Clay Turner strode out of Layton City Hall into the fiery heat of the Texas sun.  He glanced toward the end of the block where a digital display scrolled beneath the bank’s sign.  One hundred two degrees.  Clay gritted his teeth.  No man was supposed to live in these temperatures.

            Lucky for him he’d been as good as dead nearly two years. 

            His eyes narrowed against a blast of hot wind and brutal memories.  He feared he would hear his mother’s screams, his father’s shouts for the rest of his life.

            The scar that slashed across his right cheek would forever be a reminder of that time.

            His parents were dead.  He was at fault.  Blame weighted his shoulders, a heavy, unyielding albatross.

            He dragged an unsteady hand across his jaw, swallowing the bile that rose like poison in his throat.  The only thing that held back the guilt was work.  Not his former job as an agent for the U.S. State Department’s diplomatic security service, but Physical and mental labor on the ranch, preferably to the point of exhaustion. 

            Clearly, he hadn’t done near enough work today.

            With his uncle out of town and the cook off, Clay decided to pick up his supper before he left Layton.  When he got back to the Double Starr he would eat while he inputted the banker’s latest figures into the spreadsheets he maintained on the ranch’s finances.

            Since his pickup was parked in front of the new place that featured sandwiches, ice cream and designer coffees, that’s where he headed.  Pulling open the door, he stepped into the brightly lit glass-and-tile-lined café.  To his left was a glossy black counter and a display case full of pastries and cookies the size of hubcaps.  The tables that dotted the floor were covered with butcher paper and in the center of each was a glass holding colored pencils.  The place looked good.  And the air conditioner was set on arctic. 

            Easing back the brim of his Stetson, he scanned the menu board on the wall behind the counter.  While placing his order, Clay heard the café’s door open and close.  He pulled money out of his billfold at the same time a child’s voice said, “Mommy, look at the football player in the window.”

            “That poster he’s on lists the high school football games.  We’ll have to go to some this fall.”

            Clay froze.  That voice.  For an instant, he thought it was just another from his past, come to haunt him.

            Throat tight, he forced himself to turn toward the door.  A hot ball of awareness settled in his gut as he took in the woman clad in slim white slacks and a sleeveless crimson blouse who was leaned down, one arm around a small boy’s waist.  She spoke to him softly while nodding toward the poster in the window.

            He’d known she was coming back.  With the newspaper running pictures and articles, and all of Layton buzzing about Kathryn Conner Mason’s return, there was no way Clay couldn’t have known.

            What he hadn’t known was that seeing her in the flesh would be the equivalent of a fist smashing into his solar plexis.

            The eighteen-year-old girl he’d walked away from was now a woman.  The raven-black hair she had worn to her waist skimmed just above her shoulders, framing a face that had become more fine-boned with maturity.  The slender, angular body that he’d known every dip and hollow of had developed a woman’s seductive curves.  Studying her, Clay felt his heartbeat spike.  His mouth went dry.  And the floor beneath his boots shifted due to some age-old emotion, coupled with regret.  Dragging regret over the choices made by a young man who had not fully understood repercussions, hadn’t thought long-term.  Hadn’t wanted to.

            A band tightened around his chest.  On nights when his mother’s screams woke him he lay alone in a cold sweat, thinking about Kathryn Conner.  Wondering which direction their lives would have taken if back then his mind hadn’t automatically done a quick sidestep at the thought of a woman, any woman, tying him down. 

            If only he’d responded differently when Kathryn pressed for a commitment.  If only he’d taken time to explore the emotions he’d been so quick to deny that had drawn him to the spirited dark-haired girl.  Maybe then he would have taken her to Houston with him when his vacation ended.  Doing so might have saved their child.  If so, his parents would have moved back to the States like they’d always promised they would when he settled down and gave them a grandchild.

            His gaze went to the boy.  Kathryn’s son.  He was blond and brown-eyed, the image of his superstar father.  Matthew Mason, five years old, Clay thought, his cop’s mind pulling back the information he’d read in the newspaper.

            And in the People Magazine he’d secretly bought to sate his curiosity about the woman who’d brutally clung to his thoughts over the past two years. 

            Her laugh drifted on the cool air as she cupped her son’s chin, gave him a smacking kiss on the mouth, then straightened and turned toward the counter. 

            With her gaze locked with Clay’s, Kathryn went still while everything around her slipped out of focus.  A shudder shot down her spine and onward to bury itself behind her knees.

            If she took two short steps she could reach out and touch him.  Touch the man whom she had once wanted more than she’d wanted even to breathe.  The man she had made such a fool of herself over. 

            She fought back humiliation along with the urge to grab Matthew into her arms and run as fast as she could away from Clay Turner, away from the past.  The pain.

            But all she could do was stare back at him while she struggled for words that wouldn’t come.  His face was thinner than it had been ten years ago, the hollows of his cheeks deeper.  Lines were scored into the corners of his eyes and mouth.  His body was trim, muscled and looked hard as granite.  A white dress shirt, open at the neck, revealed curling black hair as rich in color as the hair that brushed the shirt’s collar.  Beneath the brim of his Stetson, his dark eyes looked as sharp as a sword. 

            Her gaze slid to his right cheek, now marred by a thin scar that slashed upward across his temple.  A memory came: her fingers stroking a similar scar on his back as they lay on rumpled sheets. 

            “Hello, Kat,” he said quietly.

            “Clay.”  Despite the blood pounding in her cheeks from his use of his private nickname for her, she kept her voice casual and controlled.  

            “Been a long time,” he said.

            Not long enough.  “It has,” she managed through stiff lips. 

            “Mommy, you’re squeezing my hand too tight!”

            Jolting, she loosened her grip.  “Oh, Matty, I’m sorry.”

            “You going to introduce us?”

            Her gaze whipped back to Clay.  She needed to breathe, but she couldn’t quite remember how.  “This is my son, Matthew.  Matthew, this is Mr. Turner.”

            Matthew tipped his head back so far in order to meet Clay’s gaze that the boy rocked on the heels of his cowboy boots.  Kathryn placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

            “Hi, Mr. Turner.”

            “Hello.”  Clay stepped closer and crouched, putting them eye-to-eye.  He noted that Kathryn kept her son’s hand firmly in her own. 

            “Nice to meet you, Matthew.”  Clay skimmed a fingertip across the plastic badge pinned in the center of the boy’s T-shirt.  “You the new law in these parts?”

            He nodded, his brown eyes sparkling.  “I got to spit into Dr. Teasdale’s hand and that made me a deputy.”

            Clay raised a brow.  “Sounds like the doc knows a good man when he sees one.”

            “Now, I can arrest the outlaws in mommy’s tunnel.  Have you seen the tunnel?”

            The outlaw tunnel.  Lifting his gaze to Kathryn’s, Clay saw that her face had paled.  Was she thinking about all the nights she’d used the tunnel connected to the basement to sneak out of her house?  About how he’d ride over to the Cross C after dark and wait for her in the stand of scrub oaks that hid the tunnel’s outer entrance?  Did she remember the time when a rainstorm whipped in and they’d had hot, wild sex in the tunnel?

            When she tore her gaze from his, Clay had his answer.  Yeah, Kat, you remember. 

            He struggled against the urge to tell her there was no way she could detest him more than he detested himself for the way he’d treated her.