More to the point, he was usually good for information, so Teague tried pumping him. “Well, it’s sure warm in here, with a crowd like this. I don’t get it-I’ve never seen this many people in the café since I came to live here. What’s going on?”

“Daisy’s French baking, that’s what’s going on. About a week ago, Harry let her wander into the kitchen, and ever since then she’s been coming out with stuff nobody ever heard of. And before it’s gone, you better be asking for the lavender sponge cake. Trust me, you’ll never taste anything like it again. I forget what all else she came up with today. You could try the lavender-custard ice cream.”

“Lavender ice cream,” Teague echoed.

“I know, I know. Sounds like pansy food. In fact, that’s what she says, that there’s lavender in it. I swear, though, it doesn’t taste like any sissy flower-”

Someone tapped on the sheriff’s shoulder, and when he got embroiled in that conversation, Harry hiked over from the cash register. “What can I get you, Teague?”

“I’ve barely got a minute, but I could sure use a fast coffee. And some…” He was going to ask for a piece of the lavender sponge cake, but he spotted the empty cake platter on the counter. “Just coffee,” he said.

Seconds later his hands were snugged around a mug of hair-curling coffee, but Daisy still hadn’t shown back up. He could hear her voice in the distance-he assumed she was talking to Jason, Harry’s brother and short-order cook-but she didn’t come back.

He gulped the coffee, burned his throat, and gulped some more. His mind kept spilling out questions. All the evidence pointed to her working here, but that just seemed impossible. Harry didn’t hire extras-the café didn’t have enough business to justify more staff, especially in the slow month of January. And Teague couldn’t fathom why she’d seek any kind of job, much less a low-paying one, when the clothes she wore cost more than most of the cars parked outside. Besides which, he couldn’t figure out what she was still doing here at all, when she’d made such a point of telling him how much she hated small towns.

One other question hammered at his mind. The same tiny question that had been jamming his brain in the wee hours of every damn morning since he met her. If she’d hung around White Hills these past couple of weeks, then why hadn’t she given him a call? Why had she been avoiding him?

Harry twisted his considerable beer belly to engage him in more friendly conversation, but by then Teague had stood up, wrestled some change from his pocket and swung away from the counter. Obviously, he couldn’t chase her down in front of all these people. He grabbed his jacket and aimed for the door, thinking that now he knew she was here, he’d choose a free time, a quiet place, to corner her. Yet somewhere between the last table and the front door, his boots pivoted around. Instead of leaving, he found himself charging straight down the aisle, past the cash register, past the counter, past the saloon-style double doors that led to the kitchen area. Harry didn’t stop him. The sheriff didn’t stop him. Hell, nobody dared try to stop him.

He pushed the swinging doors so hard that one banged against the inside wall. “Daisy!” he yelled out.

Almost instantly, two heads showed up from around the corner of the freezer room. The small head with the exotic eyes and lush, soft mouth was definitely hers. The big one looked like a twin rendition of Harry-eyebrows bushier than weeds, a tummy that looked like a hot-air balloon, three sprouts of hair straight on top. Harry’s brother disappeared back into the fog of the freezer room.

Daisy stepped out.

Teague wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Something like, “Damn it, woman, I’m not in the habit of having the best sex I ever had in my life and then having my lover disappear as if it never happened.” Or “Daisy, why didn’t you let me know you were still in town?” Or “Daisy, for God’s sake, what are you doing in this café?”

But somehow he sensed vulnerability in those soft, dark eyes. He knew he was crazy. He’d been crazy ever since he made love to her. Daisy was sophisticated and capable of handling herself in any situation-God knew he’d seen her step up in the blizzard, even if she would hate the idea of being labeled resourceful and practical. The point, though, was that imagining vulnerability in her eyes was likely a sign of more lunacy in him, not of anything that was really there.

Still, something went wrong. He managed a scowl and a bellow, but what came out of his mouth was hardly confrontational. “Daisy, do you know what a swatch is?”

“A swatch?” she echoed in confusion.

“Yeah. A swatch. Like a woman needs to do curtains or upholstery or something.”

“Oh, like a swatch of fabric?”

“I think so.”

“Well, sure,” she said.

“Thank God. Can you explain it to me at dinner?”

“Okay,” she responded, as if she’d never disappeared from his life and it was no big deal to go to dinner together.

