Awe-Struck Preview

Learn more!

-That Miracle Man-

Prologue

"...So I'm leaving you."

Laura sat very still on the edge of the bed watching her husband fuss with those designer shirts she could never seem to launder to his liking and pack them neatly into his suitcase. He closed it with a click and turned to face her.

"I know this is hard for you to understand," he said slipping into his new leather jacket and stealing a quick glimpse at the mirror to smooth his hair. He had his priorities. "Now you're not going to go and cry on me, are you?"

She looked at him and clenched her teeth. My God, he was actually waiting for her to cry. Hoping that's what she would do. Cry. Beg for him to stay. Say she would do anything as long as he wouldn't leave, and then he could leave feeling as powerful as he always wanted to.

Why had she married such a coward as Scott Turner less than eighteen months ago? No. She knew why. There was no need to go over that again. She had done what she thought she should do. But now, did he really expect her to run after him, pleading for him to stay? As if she could run anywhere eight-and-a-half months pregnant.

She got up slowly from the bed and smoothed her nightgown over her swollen stomach before she walked to the bedroom window and looked out. He had left his new sports car running in front of the house and Laura could see his blond "friend" tapping time to the music from the car radio. From the ranch house window, she looked out over the Oklahoma prairie. There was the smell of rain in the spring night and a breeze was picking up. It would rain hard soon and wash the dust out of the air. Tomorrow the colors would be brilliant. Perfect for painting, and her fingers itched, just thinking about the feel of her paintbrush capturing their brilliance.

Laura smiled. Her husband was leaving her. And she was relieved. Yes, she could paint in the morning and all afternoon and the next day and the next. And never again would she have to endure his comments. Laura's little paint by numbers -- 'course she can't count very high. Painting, oh, it just keeps her busy while she's off her back. Yeah, she learned everything she needed to know in kindergarten -- finger-painting.

Laura remembered the shocked look on the Houston art dealer's face after he finished looking at Laura's windblown landscapes and heard her husband's comments.

He had cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Mr. Turner, " he had said gently, but firmly, "your wife's paintings are some of the freshest, most original work I've seen in years. This isn't everyday talent."

She also remembered the look on Scott's face as the dealer drove away after carefully loading six of Laura's paintings into his late model van. He'd made her promise to call him the moment she had others finished.

Scott had looked, how would her mother have described it had she still been alive? He looked peeved. He had actually pouted. Like a small child who was angry because it was a sibling's birthday and he wasn't getting enough attention. Or in Scott's case, Laura had suddenly realized, all the attention. He was no longer the high school football hero. His days as the president of his college fraternity had faded quickly as his grades began to slip. And he wasn't even spending too much time at the bank after being groomed by his father to take his place as president.

"You'd better get going, Scott," said Laura gazing out the window at the uneasy Oklahoma sky. "I think it's going to rain."

"Well, all right then, missy, have it your way," he said and left, once again throwing the blame in her lap, angry that there had been no tears.

She heard him stomp down the stairs and watched him throw his bag into the back of the red car before climbing in himself and bestowing a clumsy kiss on the blonde for Laura's benefit.

Then he was gone.

Why had he married her? Maybe because her father had the biggest spread in this part of the state and Scott never looked more attentive than when there was talk of an inheritance. That was something he had been an expert on. How not to work for money. Although he had made considerable jokes at Laura's expense about how it had been "work" to court her.

Maybe he had married her because tall, gangling Laura Manning had been no competition for him. Everyone had been surprised when Scott Turner had focused his slick charm on Laura, the shy brown-haired, brown-eyed art student. She certainly wasn't like the buxom, blond-haired ladies he usually dated. But then one of them couldn't have played the part of the respected banker's wife while he cooled his heels waiting for the expected inheritance. For awhile it had worked. He attended the barbecues that peppered the countryside in the fall with his new bride, dancing and flirting with the beauties he favored and then leaving, weaving more than a little as the season dragged on, with Laura, ignored until he needed a ride home. It had been after one of those parties, a particularly long one for Scott's drinking, that a rancher had complimented Laura on one of her paintings that he had seen at the local library. It had been the first time anyone had complimented her so. Scott had grabbed her when she had helped him up the stairs and flung her onto the bed, taking her more brutishly than usual before he fell into a drunken sleep.

It was after that night, with no questions asked, that she had moved into one of the spare bedrooms and three weeks later she realized she was pregnant. She had locked her bedroom door after that. But it didn't seem to matter. Scott seemed to realize he had overstepped the boundaries for even his behavior. He had stayed away -- probably with his blond friend, thought Laura.

She had been relieved. She hadn't been any too experienced with sex when she married Scott. Maybe he had counted on that, too. Because their time in bed had been, well, a disappointment. Just like in his waking hours, his needs always came first. If Scott Turner had been good at one thing, it had been at making Laura feel inadequate. None of his other women -- and he always made it clear that he had had plenty -- had questioned his performance.

"Must be you, missy," he'd grunt before turning over.

No. She wouldn't be crying over Scott. True. He'd left her eight-and-a-half months pregnant. But she'd manage. Her paintings were selling. She could support herself. It was actually a blessing. If Scott had had a difficult time dealing with the attention she got, she'd shuddered to think how he would have reacted to the attention an innocent child would get.

No. No tears for Scott. But then why as she watched the car lights disappear down the country road did she dab away the wetness on her cheeks with the sleeve of her gown?

Then she realized. She wanted to talk to Jackson. Her friend, Jackson Miracle. Best Man at her wedding, because, Jackson had told her, he would look damn silly in one of those peach-colored dresses she had chosen for her bridesmaids.

Peach. That's what Jackson had called her. She never knew why. Never knew why that great big man had become her closest friend. Big bones, big hands, over six feet five easily, but with a soft-spoken calm that flowed over a person like a gentle breeze.

Gentle Jackson. That's what Laura called him privately. And wouldn't she give just about anything to talk with him over a glass of root beer right now. But she couldn't. She'd only heard bits and pieces about where he was when she ran into his dad in the grocery store. He'd left hours after her wedding for God knows where.

"Jackson," Mr. Miracle would say proudly, "that boy can smell oil." And smell it he did all over the world as a private consultant. "The oil companies think Jackson is okay," he'd laugh with pride at his son's success. They kept him so busy he never seemed to get home.

The baby kicked a good one and she opened the window wide to breathe in the fresh night air. It was late. At least it was in Bantam, Oklahoma. But what time was it wherever, in God's name, Jackson Miracle was. Was the sun coming up? Was it blazing hot? Laura leaned on the windowsill and squinted her eyes as if trying to see something that wasn't there.

Where was Jackson? But more importantly, would he ever be coming home?

Chapter 1

Six years later.

"Boy, you've got big feet, mister."

Jackson Miracle opened his eyes just in time to see the embarrassed young mother place a scolding finger over her young son's mouth. "Robbie! That isn't nice. You need to apologize to the man."

Jackson smiled slowly at the youngster from under the cowboy hat that rested over his eyes and rubbed the stubble that covered his face thinking it would make his exhaustion more presentable. He had been trying to get home for three days and he had to admit, as exhausted as he was, this young man's company was certainly preferable to the slick young attorney who had dogged Jackson through airport after airport once he had recognized the Miracle name. The eager young man had spent the next thirty-six hours trying to convince Jackson that he could make him even richer by suing someone -- anyone, for some reason -- any reason. Jackson had finally bought him one too many drinks two airports ago and aimed him toward an unsuspecting accountant. Jackson had felt a little bad, but very relieved as he had painfully loped down the concourse to catch his plane and caught a glimpse of the accountant already looking for a place to hide.

Yes, this young man was definitely an improvement.

He sat up a little straighter trying not to grimace at every kink in his long muscular body and looked Robbie in the eye. "Well, now, they are big aren't they? But you know I'd look awful funny if a guy my size had feet your size. Don't you think?"

The boy glanced down at his own feet in scuffed tennis shoes and seemed to ponder Jackson's observation for a minute. Then he giggled. Jackson noticed his mother looked relieved that this mountain of a man hadn't taken offense. "You might fall over," said the youngster becoming serious again as his eyes traveled over Jackson's powerful legs and shoulders.

I might fall over anyway I'm so tired, thought Jackson. But that wasn't this young man's concern. Now he was eyeing Jackson's cowboy boots.

"Nice boots," he said matter-of-factly and reached out to run a small hand over the tooled brown leather tracing the intricate pattern.

"Thanks," said Jackson softly. He held his foot still and waited patiently. He could tell this conversation wasn't over. He was right.

"Where'd you get'em?" His mother rolled her eyes and Jackson grinned.

"My daddy had them made for me," he said and waited for the reaction.

"Boy," said Robbie as his eyes opened wide, "you must have a pretty nice daddy."

"I do," said Jackson slowly, catching himself before he used the past tense. "You're right, son, I do."

"Speaking of daddy..." He heard the young woman whisper to the boy.

"Daddy!" In an instant the youngster was running toward a travel-worn man and flinging himself into his arms. "We missed you. You're home," Jackson heard him say as his arms hugged the man. He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and busied himself with his newspaper. But the empty, aching feeling wasn't going away. Funny. He'd always been able to douse it before. Another round of beers with the roustabouts. A back-wrenching stint on a new rig. Part of an evening with a woman. Any woman. To forget.

But now, so close to home, the tug of something he had missed, something he had run from, was too vivid. It was going to take a lot more than the business page of the paper to make it go away.

"And I missed you all," the young man said as his free arm caught the young woman. He hugged them in a way that made Jackson's chest ache, this time not from the broken ribs. He fumbled with the newspaper. You needed your privacy. Even in an airport. Then he heard the little voice again.

"Daddy," cried the youngster, "look at this man's feet."

Jackson could feel himself blushing as half the waiting passengers gazed in his direction. Jackson stood up slowly, trying not to wince in pain, as he tipped his hat at the puzzled father.

"Your very observant son and I have just been passing the time discussing the size of my feet," explained Jackson. "Keep asking questions, Robbie," he said bending low to shake the youngster's hand and hoping his hat shadowed the pain in his eyes, "that's the way you learn."

"Thanks," said the boy as he started off with grateful parents. "Hope you don't fall over," he called back loudly so the older woman seated next to Jackson took one look at his size and moved to another row of seating.

Jackson leaned back into his seat and breathed slowly as the doctor had advised him to ease the pain. It seemed to work on the physical part of it, but not the emotional. Time -- maybe -- would help that.

For the first time since he had started his globetrotting career over seven years ago, he felt very old. Much older than his thirty years. Probably looked it, too, he thought. Not that he had ever cared too much about his looks. Good thing. His curly brown hair was in need of a good trim. The nurses had been eager to perform many services, but a haircut didn't come with the room, and he had a feeling his unshaven face made him look a little sinister. His eyes, gray and intelligent, were bloodshot and punctuated with dark circles. He had taken one look at them in the tiny mirror in the airplane facility, winced, and headed back for his seat with his hat pulled low.

Of course, ever since his younger sister had called him two weeks ago with the news of their father's death he hadn't cared too much about anything except getting home. Good old Martha. She'd been lucky to track him down at all after the accident. But when his sister wanted something, she went after it -- how had his dad said it? -- Like a duck on a June bug. She'd had all of his marbles by the time he was ten. Lord, these past weeks he'd been thinking about things he hadn't thought about in years. Maybe that's what a death did to you.

Jackson hadn't really wanted to be found. He hadn't wanted to upset his family so he'd told the Oil Company CEO and the doctor to just keep it quiet. It was going to take awhile, but he would be okay. It had been quite an explosion. The national news had picked it up right away, but a couple of wisely placed phone calls had kept Jackson's near brush with death off the wires. The terrorist group that lay claim to the bombing had been targeting confidential personnel files, not the prominent young Oklahoman who had decided to choose that moment to run back inside the company headquarters for an ice-cold root beer. He'd just popped the top when he felt himself being lifted off the ground, wadded into a ball of pain, and then ...nothing. He'd woken up in a hospital still in pain but alive and very lucky according to the doctor. Two broken ribs, a slight concussion, a wicked gash the size of his very large hand on his thigh, and enough bruises to look as if a whole baseball team had come after him.

"But," the competent young doctor had assured him, "no burns, no internal injuries, and you can still have children," he said with a wink.

Jackson rested in his hospital bed grateful for that last fact, but wondering what good it would do at the rate his social life wasn't progressing. Oh, well, he hadn't been too interested really since... he wouldn't start pondering the what ifs or he'd never get any sleep. With these efficient nurses running in and out and offering to give him a sponge bath, he really needed to bury those thoughts or he'd embarrass himself and them but good.

