Montana Fever. Jackie Merritt

       One

      Giving her hair a pat, Lola Fanon smiled at herself in the mirror over the sink in the small bathroom of her store. She really liked her new style. Her almost black hair had always been long, at least shoulder-length, and this short but sophisticated cut was a major change.

      But she relished change, she thought with another smile. Her reflection seemed to agree. Her green eyes shone with a dancing excitement, precisely the way she felt inside. The store had been open for only three months and was already proving to be a smart decision. And the Lord knew that Lola Fanon, world traveler, settling down—back in her hometown yet—and opening a men’s clothing store, was definitely a change.

      In her mind this innovation was permanent, though. She had finally seen enough of the world and had gotten very lonesome for home. Lonesome for Rocky Ford, Montana, and for her family. It was great to be back, great to be living under her Uncle Charlie’s roof again, and it was especially gratifying to be the owner of a business.

      Humming under her breath, Lola took her purse and left the little bathroom. Betty Drake, one of her part-time employees, was at the counter ringing up a sale. Lola darted into her office at the back of the store, deposited her purse in a desk drawer, then returned to the main part of the store to walk among the merchandise, her eye attuned to anything out of order. Betty was chatting with her customer—she knew almost everyone who came in—and Lola began straightening the stacks of jeans on the twenty-percent markdown table which the customer had obviously gone through quite thoroughly.

      The man left with his packages. The two women smiled at each other as Betty came around the counter. “Good sale. He bought three pairs of jeans and two shirts.”

      “Great,” Lola said. Betty was a wife and mother, and her hours were from an eight o’clock opening until 1:30 p.m. Monday through Friday, as she wanted to be free when her three children got home from school. Lola’s help in the afternoons and on Saturdays—the store was closed Sundays—consisted of high school kids, who were proving to be very good help. Lola got along with all of her part-time employees, but she especially enjoyed Betty, who was only a few years older than herself and had a wry sense of humor that sometimes had Lola in stitches.

      A woman came in and Betty walked off to greet her. Lola was finishing with the jeans just as the bell above the door jangled again, announcing another customer. She turned from the table with a smile and felt the strangest frisson of energy travel her spine. The man walking in was one for the books, tall, lean and startlingly handsome. A shock of sandy hair. Tanned face. She couldn’t see his eyes, as they were behind a pair of very dark sunglasses. He was dressed like most of her male customers, in jeans, boots and Western-cut shirt; nothing unusual, but there was something besides his good looks that affected Lola.

      She didn’t take time to wonder about it; instead, she began moving toward him. “Good morning.”

      Duke Sheridan turned his head to see who had spoken to him, at the same time removing his dark glasses and tucking them into his shirt pocket. One good look at Lola had him feeling very male and high-spirited. She was slender, in white jeans and a loosely structured, emerald green blouse tucked into the waistband of the pants. Her dark hair was short and perfect for her beautiful face. Yes, he thought, beautiful. Who was she? Before walking in here he had believed that he’d known every attractive woman in the area.

      Every attractive unattached woman, he quickly amended; she must be taken.

      Not that he was a womanizer. But he’d lived in this part of Montana all his life and there were very few unfamiliar faces.

      “Morning,” he replied with a lopsided grin that arrowed straight to the core of Lola’s system. “Been meaning to stop in since this store opened.” They had gotten close enough to each other for him to see the name tag on Lola’s blouse. He bent his head to read it aloud. “Lola Fanon.” His eyes rose to meet hers. “Are you one of Charlie Fanon’s kids?” The Fanon on her name tag was encouraging. Most married women took their husband’s last name.

      “You know Charlie?”

      “Everyone knows Charlie. Let’s see. He has three kids, if I remember right. Haven’t seen any of them for quite a while, now that I think about it.”

      “He has two children and a niece,” Lola said with a small laugh of indulgence. “I’m the niece.”

      One of Duke’s eyebrows went up. “Really? I was always under the impression that…well, you know what I mean.”

      “A lot of people thought Charlie was my father while I was growing up. Some probably still do.”

      Duke’s gaze kept roaming her features. Her perfect little nose, startling green eyes and sensual mouth seemed to demand a great deal of study. He was thoroughly enjoying this unexpected meeting, and was willing to talk about anything to prolong it.

      He folded his arms across his chest, as though settling in for a good long chat. “So, Charlie raised you?”

      “Since I was nine.”

      “But we’ve never met, have we?”

      “Not that I can recall.” That wasn’t completely true. He seemed vaguely familiar, although she couldn’t really place him. There was hordes of information she could pass on to clarify her own past for this man, but it really wasn’t any of his business, good-looking or not. “Is there something I can help you find?” she asked, indicating the merchandise in the store with a wave of her hand.

      He smiled. “You know, maybe there is. Seems like I lost something when I walked in here.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Yeah, there seems to be an empty spot right about here.” Unfolding his arms, he tapped the left side of his chest. “I think what’s missing is a piece of my heart. Do you have it?”

      Lola’s face colored. What an outrageous flirt! Well, she’d dealt with his sort before.

      “I think if you’re suddenly missing a body part, sport, it’s from a little higher up than your chest,” she said pertly.

      Duke laughed with genuine relish. He did like a woman with spirit. “Could you by any chance be referring to my brain, Lola Fanon? Oh, by the way, I’m Duke Sheridan.” He held out his right hand.

      Lola stared at it. Now she knew who he was, or at least, what he was. A rancher. The Sheridan Ranch was one of the largest and most successful in the area. Or it had been before she left Rocky Ford.

      But did she want to touch that big masculine hand? Feel its warmth? Physically connect the two of them, if only for a handshake? Although Betty was taking good care of her lady customer, Lola could sense that she was also highly interested in what was happening near the table of jeans.

      “Hey,” Duke said softly. “Don’t be afraid to shake my hand. I guarantee not to bite.”

      Lola tilted her chin to a defiant angle, and she boldly stared into Duke’s golden brown eyes while she laid her hand in his.

      He laughed. “I don’t scare you at all, do I?”

      “Not an iota.” But she only allowed the handshake to last a few seconds.