunder Creek?”

Cathleen’s sympathy for the man vanished with a flash of insight. Her land. That was why he’d been so adamant about dating her. Probably his father had masterminded this romance. She felt a fool for not having caught on sooner.

About to tell James to take a jump in the aforementioned creek, she was stopped by a voice from the doorway.

“I see you’re a real long-term planner, James.” It was Dylan, hand propped against the door frame, one booted foot hooked around the other.

James swiveled and his hand jerked, spilling Scotch onto the Turkish rug at his feet. “Damn it, Dylan! Where did you come from?”

“Never mind about me. I want to know what was going on here. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounded like you were leading up to asking my fiancée if she wanted to marry you!”

Cathleen gasped. Her blood came to an instant boil. All the anger she’d been reining in since Dylan had dropped back into her life surfaced in one hot, intense flood of emotion.

“Don’t call me your fiancée.”

“But, darlin’…”

“And stop calling me darling!” She grabbed a pillow from the sofa and squeezed tight, then whirled on James, who was telling Dylan that he couldn’t come back after two years and expect to have any rights to the woman he’d left at the altar.

“Am I an oil well now? No man has rights to me! And certainly not you two!”

James’s veneer-thin confidence cracked under attack. “Ca-Cathleen?” He backed himself against a wall, and somehow, his capitulation only made her more furious.

“As for you.” She whipped around to face Dylan, knowing she was about to completely lose it and powerless to stop herself. “I am sick of your conceited attitude. Who do you think you are, interfering in my private life?”

Dylan backed off a little, but not so much that she missed seeing the beginning of a smirk pull at the corner of his mouth.

That smirk did it. Rage drowned out the last of her resolve. She threw the pillow with all her might, and her anger flared again when he simply reached out with one hand and caught it. She grabbed at a magazine on the coffee table and threw that, too. Then her boots, which she’d kicked off earlier and left lying by the desk.

Dylan dodged each missile, bending this way and that. If he was still smirking, she was too furious to see.

“I am not your fiancée. You ran out on me and never called and never wrote….”

She was beside him now, pushing her fists against his chest. “Do you know how that felt? Waiting day after day—”

“Cath—”

She picked up the pillow again and crushed it to his face, smothering his words. “Oh, shut up. You were laughing all the time, weren’t you? Just another silly prank, cutting out on your wedding day. Then coming back two years later and pretending we were still going to get married. You probably thought I’d be that desperate, didn’t you?”