Samhain Publishing Ltd, Ebooks and Books in Print

Blackberry Pie

When he first glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye, he thought she was a forest animal, a deer foraging for food. If he looked at it directly, the wild creature would crash through the undergrowth and disappear into the emerald depths of the woods. His gaze swung toward the movement in the briar patch and focused, but she didn’t run.

A pair of deep brown doe eyes stared back at him. The animal frozen among the brambles was human. The sun shone on the crown of her dark brown hair, picking out strands of gold and red. The tangled, curly mane spilled around her thin face and down her back. Sweaty tendrils stuck to her forehead and fell across one eye.

Her eyes drew him back again. They dominated her small face so much that he scarcely noticed the elegant, high bridge of her nose or bowed upper lip of her mouth.

Nathan’s gaze slipped from her eyes to her body. The girl wore a sleeveless dress of fabric so thin it clung to her like a second skin. The shift may once have been colorful, but was now so faded and threadbare it was a dingy off-white. But the cheap, cotton dress was merely a setting for a precious stone. The girl’s slender arms, sharp collarbones and long neck were a warm tan against the pale fabric. Underneath the translucent material pressed the swell of her breasts and the small, hard shape of nipples.

Inside his sober black pants, so very hot from absorbing the sun’s rays, Nathan’s cock stiffened. Ashamed of his brazen perusal of her body and its effect on him, his gaze snapped back up to her face. The girl’s wide eyes held a glitter of inherent awareness, although perhaps it was only reflected sunlight.

The exchange transpired in moments, but felt like an eternity in which they were suspended like ants in amber.

Sweat trickled down Nathan’s spine, itchy and tickling. The armpits of his shirt were wet and, after an hour of rambling through the wilderness, he wished he’d worn one with short sleeves. His black jacket was draped over one arm. He’d abandoned it after the first twenty minutes of hiking. His clerical collar was tucked in one of the jacket’s pockets.

The open glade in the woods was somnolent with heat, the air so thick and muggy a person could drown in it. He hadn’t known the mountains in summer would be so humid. Back at seminary he’d pictured the Blue Ridge much differently than it actually was—more Alps than Appalachia.

The amber moment had run its course. Nathan needed to speak before the silence grew any more awkward. He stretched the corners of his mouth up into a smile. “Hello.” He half-expected the wild-looking girl to startle at the sound of his voice and bound off into the woods.

“How-do.” She inclined her head as slowly and graciously as a queen accepting her subject’s homage.

“I’m the new minister, Reverend Nathan Andrews.” He moved a few steps toward her, but was confronted by a thicket of blackberry briars and had to stop. “I’m out today, hoping to meet some of the community.” The non-church-attending backwoods members of my congregation.

“Mm.” Her eyes scanned him up and down more leisurely and lingering than he had dared look at her. “Might hot for visitin’, ain’t it?”

His smile became more sincere. “Yes, it is. But I’ve found when it’s not steaming hot here, it’s pouring rain. This seemed slightly more agreeable weather.”

The girl walked toward him, passing carefully through the briars without once snagging her clothes. She stopped when she stood only a few feet from him. “Ain’t you young for a preacher?”

He could smell her hot skin, her ripe, feminine sweat, not unpleasant but natural and heady as catnip. Scratches marked her arms in thin, long streaks. A wooden bucket dangled from one of her hands. It was half-filled with deep purple berries. Nathan glanced down at her bare legs and feet under the hem of her dress. More scratches and dusty grime coated her high-arched feet and lean, brown legs.

Again he brought his attention back to her face. “I just graduated in spring. Class of ’34. This is my first church.”

Liaisons in Jubilee

The night was sweltering by the time Katie was able to slip away. Neon painted the boardwalk in dancing red and yellow lights, and tourists were thick along the paths as they strolled along, clogging the way for those who had an actual destination in mind. In her low-slung jeans and silk camisole, Katie melted into the crowd, indiscernible even to locals as the sharp-suited executive manager at the Jubilee. She’d left the updo back at the hotel too. Her pale blonde hair hung in layers past her shoulders, highlighting the classical angles of her face even more effectively than her natural makeup and sheer pink lipstick. The combination made her look a good decade younger than her thirty-two years.

