“What are you writing?” he asked.

She couldn’t quite come out of the scene he’d interrupted. She turned slowly, her eyes blank as she tried to bridge the gap from fantasy to reality.

He came into the room, hands in his pockets, and frowned as he noticed the book on her desk. “Hey, I’ve read that book,” he said, picking up the copy of SPECTRE. “It’s really great!”

“Thanks,” she said without thinking. And then she flushed wildly as she realized what she’d done.

He didn’t notice her consternation. He was looking at the author’s page on the back flap, the one that had a picture of Mina on it. “Willow Shane,” he murmured. He looked at Mina with sudden realization. “That’s you?” he exclaimed.

She ground her teeth together. “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

“Well!” He let out a breath and laughed. “One of my sons bought it for his wife, and she went crazy over it. She shared it with her readers club and even sent copies to friends all over the country.”

“I’m very flattered,” she said, and meant it.

“So you knit and ranch and write books.” He beamed. “You know, my wife always wanted to write a book.” He trailed off. “She’s a good woman. Better than I deserved. I cheated on her because she paid more attention to her family than she did to me. Her brother had just died of cancer and her family was grieving. I was an idiot.” He smiled sadly. “Now I’ve lost her, and she’s the first woman I ever really loved, except for my first wife.”

She saved her work and got up from the desk. “Want to talk about it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Well, yes.”

“Come on downstairs. Chaca’s gone, but I can make coffee.”

He smiled. “Okay.”

HE TOLD HER all about his wife, Sandra, and their explosive meeting.

“I was sitting on the beach and she tripped over me,” he recalled, his dark eyes soft with memory. “She was all apologies, and I looked into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. I was hooked at once. She didn’t know that I was wealthy. Kind of like you, with my son,” he added with a smile. “She fell in love with a businessman. We got married and I brought her to Latigo. I thought she was going to faint. She’d worked as a newspaper reporter on a small weekly paper, but she was a stringer for one of the bigger papers in Vermont near her home. She was a good writer.” He paused. “She wanted to write a novel, but she didn’t think she had the talent.”

“Most of us who write just sit down and get on with it,” she said wistfully. “I never had great talent, but I was persistent and I had friends who believed in me. They pushed me to send a manuscript off to a publisher.” She sighed. “It took a few false starts, but I finally sold a book. SPECTRE is actually my fourth novel, but it’s the one that’s getting all the attention. It’s on the USA Today list and climbing, and it just made the New York Times list.” She looked at him worriedly. “I’ve got to go on tour week after next…”