A Man to Rely On. Cindi Myers
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“Have you thought about staying?”
Marisol shook her head at Scott’s question. “There are too many memories here.”
“So make some new memories.” He set down the roller and moved closer to her. “I’d like it if you stayed.”
Her eyes met his, calm and clear. “I meant what I said. I’m not interested in a long-term relationship. I’m not ready to let another man into my life.”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind one day, but until then, I’m here.” He took her hand in his, his large fingers laced with her slender ones. “I’ve been dying for one moment alone with you. You’ve felt it, haven’t you?”
She said nothing, though the longing in her eyes answered for her.
Dear Reader,
I’m fascinated by the way stories evolve—the process is rarely the same from one book to the next. The characters Marisol and Scott came to me long before I found the right story for them. I tried several different plots before I found the one that was a perfect fit. The result is A Man To Rely On.
I’m particularly drawn to stories of people who defy expectations or overcome tough odds. One wonderful thing about writing is that my characters get to be tougher or prettier or braver or more talented than I ever could be. I get to live their adventures in my head as I tell their stories.
I think that’s one of the great things about reading, as well. We get to live great adventures through the pages of a book, without ever leaving home or our comfortable armchair.
I hope you’ll enjoy reading about Marisol and Scott’s adventures, as well. Let me know what you think. I love to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at [email protected] or write to me in care of Harlequin Enterprises, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
Best,
Cindi Myers
A Man to Rely on
Cindi Myers
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cindi Myers grew up in a small town in Texas, but she never had the desire to jump off a highway bridge, in any state of dress or undress. She now lives in Colorado with her husband, who never plays basketball, and two spoiled dogs.
For Pam,
who loved this story in all its incarnations.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PROLOGUE
Cedar Switch, Texas, 1988
“D ID YOU HEAR ? She’s going to do it. She’s really going to do it.”
“Do what?” Scott Redmond struggled to keep up with his friend, Sam Waite, as they splashed through the muddy shallows above the swimming hole in the Brazos River. It was after noon on a Thursday in August, and the river was the temperature of bath water. The air smelled of weeds and mud and the beachy scent of Coppertone oil.
He lunged through the thigh-high water. At fourteen, Sam was a year older and a head taller. His legs were longer too, and he moved faster in the water.
Scott scrambled for purchase on the slick river bottom. With a loud splash, he fell, and came up sputtering, muddy water filling his eyes and nose. Sam didn’t even notice, he was so intent on reaching the bridge. Around him, other kids were making their way upstream toward the bridge too. In local swimming hole hierarchy, the bridge was the territory of older kids, who took turns daring each other to leap from the creosote posts that supported the guardrail beside the highway.
“What’s going on?” Scott asked, as he stood and slicked his hair back out of his eyes.
“Marisol Luna is gonna jump off the bridge,” a boy Scott’s age said.
“So?” Kids did it all the time. He hadn’t yet, but he probably would soon. At least by the time he was in high school.
“She’s gonna do it naked! ” The other boy’s eyes lit up with a wicked gleam. “C’mon. You don’t want to miss this.”
The chance to see a female naked in broad daylight was not something that happened very often in the lives of most thirteen-year-olds in Cedar Switch, Texas. Inspired by this rare prospect, Scott floundered through the water again, determined not to miss the spectacle.
When he joined the crowd gathered beneath the high concrete span, he could see the group of older kids on the bridge. Danny Westover was the high school football team’s quarterback. His sometimes-girlfriend, Jessica Freeman, was there, along with half a dozen other high school boys and girls. And in front of them all was a girl Scott thought he had seen around town before: a Mexican girl with curly black hair that hung past her shoulders. She wore a modest one-piece tank suit, red with black roses printed on it.
“That’s her. That’s Marisol,” Sam said, pointing.
Scott nodded. “I know. What makes you think she’s gonna jump?” He couldn’t even say the part about her being naked. It was too impossible to imagine.
“Jessica dared her. She said if Marisol thought she was such hot stuff, she ought to let them all see.”
“And she said yes?” The girls he knew got mad if you said something about the strap of their training bras showing. He couldn’t imagine one of them voluntarily taking her clothes off in broad daylight before God and everybody.
A hush fell over the crowd in the water as Marisol stepped up onto the flat top of the thick post that supported part of the guardrail. She didn’t look at any of them. Instead, she stared out across the water. Scott held his breath, awed by the expression on her face. She wasn’t that much older than him—maybe fifteen or sixteen. But she looked so determined. Not scared at all. He’d seen girls jump before—with their swimsuits on—and every one of them had looked like she was about to cry before she dove into the water.
But Marisol Luna looked calm, as if she was waiting to cross the street in front of the school.
“Take it off! Take it off!” Someone started the chant and others picked it up, until it was a deafening chorus, echoing off the water.
Scott remained silent, watching the girl on the post. She glanced down at the water, and in that moment, her expression changed. She looked angry, he decided. Was she angry at Jessica and her friends for taunting her? Or at all of them for watching?
He ducked his head, feeling ashamed, then quickly brought it up again, unable to resist seeing her fulfill the dare. He looked at her again, and this time, he saw hurt alongside the anger. He felt the hurt in his own chest, but still could not turn away.
She brought one hand to the strap of her suit, and a half smile formed on her lips. She reached back and undid the strap slowly, then let it fall down across her still-covered breasts, taunting them.
“Take it off! Take it off!” The volume of the chant increased.
The