It took ten minutes of brisk walking to reach the nightclub she had in mind. The Wooden Nickel was good for escaping the rigors of her structured life. Nobody knew her here; for the most part, it catered to out-of-town college kids. Even better, it had a dance floor that spilled out onto the beach, and in the rising summer heat, it was better to be writhing under a clear, starry sky, than jammed into a small square with a hundred other bodies trying to do the same thing.

The club was already packed by the time Katie arrived. The air pulsated, the driving bass booming over the speakers, but she ignored the call of the music to head straight for the bar. She wanted a beer first. Something to get the juices flowing. Then she’d pick out her partner of the night and get the party started right.

It happened as she leaned over the counter to give the bartender her drink order.

Sweat dripped between her breasts, but it was the distinct prickle on the back of her neck that made Katie stiffen. Somebody was watching her. More than one set of eyes had followed her in, but this was different. This was watching with purpose. Easing back onto her stool as casually as possible, she tilted her head in the vague direction she’d sensed it.

Nobody was there. Nobody she knew, anyway. Then she lifted her gaze upward to the balcony railing that overlooked the beach.

Eyes like dark chocolate regarded her from beneath heavy lids. Dark brown hair he always wore too long for company policy—that he only got away with because he played on a regular basis with the bands he booked—was pushed back off his structured features, and some time over the past few weeks he’d grown a moustache and goatee that framed his succulent mouth perfectly. He even wore the dark suit and jewelry that typified his attire when he was onstage. Only Caleb Beckett had the aplomb and style to pull off such an ensemble in a college bar.

Katie’s stomach alternated between constant fluttering and utter stillness. Damn it. She didn’t need this tonight. If she had half a brain, she’d forget her drink, walk out of the club and go back to Jubilee.

It took everything she had to turn back to the bartender when he set her beer down in front of her. One drink. Then she’d leave.

She drank her beer quickly, the cold liquid temporarily soothing her parched throat, the alcohol going straight to her head. But it wasn’t fast enough. She felt him at her back, even though he wasn’t quite touching her.

“Come here to dance?”

Second Wind

The rodeo lights, noise and action had been exactly what Cathy wanted to celebrate her last night in Dallas before heading home to Boston. Not even the oppressive heat would ruin her fun. Her tight designer jeans bore no stains from hay or dirt or sweat, but they’d serve for one night of rodeo. Even less country, her ostrich-skin boots and white Stetson, under which she’d tucked her hair, screamed their newness, but she didn’t care. Probably a good number of people milling around them had never been on a ranch. At least years in an equestrian club had taught her one end of a horse from the other.

After a rough summer and before a rougher last year of school, Cathy wanted to let loose. So, instead of attending the country club dinner dance to celebrate the end of her summer internship in Dallas, she’d passed up filet mignon and fine wine in crystal for barbeque on a bun and beer from a longneck bottle. For tonight she’d rub elbows with ranchers, rodeo groupies and cowboy wannabees and forget about the importance of networking to a law career.

She had just crowded in at the fence demarcating the ring when the most handsome man she’d ever seen locked eyes with her from the back of a huge, black bull. The sounds and smells of the crowd faded to nothing.

Seven and a half heart-stopping seconds later, the bull tossed the cowboy to the ground like an irritating flea. Less than ninety seconds after brushing off his jeans, she looked up to find him by her side.

He stole her breath, her voice, her very thoughts.

Blue eyes so dark they seemed black shone from beneath thick, charcoal-colored lashes. He tipped back his dusty hat to reveal short dark hair. Dimples bracketed an impish grin. His body was lean and tall, and made even faded blue jeans and a worn denim shirt look good.

“Rafe Walker,” he said by way of introduction, “and you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” If anything, his dimples deepened with the amusement in his voice. “I think I’m in love, little lady.”

“Moira Kennedy.” Her friend hadn’t lost her power of speech. She reached around Cathy to extend her hand. “That was very impressive, Rafe.”

Something inside Cathy stirred at the way Moira said his name. Raaaafe.

“Nothing to it,” he said. “Lots of guys better’n me.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Moira murmured, moving beside him.

Rafe smiled at her, and then turned his gaze back to Cathy. “And your name is…?”

Somehow, in a practiced move but with calm she didn’t feel, she arched her brows, flashed him a cool smile and held out her hand. “Catherine Fitzgerald.”

