Brynne had told Clay all about growing up in Painted Pony Creek, Montana, and Clay, a lifelong citizen of Boston, had told her about his career—he’d been born to be a cop, he’d said, following in the footsteps of his father, grandfather and great-grandfather. He was recently divorced, he said, with two children, a boy and a girl—the marriage had been solid for a long time, but the stresses and strains of his job had worn him and his wife down.

Finally, there had been nothing left besides their mutual love for the kids, and they’d sadly agreed to call it quits.

Brynne closed her eyes at the memory of that long-ago, sunlit afternoon on the patio of a café near the gallery.

She’d fallen for Clay somewhere between meeting him on the agreed street corner and the final café Americano long after the sun set.

More dates followed: dinner, movies, concerts—the usual things.

Unlike the college boys and entry-level executives she’d dated previously, Clay didn’t expect sex from the get-go. He’d wooed her, actually wooed her, the old-fashioned way, with flowers, phone calls, handwritten notes and the like, and when she’d talked, he’d listened, instead of simply waiting for her to shut up so he could speak, the way the others had done.

A year later, Brynne moved in with Clay.

Gradually, she got to know his children, Davey and Maddie, and come to love them almost as deeply as if she’d given birth to them herself.

Clay’s ex-wife, Heather, had been friendly enough, on the rare occasions when she and Brynne encountered each other—family birthday parties for the kids, brief vacations, picking them up for or dropping them off after their weekends with their father.

Back then, Brynne’s mom and dad were still living in Painted Pony Creek and running the family business, and as soon as their daughter had given up her apartment to share Clay’s larger one, they’d started asking when she intended to bring her “boyfriend” out west for a visit.

Naturally, they wanted to meet him.

Size him up as a potential son-in-law.

Although they never said so outright, Brynne had known her parents were bothered by the fact that Clay was (1) divorced, and (2) a cop, with all the dangers and other drawbacks of the job.

Brynne and Clay hadn’t really discussed marriage at that point.

Being together had been enough.

Brynne’s days had been full, between her work at the gallery, which she loved, and her own art. Most evenings, Clay was home, and they talked, read, cooked together and made love. Sweet, vibrant love.

The folks at home had begun to ask pointed questions during their weekly phone calls. Brynne loved her mom and dad, and hadn’t blamed them for wondering where her relationship with Clay was headed—she was an only child, after all—but she’d avoided direct answers.