They raced over drifts of snow, traveling alongside the freshly plowed highway, and Brynne reveled in the whole experience—the speed, the indescribable freedom, the icy nip in the air, the glorious beauty of the intricate, ever-changing tapestry that was Montana at her natural best.

Brynne clung to Eli, exultant, startled by the joy she felt, skimming over the land she’d been born to, and had always loved, and had somehow forgotten.

Presently, they passed through a stand of timber and emerged at the top of a small rise, overlooking the shallow valley that cupped the town and its surroundings gently, loosely, like the palm of a giant hand.

Eli shut off the snowmobile engine and turned to look at Brynne over one broad shoulder. “You doing all right, city girl?” he asked, with a twinkle in those hazel-green eyes of his.

“I’m doing just fine,” Brynne managed, though in truth, she was quite overwhelmed. And quite sure she hadn’t had so much fun since—well, she couldn’t have said exactly when, because she’d been focused on emotional survival for so long, taking the next step, and the one after that, and trying not to look beyond the present moment.

So many feelings, all of them electrified and hopelessly tangled.

Eli swung a leg over the snowmobile and stood, offering Brynne his hand. She took it, rose awkwardly from her seat, stumbled a little and righted herself.

Or, rather, Eli righted her, catching her by her elbows when she fell against his chest. Her legs felt wobbly, as though they might not support her, and Eli’s fingers tightened slightly, as if he’d sensed that.

Time stopped as they stood there, facing each other, and the sweet silence of a fresh snowfall was all around them, something mysterious and holy.

Brynne’s heart pounded, and she hoped Eli would kiss her.

Hoped he wouldn’t.

He didn’t. He just smiled a slight, crooked smile and traced the outline of her right cheek with a gloved thumb.

In that instant, Brynne very nearly kissed him. She felt compelled—not just tempted, but compelled—to throw her arms around Eli’s neck, stand on tiptoe and plant a long, wet smacker right on that expressive mouth of his.

Everything within her seemed to thrum, like the sound of distant drums pounding out some urgent message.

She felt herself blush, and Eli smiled again, as if he knew why.

She, Brynne Bailey, who had sworn off men for the foreseeable future, especially if those men happened to be cops, was as taut as a wire. Her sexuality, in hibernation for so long, rose, stretched and roared within her, like a tigress ready to mate.

More than ready to mate.