He wiped his hands on his jeans, adding as much dust as he removed, and took her fingers in his. Warmth flooded her and her knees threatened to buckle. He used her hand to pull her closer, emphasizing how they fit together.

“Can I buy you a Coke?” Quickly he glanced at Moira. “Both of you, of course.”

Cathy also turned to look at her friend.

Moira correctly read the almost imperceptible shake of Cathy’s head. “No, I have someone to meet.”

“You do? Who?” The two of them had come to the rodeo alone.

Moira smiled and flipped her dark hair over her shoulder. “Don’t know yet.”

“Moira—”

But Moira fled.

Giddy and breathless, Cathy faced Rafe Walker. Without another word, he led her toward the concession stand. When they had Cokes in hand, he guided her to an area at the end of the stables, behind the loudspeakers, where they could hear each other talk.

“Is this your first rodeo?” he asked.

“How did you know?”

He pointed to her legs. “Those aren’t Levis. And those expensive boots don’t look like they’ve been near a cow patty.”

“Busted,” she said with a nervous laugh.

He lifted her hat, releasing waves of hair to tumble over her shoulders and down her back. Rafe caught his breath and stared at it.

“To make your hat look lived in,” he said in a hushed voice, “you need to beat it against your leg a few times. But holy God, why you’d want to cover up that hair with any hat is beyond me.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to kiss you, Miss Catherine Fitzgerald. Is that all right?”

Hunk of Burnin’ Love

Hours later she was walking through the cemetery with pink tea roses in her hand—her mom’s favorite. It was a gentle summer twilight, birds singing in the huge maple and elm trees that adorned the grounds. A few other families were visiting but the cemetery was quiet. She glanced to the west, where the setting sun was casting long shadows through the spiked iron gate.

She walked past the meditation pond and mausoleum until she came to her mother’s grave. Carole Reeves, beloved wife and mother. Vanessa blinked back her tears. Her vibrant, fun-loving mother had died of breast cancer four years ago and she had never stopped feeling the basic unfairness of it all.

“Hey there, darlin’.”

She turned to see a middle-aged man behind her. Instinctively she clutched her handbag and glanced around to make sure other visitors were still present in the cemetery. Then she took a look at his jeans, sweatshirt and baseball cap and relaxed. This guy just didn’t seem menacing.

In fact, despite his sunglasses, he seemed downright familiar. Probably he was the cemetery caretaker, here to remind her that the gates would be closing soon.

“Oh—hello. Is it closing time?” She glanced again at the sunset. “I didn’t realize the time.”

“No, no, you’re fine. I’m just saying hi.”

His deep southern accent was also familiar. So was his voice. He almost sounded—ridiculous as this was—like Elvis Presley. She had Elvis on the brain today.

He nodded at her mother’s grave. “That your momma?”

“Yes. She passed away a few years ago. Breast cancer.” Tears rose to her eyes and she tried to brush them away.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Losing your momma is a terrible thing. I lost mine young too.”

Just like Elvis, she thought. The more this guy talked, the more he sounded exactly like him. On the other hand, the silver hair poking out from his baseball cap, and the portly belly pushing at his sweatshirt, didn’t exactly evoke the popular image of the sexy, raven-haired star.

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “Was it cancer?”

“Heart attack.”

A peaceful silence settled between them as they regarded her mother’s grave. A faint breeze stirred the grass as the man adjusted his baseball cap. She glanced sideways at him. Yes, his resemblance to Elvis was remarkable. He could have been a middle-aged, pudgy Elvis gone gray. Just like Elvis would look if he were alive.

Be real, she scolded herself. Elvis had died decades ago and he had been in his early forties then. He would be an old man now—if the legends about him hoaxing his death were true.

But this man was in his late fifties at the most. Maybe a well-preserved sixty. Still she glanced curiously at him. Finally she had to say it.

“I’m sure you hear this all the time,” she began, “but you look just like Elvis Presley.”

The man didn’t smile or even look at her.

She waited for a response. The man lifted his head and stared right at her. There was just enough light in the cemetery for her to see through the dark lenses of his sunglasses…and right into his pale blue bedroom eyes, just like Elvis’s. She looked at his lips. Elvis had always had the most distinctive lips, sensuous and unique, even after his weight gain.

So did this man.