Reckless Heart by Barbara McMahon Page A

return. He spotted some friends at a large table and in no time had Molly seated and introduced. Relieved to see the other women dressed in jeans and shirts as she was, she relaxed and soon was in the middle of the conversation.
    It was a wonderful evening. The men took turns dancing with the women, not letting them sit out any sets. The women were friendly and Molly felt she could develop a strong friendship with one or two. If she were staying, that is.
    When asked what she did, she mentioned she was trying to write a romance novel. Heads turned and the questions and suggestions came fast and furiously. Everyone had a story of their most romantic moment. Some wanted to know what her story was about, others had ideas they wanted to write about one day.
    At one point Molly laughed and waved her hands. “You have to slow down. I can’t hear everyone at once. I wish I had paper and pencil to write down some of these ideas, they’re great.”
    “We’ll each write them down and send them to you. Where do you live?”
    “The Rafter C. I’m the housekeeper there.”
    “Of course, she came with Lance.”
    “I didn’t know housekeepers came so pretty. The one my dad had was old and crotchety,” one cowboy called out, winking at Molly.
    She smiled and basked in the warm friendliness of the group. They were supportive of her dreams and ambitions, not derogatory. They were friendly and helpful and fun to be with. It was so different from what she was used to, she wanted to stay forever.
    The evening ended all too soon when the band played the last song. With promises to meet again ringing in her ears, Molly reluctantly climbed back into Lance’s truck and settled down for the long drive home. She was smiling, humming the last song. The evening had been fun.
    He played country music softly on the radio and conversation between them was desultory. When he turned onto the blacktop drive that led to the house, Molly turned to him.
    “I had a wonderful evening, Lance. Thank you for inviting me.”
    “I’m glad you came. Think you can use any of the suggestions from tonight?”
    She smiled, remembering. “Maybe one or two. I couldn’t believe some of the comments, they were so outrageous. And yet others were so basic—like a simple bouquet of flowers or a home-cooked meal. It was interesting to see what different people found romantic.”
    “What do you find romantic, Molly?”
    She shook her head. “Different things. Flowers are nice.”
    When he pulled into the yard a light shone in the kitchen but the bunkhouse sat in darkness. The night sky blazed with millions of stars, the moon a mere crescent low on the horizon. He killed the engine and sat back.
    “What else, Molly?”
    “I don’t know. In my story I have plans for the heroine to give small gifts to the hero. He’s not used to getting gifts and thinks that is pretty special.”
    “And do you—”
    The passenger door snapped open, the overhead light flooding the cab of the truck.
    “Where the hell have you been?”
    Josh was blazing mad. He leaned into the cab and nailed Lance. “Do you have any idea how late it is?”
    “After two,” Lance replied easily, a smile playing around his lips as he leaned against his door and studied his boss.
    “If you were going out, you could have told me!” Josh said to Molly, reaching in to unfasten her seat belt.
    “What I want or don’t want to do on my hours off is none of your business,” she said, slapping his hands away and letting the belt slide free. When he reached for her arm, she slapped at him again. “Don’t touch me!”
    She turned to Lance, annoyed to find his amusement so blatant. “Thank you again.”
    “Good night, Molly. Sleep well.” He trailed a finger down her cheek.
    Josh stood by her door, ramrod straight, anger roiling off him in waves.
    Molly avoided touching him as she walked to the house, her head held high.
    He walked beside her like a guard.
    “Where were the two of you?” he