Something in Hank hardened, too, at the harsh, unwelcoming tone of her voice. “I live here, too, now,” he countered. “Or have you forgotten?” She wished.

Time to get back on track.

To undo all those reckless promises she had made in the throes of an emotion that couldn’t possibly have been grief.

Ally sighed, certain that Hank McCabe wasn’t going to take the news any better than she was facing the upcoming yuletide. She drew a bolstering breath. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

HANK HAD KNOWN FROM the tone of Ally’s terse email at seven-thirty that morning that the meeting was not going to be good. Hoping to delay the inevitable, he followed her down the hall that led to the rear of the sadly neglected ranch house. When they entered the kitchen, he observed, “You must be tired from the drive.”

She stepped toward the sink in a drift of orange blossom perfume, her elegant wool business suit and silk blouse in stark contrast to his own comfortably worn jeans and flannel-lined canvas barn jacket. She took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with tap water. “Houston is only four hours from here.”

Which meant she’d left moments after she’d sent the email.

Wondering why Ally had dressed so inappropriately for a day at the ranch, he watched as she drained the glass and then continued checking out the rest of the place, her ridiculously high heels making a clattering sound on the wood floor. Ambling after her, his body responding to her nearness, he took in the slender calves, trim hips and alluring thighs. She was five foot nine to his six foot three. Graceful and fit, with a sophisticated cap of sleek, honeyblond hair that framed her piquant features. And a body designed for lovemaking. But it was the sassy cynicism-coupled with the almost unbearable sadness in her wide-set, pine-green eyes-that always drew him in.