But he could be grateful that only he had been hurt. He didn't know what he would have done if his dad had been with him. And he had been with him more and more often over these past years. Funny. Most parents wanted their kids to come home and visit them. But Jackson's dad had done just the opposite.

"I've spent my whole life on that ranch with those cows," he'd told Jackson the first time Dad had folded back the flap and stepped into the less-than-luxurious tent Jackson called headquarters in Egypt, "and I don't regret a day of it. After your mom passed on when you and Martha were in high school, well, you kids kept me on my toes. But now that you all are gone it's just not the same around the ranch. Cows don't have too much to say and I need something to keep this old brain ticking and I figure traveling might help. So here I am."

And there he was about every five months. Jackson might be dining at a five-star hotel in Paris or sleeping in a Quonset hut while he supervised a drilling in Saudi Arabia, and suddenly his father would arrive. He'd grasp his son's hand with a firm shake.

"Jackson," he'd say.

"Dad," Jackson would reply.

"Well, what's new?"

Then they'd be off. Inspecting a site. Visiting a museum. Sampling the local cuisine. His father was curious, polite, friendly, and, Jackson had realized with some amusement, an incurable flirt. He could charm the milk out of a cow. More than once his father had turned to him before exiting a hotel room and said, "Don't wait up."

His dad had seemed surprised that Jackson wasn't a little more interested in the ladies.

"A big, good looking guy like you," he had said to Jackson and then recognized something in his son's faraway look that made him quickly drop the subject. It wasn't that he wasn't interested. He was all male and had a healthy appreciation for women. Unfortunately, one in particular. And he was surprised himself that a torch could remain lit for so long and at such a distance.

The call came the fourth day after the explosion. He was moving a little more easily in the hospital bed, and he had just politely refused yet one more offer of a sponge bath when the bedside phone rang. He hadn't expected Martha and he knew the instant he heard the catch in her voice what had happened.

After a quick reassurance from Jackson that he was fine, she told him as gently as possible how they'd lost their father.

A fellow rancher had come by to take him to dinner before the ranchers' meeting and nobody answered the door. It was the housekeeper's day off and the friend had become concerned. He'd made his way in a back window and found Mr. Miracle in his bed. He had only seemed to be sleeping. The coroner said it was his heart.

"They said he probably had no pain," said Martha. "It's a shock for us, Jackson. But it's a blessing for Dad. Could you imagine him becoming ill and not being active? Even if he could have continued to live at the ranch, the inactivity would have driven him crazy."

"You're right, Sis," said Jackson quickly hearing the pain in her voice. She was there dealing with all the details and he was confined to a hospital bed halfway round the world. "The funeral...." he began.

"It was yesterday," said Martha and now he could hear the exhaustion in her voice.

"Yesterday!"

"Jackson, I couldn't find you. I practically had to call out the Marines to pin you down," she said and Jackson could hear the old Martha spirit in her voice. He wouldn't have doubted for a minute if she had called in the military. Martha's husband Robert was in the Foreign Service and she had a list of phone numbers that would make officials' heads at the Pentagon spin.

"I'm sorry, Sis," said Jackson. "I just didn't want to worry anyone. Especially Dad."

"I understand," said Martha. "Besides, Jackson, that doctor of yours said you're in no condition to travel. I'm going to be here for awhile. You know, going through papers, cleaning out the house. But you do need to come home. We've got some decisions to make."

"I'll be home as soon as I can, Sis," he'd said and grimaced in pain. "I promise."

That had been two weeks ago and he had felt every mile he'd traveled. Martha had said she would pick him up at the airport, but he was in no hurry. Sitting didn't hurt as much as moving and he could watch the stream of humanity flowing through an airport forever.

Three pale businessmen walked by with bulging briefcases and rolled maps. Oil, thought Jackson. Wing tips, not boots. New Yorkers.

An older couple walked by looking a little lost, carrying a gift and then broke into smiles as a young man greeted them. Grandparents here for a birthday.

He was reaching for his newspaper again when his eyes caught the long legs in tight jeans making their way down the concourse. His heart stopped for an instant. It couldn't be. No, it wasn't. But he could hope. Yeah, thought Jackson opening his paper roughly and trying to concentrate on the stock reports. That's all he could do, all he had done for the last seven years sitting alone in airports fantasizing about other people's lives. Hoping that Laura Manning would walk back into his life and piece his heart back together.

Jackson tossed the paper aside and stared out the window at the private jet that had finally deposited him an hour before. He stretched out his long legs and breathed easy. He propped his leg just two days out of stitches on his suitcase and waited for the throbbing to ease.

Laura Manning. He could usually control his thoughts. In the midst of a stubborn well at two in the morning. On a rig in the North Sea riding out a storm. It was what had made Jackson Miracle a success. His unwavering concentration. It was that controlled, targeted thinking that had helped shoot him to the top of the tough drilling business seven years ago and had kept him there.

But right now he was just too tired, too exhausted. Go ahead, mind, wander away, he thought as he folded his arms across his broad chest and let his battle-scarred cowboy hat slip back comfortably over his eyes.

He hadn't seen Laura -- his Peach -- since her wedding to Scott Turner. He had caught a plane to the Middle East exactly two hours after he had left the reception hoping the distance would make him forget. It hadn't.

When had he fallen in love with her? Why had he realized it too late?

Oh, he'd known Laura for years. That's the way a ranching community was. Fathers weren't transferred from city to city for business. When you had a ranch you stayed put and you worked. Hard. And that one particular summer had been a hard one on the Miracle ranch. So hard that Jackson had talked his college professors into letting him take his finals four weeks early. His dad needed his help. With a lot of late nights at the library, he had aced those last tests his junior year, given the registrar a self-addressed stamped envelope for his grades, and headed home. Broken fences, sick cattle, too little rain, then too much rain -- it had been a spring and summer from hell, the kind that had you up at 4:30 am and running until 11 p.m. Not to mention the difficult births at three in the morning. More than once that summer Jackson had slept in his clothes, boots included, and when he had finally looked up it had been the middle of August, as only the middle of August can be in Oklahoma. White hot and breathless. Where had the new days of June gone?

"You know," Jackson had said to Martha as she slid a plate of bacon and eggs under his nose for a "late" breakfast at seven, "for the first time in my life I think I'm too tired to eat."

"Well, now there's a blessing," Martha had said collapsing in the kitchen chair across from him, "because I think I am too tired to cook one more meal." He managed to grin at his younger sister who had shouldered kitchen duty all summer for seven hungry ranch hands as well as Jackson and his dad. She sipped a cup of coffee and reached for a biscuit.

"Then take a break today."

Jackson and Martha looked up in surprise together at their father framed in the kitchen door. He was smiling and looked more relaxed than he had in months.

"I couldn't have asked for better help this summer," he said pouring a cup of coffee for himself. He turned to face them. "You all saved this ranch and believe me, I am grateful. Y'all will be heading back to school in a couple of weeks and we still have work to do. But I think you deserve a little time off, don't you? Pack a picnic and get in some swimming. The lake water is probably as warm as pee, but at least it's wet."

Forty-five minutes later Jackson and his sister were headed for Bantam Lake in Jackson's aging pickup with a cooler and rubber rafts stashed in the back. Thirty minutes later Jackson was stretched out on a raft floating in the clear water thinking about absolutely nothing, only conscious that he couldn't smell any cattle. That in itself was a little heaven. The sun was pouring onto his big body warming and relaxing his aching muscles. He was tempted to doze off and then remembered the brutal effects of staying out too long in the Oklahoma sun. Besides, he had regained his appetite, and with surprising grace for a man his size he slid into the water and swam with sure, strong strokes to the shore for a sampling of his sister's picnic. He had filled his plate with one of everything and was just launching into a meatloaf sandwich when he heard a familiar voice talking to his sister.

"I had heard you all had your share of work this summer. I didn't want to get in the way. But I've missed seeing you and Jackson."

Jackson knew that voice, but it didn't fit with the image sitting on the blanket next to his sister.

Wait a minute. Jackson's mouth dropped open and he managed to take a sip of pop before he choked on the meatloaf. It was little Laura Manning. The Peach. But she'd grown up. Oh lord, had she grown up.

"Come join us, Jackson," said his sister waving him over to the shade of the weeping willow tree. Jackson walked over trying to balance his plate of food without tripping over his feet. "I was just telling Laura about the time..." his sister was saying.

Tell her all you want thought Jackson stretching out on the blanket. I'll just watch. And watch he did.

Jackson had read those stories about the gawky teenager becoming the beauty queen. But as he watched Laura -- God, he couldn't take his eyes off her -- he realized her transformation was much more subtle. She had gone from being a sweet girl -- which was why he had coined the nickname -- Peach -- to a lovely woman. The effect was stunning. She was still a little shy. She had always been a little shy, but there was a confidence and intelligence in her dark brown eyes that only come with maturity. Her quiet laugh was deep and sensual, no giggling teenager here, and as she brushed her thick, brown hair from her face she revealed a graceful white neck and shoulders that took his breath away. Her one-piece swimming suit was modest, but molded delectably to her slender form just hinting at the cleavage between two lovely swelling breasts, no larger than a soft handful, thought Jackson thinking how they would feel filling his palm. Her waist was small. His hands would fit easily around it and her hips, full and rounded so nicely, led into those very long, very perfect legs.

He was going to have a very hard time getting those legs out of his mind. He was going to have a very hard time getting Laura out of his mind. She was luscious and ripe and sweet and just touched with pink from the sun. Like a peach.

"Do you want to have a look?"

He had.

"Jackson." He heard his sister's voice. "Earth to Jackson. Do you want to have a look at Laura's sketches?"

Jackson scrambled to a sitting position. Is that what they had been doing? "Of course," he said smiling and remembering his manners. "What have you been working on?"

"Jackson, haven't you been listening to anything we've been saying?"

No.

"I'm sorry," he said hoping the shade hid his blush, "this sun has made me a little tired," he said and took the opportunity to scoot closer to Laura.

He leaned close to see her sketches and inhaled her aroma. Fresh, clean, this was no scent from a bottle. It was only Laura. It was intoxicating from a foot away. Lord knows what it would do to a man if he could bury his face in her hair, trail his lips down to her shoulder, and....

" ...So I've always heard people say you should write about what you know. I think you should paint about what you know, too."

Suddenly Jackson focused on her sketches. Jackson knew something about art. He certainly wouldn't profess to be an expert. But you didn't need to be to see the beauty in Laura's work. Even in the earliest stages, simple black and white sketches, there was a power that left you speechless as the pictures captured the wildness, the freedom of the wind-blown Oklahoma plains.

Jackson finally found his voice. "They're beautiful," was all he could say. You're beautiful. But he felt his comments fell short. Very short.

"Really?" she had said, her brown eyes warming. "I was telling Martha it's for my senior project. These sketches will eventually be a series of oil paintings. But I thought I'd better start them over the summer. They'll take some time."

"But you've taken so many classes these past years, " said Martha, "you'll have a pretty light load your senior year."

Jackson watched the frown play over Laura's face. "Well, mama thinks I should take a couple of classes in fashion design," she said flipping her sketchbook closed as if Mother Manning were looking over her shoulder.

"Fashion design!" said Jackson as the thought registered.

"Jackson, for God's sake," he heard his sister whisper. "Remember your manners."

Jackson heard Laura's soft laugh and she placed a small hand on his forearm that somehow made his skin spark. If he had been smarter he would have shaken off that hand. But he couldn't.

"I know. Believe me, I know. Fashion design doesn't really seem my field, does it?"

"Well, no," said Jackson trying to think of a way he could get her to touch him again. He watched as she shook her head so her thick hair shone in the sunlight like brown silk and she hugged her knees to her chest. He couldn't think of a time that he had ever seen those legs in anything but a pair of jeans. Usually paint-spattered. Perfect for wrapping around you and holding you very close. He groaned silently. Of course the way she was dressed now, well, she could stay this way forever.

"Why fashion design?" he asked. You look fine to me.

"Oh, you know mama," said Laura softly and Jackson and his sister nodded silently. Enough said. Yes, they knew mama. Mrs. Manning had always been a bit of a mystery to everyone in the county. Mrs. Manning hadn't been raised in the city. She was a local girl. Someone had once said that maybe if she had been raised in the city it would have gotten it out of her system.

The Mannings had a successful spread and they seemed happy. Laura's dad was known for his prize bulls. But Laura's mother couldn't resist the lure of the city.