Possibly he was a certifiable lunatic, but that didn’t mean he’d lost the ability to recognize he’d gained ground. “Seven o’clock?” he pressed.

“Okay.”

“Where do you want me to pick you up?”

“How about if I meet you right outside the café here?”

There. He’d got that settled. Before she could change her mind-and ignoring all the interested eyes in the restaurant-he charged right back down the aisle and this time, directly outside. The sudden spank of icy wind tried to slap some reality into him, but didn’t seem to work. His head was still reeling. Had he imagined it? That wild night? That extraordinary coming together, the connection he’d never felt with anyone else, the jolt of excitement just talking to each other? Was it some fantasy he’d imagined in the stress of a blizzard? Because he’d had no one for so long? Because he’d stopped believing he’d ever find a woman who bamboozled his common sense ever again?

Was Daisy real-or had being knocked out two weeks ago seriously addled his brain?


As if she weren’t already anxious-times-ten to be seeing Teague again, she was running late. To add insult to injury, she was just tugging on a cowl-necked sweater when her new cell phone beeped. Impatiently she grabbed it.

“Finally,” a feminine voice scolded. “I got your voice mail about having a new phone number, but you didn’t say where you are. I’m gonna shoot you if you ever do this again!”

Anxious or not anxious, Daisy had to chuckle. Her baby sister sounded so bossy. Camille had been through hell and back over the past couple years, losing her first love and almost losing herself in the aftermath. It had taken a long time-and the love of a terrific guy-to put that strident, bossy confidence back in her voice. “Hey, I called Mom and Dad and you and Violet, to let everyone know my new phone number-”

“But all you did was leave messages, so no one actually had a chance to talk to you! Nobody still knows where you are!”

“Well, I’m here. Home in White Hills. For a little while, anyway.” With the cell phone clapped to her ear, she pushed on black Manolo Blahnik shoes, then stuffed a bill in her Kate Spade purse.

“But no one’s there! You know Violet closed up the house for the whole winter. And that I’m off with Pete and the boys.”

As much as Daisy missed her sister, she shot another glance at her watch and kept hustling, grabbing a hair-brush, then lipstick. “Like it’s my fault the family’s gallivanting all over the place? For that matter, you’re the only one in the family who’s totally settled in White Hills, but instead of being around with your new husband and kids-”

“And dogs. And my father-in-law.”

“Yeah. You sure know how to do a honeymoon, kid.”

“Quit distracting me,” Camille chided. “The last I knew you were still in France. Violet and I both knew there was something wrong with Jean-Luc, something serious, but you never once told us what was going on. The next thing I know, I get the message that you have a new cell phone number and you’re back in the U.S. and your last name is suddenly Campbell again.”

“Yup,” Daisy said, which seemed to cover everything.

“You got a divorce?”

She couldn’t answer that question quite so lightly. “Yes. And I’ll tell you about it. And Violet. But right now I’m rushed-just please don’t say anything to Mom and Dad until I’ve had the chance to tell you two completely what’s going on first, all right?”

“No, it’s not all right. First I want to know-”

“Camille, I can’t talk now, honestly. I swear I’m not evading a conversation. I’m just plain short on time. And I need more than two seconds to explain what’s been happening.”

“Okay, but-”

Daisy hung up. It was already ten minutes after seven. Being a few minutes late wasn’t criminal, but she’d asked Teague to meet her outside-which meant he was stuck out there on a frigid-cold night. She tugged on a jacket, locked the back door and charged down the stairs.

She’d carefully thought through everything she was wearing, from the St. John’s sweater and slacks to using the last of her hoarded Cle Peau makeup. Daisy couldn’t imagine Teague remotely caring about designer labels-and right now, he had no idea that all these silly, impractical clothes were all she owned. She’d played the pricey look up, rather than down, to help create a distance between them. She didn’t want him to think of her as normal, as conceivably staying in White Hills, or that there was any potential between them.

That was the theory. But she’d also hoped to have more time to plan how to handle this meeting, and instead felt rushed inside and out.

The bottom door opened into the vestibule of the Marble Bridge Café-and then one more door led her out to the street, where a tall, dark-haired man in a sheepskin jacket stomping his feet to keep warm stood. He spun around when he heard the door, then stopped dead when he saw her.