When Bandit and Smoky were back inside, settled on their beds by the stove, he made his way to the large master bedroom, remodeled at Jenna’s insistence; she’d dug in her stiletto heels right away and said she wasn’t about to settle for a bunch of old folks’ furniture or those musty curtains in her bedroom. Or that positively dreadful wallpaper.

A besotted bridegroom at the time, Cord had hired the appropriate contractors and given her free rein.

That was bad idea number two. Nobody’s fault but his own, since he’d agreed to it. Bad idea number one: marrying her in the first place.

Thanks to Jenna, and his own wimpy agreement to changes he’d never wanted, the once-homey space was barely recognizable as the room his grandparents had slept in for nearly sixty years. Gone were the heirloom quilts and the samplers Mimi had embroidered, along with the matched pair of rocking chairs as well as the potbellied stove that had kept them toasty warm on cold Montana nights.

Now everything in the bedroom was high-tech, from the lighting to the gas fireplace, velvet-soft carpeting and designer drapes. When it came to decorating—not to mention spending money, his money—Jenna had been in a league all her own.

Not content with the spacious accommodations at the end of the hall, she’d had a wall knocked out and turned Mimi’s beloved sewing nook into a bathroom suited to a movie star. She’d had that formerly humble chamber fitted with a massive marble bathtub, his and her johns, and a counter almost as long as the bar at Sully’s, with a backlit mirror running the length of it. The sinks were marble, like the tub and the floor, and sported gleaming copper fixtures, the gracefully arched faucets perfectly positioned to smack a man hard on the forehead every time he bent to splash water on his face or spit while brushing his teeth.

Even now, with Jenna long gone, living in Brooklyn and remarried to a rich lawyer almost twice her age, Cord felt like a squatter in both rooms, as if he were bunking down in somebody’s palace on the sly, or had sneaked into some obscenely expensive hotel without paying. A part of him expected to be found out and sent packing at any moment.

Tonight, though, he appreciated the space-age shower stall, big enough to hold a crowd, for its multiple sprayers, strategically arranged to strike whole muscle groups at the same time, thus working the knots out of a cowboy’s weary, banged-up carcass with well-aimed blasts of steaming hot water.

He stripped, stepped into the shower, turned the copper-and-crystal handles, and took his time lathering up and rinsing off. The water pummeled him from all directions, and he stood there for a good fifteen minutes, letting it pound him into some semblance of relaxation.