"I think," Jackson's dad had joked one time about Laura's mother, "that lady would dress their cows in lace and sequins before a bull came 'courting' if her husband would let her. A little Chanel No. 5 behind those tagged ears."

It wasn't far from the truth. And it didn't help that Laura, her only child, would have no part of it. The third time Laura dragged home from school with a frilly dress covered with mud Mrs. Manning should have realized it was hopeless. There wasn't an inch in the Manning house that wasn't covered with a ruffle and that included Laura's closet of clothes she never wore. She kept her jeans and her paints in a heated room in the barn.

But her mother never gave up and Jackson had often wondered if Mrs. Manning hadn't finally won when Laura had married Scott Turner.

She'd married Scott Turner. Jackson hugged his arms trying to get comfortable in the small airport chair and wanted to believe the pain he was feeling was from his throbbing leg. It wasn't.

She'd married Scott Turner. Face it, Miracle, that meant Turner had kissed her, held her, touched her in ways he had only been able to dream about. It would have been unbearable, but not quite as unbearable, if it hadn't been Turner.

The Turners were a part of the ranching community in northeast Oklahoma. That is, the family had about a thousand acres.

"It's just a great big lawn. That's all that land is to the likes of Turner," Jackson's dad had said one night in a bitter tone Jackson had never heard him use before. "Ought to get about 500 head of those pink plastic flamingos." Mr. Miracle had needed a loan for a couple of bulls and the local bank where the elder Mr. Turner was president had turned him down. He'd gone elsewhere for the loan, gotten his bulls and an excellent return on his investment.

"Just a great big lawn," his father always said after that whenever he drove by the Turner Ranch. In other words, the Turners had a ranch but they weren't ranchers. Mr. Turner never got dirt under his nails at the bank and he was grooming his son Scott to replace him when the time came.

It was a small community. Mrs. Manning didn't want any daughter of hers to marry a rancher. So Scott Turner was the logical choice. The frilly dresses hadn't worked on Laura. But this time Mrs. Manning had pulled it off. Jackson could never figure out why.

During that glorious hot August afternoon at Bantam Lake there'd been no hint of a romance between Laura and Scott. Or had he been so blinded with infatuation for her that had he been blind to what was brewing? Jackson had often wondered.

They'd finished their picnic and Martha had joined a group of friends on another blanket.

"Ready for a swim," Laura had said and headed for the water. "Can you make it to the raft after that lunch?" she'd joked wading out into the water. "Come on, Jackson, follow me."

Anywhere, Peach, anywhere.

They had climbed onto the aging diving raft in the middle of the small lake and sprawled on their backs in the afternoon sun saying nothing at all for awhile. Laura closed her eyes and hummed a tune, and Jackson tried not to think about licking the drops of water off her thighs that slowly made their way down her soft skin. Then they talked. About cattle, about ranching, about college. They had laughed and joked and teased, and he had even dozed, just about dying when her small hands poured cool lake water on his stomach to wake him up, flickering lightning on his tensed muscles for just an instant. Tickling him. Intimately. Sweetly.

But there had been no mention of a hint of a romance with Scott Turner.

The next day Jackson was back at work. The next week he was back at college.

It was a hard year at school. But Jackson was determined to make the most of it. He came home long enough for a piece of turkey at Thanksgiving, spent most of Christmas in the library, and didn't surface until spring break when he was comfortable that his grades were solid and he would graduate at the top. His father had sacrificed considerably for those four years and Jackson wasn't going to disappoint him.

His dad had wanted him to rest during the break but Jackson needed a little physical exercise.

"I've been bent over a table studying for months. Give me something to do," he'd said in protest.

"Okay. Have it your way," his father had said gratefully. "Go get the hay for me," he said throwing Jackson the work gloves. "Oh, and you need to drop your sister off at the Turner's. Some sort of party. You're invited, too. You know the house," his father winked.

"Yeah," said Jackson dryly, "the one with the great big lawn."

Jackson pulled into the long driveway an hour later pulling hay from his hair and hoping they were serving cold beer.

"Are you sure you don't want to go home and shower?" said Martha watching him rub the perspiration from his neck. "You might feel better."

"That's okay," said Jackson. "Then we'll really be late and it looks like an outside barbecue. I'll cool down."

Jackson parked the truck and they skirted the house to join the others on the large patio and grounds in back of the Turner compound. Some sort of announcement had started and the senior Turner was speaking into a microphone and balancing on a bale of hay. Jackson nodded politely to a couple of ranchers, leaned up against a tree to relax his tired body, and opened a beer.

What was Turner going on about?

"You know we've been part of this community for a long time. I consider you all my family."

Your financial family thought Jackson letting the cool liquid roll down his throat. He wondered how long Martha would want to stay. He caught her eye. She gave him a wink. Not long. He smiled. Not bad for a kid sister.

"Love. That's what has brought us all together for...."

Jackson heard two seasoned ranchers behind him. "Next he's going to tell us he's going into the ministry," one chuckled quietly.

Jackson smiled and rubbed the cool beer to his forehead.

A true politician, Turner seemed to realize he was losing the crowd's attention. Too many were eyeing the food. He hurried along.

"...So with no further ado..."

Thank God.

"...It gives me great pleasure to announce the engagement of my son Scott Brewster Turner, Jr. to the lovely Miss Laura Manning. Children."

With a flourish, the elder Turner turned the haystack stage over to the couple, shaking his son's hand as a photographer snapped pictures and kissing Laura on the cheek just long enough for a second glossy.

"Sir."

It took Jackson almost a full minute to realize that the polite young man in the waiter's coat was talking to him.

"Sir. You've dropped your beer. May I get you another? Perhaps something else?"

Jackson's eyes focused on the eager young man who looked more than frightened of the look in Jackson's eyes. None of this was his fault. "Whiskey. Straight. Please," he said softly and the kid was back in record time. "Thanks."

So whose fault was it, thought Jackson as he nursed his drink and stared at the proceedings. Scott Senior shaking every hand he could capture, Mrs. Manning fluttering and a tad too pale in the excitement, Scott Junior accepting congratulations with a stiff arm around Laura's shoulders, and Laura. Laura, looking not quite comfortable in a stiff pink lace- something that had more ruffles than a bag of chips.

Scott Turner and his Peach.

Jackson gulped down the rest of the whiskey. It just wasn't possible. Who was he kidding? He had no claim on her. Jackson growled and crushed the small plastic glass so the attentive young waiter looked the other way. Damn it. He had claimed her. In his mind, at least, she was his woman. Then why hadn't he done something about it last summer? Why did he wait? He sighed and dug the toe of his worn boot into the soft dirt. He knew why. He'd had to finish school. Still. It was no excuse. How long did it take to tell a woman you loved her? Lord. That was it. He loved her.

"Hey, big brother," he heard Martha saying. "I think it's our turn to make congratulations. Up to it?" she said with a look that told him she knew more than she'd say. "Come on. Let's get this over. I've suddenly lost my appetite and Dad needs his hay."

Jackson felt Martha's arm on his leading him across the lawn and could hear her greeting neighbors and he nodded absently, his eyes on Laura. Even in her too frilly get up, she looked beautiful. Her smooth brown hair only darkened the brown of her eyes and even Scott's awkward embrace couldn't diminish the grace of her long, gently curved frame, and Jackson's eyes scanned her in quiet appreciation letting his gaze rest on her beautiful, nervous face as they approached. Suddenly her eyes caught his and she broke into a real smile and she glowed. Jackson's heart leapt. Was it for him?

"Jackson, my man," he heard Scott proclaim as if they were long lost friends and he gripped Jackson's callused hand with a soft, sweaty palm. "Glad you could make the celebration for me and little missy here. Right, honey?" he said tightening his grip around Laura's shoulder. Jackson clenched his fists for control. Scott's grip on Laura was hard enough to leave a red mark on her smooth skin and Jackson realized he had never before in his life wanted to hit anyone like he did Scott at that moment.

He was hurting her. His Peach. Maybe not intentionally. But still. Didn't he know?

Jackson was a big man and he was strong. He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't at least a head taller than friends and classmates. He'd met very few men in his life that he couldn't have taken out, as they say, with a clean cut to the jaw. But he hadn't. His dad had taught him well.

"You're a big guy, Jackson," he'd told him one summer when he had shot up another six inches, "and you're just the type of guy some drunk's gonna want to pick a fight with to impress his buddies. Don't fall for it. All that strength could get you in trouble. Watch out with it."

So he had. He'd used his intelligence and his words to make his way and he had been very successful. Jackson was also a man who knew his strength and knew you were gentle with a woman. Especially his Peach.

Jackson hesitated for just a moment and then smiled a smile that Martha had come to know as dangerous and reached for Scott.

"Congratulations, Turner," boomed Jackson startling Scott so he was forced to release Laura to return Jackson's more than hardy handshake. Jackson pumped his arm and patted his back until Laura had a chance to move discreetly away. "I couldn't be happier for you," he said finally releasing his grip. "When are you and Peach tying the knot?" he asked as a free arm gently pulled Laura toward him in an almost brotherly hug. Almost. He felt her slim, soft body relax as he kept her near him. Her arms were like warm satin and he had to concentrate to keep up his conversation with Scott. But he did.

"You know, Scott, I've been meaning to talk with you," he said gently holding Laura, "I'm thinking of starting my own business in this area when I graduate in a couple of months and I'm going to need some financial advice. Do you...?" he began and was relieved that Scott didn't see Martha's mouth fall open at his change in plans. She closed it quickly with a small smile and listened as Jackson plied the flattered Scott with a string of questions that Martha knew he knew the answers to. His senior paper he finished last week had covered them all, and then some.

"What would you suggest...?" he continued as his large, rough hand slowly, gently began to massage the red mark Scott's hand had left on Laura's arm. His hand was so large; his touch was so light as he massaged her smooth skin, warming it, relaxing it, cherishing the intimate touch.

He never stopped talking as he pulled her closer and heard her sigh. It was only when he felt her soft breast through all that fuss of a dress press into his hard arm that he almost stumbled. Almost. But he gritted his teeth and continued to ask questions just to feel that innocent pressure.

"You know, Miracle, " he heard Scott saying, "Laura wanted you to be the Best Man at our wedding. That is," Scott ventured with more confidence than he should have, "if you think you can get the barnyard out from under your nails long enough," he said flicking a piece of hay off Jackson's shirt and stepping back quickly when he saw a flash of danger from his eyes.

Jackson smiled slowly, dangerously at Scott and then turned his attention to Laura losing himself immediately in her sad, brown eyes. "Well," he said softly, "if that's what the Peach wants then that's what she'll have. I'd be honored," he said taking her small white hand in his large brown one and gently kissing her fingertips. "Just tell me where to rent the tux," he said playfully, holding Laura's hand a little longer than necessary and noticing she never tried to take it away. "Or maybe," he said directing his eyes at Scott, "maybe I should just put a little starch in my best overalls."

Scott had laughed nervously and Martha, a diplomat even at the age of eighteen, had asked Laura if she had chosen a wedding dress. That's when Jackson had felt Scott's clammy hand on his hard arm.

"You know, old man," Scott had said with an air of confidence, leaning close enough so Jackson could smell the bourbon that clung to him like cheap aftershave, "now that Laura is my intended and all, I don't think it's quite right for you to be calling her your Peach."

Jackson looked at him, his eyes never flinching.

Scott pulled at his tight collar. "People might get the wrong idea."

Jackson stepped back for a moment and let his eyes study Scott Turner. He'd known him for over thirteen years, since the first day the Turners had moved into the community and Scott had been caught throwing rocks at a rancher's prize Arabians. He'd seen him cheat on tests. He'd heard him brag about "how far" he'd gotten with a rancher's daughter.

"And," Scott continued clumsily, "we wouldn't want anything to get in the way of that loan you'll need for your little business." He winked at Jackson then and immediately knew he shouldn't have.

Jackson had only looked at one other man the way he looked at Scott on that quiet spring evening. He'd come across an "employer" on a back street in Baghdad who had deemed it necessary to discipline the seven-year-old boy who had fallen asleep after his fifteen-hour stint tying knots in carpets. Scott was in considerably better shape than the boy's employer was when Jackson finally left the alley. A childless couple, friends of Jackson's had adopted the boy and he was now a star player on his middle school's soccer team in Texas. He and Jackson wrote often. The employer was still in prison.

"Now whatever made you think I'd be coming to you for that loan, Scott?" Jackson asked innocently before he touched Laura lightly on the shoulder. "I'll be seeing you at the wedding, Peach."

