Thinking only to soothe him, Megan began singing the old Patsy Cline hit, which was part of her stage act—one of the songs Lacy had sung at last year’s Christmas Ball.

“ ‘I go out walkin’ . . . ’”

* * *

A door slammed open in Conner’s memory. His hands clutched the steering wheel of the Jeep. That song. That voice—the husky, sexy timbre of it . . .

Was he losing his mind?

Dry mouthed, he listened as he drove into town. There could be no mistaking that voice. It belonged to the goddess in the high-heeled boots and leather jacket, the woman with long black hair, flashing eyes, and dark red lips—the dream woman he’d been pining for, ever since last year’s Cowboy Christmas Ball.

What was going on here?

Ahead, he saw the sign for the clinic. The singing stopped as he turned onto the side street and swung the Jeep into the parking lot.

“We’re here, Daniel,” Megan said. “This is the clinic.”

Conner climbed out of the Jeep and went around to help Megan with her brother. Had he only imagined that sexy voice he’d heard, and the song? Or was there an even more mind-blowing explanation for what had just happened?

But the answers to those questions would have to wait. Right now, he had more urgent concerns.

The clinic was open and not too busy. The receptionist took Daniel’s information from Megan and ushered them back to an exam room. Conner had expected to wait out front, but Daniel, pale and in pain, had insisted that he come along. “I’ll be braver with you there, Conner,” he’d said.

So Conner found himself sitting in a corner of the exam room, with Daniel sitting on the edge of the table in a cotton gown and Megan hovering around him while they waited for the doctor to walk in.

Megan’s preoccupation with her brother gave Conner a chance to study her. What he saw only deepened the puzzle.

Was the woman of his dreams really Megan?

In his memory, the stunning singer had been tall. Megan wasn’t petite, but she was no taller than average. Then again, the singer had been wearing boots with high stiletto heels. That could explain the illusion of height. Makeup could have glamorized her face. And that wavy, luxuriant mane of black hair—yes, it could’ve been a wig.

He watched Megan as she sponged Daniel’s face with a damp paper towel and brought him water in a paper cup. She was an amazing woman, he conceded—compassionate, capable, smart, and independent. But if his hunch was correct—and nothing else made sense—the lady had been hiding one very big secret.

He could ask her, Conner mused. Get her alone, back her into a corner, and demand to know the truth.

But what would be the fun in that—especially if she never spoke to him again?