Eli took a pensive sip from his cup. Then he grinned at her and said, “Cut me a break here, Brynne. I’m trying to be—sociable.”

Brynne didn’t know what to say to that.

So she poured herself a cup of coffee and stayed where she was to sip it, keeping the counter between them. In that moment, she sorely wished some of her regulars would show up: the sweet old codgers who always ordered the Rancher’s Breakfast; the members of the Silver Streaks book club; or even Roy, from over at the post office, who could nurse a single cup of coffee and a slice of pie for the better part of an hour and always tipped one bright, shiny quarter.

No one came.

“Do you want breakfast?”

“Nope,” Eli replied.

Brynne was flummoxed again, at a complete loss, which made her feel foolish, which, in turn, made her about half-mad.

“Well,” she said.

Eli looked her over, though not in a rude way. He might have been assessing the state of a fence post, deciding whether to shore it up or cut it into chunks for firewood.

“Put on something warm. Snow boots, good gloves if you have them.”

“Why would I do that?” Brynne countered, all too aware that her heart was beating faster than it should have been.

“Because we’re going snowmobiling,” Eli answered blithely. “You and me.”

The thought thrilled Brynne; she realized she was hungry for fresh air and countryside. It never even occurred to her to refuse that blunt, offhanded arrogant invitation.

CHAPTER FOUR

BRYNNE HADN’T RIDDEN a snowmobile in years, and she’d never ridden one seated behind Eli Garrett, with her thighs pressing into his and her arms clasped tightly around his middle.

The streets of Painted Pony Creek were practically deserted, though folks smiled and waved from windows and doorways, looking as pleased as if they knew some benevolent mischief were afoot, and they were part of it.

Brynne waved back, when she dared let go of Eli long enough to make the gesture, but mostly she didn’t dare, because she was breathless, delightfully, deliciously terrified, certain that the roaring machine racing over the snow would suddenly pitch and roll, sending both its riders flying.

Overhead, the sky was winter blue and cloudless, and the sunlight sprinkled diamonds over rooftops and yards and the snow-laden branches of trees.

The machine sped on, past the park and the library and the sign that read, “Welcome to Painted Pony Creek, Montana, Population, 5718,” and then they were streaking through the open countryside, zigzagging around the craggy old trees in Ben Jackson’s apple orchard, weaving around obstacles such as boulders and fallen logs.