Martha had him back in the truck before Scott could sputter a response.

Jackson frowned and then grimaced as he shifted his aching body to a new position and propped his leg up on a vacant airport sofa. He had never felt very good after that scene with Scott. He sighed. It hadn't done any good. It sure as hell hadn't stopped the wedding. Jackson had made it through the lavish affair like a robot. Laura had been beautiful. Her father had been quiet. And Mrs. Manning had buzzed around the reception until Martha had suggested they slap her into a cage before she hurt herself.

Jackson slipped away after the first round of pictures. He had a plane to catch he explained to the photographer's assistant who had chased him down the hall insisting that he stay.

"But how will anyone ever remember this special day without a complete book of photographs?" the young woman asked smoothly, trying the public relations approach.

"Well," Jackson had snapped, yanking loose his bow tie, "I, for one, will never forget it."

She'd given up knowing she could never keep up with his long strides and he had caught his plane two hours later.

"Jackson Miracle, you're taking up half the waiting area."

Jackson's eyes snapped open. "Martha. Martha!" he said standing up before he had a chance to remember the pain.

"Hey, take it easy, big brother," she said taking his arm. "Jackson. You bribed that doctor to let you out, didn't you?"

"Not really, " he said breathing quietly and not mentioning the poker game his last night in the hospital. He looked at her quietly. "You look different, sis. Wait a minute." His face broke into a smile.

"I'm due in four months," said Martha matter-of-factly as Jackson gently lifted her off the floor with a soft hug.

"Why didn't you tell me I was going to be an uncle?"

"Well, frankly," she said, "I figured we both had enough on our minds."

"Yeah," he said taking his sister's hand. He let out a long sigh and they both laughed a little shyly as they dug in their pockets for Kleenex.

"Ready to go home, Jackson?"

"Ready to go home, Martha."

Chapter 2

"I can see the school bus coming. Got your workbook?"

Laura Turner turned her attention away from the window to address the little girl standing on the kitchen chair stuffing crayons into her tie-dye backpack. She smiled. Her five-and-half-year-old daughter looked very serious as she double-checked her kindergarten supplies.

"Did you get your chickens fed, Andy?" The brown head nodded.

"Okay. Now don't forget your lunch," she said giving her daughter's long braid fastened with a plastic Cookie Monster an affectionate tug and taking a quick look at a lingering scar from the child's recent chicken pox. Thankfully, it had been a light case, and with no brothers or sisters to catch them . . .no brothers or sisters. Laura felt that catch in her throat and the tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. She'd worked through this. Yes, she had been an only child and she had wanted a large family. But it wasn't to be. She was fortunate to have her daughter and her dad -- after that scare of a heart attack last year. Count your blessings, Laura. Lord, she hadn't had to give herself this lecture in years.

Andy reached out and hugged her. "Don't cry over Mr. Miracle, mom. Remember. You said he'd had a good life."

Laura quickly rubbed her eyes. She had had tears in her eyes. Kids were too perceptive. Too precious. "You're right," she said quickly and managed a smile. "Ready for school?"

Her daughter peered into the lunch bag and pulled up her nose. "Is that grape or strawberry jam on the peanut butter?" she asked suspiciously.

"Grape. I promise," said Laura laughing. "I got to the store. Okay?"

"Well, the strawberry was yucky," said Andy jumping from the chair and shouldering her pack.

" 'I didn't care for the strawberry, mama. Please next time may I have grape,'" coached Laura with a gentle reminder of manners. "Young lady, did you hear me?"

"Yes ma'am," said the little girl tugging at her elastic-waist jeans. "Thank you for getting grape," she said starting for the door, "'cause the strawberry was really yucky."

Laura rolled her eyes as she watched her daughter skip down the flagstone walk to the gravel drive where the school bus was approaching. She waved to the bus driver and he waved back and slowed.

Laura looked more closely at her daughter and did a double take. "Andy," she yelled as the little girl waited patiently for the bus, "your socks don't match!"

The little girl looked at her mother and pulled up her faded jeans. "Yes they do, mama." She stuck out her right foot displaying a blue sock covered with Dalmatians. "You always say it's our responsibility to take care of lost dogs. Well, all the dogs on this sock have to have a place to live," she explained patiently, and then hokey-pokeyed her left foot out to expose a tan sock lined with little houses. "So I thought they could live in these houses." She looked at her mother with a hopeful smile. "Understand?"

Perfectly. "Yes, I do understand," she said showing her smile but hiding her laughter. She waved. "Have a good day at school."

"Love you, mama," said Andy and hopped onto the school bus. Then she pushed open the window and yelled with the authority of an almost six-year old, "And don't forget to eat something!" Then she waved for just an instant to Laura before she turned to a friend.

Laura smiled and then hitched up the waistband of her loose jeans. Okay, she'd lost a little weight recently. But she'd been a little busy. She told herself what she was losing in weight she was gaining in muscle. Laura's mammoth oil landscapes kept her up and down a wooden ladder in her studio, and left her so tired by the end of the day she didn't care about eating. It rivaled any aerobic workout and had left her toned and fit, with a soft color in her cheeks.

"Get some new clothes, mama," Andy had said a couple of weeks back, "and someone might even ask you out."

Laura had mumbled a feeble excuse and turned back to her work. Dating was something she didn't think about. Men were subjects she didn't want to think about. Not after Scott. She still shuddered to think about the nights in his bed. She was only grateful it hadn't lasted long.

Now Laura shook her head in amazement as the bus pulled away before taking the steps to the wide porch and collapsing in one of the old wooden rockers. Early October in Oklahoma could still be warm, and it was especially warm this year with the lack of rain; Laura relaxed in the sweet morning air and pressed her hand against the cool surface of the native stone house. She had never known that having children in school could be more work than having them home all day. But school had changed in the over twenty years since Laura had started. Now kindergarten was full day and even in the second month Andy was halfway through learning the alphabet and had brought home her first reader.

Laura stretched out her long legs and reached for her coffee she had deposited on the side table. She sipped it slowly and smiled a little sadly. She could hear what her mother would have said if she had seen Andy trail off to school in old jeans and mismatched socks. Poor mama, thought Laura. She would have been horrified. Maybe it was a blessing that she wasn't here. No, thought Laura. That wasn't what she meant. Her mother had died too young. Only fifty when she had succumbed to cancer. They'd only had the diagnosis for five months and she was gone. That was a blessing. Laura had seen too many friends and relatives linger painfully. At least her mother's final days had been peaceful.

She'd gotten her one wish. She'd seen Laura married. And she hadn't been alive to see the divorce, to see Laura disappoint her. Again.

Laura sipped her coffee and fiddled with the end of the long brown braid, almost identical to her daughter's. She needed to get to work. She knew her agent was going to call this morning with a preliminary schedule for her showing and he needed to have some idea when the paintings would be completed.

She rubbed the sleep from her large brown eyes and looked out over the rolling plains. The rambling, two-story native stone house was situated on the side of a hill up high to catch the breezes and even on a still Oklahoma day you could catch a breeze. When she had told Scott she had wanted to live in the old Krenshaw place, he had been horrified. He had wanted a house in town "near the bank," he had said. Laura had suspected near one of his lady friends, more likely. But she had wanted to live in the country. It was where she had been raised. It was what she painted. In the end, Scott had shrugged his shoulders and agreed. She supposed he figured he wouldn't be home much anyway. And he hadn't been.

"Hey, guys," said Laura affectionately as the three overgrown mutts bounded onto the porch expecting Laura's attention. She didn't let them down as they planted muddy paws on her lap and wagged their tails excitedly. "You're a mess! Been down by the creek?" she asked and they crooned an answer before dashing off for the food bowls on the back porch. Laura watched as the last tail disappeared around the side of the house and then sat back in her chair.

"Get up, Laura," she said aloud. Gad, she had a lot of work to do. But lately she just couldn't get moving. She felt both restless and lethargic. She had been that way for, how long? That's right. Since Mr. Miracle's funeral.

The feeling was, well, unsettling. A feeling that she was not familiar with. Being a single mother, a successful artist, and a part-time rancher had kept her running eighteen hours a day ever since Andy had been born. At first she had run to keep her mind off the situation that everyone in a twenty-mile radius had talked about. When your husband leaves you eight-and-a-half months pregnant, people will talk. People did. She couldn't stop them.

Then she ran to make a living for her and Andy. But in the competitive, tough art world Laura had found not only a living, but also a success. How had that international art critic put it after her first show in the small Houston gallery? "The powerful, mesmerizing paintings of this youthful artist is in the genius class. Watch L. Turner." After that, her reputation for vibrant western landscapes and portraits had only grown until she turned her demands for commissions and showings over to her agent Lyle Rogers.

"I believed in you when you were small potatoes and I hauled those first paintings away in my van," he told her over the phone from his Houston office when a New York millionaire had bought six of her paintings, "and I'm not about to let anyone get in your way. You paint from the heart, Laura. Keep it up and I guarantee your paintings will sell."

So that's what she had done. Rising before her infant daughter -- that itself was a feat -- she would work on her sketches in the morning. Then she would paint in the afternoon when the light was best, while Andy napped in an old wicker baby buggy lined with a soft quilt, nestled in the corner of the barn converted to an almost-studio. True. A chicken would occasionally stroll through on a warm day and she had several nests of sparrows that kept her company. As her commissions grew, she upgraded her studio so Andy could safely play as she painted.

Laura stared at the toes of her worn cowboy boots and remembered how Andy had marched around the studio on her third birthday after she pulled on her first pair of cowboy boots. They were red and she was very pleased. Pleased? She had squealed with delight when she had opened the special gift from Grandpa Manning and had pulled them on her chubby legs modeling them, wearing only a pair of white training pants.

"Oh, she's a sight," Laura's father had laughed, even more delighted, if that was possible, than Andy as he swooped the giggling three-year-old up and danced a two-step around the studio. Laura's eyes had filled with tears watching her father's weatherworn hands gently hold the child in a western embrace. She had grabbed her camera to hide her tears and had snapped a whole roll of their dance. It had been a silly inspiration to hide her emotions and had later been transformed into one of L. Turner's most well-known paintings, "The Birthday Present." Laura could never look at the picture without it bringing tears to her eyes remembering that day. Many reproductions had been made of that painting. It had become her signature piece. But it was one of two paintings she would never, could never sell. Both hung in her bedroom.

Laura looked over the toes of her boots down the long gravel road. The dust from the school bus had finally settled and she suspected no more dust would be raised from a vehicle until it returned at the end of the day. She had quickly given up ever expecting Scott to return. Not expecting, dreading. When she had descended the stairs the morning after he had left, she had found the divorce papers on the kitchen table. She had signed them but hadn't stopped there. A trusted family lawyer had helped her make sure he couldn't waltz back into her life for joint custody of Andy. If he was walking out of her life, he was walking out of both of their lives. Period.

It had been hard enough to believe that he didn't care about his unborn child, but Laura had been even more shocked at his parents' reaction. Scott had left no address and her lawyer needed it. Her phone calls to his parents had resulted in a pile of unanswered messages to the housekeeper, who had finally whispered hurriedly to Laura in a voice so low Laura could barely hear over the receiver: "Listen, Miss Laura, Mrs. Turner's believing that her Scott had nothing to do with that baby you're carrying. Don't know why since he's been doing the same thing to every other female in this county, available or unavailable, for years. Tell me what you need, girl."

"Just his address so this divorce is done and over," she'd said quickly. "That's all, I swear. I don't want a thing from Scott or his parents."

"Girl! Why anyone would want anything from that man!" she'd said. "Lord, Miss Laura, whatever got you to marry him?"

Where to begin, thought Laura as she had sighed into the phone.

"No, I'm sorry," she suddenly heard the housekeeper say a tad too loudly. "You have the wrong number." And the phone went dead. But two days later she'd gotten a rather worn envelope in the mail. A single sheet of paper was enclosed with a carefully written address in Midland, Texas. Several months later she had seen the housekeeper in the grocery store and thought about approaching her to thank her. But their eyes had met and she'd heard her say deliberately, "Mrs. Turner, I've found what you're looking for."

She'd given a slight nod, a quick wink, and was gone.

After awhile and many sleepless nights, Laura had realized Scott was gone, too. She had breathed a sigh of relief that had lasted these six years since Andy was born.

And very carefully, very deliberately, Laura had erected a protective wall around her emotions that no one could penetrate. She would never endure that pain and humiliation again. She'd made a promise to herself and kept it.

