Courted by the Texas Millionaire

Had all those questions only been a way of distancing herself from the anguish, though?

Right now, as her chest constricted, she wasn’t sure.

The Queen of Hearts Saloon was up ahead, surrounded by the dirt road and weathered buildings. A few burros—descendants of the original silver-mining beasts of burden—lingered by the whitewashed church with its stained-glass windows. The folks up in Old Town had grown so used to them over the years that they took it upon themselves to feed them, and the tourists loved them.

She was just coming to the jewelry store when she heard hard boot steps on the boardwalk, felt a hand on her arm.

Her breath hammering from her lungs, she could only spin around and gape at Davis as he loomed over her—the jet-setting cowboy with the carefree dark blond hair and ice-blue eyes and fancy suit.

“What are you doing?” she asked, as he led her into a nearby alley, where no passersby could see them.

“I’m doing what I should’ve done the second you came into my office.”

Here it was—the moment she had known was coming. Why had she thought she could get away with seeing him again without any consequences? All she’d wanted to do was get the awkwardness over with, knowing she was bound to run into him sometime.

“I’m here,” he said, his hands planted on his hips, making him more imposing than she’d ever remembered, “to clear the air, because it sure didn’t happen back there in the office.”

She thought of how Mrs. Jackson, with her crisp red suit and her coiffed, bleached hair, had been waiting for Violet in the library parking lot that day, after one of her trysts with Davis in the woods out back, where it was private. They’d been so intent on keeping their relationship from their families in particular, because her dad, a miner, would’ve flipped, grumbling about selfish, greedy rich people and how Davis would only drop Violet when he was done with her. And Davis’s mom? She was as biased as they came against “the less fortunate.”

Sometimes Vi had even wondered if Davis himself liked to maintain their secret because he was afraid of public opinion, but then she’d tell herself she was crazy, that he was nothing like his mother.

Violet rested against the beaten wood wall, resigned. If he wanted to clear things up, they could do that. It was better than having to tiptoe around him for the next couple of months.

“If you want to rehash everything,” she said, “we can do that.”

“I never got a good answer about why you left.”

All right, then. “When your mom said that this ‘thing’ between you and me wasn’t going to last, she sounded so reasonable about it. She said that it’d be foolish to throw away my scholarship on a summer fling.” Violet took a second, waiting for her runaway heartbeat to catch up, then said, “And when she said you were seeing—”

“Other girls. You know that wasn’t true.” Davis said it with an edge that he tamped down by gritting his jaw, looking away, as if his old anger had been rekindled, undying.

She searched for words, finally finding them. “What do you want me to do now, Davis? What would make you feel better?”

His jaw tightened. “Nothing.”

His gaze was tortured, as if there were a thousand things he wanted to say but wouldn’t.

A vibration—a warmth that whirled and just about took her under—consumed her. She’d tried for so long to never be affected by what anyone in this town thought or said, but here she was, thwarted by that very thing—and it was from the man who’d affected her so acutely all those years ago.

She couldn’t let down her defenses in front of him, especially now, when she needed the protection from what everyone thought or said the most.

Besides, who were they to each other anymore? She knew that he’d moved on—she’d heard stories from her mom, gossip. She’d seen the way Jennifer Neeson had glanced at him, as if they knew quite a bit about each other. He obviously hadn’t shut himself away, heartbroken, because of her.

But he wanted to clear the air.

He exhaled roughly, then started to walk away, even though the air was still as thick as steam.

“You were just as confused as I was that day,” she said on a choked note, stopping him. “I saw it in you. You were hurt that I was questioning you, but all I needed to hear was that you hadn’t looked at another girl since we’d started seeing each other.”

“I thought you already knew that.”

She swallowed, her throat one big ache. “I was a kid, and your mom knew I’d be rattled by what she told me.”

“You should’ve known that you changed everything about me, Vi.”

When she glanced up, she saw more yearning in his eyes.

But then it disappeared.

He adjusted his burgundy silk tie, then started to leave again, as if they had finally knotted up their loose ends.

“I only wanted you to know that,” he said.

She could barely nod.

Then after a pause in which she thought he was going to tell her—what? What could he say now?—he moved out of the alley, turning the corner, out of sight.

But not out of her heart or mind.

Chapter Two

Down the street, Violet heard laughter through the swinging doors of the Queen of Hearts, and she headed for the saloon before she made a fool of herself and went running after Davis.

They’d supposedly cleared the air, so why muddle it again?

She kept telling herself this as she walked inside the building, looking straight ahead, feeling the heavy stares of the group of elderly ladies—the knitting club—who met at the table under the rustic wagon wheel light fixture; the collection of old men at the bar who nursed mugs of beer under the whirring ceiling fans; the just-turned-twenty-one crowd who considered drinking at the Queen of Hearts in Old Town a tradition until they moved on to the newer bars in the more modern part of town.

Violet knew that she should risk a smile at them—after all, she’d be waiting on them for the first time tonight—so she tried it.

They all looked away.

Her face heated as she went to the back room, donning her old-fashioned red-and-white-striped half-apron.

“There she is!” Mom rushed up to Violet, standing on her tiptoes to give her a kiss on the cheek.

She smelled like rose perfume. Violet had always remembered that scent, even when she’d been away. It reminded her of when her mom’s hair had been red, not a premature gray.

“Ready for some Friday night action?” Mom asked.

“I’m hoping for it.” And so was the bank account that had dwindled during the months when she’d relied on it during a job hunt that had never borne fruit. It’d also suffered from the money she’d invested in the saloon after her parents had bought it with the last of their savings, plus all the times she’d put in more money to keep the bar and grill afloat during off-season months.

When her father came in, resplendent in the type of outfit a bartender might’ve worn in the late ‘20s, back when old Tony Amati had settled in what would become St. Valentine, she gave him a great big hug.

“Together again,” he said, patting her on the back.

“I’m glad to be with you,” she said.

He grinned right before he retreated to the main room’s bar and her mom took over in the kitchen.