Monty hadn’t broken her heart. He’d made her furious. Still, he wasn’t the one who’d emptied out her bank accounts, and she knew she’d overreacted when she’d attacked him. She and Monty had barely been lovers for two weeks before she’d known she’d rather have him as a friend and she’d permanently kicked him out of her bed. They had common interests, and despite his self-centeredness, she’d generally enjoyed his company. They’d hung out together, gone to movies and galleries, supported each other’s work. She’d known he could be overly dramatic, but his frantic phone calls from Denver had alarmed her.

“I wasn’t ever in love with him,” she said. “I don’t do love. But we watched out for each other, and he sounded more upset every time he called. I started worrying that he’d really kill himself. Friends are important to me. I couldn’t turn my back on him.”

“Friends are important to me, too, but if one of mine was in trouble, I’d hop on a plane instead of packing up and moving.”

She jerked a rubber band from her pocket and snared her hair back into its disheveled ponytail. “I was planning to leave Seattle anyway. Just not for Rawlins Creek.”

They passed a sign advertising sheep for sale. She mentally sorted through her closest friends, trying to find someone she could hit up for a loan, but they all had two things in common. Warm hearts and abject poverty. Brinia’s newborn had scary medical problems, Mr. Grey could barely scrape by on his Social Security, Mai hadn’t recovered from the fire that had wiped out her studio, and Tonya was backpacking in Nepal. Which left her dependent on a stranger. It was her childhood all over again, and she hated the too-familiar fear she felt building inside her.

“So, Beav, tell me about yourself.”

“I’m Blue.”

“Sweetheart, if I had your dubious taste in men, I wouldn’t be too happy, either.”

“My name is Blue. Blue Bailey.”

“Sounds phony.”

“My mother was a little depressed the day she filled out my birth certificate. I was supposed to be Harmony, but a riot had broken out in South Africa, and Angola was a mess…” She shrugged. “Not a good day to be a Harmony.”

“Your mother must have quite a social conscience.”

Blue gave a rueful laugh. “You might say.” Her mother’s social conscience had led to Blue’s currently empty bank account.

He tilted his head toward the rear of the car. She noticed a tiny hole in his earlobe. “Those art supplies I put in the trunk…,” he said. “A hobby or an occupation?”

“Occupation. I do portraits of children and pets. Also some murals.”

“Isn’t it a little tough to build up a clientele moving around like you do?”