A Texan Returns. Victoria Chancellor

and into the main room. He must have forgotten to close the door.

      A statuesque pregnant blonde stood next to Cal Crawford. He’d gone to school with Cal’s younger brother, Troy. Cal held a little boy, so he supposed the rancher was a family man now.

      “Hey, Wyatt,” Cal said. “Good to see you.”

      “Mr. McCall,” the blonde said, holding out her hand, “I’m Christie Crawford, the owner of the motel. I just wanted to say hello and welcome you back.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Crawford,” Wyatt said, slipping back into “Texas mode” easier than he’d thought possible.

      “Christie, please.”

      Wyatt smiled and nodded. “Christie, then.” He reached forward and shook Cal’s free hand. “Good to see you, Cal. Where’s that brother of yours?”

      Cal snorted. “New Hampshire. Married to a Yankee vegetarian organic farmer.”

      Wyatt laughed at Cal’s description of his sister-in-law and his obvious scorn at the idea of Troy living in the north. “And who is this?”

      “This is Peter,” Cal told him. “He’s fifteen months.”

      The baby smiled, showing several teeth, and struggled to get down. “He’s a handful,” Christie said.

      “I suppose so.” Wyatt knew nothing about babies, except that they eventually grew into children who needed computers and software and digital television. They wanted games, text messaging and media uploads. He was all for that, but as for the little ones still in diapers…he’d leave them to their parents. “So, you’re a dad,” he said unnecessarily to Cal.

      Cal smiled—something Wyatt didn’t remember him doing much when they were younger. “Married and everything, with another one on the way.”

      “Congratulations. Still on the Rocking C?”

      “Of course. We’re building a new house, so it’s kind of torn up right now.”

      Wyatt nodded. He stayed away from construction whenever possible. Why be uncomfortable and inconvenienced like that? He’d bought his house empty, but completely finished after the former owner had gone belly-up in the import business.

      “I’ll let you get unpacked,” Christie said. “Is there anything else you need? We have a conference room next to the office, and we keep coffee, drinks and snacks by the front desk.”

      “I’m just fine, thanks. I can run by Casale’s Grocery if we need anything.” And possibly see Mrs. Casale, who probably didn’t want to see him. If only she knew what he and Toni had been doing all those nights when they’d told her they were studying. Exploring human anatomy was more like it.

      “Just let me know if you need anything,” Cal’s wife said, and Wyatt promised he would as he shut the door after the happy couple.

      What he needed was for this week to be over with, so he could put Brody’s Crossing behind him…again. Louisa would get her PR photos, the magazines would have their stories and he’d get back to his real life. The one without a certain blonde who could play havoc with his peace of mind.

      He’d return to his house, where his housekeeper, Mrs. Nakimoto, had no doubt contracted with a decorator or two to produce stunning Christmas trees for several rooms in his white-on-white house.

      Not one of them would have vintage or handmade ornaments, like this motel fifty miles from anywhere. But they’d look good, at least to some decorator’s critical eye.

      He unclipped his cell phone from his waistband and fell back on the bed. Were there any decent channels on the TV? He wouldn’t be too surprised to see old reruns of I Love Lucy or Lassie in this family-oriented community, although since he was in the honeymoon suite, perhaps they had something racier.

      With Toni nearby he didn’t need sexy movies to heat his blood. She’d starred in quite a few of his dreams over the years, even though he’d tried to get her out of his head. Now that he was back, he decided, reclining on a satin comforter, he’d have to work extra hard to stay angry at his former girlfriend.

      The other option—that he give in to the attraction that hadn’t ever gone away—wasn’t a good alternative. Not if he wanted to be on his best behavior for the next week.