So why was she thinking about all this now, she thought rubbing the kinks out of her lightly tanned arms. She idly wondered if Andy would freckle, too. Jackson had always teased her about those summer freckles, that it was just a sign of the peach ripening.

Jackson always said. Oh, how Scott had hated that phrase. But when you've been friends with a man since the second grade, you remember a lot of things he had said over the years.

"Now just what the hell would Jackson say about this?" Scott had said one night after he'd downed how-many-too-many drinks after yet one more moneymaking scheme had crashed and burned. "Maybe Jackson would agree I should do this," he'd said, lunging for her clumsily and missing as he stumbled over a chair. Laura had fled to her room and had slept in her lonely bed that night warmed by the thought of Jackson's strong, gentle touch.

She slowly sipped her coffee. Yes, it had been the funeral.

Laura stood up and stretched her five-foot-eight frame and leaned back her head so the thick, brown braid almost reached her waist. She unconsciously pulled at what her father always called her horsetail and thought she spied a gray hair. She had been working so hard for so long, time had just slipped by. Had it really been six years since Scott left?

Laura felt tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Now Jackson's dad. Mr. Miracle. Gone. That sweet man. She had seen him just two days before his death arguing and joking with the owner of the hardware store over the price of screws. He'd been haggling just for the fun of it and he'd given her a broad smile as he'd dropped the screws in the bag at the price he wanted.

Forty-eight hours later she'd gotten a phone call from a neighboring ranch. "Must have died in his sleep. His daughter is flying in. Funeral is Wednesday. Bring a covered dish to the church."

Laura had deposited her homemade baked beans on the table provided, smoothed the wrinkles from her navy sailor dress, and gazed around the church. She nodded to neighbors as her eyes scanned the crowd. Who was she looking for? Not the Turners. Scott's parents had moved on several years before after an upset at the bank when the board of directors asked Mr. Turner to leave, quietly, and they wouldn't press charges. Laura didn't know the details. The story was unfolding as she was catching a plane for a showing in Paris. She'd heard the report as she was relaying instructions to her father about Andy's naps and he'd been half listening as he tickled and kissed his "darlin' little filly." When she'd dragged herself home from the airport two weeks later, it had been over.

Laura caught Martha's eye at the funeral and gave her a little salute, leftover from a childhood game. Martha had smiled and returned the gesture, tired but in control, as she greeted old friends in the vestibule of the church.

Who was she looking for? A man sitting two pews in front of her stood up. Broad back, tall. Her head snapped up. Then she realized her heart was sinking as she recognized the gentleman as a rancher from farther south. Besides, he wasn't tall enough.

It wasn't Jackson. That's who she was looking for. Jackson.

The organ music had started and still he didn't appear. It wasn't until after the funeral when she was balancing a plate of food that she'd heard something about an accident, an explosion that had left him in the hospital. She'd lost any appetite she'd had and hurried to find Martha. When she had finally tracked her down, Martha had been deep in conversation with the minister and Laura knew her questions would have to wait.

She'd promised herself she'd go by and see Martha, but when she had arrived home Andy had been unusually grumpy. By that night she had a fever and the next morning she had a full-blown case of the chicken pox. Laura had called Martha to offer help with the house but was keeping her distance. A pregnant Martha hadn't had the childhood disease and didn't want it now.

"Besides," she'd said, "Jackson should be here soon enough. He hasn't been home since your wedding. Did you know that?"

Oh, yes. She knew that.

Laura settled herself on the cool flagstone steps of the old porch as the morning warmed.

Yeah. She knew that. She knew that before she could find him and pull him aside for a good talk, he was gone. She realized now he had said goodbye in his own way.

Laura hugged her shoulders and forced herself to remember her wedding. Lately, it had been easier to think about. But the first month, the first year, had been too painful. Once she knew Scott was really gone and would not come back, she had completely blocked it from her memory. Then one day when Andy was just a little over four years old she realized she could think about it rationally, objectively.

She could remember her father patting her hand as she walked down the aisle, the look on her mother's face, pale and thin but finally happy. She recalled the smirk on Scott's face that she had come to recognize when he had more than one drink, and the sad smile on Jackson's face as Scott took her hand.

She had gone through the motions like a robot. I do ...with this ring ...man and wife. It had been like a bad dream. No. It had been worse. It was real. The cake had been cut, a toast made, and Scott, thankfully, had disappeared. Emotional exhaustion had made her seek the corner of the sofa in a lounge off the ballroom of the hotel where her mother had staged the reception. She had smiled for pictures until she thought her face would crack as her mother fluttered between the photographer and Laura, arranging her veil and arranging the wedding party into every conceivable combination for pictures.

She'd finally kicked off her shoes and rested a cool glass of root beer against her forehead, sitting at a darkened table. She'd heard footsteps approaching her in the lounge.

"Save a dance for me, Peach?" Came the slow, deep rumble, as clear as if he stood before her right now.

Laura had looked up, expecting to see Jackson standing as he usually did with his hands behind his back. Patient. Comfortable. But this time she saw something else. His eyes looked dark and possessive. His muscular, easy-going frame looked anxious, powerful in the wedding tuxedo and she felt weak.

"Thought you'd never ask," she stammered, feeling foolishly flustered to feel so shy around Jackson, a childhood friend.

"Forget those," Jackson had commanded as she struggled for her shoes and he reached for her. "Dance with me," he whispered huskily in her ear as he pulled her gently. Very close.

The lights in the lounge were low and the music, so loud on the dance floor, was soft as it filtered into the night. Years later Laura could never remember what song the band had been playing as they danced. She could only remember how Jackson felt. Even through the layers of organdy and ruffles her mother had chosen as her wedding dress, Laura could feel the masculine heat from Jackson's body caressing her with every graceful move. His large hand found her bare back and teased her spine with a quiet touch as he spun her to the music. With each step, his powerful thighs brushed lightly against hers and he pulled her hand to his heart and cradled it there so she could feel it beating as violently as hers was.

How could such a large, powerful man be so gentle, so graceful? He had slid his arm around her waist and effortlessly lifted her off her feet altogether, crushing her to his broad chest and before she realized it, kissing the top of her head with heated lips, whispering a goodbye. She'd held onto him tightly, not wanting to let go, wondering how it would feel to shed that profusion of lace and let her bare breasts rest against the heat of him. She found herself waiting for his kisses to trail down her neck, cover her face, and swell her lips.

And then she found the tears welling in her eyes as she realized he wouldn't. She had married Scott. Jackson had come to claim a dance. That was all he could claim.

The music stopped and she expected him to let go. But he didn't. Instead he pulled her even closer to his chest as he gathered her up into his arms, as if her weight was no more than that of a four-week old puppy; and he held her there, rocking her very gently, absorbing her warmth, his warm lips pressing against her forehead, her eyes, as if he were trying to memorize everything about her. His hold was so strong that her arms were trapped against his chest and as she tried to reach to touch his strong, rough face, and feel the silky curls of his hair. He held her closer and whispered a painful, breathless "no," as if her touch would make it impossible for him to leave.

Laura never knew how long they stayed like that together. From what seemed like far, far away she heard her mother calling her name for more pictures and the she felt Jackson releasing his hold. He set her on the ground and when he knew she had her bearings, he jammed his hands into his pockets so he wouldn't reach for her again. Laura pulled herself up, but when she reached to give him a sisterly kiss on the cheek her eyes caught his and she saw the fire and the sadness and the thinly disguised desire. He caught her hand before she could touch his cheek and heard his ragged breathing. Then he squeezed her hand quickly and left.

And the rest, Laura thought, was -- as they say -- history. She fiddled with the end of her long braid. Scott had been drunk for their wedding night, and, mused Laura, the marriage had gone downhill from there. The only positive thing that had come from it was Andy.

Laura opened her eyes. Was that a breeze? Was there just a touch of fall in the air? She looked out over the sun-baked ranches and thought she could see clouds in the distance. Even the little garden she and Andy had planted last spring looked parched from the dry Oklahoma summer. A little rain would be the relief everyone needed. Maybe the cool would give her the energy to get to work. But something told her it wasn't rain that she needed.

The phone ringing from the living room jangled through her thoughts and Laura swung her strong legs to the porch and scooped up the receiver before the screen door had closed.

"Lyle," she said answering the phone with her agent's name. She could feel his laughter before she heard it.

"How'd ya' know it was me, Laurie?" he asked and then she heard him laugh.

"Because even for an aggressive, pesty agent you are a considerate dear," she teased. "No matter how your fingers itch to dial my number you always wait until Andy is on the bus."

"Am I that shallow?" he asked with his deep Texas drawl. "Okay, lady, then how come I don't call you later?"

"'Cause you know -- or at least hope -- I'll be working and you don't want to interrupt me," she said teasing and settling herself into the old leather recliner she had snapped up at a garage sale five years before. The generous living room was a hodge-podge of "would-be" antiques she and Andy had dragged home in the aging farm truck. Laura had spent weeks refinishing the wooden floor -- her labor was cheap -- and she had painted the walls the color of pound cake, a perfect backdrop for her personal collection of paintings from friends interspersed with Andy's colorful depictions of Big Bird and her latest interest in brilliant saltwater fish. Only one of Laura's paintings graced the room, a landscape of her father's ranch, hung over the fireplace, a painting so charged with the emotion of the country that her father couldn't look at it without dabbing his eyes. Laura remembered with distaste the first time Scott had hinted at his plans for her father's ranch when, as he put it, "the old man kicked." The land was perfect for subdivision and he intended to sell the ranch to a "buddy" for a quick profit.

"What's wrong there, missy?" he'd asked noticing her quiet stare. "Hey, there, you don't think I married you for your looks? Or those exciting nights in bed?" he'd said before strolling out the door to meet a "friend."

She'd had a long talk with her father and his lawyer the next day

But in the end, even the lure of quick money couldn't entice Scott to stay. When it came to it, he just couldn't stand her success.

And Laura was a success. Hard-earned.

If Laura had ever been tempted to buy a new chair, she had only to remember how easily oil paints could ruin upholstery in an instant or how fleeting success could be in the art business. With Lyle's talent as an agent and sound investment advice, Laura was comfortable. But she was determined to keep a level head. The demand for her work seemed unquenchable for the moment. But she had her and Andy's future to provide for. Estate sales suited her fine.

"So," Lyle said.

"So what?" asked Laura plucking a paintbrush from a jar on the side table. Just one of many that seemed to bloom around the room like flowers.

"How are you coming on those western portraits?"

"Well," said Laura trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for Lyle -- and herself -- for her lack of work, "I was waiting to hear from you to see if you approved."

"Come again, lady," he said and Laura could hear his boots drop from the top of his desk where his legs had been lounging and hit the floor with an astounded thud. "You were waiting for my approval? Laura, sweetheart, when was the last time you asked me to approve anything you painted?"

"Well, " she began again weakly, "I just didn't want to get into anything you didn't think there was a market for." Even she knew she sounded lame.

"Laura," Lyle continued in a serious tone, "L. Turner is the market. You are one of those one in a million that seem to appeal to everyone. You aren't just a southwestern painter. You aren't just the darling of the New York critics. You don't just appeal to the masses. Everyone loves your work, Laura, because you paint from the heart. Your heart. Not my cold, calculating one. So what is this garbage about my approval? A month ago I mentioned that customers asked if you were doing any portraits. I told you and you send me these incredible sketches of working cowboys. They might be some of the best work you have ever done, and you're asking me if I approve! Laura, what's going through that thick-braided mind of yours?" He suddenly stopped and gasped. "Oh, no, I know."

"What? You know what?" asked Laura wondering herself.

"Marge said this would happen one day," he said quoting the wisdom of his wife of thirty-three years.

"My God, what would happen, Lyle? That I might not feel like working day and night?"

"That," he pronounced, "I could deal with. But this," she could see him shaking his head and running his hand through this thinning gray hair. "You're in love. It's a man. I'm right. Right?"

Laura laughed. "No, Lyle. I don't get out of the house enough to meet any men." Not to mention out loud that the notion scares me to death after my marriage to Scott. "I've just been feeling a little restless, that's all." I guess. A man? Who?

"Oh, you can say that all you want, Laura," he said, "but Marge has spoken. She is never wrong. Even if you don't know it, somewhere out there there's a man."

"Lyle . . .." she began in a weak protest.

"So in the meantime, my girl," he said, "I command you to paint. Get busy before this guy finds you and you're starry eyed and I'm empty handed. Laura," suddenly his tone was very serious, "these sketches are brilliant."

