Climbing out of the cab, he spied Tiffany Santini, the widow who owned the place, clipping a few rosebuds from the garden. Tall, with dark hair and eyes, she was pleasant and pretty, the kind of woman who took to mothering like a duck to water. Mason didn’t know much about her, but he liked the way she dealt with her kids—a teenage boy and a girl of three or four.

He waved and she smiled, hoisting a gloved hand as her little girl chased a black cat through the rhododendrons flanking the back porch.

Mason had decided to rent while he was negotiating for a ranch of his own and had chosen this complex over more modern units because he felt more at home in this charming older place, which had a backyard with a play structure that Dee Dee could use whenever she came over.

He walked up the outside stairs, unlocked the door and stepped into his living room. It was sparsely furnished with only the bare essentials. The hardwood floors were begging for throw rugs and the stark walls could have used more than a splash or two of color. But all that would come later—once he’d moved into a permanent place.

At Cawthorne Acres.

For the first time he wondered if his insisting on buying old John out was wise. True, Brynnie had come to him and he’d jumped at the chance to own a spread he’d fallen in love with as a kid, but now, with the old man’s heart condition and Bliss thrown into the picture, he wasn’t so sure that he’d made the right decision.

What was the old saying? Buy in Haste, Regret at Leisure. That was it. He hoped it didn’t apply in his case.

In the kitchen he tossed his keys on the counter and reached for a glass. Pouring himself a stiff shot of bourbon, he tried to erase Bliss and the complications of dealing with her and her father from his mind. But it didn’t work. Ever since seeing her yesterday afternoon and again this morning, he’d thought of her—even made an excuse to give Cawthorne his offer in person so that he could see her again.

Bliss Cawthorne, all grown up. He remembered her as she had been ten years earlier with honey-blond hair and eyes as blue as cornflowers. She’d been a smart mouth at the time, a big-city girl who was pretty and damned well knew it. A dusting of freckles had bridged her nose and she’d been tanned all over from hours of swimming in the river.

Mason had been working for old man Cawthorne, and although all the other hired hands had warned him that the boss’s daughter was off-limits, he hadn’t been able to keep himself away. Which was where all the trouble had begun and ended.

He tossed back a long swallow of his drink and felt the alcohol burn a welcome path down his throat. Why did he torture himself with thoughts of her? Why couldn’t he think of her as nothing more than a love affair gone sour?