Heat of the Moment by Lori Handeland Page B

only lead to a much, much bigger mistake. Sleeping with him. And that would be a lot harder to forget than a mere kiss.
    â€œMere.” There’d been nothing “mere” about it. Not now. Not then. Not ever.
    The thunderous swoosh of my shoes through the ankle-deep fallen leaves seemed to announce my presence even louder than Moose had.
    The door wasn’t locked. Never was. No one got past that dog.
    A steaming cup of coffee sat on the table. At Moose’s first bray Pam Carstairs would have glanced out the window and seen that someone was coming. She would have stayed at that window until she knew just who. I had seconds before the questions began.
    Where had I been? What had I done? Whose truck had I arrived in?
    I sat at the table and slurped from my cup as if I’d been lost in the desert and just found an oasis. Sometimes coming home felt like that. My mother’s coffee definitely tasted as good as clear spring water after a long summer’s drought. No matter how hard I tried to replicate it, I’d never been able to.
    â€œWhat’s new, baby girl?”
    I hadn’t been a baby for years, and I wasn’t “the” baby, but Mom had always called me that, and I let her. I liked it. Mostly because it annoyed Mellie. Her nickname was “squirt.” Drove her bonkers, which meant that the boys and I called her that as often as we could.
    â€œTwin calves at Watley’s,” I said between slurps. “Heifers.”
    â€œNice.” She began to line her cast-iron skillet with thick strips of bacon. First came the sizzle, then came the scent, and I wanted to lick the air the way Moose did whenever he smelled it. Seriously, what wasn’t better with bacon?
    Chocolate? Yes. Lettuce? Hell, yes. Ice cream? Bizarrely, yes.
    I refilled my cup. At this rate, I’d have to start another pot before Dad and the boys came in for breakfast. Wouldn’t be the first time.
    â€œEmerson called here.”
    Just as I’d thought.
    â€œDid that woman get hold of you too?”
    â€œWhat woman?”
    â€œDidn’t leave her name.”
    I lifted my eyebrows. That didn’t usually stop my mother from knowing who any local caller was. And tourists didn’t call my parents’ house.
    â€œWeird,” I murmured.
    â€œShe was. Asked why you weren’t at home or at work, demanded where she could find you.”
    â€œWhat’d you tell her?”
    â€œThat I had no idea. People that rude can take their business elsewhere.”
    Since I’d never heard from her, she no doubt had.
    I leaned against the counter and watched my mother work. She’d done this dance every morning for the past thirty years. The particulars might vary. Sausage instead of bacon. Eggs instead of waffles. Some days brought pancakes, others toast. Ham or hash? Who knew? But that skillet was always sizzling, and the kitchen smelled like heaven.
    Which meant it smelled like home.
    â€œWas that Owen in the truck?”
    She’d been able to see him in the cab of the truck from a hundred yards away? My mom had always had the eyes of a hawk. When combined with the ears of a bat and a nose that probably detected as good as Reggie’s she’d been a terrific mother. Still was.
    I took another sip of coffee, swallowed, then took another while I decided what to tell her. I would have preferred to skip how I’d run into Owen. She didn’t need to hear about the animals and the altar.
    Except this was Three Harbors. She probably already had. Which explained how she knew Owen had been in the truck.
    Grapevine, not spidey sense.
    She let out an impatient huff.
    â€œYes,” I blurted. “Owen.”
    If she peered at me just right I’d spill everything in my head. I wanted to avoid that as much now as I had when I was a kid.
    She continued turning the bacon slices one by one. “It’s unfortunate that he’s back in town at the same time