Laura knew he meant it. Lyle had believed in her when Scott was belittling her every move. "Okay, you'll hear from me soon."

Five minutes later she hung up with dates for exhibitions, a rundown of her commissions, and a recipe for corn soup with salsa. Laura smiled. In the very competitive world of art, Laura had an agent who had been a true friend. Maybe she'd try that soup for dinner. She'd make bread today. It might put a couple of pounds on her, she thought, as she stood up and hitched up her jeans.

She strode into the large, airy kitchen and pulled out the big crockery bowl a fellow artist had bestowed on her last Christmas and began concocting an oatmeal bread with a little cornmeal. Where was the molasses? Within minutes, Laura was lost in the brew. She had forgotten how much she loved making bread. It was a great way to think, kneading and pounding on a big mound of dough. That's why she'd never gotten used to that electric bread machine she'd gotten for a wedding present. You had to measure so exactly and you couldn't see what was going on once you closed the lid. Making bread was a little like painting. You added a little of this, a little of that. You felt it. You looked at it. You walked around it and gave it a little time.

Laura buried her hands in the dough and after a minute threw in a little more cornmeal. Then she buttered the big bowl and swirled around the ball of dough to coat it thoroughly. The sun was streaming through the kitchen window and she scooted the bowl into the warmth and covered it with a large cotton towel.

She brushed her hands on her jeans and smiled at the result. Her paint spattered T-shirt was now decorated with flour and yeast, and she had a feeling her hair and face looked considerably whiter. She had only started making bread after Scott had left. She had made some for him once thinking it would be a pleasant surprise, but he had only complained about the mess she had made. Scott hadn't liked messes. Why plant a garden when you can buy tomatoes plastic-wrapped at the store? Why bake bread when you can pick it up at the Quick Mart when you got cigarettes?

Laura inhaled the yeasty aroma of the rising bread one last time and then took the stairs two at a time to her second-floor bedroom. She had promised herself she'd pull out some special baby outfits for Martha that she had tucked in the back of her closet. She quickly made her bed and smoothed the colorful quilt before emptying the box of handmade sweaters and booties onto the bed. She had saved them for her next child, but she knew now she would never have another. As she sorted through them she remembered how she had made them carefully so they would last. In the early months of her pregnancy Scott had seemed a little interested in their child. He had been a little more considerate of her or at least she had thought so, until one night at a party she had overheard him bragging to a friend that he had "knocked her up but good." The friend had reddened seeing Laura over his shoulder and excused himself quickly. Up until that time, she had thought maybe she and Scott would share a bed again. But now she knew the pregnancy was just another notch on his belt. She had wondered what his friends would say if they knew that she and Scott weren't even sleeping together.

She had taken her coat and found a friend to drive her home.

Why was she thinking about all this now, thought Laura as she folded three sweaters and tucked them into a clean box with rainbow-colored tissue paper. It had been the funeral. But now it was time to get on with her life. Put it all in the past once and for all. Get started on those paintings.

Laura stood up suddenly and plopped the lid on the box. Maybe she'd take those things over to Martha in the morning with a loaf of bread. Right now she was going to her studio. She looked out the window. In the distance a late model station wagon was making its way down the blacktop road. Laura recognized it from the parking lot of the grocery store. It had been Mr. Miracle's car. Wonder who was driving it and where it was going?

"Hasn't changed much, has it, Jackson?"

Jackson gazed out the window as the fields rushed by. "I don't think it has changed at all." The drive from the airport had been long and relaxing after being in the air so long. There was something soothing about the countryside. The pain in his ribs had subsided and his leg wasn't throbbing for the first time in days. He had been anxious to get home after being away so many years. But he had expected it be painful when the memory of his father so fresh in his mind. He was surprised to find it wasn't. It was as comfortable and easygoing as he remembered it. And with Martha so happily expecting and a touch of fall in the air, Jackson was content. Almost.

"Now that has changed," he said suddenly as the car rounded a curve and he looked up. "Someone has taken the old Krenshaw place and fixed it up. It was on its way to falling down last time I saw it. Who lives there now, Is?"

Martha gave her brother a puzzled look. "Boy, you have been away for awhile. Longer than I realized." Her eyes went back to the road as they left the old home behind them. "Laura Manning lives there. Or Laura Turner. You know, since the divorce I don't know what name she goes by."

Jackson Miracle was known as being a cool negotiator. His gray eyes revealed nothing to business associates and his reputation had reached the government. More than once he had been called into a hostage situation and more than once he'd walked out with the hostages to freedom. When the military needed a code name for him three years before, the general in charge had shrugged his shoulders and said, "What else do you call a guy as big as a mountain with an expression of stone?" Rushmore, it had been.

"Jackson." Martha had never seen the color drain out of someone's face so quickly. She considered pulling over to the side of the road. Had those broken ribs done more damage than the doctor had detected? "Jackson. Are you okay? For goodness' sake close your mouth -- the flies are still thick this time of year."

Her brother's mouth snapped shut and he looked at her with penetrating gray eyes. "Are you saying that Laura Manning -- Turner -- whatever -- is divorced?"

"She's been divorced for years, Jackson. You saw dad all the time. Didn't he ever tell you what happened?"

Jackson rubbed his large hands through his tangle of hair to try and stop the tingling he was feeling. Impossible. It started at the top of his head and traveled all the way down to his feet. He had considered sleeping for two days. But suddenly he was no longer tired. He was, well, hopeful. "You know how Dad was, Sis. He was -- "

"I know, I know, a flirt," laughed Martha shaking her head.

"Right, but no gossip. The only news I ever got from home was when someone died. I guess he felt that couldn't be disputed." Silence. "So?"

"So what?" said Martha grinning. She knew exactly so what.

Jackson growled and tried to control his voice. "So what happened? "

Martha was merciful. "Scott left her when she was eight-and-half-months pregnant. No one has seen him since."

Jackson muttered a couple of words under his breath that made Martha wince. He had despised Scott. True. He had spent too many unbearable nights not wanting to imagine her in his bed. But to leave a woman carrying your child. Jackson shook his head.

"When did this happen?"

"Well, let's see," said Martha as she slowed the station wagon to turn down the gravel road to the family ranch, "Andy -- that's Laura's little girl -- is in kindergarten. I haven't met her. But I would imagine she's about five-and-a-half. So Scott's been gone a little less than six years."

Jackson rubbed his eyes trying to grasp the situation. All these years he had imagined Laura and Scott with a house filled with kids. He had always hoped she was happy. But damn it, he had wanted her to be happy with him. Now, just imagining what she had been through. He gripped his large hands into tight fists to ease the anger. Had Scott provided for her? Jackson knew how hard it could be for single women raising children. Knowing Laura, she wouldn't have taken any help from her father. She would have gone it alone no matter how hard.

Jackson felt raw with emotion. As if the careful wall he had built up around himself over the past seven years to keep out the hurt had suddenly began to crumble. He felt anger he didn't know was possible. It was a blessing that no one knew where Scott was. He felt a desire he had tried to suppress for years heating his large body and jumbling his thoughts. And he felt scared. This big man, who had had his way with the world for the past seven years, was scared to death at the thought of a second chance.

" ...So we could sell. I've made a list of the assets, and ...Jackson. " His sister's voice just slightly penetrated his thoughts as he sat on the ranch house deck looking out into the night. "Jackson, you're not listening." When her hand touched his shoulder he jumped about a foot.

"What?"

Her face softened and she smiled. "What am I doing? You've just been released from the hospital and been on a plane for three days, and I'm trying to fill you with figures so we can make decisions. Sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," he said patting her hand. "You've been messing with all this stuff for weeks and I imagine you're more than a little anxious to get back to your husband," he said.

"Well . . .."

"Just let me get some sleep tonight and we'll talk in the morning. You look like you could use some sleep."

"Thanks," she said rubbing her belly. "I think we both could." She dropped a kiss on her brother's forehead. "I'm glad you're here, Jackson."

"I'm glad I'm here, too," he said. "Why don't you 'two' get some sleep?"

"You, too. You could use it."

Yeah. He could use it, but he wouldn't get it. He had grilled steaks after a hot shower and he and Martha had dined in the soft Oklahoma air with only the flicker of the lightning bugs for illumination. He sipped his coffee on the deck and watched the stars glitter in the dark sky. It was cool. There was nothing like an Oklahoma night. When he was younger, it had been the perfect balm after a day of roping steers and mending fences.

But his large, muscular body -- so sore and weary hours before -- no longer ached. It was hot and throbbing, and for the first time in seven years he felt alive again. And this time, yes, this time he meant to have, to cherish what was his.

Chapter 3

"Not used to your old bed?" asked Martha as she dropped a couple more pieces of bacon on Jackson's plate. "You don't look any too rested."

"I suppose that was it," he said attacking the French toast. That and thinking about every inch of Laura and hoping.

"So," said Martha draining a glass of milk, "do you want to go over those figures before or after you have a look around the old Krenshaw place?"

Jackson's head snapped up and he saw the twinkle in his sister's eyes. He opened his mouth to protest and then he remembered whom he was dealing with. He didn't even bother to argue. "Before," he said with a resigned smile.

"Good," said Martha suddenly producing papers. "Robert is calling from Germany today and I'd like some of this out of the way."

An hour later Jackson waved to his sister who had settled herself with a book and a glass of lemonade on the deck, and turned the station wagon down the gravel road.

The morning was cool and fresh, and Jackson inhaled the clean air. He would be at Laura's in five minutes and he still didn't have a clue as to what he would say.

Not that he hadn't thought about it. He had made a jumble of the king-sized bed tossing back and forth through the night. A cold shower at one and another at three thirty had cooled his heated body for all of ten minutes. Every time he tried to rationally think what he would say to Laura, how he could help her, how he could provide financially for her and her daughter, how he understood the terrible struggle she had had and still must be having, his good intentions ended up, well, they had ended up in a cold shower. He'd just put his arm around her to let her know he was concerned about her. He'd pull her a little close. Just for emphasis. But then she might rest her head against his chest and he'd be able to inhale the aroma of that thick, silky hair and he'd want to pull her closer. He'd be able to feel her breasts then. Were they still so full? Oh. He groaned. He just knew they were. He'd felt them against his chest. So briefly. But they'd never filled his hands. Soft, full, swollen. Suddenly tight with the feel of his large hands massaging the nipples. He stirred. He ached. Would she hold his head close as his tongue teased a response from those rosy peaks before sucking deep and long to moisten her heat and ready her? Jackson could feel her hands in his hair, hear her whimper.

God, he had to stop this.

Jackson was a large man in every way. It was just a fact. He'd need to be very careful with Laura. He would never want to hurt her. He had never hurt a woman. Always before he had only given halfway to a woman in his bed and that had been plenty. He had held back. Physically and emotionally. But then he had never felt such a need, such an uncontrollable passion. There. That's what bothered him. That lack of control whenever he thought of her.

Jackson gripped the steering wheel and whistled softly, a trick he had learned to steady his nerves before any business negotiation. He had whistled most of the 1812 Overture before he realized it hadn't done a lick of good. He tried the Doobie Brothers Greatest Hits. Zip.

He pulled into the driveway and untangled himself from the car and wiped his palms on his faded jeans. Wonder if Martha was wrong? Maybe Laura wasn't divorced. Maybe she had remarried. A boyfriend? Then he let out his breath. Who was he kidding? Martha was never wrong. She had once found him in a hotel in Cairo at three in morning with a warning about traveling to Eastern Europe in the near future just three weeks before the region exploded.

How did the saying go? All was fair in love and war. Right. But war was more predictable.

He heard his cowboy boots crunch across the gravel drive and paused before he got to the porch to take a look at the native stone house. He had always loved the house and had imagined living there when he was a kid. He had thought it was sad as it started to fall apart remembering how his dad had told him old man Krenshaw - that's all anyone ever called him - had dragged those stones from his field to build the slightly cockeyed house. The old gentleman had never married, had no other family, and evidently had no will. When he died, the house started to die as well.

But now; well, well. Jackson had it admit he didn't know where Laura was getting her resources, but the old house looked great. The stone was clean and warm in the morning sun. Neat fall mums danced along the walk, and the windows, always a tempting target for kids with rocks had been replaced with . . .. Wait a minute. If he wasn't mistaken a pair of inquisitive eyes were gazing at him through one of those expensive windows. Okay, Jackson. Here goes.

He took the steps two at a time as the door swung open. He touched his cowboy hat in greeting and had no trouble smiling as the miniature of Laura, outfitted for soccer, placed her hands on her hips and gave him a look from the tip of his hat to the toes of his shoes.

