From Harlequin Books
Published February 28, 2017
In the nine years since Trask Beaumont left Gilt Edge, Lillian Cahill had convinced herself she was over him. But when the rugged cowboy suddenly walks into her bar, there's a pang in her heart that argues the attraction never faded. And that's dangerous, because Trask has returned on a mission to clear his nameand win Lillie back.
Trask gets the showdown he's after when his boss's body is recovered from a burning house. Hawk, Lillie's marshal brother, believes Trask's homecoming isn't coincidental to the murder, but Lillie isn't so sure. Something is urging her to give bad boy Trask a second chance, even if it leaves her torn between her family and the man she never stopped loving.
NYT and USA Today Bestselling author B.J. Daniels was born in Texas but moved with her family to Montana at the age of five. Her first home was a cabin in the Gallatin Canyon and later a lake house on Hebgen Lake outside of West Yellowstone.
Most of her books are set in Montana, a place she loves. She lives now in a unique part of the state with her husband and three Springer Spaniels.
When she isn’t writing, she loves to play tennis, boat, camp, quilt and snowboard. There is nothing she enjoys more than curling up with a good book.
Connect with B. J. Daniels
“Have you heard from her?” Flint asked as he walked toward the house and the man anxiously waiting for him.
Anvil shook his head as if unable to draw the words. He looked older than fifty-seven. His brown hair needed cutting. It framed a once handsome face now weathered from years of working outdoors. He still looked strong from his days playing football at the University of Montana in Missoula, his only claim to fame. His large body was clad in faded overalls over a clean white T-shirt. He’d obviously dressed up for Flint’s visit, since he’d recently shaved. He still had a dollop of shaving cream congealing on one ear.
“Why don’t we go inside and sit down. You can tell me what happened,” Flint said.
Anvil nodded nervously, practically wringing his hands before he wiped both down the sides of his overalls. “It’s just not like her to take off and not call and let me know she’s all right.”
Flint followed the farmer into the kitchen of the ranch house. The room was neat and clean, dishes done, floor recently mopped, he noticed with concern. In this part of the country, men worked in the fields, barns and pastures. Women worked in the house. That Anvil had mopped the floor sent up a red flag that Flint hadn’t been expecting.
If Jenna had been gone since yesterday evening, she hadn’t been the one to mop the floor. It seemed a strange thing for Anvil to do unless he had something he needed to clean up.
They took a seat at the 1950s metal-and-Formica blue table. Anvil had inherited the farm along with the house and furnishings from his father after he graduated from college. His parents had moved down to Arkansas to be near his sister and her family.
Flint noticed that, like the floor, the table too had been wiped down recently.
“So tell me what happened,” he said as he took out his notebook and pen.
“We had an argument,” Anvil admitted as he wiped a hand over his face. His voice broke as he said, “She left.”
Flint saw with growing concern that the knuckles of Anvil’s right hand were scraped and bruised. “She leave in her own car?” Anvil nodded. “She take anything with her?”
“A suitcase and her purse.”
“She packed after the argument?” Flint asked.
Anvil shook his head. “She’d already packed. Said she needed some time to think.”
“Think about what?”
Anvil looked at the floor.
“She leave because you hit her?”
The farmer’s head bobbed up, shock and guilt on his face. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It wasn’t the first time you’d hit her?”
“I’d never laid a hand on her before. I swear to God.” The words came out in a strangled cry. Tears had filled the man’s eyes. Remorse making him appear even older. “It was the first time I raised a hand to her. I swear on my grandmother’s grave. I…I slapped her.”
Flint reached across the table to lift Anvil’s ham-sized right hand. “Looks like you did more than slap her.”
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