Mason closed his eyes. Blackness threatened the edges of his vision, but still he saw Bliss’s gorgeous face. Cawthorne was right; he’d nearly killed her. If the old man hadn’t shown up when he did, if he’d lost his grip only seconds earlier, if he hadn’t followed her to the cliff . . . He swallowed and realized with an impending sense of doom that he had no choice.

“Well?”

Bliss, oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m so damned sorry. He felt more broken and battered than his injuries and realized that it was his soul that had been destroyed.

Through cracked lips, he agreed. “Yeah, Cawthorne,” he finally mouthed, his insides rebelling at the very thought of giving her up. He skewered the older man with a glare of pure hatred. “We’ve . . . we’ve got a deal.”

* * *

Now, ten years later, at that particular thought his stomach turned sour and he tossed the dregs of his drink into a straggly-looking fern positioned near the window.

So Bliss was finally returning to Bittersweet. With that little bit of knowledge, he knew that his painful bargain with Cawthorne was over. Though he should leave her alone, pretend that what had happened between them was forgotten, he couldn’t.

He’d returned to Bittersweet with a single purpose: to gain custody of his daughter and provide a stable life for her. He shouldn’t let anything or anyone deter him. Especially not Bliss Cawthorne. But there was that little matter of Cawthorne’s ranch. Mason had always loved the place despite a few bad memories. Now, as luck would have it, he had a chance of owning it, maybe settling down with his kid and hopefully finding the peace that had eluded him for most of his life.

Except that he was going to see Bliss again, and that particular meeting promised to be about as peaceful as fireworks on the Fourth of July.

* * *

“I should have my head examined,” Bliss muttered.

Oscar, her mutt of indiscernible lineage, thumped his tail on the passenger seat of her convertible as they raced down the freeway five miles over the speed limit. The radio blasted an old Rolling Stones tune as the road curved through the mountains of southern Oregon.

Oscar, tongue lolling, black lips in a smile that exposed his fangs, rested his head on the edge of the rolled-down side window. His gold coat ruffled in the wind and sparkled in the sun under a cloudless sky.

Bliss tapped out the beat of “Get Off My Cloud” on the steering wheel and wished she’d never agreed to this lunacy. What was she going to do in the town where she’d been so hurt, meeting half-sisters and a bevy of steprelatives she hadn’t known existed, and watching as her father, foolish old man that he’d become overnight, walk down the aisle with his mistress.

“Unreal,” she muttered as Mick Jagger’s voice faded and the radio crackled with static.

Oscar didn’t seem to care. He was up for the adventure. His brown eyes sparkled with an excitement Bliss didn’t share, and with a red handkerchief tied jauntily around his neck, he looked ready for ranch life.