Jackson was a patient man. Especially with children. He waited until she had assessed the situation and then cleared his throat.

"Finished?" he asked with a wink.

"I am," she said.

"I will assume, then, that you would be Miss Andy Turner."

"I am," the little girl said again not in the least surprised that this large stranger would know her name.

"And you would be," she said looking him in the eye, "Mr. Jackson Miracle."

Jackson realized his mouth was hanging open for the second time in twenty-four hours as the little girl flashed him a heart-breaking smile. "Would you care to come in, Mr. Miracle?"

"Well, thank you, young lady. I would," he said stepping into the spacious great room. "I'm an old friend of your mama's. But then I guess you know that because you know my name."

She reached for his hat he was turning nervously in his large hands and deposited it on the buffet. "Oh, I recognized you right away. My mom says to never open the door to a stranger. But I knew you from the picture -"

"Jackson Miracle."

Laura had appeared so quietly from a side room to find out whom her young daughter was chattering away to that he hadn't heard her. But at the sound of her voice he looked up and there she was. Oh, yes. There she was.

Pretty. No. Stunning. She was just as he remembered, and more. There was more of that silky brown hair in a thick brown braid that curved over her shoulder and stopped below a full breast. He grinned to himself. More there, too. Firm and ripe with no bra under that paint-spattered T-shirt. Her hips were a little rounder, a little softer; but her legs... Well, he'd always said he'd never be able to stop thinking of them. He hadn't. But this was certainly a nice reminder.

"Mama says it's not nice to stare," he heard a little voice say and he felt himself heating with a blush. He hoped.

"No," he said slowly trying to control his thoughts, "and she's right. It most certainly is not polite to stare. But you'll have to excuse me, Miss Andy."

She smiled at his manners then.

"You see, it's been a long time since I've seen your mama." He stopped then and his gaze found her face. The last seven years rushed him and he suddenly looked very serious. "Too long."

What had happened to that smile, thought Laura as she watched Jackson's sad face. Was she that much of a disappointment after all these years? Well, what do you expect? Here you are standing here in dirty boots, ten-year-old jeans, a filthy T-shirt with no bra - oh, no, she groaned silently. She hadn't even put on a bra and he was looking at her, and he looked so good, and she could feel her breasts tingling with warmth as the tips hardened for him.

Jackson's eyes narrowed as he saw her body's reaction and he could hear Martha's voice in his ear. Remember your manners. He tried. He failed.

"Mama, that's the Lytal's."

"What?" Laura felt like she was in a trance.

"My ride to the game."

"What . . .Oh, right, your game, of course, Andy. Get your ball," said Laura suddenly more flushed and nervous than she had ever remembered. She could feel Jackson's eyes following her every move as she checked her daughter's equipment.

"I've, uh, I've come at a bad time," she heard him say.

She forced herself to look at him. "Why, I mean, what..."

"Your daughter has a game. You need to go," Jackson said, finding his voice by looking at the ceiling.

"Well, yes, I am going, but not right away. Andy's going with a friend to practice. The game's not until noon. So I've got a little while to, uh, visit."

"You're sure? I could come back," said Jackson. But he made no move to leave as his eyes followed her movements.

"No!" she said a little too loudly so that even Andy quieted and stared at her. "I mean," she said trying to calm her reddening face as she caught his growing smile, "just let me get Andy out to the car and we'll have a cup of coffee." She caught Andy by the shoulders as she started out the door and whispered softly. "What do you say, Andy?"

The little girl gazed at the length of Jackson and recited, "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Miracle."

"Nice meeting you, Andy."

She stared at him an instant longer. Jackson felt his palms break out in a sweat. Was he supposed to say something else? He'd been presented to the Queen a couple of years back. That had been easier. Andy took a couple of steps to him and held out her hand. His large brown hand engulfed hers and he was surprised by her firm grip on his index finger. "I'm sorry about your daddy," she said, smiled with a child's understanding, and pushed open the screen door. Laura gave him a quick look and followed her out.

"Aren't you going to show Mr. Miracle the picture -?" he heard Andy began as Laura hurried her down the porch steps.

"Oh, not now, Andy," she said straightening her braid and talking fast. "I'll bring the refreshments to the game. So watch for me . . ."

Jackson was left standing in the house. Trembling, he realized. How could forty-five pounds reduce him to jelly? Well, why not, he thought. Hadn't about a hundred and fifteen, well, maybe a hundred and twenty, he thought gazing out the window at Laura's delectably curved bottom, been playing havoc with his life for years?

He shoved his hands into his pockets and watched as Laura gave last minute instructions to Andy. A good mama. He smiled. Well, that didn't surprise him. But what had surprised him - a little - was her reaction to him. He had been dying for her to take one look at him and hug him for about ten minutes. No. Much longer. Maybe she hadn't because her daughter was there. Was that it? No, he didn't think so. If you're really glad to see someone you hug her no matter who's around. Of course, he hadn't even taken her hand. Jackson, you idiot, why not? He watched as Laura waved goodbye and then started a little too slowly back toward the house. She was frowning and fiddling with the end of her long braid. What would it be like to undo that braid? Let all that silkiness fan over his bare chest and inhale its fragrance? It was so thick it would completely cover her full breasts, hiding their rosy tips. But he would find them. Oh, he would definitely find them.

Wait a minute. That's why he hadn't taken her hand. The thought of touching any part of Laura made his body heat, made him swell uncomfortably. He had about as much control as a seventeen-year old. Get a grip. She didn't even seem that glad to see you. And why should she? You walked out of her life seven years ago and haven't spoken to her since. What makes you think she has even given you a thought?

Jackson ran his hands through his hair. Have a cup of coffee. Pass the time of day. Do your neighborly duty. Jackson squeezed his eyes shut and tried to whistle. Too dry. He groaned. Oh, Laura.

"Goodness, Laura, quit fussing," said Jimmy Lytal as she had helped Andy into the car. "We'll see you at the game in less than an hour." Jimmy had been taking Andy to the Saturday soccer games for five weeks now. It was just part of the routine. So why was she making such a big deal this morning?

I'm making a big deal about buckling a seat belt that was already buckled because the most handsome man I have even seen in my entire life is standing in my living room waiting for me, that's why. And I am standing out here looking like I've been dipped in a can of paint.

Laura stood watching the minivan pull away as if it was necessary to follow its progress into the next county. When it was obvious there wasn't one more good reason to stand out there - as if there had been a good one to begin with - she crossed her arms and started slowly toward the house.

Laura studied the toes of her old boots. Make some coffee. Offer him a chair. His father just died. This is a neighborly call. He'll stay for the obligatory fifteen minutes and then be off to the next farm.

After seven years, he didn't even give me a hug. So what is going on here?

Laura squared her shoulders and walked up the steps to the porch. She gave a resolved sigh and opened the door.

Jackson had positioned himself in the middle of the living room staring at the landscape of the Manning farm, vibrant and commanding over the stone fireplace. Something about it looked so familiar to him, not just the farm but the painting technique. He had just taken a step toward it for a better look when he heard the door close softly.

He turned to her and saw an emotion he couldn't quite identify. There. Her brown eyes flickered. It was hesitation. What do you say after seven years? He took a deep breath. He was known for his silences. But he could make small talk. What had he said to the Queen? Jackson's brain searched. What had they talked about? Of course! The palace. Okay.

"I like what you've done to this place," he said smiling as he settled in on a safe topic. "Last time I saw it, it was on its last leg. But now," he said opening his muscular arms to the room, admiring its warmth, all glass and wood and polish, "it's a real home."

He saw her brown eyes widen and then soften, thankful for something easy. "Well, it did take a little elbow grease," she said shyly.

"A little," said Jackson rubbing his boot on the hardwood floor and pretending it admire it as those legs slowly walked toward him. "I'd say more like a lot. I'm surprised you have any elbows left," he said taking the opportunity to admire her arms. "Couldn't rub out those freckles though, could you?"

Then her eyes saw the tease in his smile, and she stopped. Her arms, that he suddenly realized had been reaching out to him for a hug, possibly, dropped to her side.

Why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut? He thought.

"You haven't changed a bit," she said relaxing. "Do you want a cup of coffee?"

"Love it," he said.

"Then come on in here," she said as she walked toward the archway into the kitchen. "The artwork on the refrigerator is much better."

He followed her easy, swaying hips into the country kitchen and inhaled the fragrance of homemade bread just pulled from the oven. He fiddled with an apple he plucked from a large, wooden bowl on the table and let his eyes roam the kitchen. It was a jumble of cookbooks and pots, spotlessly clean but hopelessly disorganized. The only order came from a collection of cookie cutters that danced around the kitchen, pausing only when they reached the enormous fireplace. It was a room you could live in and it looked like Laura and her daughter did from the assortment of coloring books and puzzles stacked on every available surface. The refrigerator with its colorful magnets was the gallery for Andy's artwork. But where had he seen that picture over the mantel before? He couldn't place it. He wasn't surprised. Too many countries. Too many museums. He was always surprised when people reacted with envy to his globetrotting career.

"You are one lucky fella," an engineer had whispered to him not two months ago settling on the patio in his South Carolina home as they watched his easy-going wife grill some hamburgers as their three young children splashed in the pool. "Is there anyplace you haven't been? Anything you haven't seen? Just a minute, Hon!" he called to his wife as she waved him over for help. He looked back to Jackson. "I mean I love these guys. Don't get me wrong. But with a mortgage, orthodontist bills, not to mention college - I'm stuck." He'd left Jackson to trot over to his wife and plant a kiss on her cheek as he helped her juggle the hamburgers.

Jackson had smiled as he watched the engineer and his family. Stuck? Okay. But what a way to be stuck. Jackson hadn't known a home in seven years. The closest thing had been his portable tent and he had long ago abandoned living out of a suitcase. He had an overnight bag with the essentials and a dependable case for his laptop computer. When he needed a suit, he just bought one. Other than that, he lived and worked in jeans - a commodity he quickly found to be universal - and his dad had kept him supplied with boots from home.

And that home was Oklahoma. Not those posh London hotel rooms. Not an oil company's luxurious apartment on the Riviera. Not a sheik's sumptuous palace in Kuwait. Home was the people. It was his dad. It was Martha.

Jackson's eyes watched as Laura poured him a steaming cup of coffee.

Home was Laura. His Peach. He suddenly realized that this was the first time since his accident that he didn't hurt. His leg felt strong. His breathing was easy.

Yeah. She was home.

"Cream and sugar?" Laura asked Jackson and she brought him his coffee. She looked at him closely when he didn't answer. His eyes were dark and sleepy and distant. What could he be thinking? Was it pain medication? Was he still hurting from his accident? No, she didn't think that was it. His strong, brown face looked relaxed and his mouth had the curves of a smile. His eyes looked sensual and possessive, and she looked around to see what he could be staring at. It wasn't until she looked back and saw his smile growing that she realized that she had been the focus of that dreamy look.

She steadied her hand.

"Cream and sugar?" she said a little more loudly.

Jackson blinked. "What?" He said, trying to end the dream - or continue it. He couldn't decide which would be better.

"Jackson, do you take cream and sugar in your coffee?"

"No, no," he finally sputtered. "Just black." Oh, you're smooth, Jackson, so smooth he said to himself, almost upsetting the chair he pulled out for her.

Laura set down two steaming cups of coffee and a plate of warm homemade bread with peach butter. She settled at the table across from him pushing away a pile of schoolwork and her schedule book.

"I'm awfully sorry about your dad, Jackson," she said, adding a little cream and sugar to her coffee and stirring slowly. His hand reached out for a piece of the still warm bread and she was reminded how she had always admired the gentleness of this giant. His large hand was rough and clean with a sprinkle of golden brown hairs. It was a hand that had firmly broken horses and branded cattle. It was also the hand that had patiently held up younger cousins at the Bantam Lake as he taught them how to swim. So how did it feel when it loved? How did he feel, she found herself thinking, wondering at his strength, his size. She took another spoonful of sugar and ducked her head. Wait a minute. She didn't take cream and sugar. She felt her face reddening and wished her hair were loose to cover her face. I guess you take cream and sugar when you want something to do with your hands, she thought.

Jackson saw the blush as the late morning light streamed through the windows. Lord, what was she thinking? Surely not what he had been thinking? No, she was just shy. Laura had always been a little awkward. But if that blush was because of him, well, that was nice. He smiled to himself.

He cleared his throat and looked at her, all golden and mink and silk. Mmm. "I'm sorry, too. But you know how dad was, Laura. The last thing he'd want us to do is sit around and be sad for him. Dad loved life. He never ceased to amaze me. We'd be sitting on a drilling rig as the sun set and it would still be about 115 degrees and he'd be cracking jokes with the crew and having the time of his life. I'd finally be done about midnight and then sit around until three in the morning waiting for him to finish partying. Sometimes he never did stop. The men thought he was great." Jackson smiled remembering. "The first time he joined me I was concerned he'd be bored. You know, not have anything to do. My God, I could barely keep up with him."

Laura smiled. "That's what Martha told me. I phoned her a couple of days after the funeral. I felt bad I hadn't gotten over to see her or even have her over for dinner for a break. But Andy has had the chicken pox and we've had to have a self-imposed quarantine. But when I asked Martha about you - "

You asked about me? Jackson melted. You were thinking about me?

Laura saw those gray eyes narrow again and this time smoke. He smiled seductively, expectantly. Her voice caught in her throat. What had she said?

"You were saying, Laura?" he urged.

"I, well, I mean . . .." What had she been saying? When he looked at her like that she couldn't even think.

"You were saying you had asked Martha about me," he said politely.

How could such a nice man have such a wicked glint in his eye?

She took a gulp of coffee and burned her throat, and quickly tore off a piece of the peach butter-laden bread to ease the sting. Why hadn't she ever paid any attention to her mother when she had started in on one of her etiquette lectures? Now besides being covered with paint she was smeared with peach butter.

Just slide under the table and maybe he'll go away. From what she'd heard, he'd dined with kings and now he was having to endure her manners. Or lack of them.

Jackson felt himself tighten and stir as he watched Laura's tongue slowly lick the peach butter off her soft lips. He smiled as he saw her eyes glance down as if she would be able to witness her tongue's progress. She couldn't. But he could. It was killing him.

"You seem to have missed your mouth, Laura," he said and reached over the table before she could think, his eyes grinning as his large hand brushed a last bit of the peach butter from the corner of her mouth. She started to hand him a napkin for his hand, but stopped as he licked his finger clean as he watched her.

He didn't want to think that was the closest he'd ever come to a taste of her.

"You asked Martha about me."

"Right," she said. She glanced up at the ceiling quickly to focus her thoughts, but he noticed that her hand touched her mouth where his hand had been. "She told me about the accident. Are you okay?"

"I was a little sore for awhile, but I'm doing better," he said as he reached for another piece of the bread. He had to fill up on something.

"Martha didn't know all the details. Do you mind me asking what happened?" she said, grateful to be able to form a coherent sentence again.

"There really isn't too much to tell," shrugged Jackson a little too nonchalantly. He wasn't going to tell her that the doctor said if he'd been about five feet closer to that bomb he wouldn't be sitting here at all.

"Come on, Jackson," said Laura leaning across the table recognizing the protective look in his eye. "You were hurt. I want to know what happened. Jackson, this is Laura you're talking to. It's not like I'm your wife sitting here wringing my hands," she joked and immediately wished she hadn't. A look flashed through those gray eyes she couldn't catch. Pain? Hope? Regret?

She touched his arm. She'd forgotten about the power of those muscles. "Hey, Jackson, I didn't mean that. I'm not waiting for the gory details. But for goodness' sake, Martha said you walked into a bomb. You could have been killed. I have to tell you I was more than a little worried."

His gray eyes blinked. And warmed with obvious emotion. Relief.

His whole body warmed. She'd been concerned about him.

He sat very still, hoping that if he didn't move his arm, she wouldn't move her hand. It felt good. It felt perfect.

"I guess I meant there wasn't too much as to how it happened," he said. "Someone - they still don't know who - decided they didn't like something - that's a little sketchy, too - about the drilling operation. The bomb was set to go off on a Saturday night. It seems they weren't counting on anyone being there. They just wanted to do a little destruction."

Jackson felt Laura shiver.

"But I was working. And it was a hot evening. They weren't counting on me running back inside for a cold root beer."

"Jackson!"

His eyes smiled at her delight. "What?"

"Do you still drink root beer?" She shook her head so her braid sparkled in the sun. "I would have thought with all your travels you would have moved on to something a little more sophisticated than root beer."

He watched her laughter loving everything about it and before he could stop himself said, "Brings back nice memories for me."

She blushed - he noticed - and laughed a little more softly. How many conversations had they had over bottles of root beer?

"And I just bet," he said touching her chin lightly with his hand so he could see her eyes, "that if I opened that refrigerator over there I'd find a couple of bottles. Am I right?"

"Okay, okay," she said blushing a little more deeply, warming his hand. "Andy likes it."

"Liar," he teased and she playfully slapped away his hand before becoming serious again.

"You're okay now, though? Right?" she asked and he could feel his voice turning a little husky at her concern.

"I'm almost there," he said. "I'll be hundred percent soon. The doctor said my age helped and I've kept in pretty good shape. I was healthy. All that helped."

He saw a frown on Laura's face. "Disappointed?

She smiled quickly. "Hardly. No, I was just thinking how lucky it was that your dad wasn't with you this time."

She saw Jackson grimace. "That's something I have been very thankful for. I made it. He might not have. Or he might have been maimed." He shook his head. "I don't even like to think about it. As best I can tell, just about the time that bomb was exploding, he had his heart attack. I'm thankful he never knew what happened. Knowing dad, he would have taken on the whole Mideast."

Laura smiled remembering the energy of the elder Miracle man.

"Well, I know it's trite to say. But it is a blessing his death was fast," she said and instinctively reached for his hand resting on the table. It was warm from the coffee mug and from him, so full of life.

"You're right," he said not quite ready for her to pull her hand from his. "Martha was right. She said he would have gone nuts if he couldn't get out to do stuff. He was too young, but his life was full. His heart stopped and he was gone. You hear about some people suffering with the pain of cancer - " He stopped suddenly. "Laura, I'm sorry. Dad didn't tell me a lot of news, but he did tell me your mother had passed on," and it was his turn to take her hand. He absently rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand and she felt a warming all the way around her heart.

"That's okay," she said. "Actually, for cancer it wasn't too long. She was diagnosed at the end of February and we lost her in the summer. And," she said pulling her hand away with a smile that shone on her face but was not evident to Jackson in her eyes, "she was alive for my wedding. She wanted that."

Jackson's eyes narrowed as he watched Laura jump up to refill his cup. Had Laura's mother wanted to be alive for the wedding? Or had she just wanted the wedding? Had Laura married Scott Turner to make her dying mother happy? God, Laura. He saw the sadness in her brown eyes and knew this subject was closed. For now.

"I'm sorry your mom didn't get to see Andy," he said and watched Laura brighten at the mention of her daughter's name. "I think the term for Andy is a 'pistol'."

Laura laughed now. "Oh, yes. She's definitely that. But I think mama would have had her hands filled with Andy. You think I hated to wear dresses? I don't think Andy's ever had a dress on."

Jackson smiled remembering how the five-and-half-year old had swaggered out to the car clutching her shocking-pink soccer ball.

"I believe it," he said, "I think the only time I saw you in a dress was when you got engaged and then at your wedding." When I realized I'd lost you.

Jackson watched as Laura leaned against the counter, looking at everything but him. Funny. She had thought she could think of her wedding objectively after all these years. It had been a mistake. But it had happened. It was over. She had gone on to make a success of her life. At least her professional life. No. Her personal life, too. She had Andy and friends. But no man. No. The thought of those months in Scott's bed still made her shudder. She couldn't imagine having a man touch her. Until now. That scared her. What was happening to that protective brick wall she had so carefully built? It suddenly seemed to weaken as if a brick had been loosened. No. She couldn't let it fall. But if it was still surrounding her, why did she suddenly feel so vulnerable?

The sun was pouring in the kitchen window warming the room. Why is she trembling, thought Jackson as he saw her hands clutch at her crossed arms.

He got up slowly from the table and walked to her, jamming his hands into his pockets. He stood by her, towering over her, inhaling her fresh, womanly scent and finally touched her lightly on her shoulder. "I didn't mean to upset you, Laura. I guess all this talk has stirred up some unpleasant memories." She nodded her head quickly and he saw her wipe an eye.

"God, Laura, don't cry," he said and before he could think he pulled her to him. This wasn't going at all the way he had envisioned it at three in the morning. He'd come here to ...why had he come here? And now he'd gone and made her cry and he didn't really know why, but lord, didn't she feel good in his arms even if she was standing there a little too stiffly. Maybe this was going better than he thought. No, you clod. You made a lady cry. What would your dad have thought? What would Martha say? You've got to see her through it. Hold her a little closer. Jackson. You're comforting her. Not making love to her. Your brain seems to understand. But your body. Oh, lord.

Laura's stiff body couldn't help but soften as Jackson wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closely, carefully. When was the last time she had been touched by a man like this? She pushed her face against his massive chest and he smelled like the fresh morning air and a little pine soap. The last time he had held her was when he had danced with her at her wedding.

Jackson felt her tentatively unfold her arms and slide them around his waist so her warm breasts pushed against his hard stomach and he was grateful for the counter for support. Her bare arms were warm and smooth and pink. Yeah. Like a peach. He wondered if she even remembered what he used to call her. He felt the tears from her face dampening his shirt and before he could stop he lifted her chin and kissed the tears from her eyes. The instant he did it, he knew he shouldn't have. Her eyes opened wide and brown and warm, and his eyes wandered to her mouth, full and naturally pink, still moistened with a hint of peach butter.

Laura saw Jackson's eyes studying her. Then she felt herself being lifted off the ground toward him, his strong arms supporting her, lifting her mouth to his. Her head was spinning with the heat from his large body so she barely heard the phone ringing.

"I have to get that," she said suddenly.

"Get what?" said Jackson so lost in her eyes he couldn't hear anything except her voice.

"The phone, " he heard her say. "I'm expecting a call."

"Let the machine get it," he growled as he felt her pulling from his arms.

"I don't have a machine," she said squirming from his reach and snapping up the receiver to a yellow wall phone. "Lyle. Is that you?"

Jackson rubbed frustrated hands through his hair and filled his coffee cup with unwanted cream and sugar to keep his hands busy. A dump truck of Tinker Toys wouldn't keep them busy enough after holding her, almost tasting her. No machine! He clanked the spoon against the cup. Didn't she want an answering machine for messages? Wasn't she gone all day at work? She had to earn a living. Who was so important that she had to stop what had been happening? Who the hell was this Lyle? He sighed and shook his head. Why was it any of his business? He waltzes into her life unexpected, unannounced after seven years and is surprised that she doesn't turn over her life to him. Gee. Now there's news. She's got a life. Without him.

"Did you get the reservations for us?"

Us! Jackson had positioned himself at the kitchen table methodically wolfing down the bread. He might as well have been eating two by fours. Who was this guy Laura was talking to that she was referring to as us? Reservations for what? Dinner? A cruise? A hotel?

He could almost hear Martha. Jackson, it's none of your business.

"Oh, Lyle. It's perfect. You're perfect. You know how long I've been waiting for this."

For what? Jackson ground his teeth. His divorce? To be in his bed?

Laura squealed with delight. "Lyle, what would I do without you?"

That was it. Jackson scooped up his cup of coffee and strode to the front porch. Let her gush to this, this ...Lyle whatever in private.

Laura heard the front door slam. "I'm sorry, Lyle, I missed that. I've got company. You said the gallery is donating the space and all proceeds will be able to go to charity. This is great, Lyle. I've wanted to be able to do this for so long."

She looked out the archway through the front door and could see Jackson's lean muscular legs and broad back poised on the porch. Had he been going to kiss her? Those strong arms had been pulling her toward him effortlessly. She still felt dreamy, melting from his touch.

"What was that, Lyle?"

"This showing is almost a year away. Why not give that series you proposed a try? You might have time," he asked hopefully.

"You mean the cowboy series," she said slowly, thinking, watching.

"I know you're having a little trouble getting started," the agent said, "but maybe this sort of deadline is what you need."

Or this man, thought Laura, her eyes consuming Jackson's powerful frame. "You might be right, Lyle. You just might be right. Look, I need to go."

"Andy playing soccer this morning?"

"Right." And there's this man...

"Okay. I'll put the details on paper and get it all to you. Just wanted you to know the good news."

"Great news. And give my love to Marge."

Love! Had he heard her say love? Jackson had stopped pretending he wasn't listening. He had stopped pretending he was drinking coffee or eating homemade bread. He had been about to kiss her. To taste that delectable mouth. To maybe just