The Rancher's Dream. Kathleen O'Brien

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      She thought fast. What was the secret tunnel into Becky’s psyche? Everyone had one. Even Crimson’s twin sister, Clover, had had one.

      Unfortunately for Clover, Crimson had known exactly what it was and how to exploit it. If she hadn’t, Clover might be alive today.

      But she wouldn’t let herself think about that right now. Back to Becky.

      What was Becky’s secret tunnel? She’d just demonstrated she wouldn’t flinch from the prospect of pain. Crimson tapped her fingers on the table, eyeing the girl thoughtfully. Vanity, maybe?

      Might work. The girl’s skin was almost flawless, and her one scar, a small, starry patch of white in the center of her forehead, was mostly buried under several layers of thick foundation. She obviously hated that scar.

      “You look like someone who takes good care of your body.” Crimson smiled. “You eat healthy. Work out, right?”

      Becky nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

      “So...think how hard you work to keep your skin so pretty. You don’t let it burn in the sun, and you don’t let it break out or get dry or freckle. You don’t want scars or cellulite...”

      Becky was frowning again. The thoughtful furrow on her brow creased around the tiny white scar, giving Crimson hope.

      “So are you sure you want to mark it up with permanent ink?” Crimson turned to the back of the portfolio, where she kept her secret pictures, the ones designed to scare the bejeezus out of innocents like Becky. “See this? This is what’s left when you have the tattoo removed. I mean, it’s not awful, but it’s certainly not as pristine as your skin is now.”

      She let that sink in a minute before lowering her voice. “I always feel terrible when women come in to get their tattoos removed because they’ve finally found the right guy, the guy they want to marry and spend the rest of their lives with, and they don’t want the constant reminder about Rory...” She waved her hand to make the statement more vague. “Or whoever.”

      She was taking a chance here. She was banking on having read this Rory character correctly—and she was counting on Becky being smart. Her instincts told her Becky knew, if only subconsciously, that she’d never walk down the aisle with Rory, and didn’t really want to, anyhow.

      For a minute, as Becky remained poker-faced, Crimson thought she’d miscalculated. But then Becky closed the portfolio slowly.

      “Yeah, maybe I’d better think about it some more.” She scraped back her chair and stood. “I’m sorry. I feel bad I took so much time, and then didn’t even—”

      “Don’t feel bad.” Crimson stood, too. “I think you’re making the right decision.” Impulsively, driven by some unnamed instinct, she grabbed one of her business cards and held it out. “And listen, if you ever...if you ever need anything...”

      The girl looked confused. Well, of course she was confused. Crimson wasn’t sure why she had said that, either. Except...her gut told her Rory was not a good guy.

      Becky took the card, glanced down at the odd name, Crimson Slash—the name Crimson had adopted when she took the Needles ’N Pins job. Crimson’s cell number was on it, too. This was the card she gave only to her regular, trusted clients.

      Becky didn’t react, simply shoving it into her jeans pocket. She cast a doubtful glance toward the door, as if she were afraid her boyfriend might saunter in now and force her to get the tattoo after all. “If Rory comes...”

      Crimson smiled. “If Rory comes, I’ll explain you got called away.”

      “Yeah.” Becky nodded. “Yeah, that’s good.” She started to offer to shake hands, but clearly decided that didn’t make sense and settled for a wave and a smile as she hurried out the door.

      Relieved, Crimson sank back onto her chair.

      “Not so fast, Doctor Freud.”

      She looked up. It was Pete, all six foot four inches of him, standing in the spot where Becky had just been. His gloved hands were fisted on his hips, which accentuated the fact that he’d rushed over in the middle of Butchie’s tattoo.

      “Pete, please don’t give me a hard time about this.”

      She wasn’t in the mood. She’d have quit this job ten times during the past few weeks if she could just decide where to go next. If she could just get up the courage to leave Silverdell. “She would have regretted it before she got home, and then there would have been hell to pay.”

      “Hell I can handle. But employees who chase off the customers...that I can’t afford.” To her surprise, Pete’s brown eyes seemed to hold an undercurrent of sadness. “Clear out your locker, Red. You’re fired.”

      * * *

      ACTUALLY, IT WAS perfect timing. She’d been planning to meet Grant Campbell for lunch at Donovan’s Dream, at noon, anyhow. Grant had given Kevin a lift into town for a meeting, which meant he’d probably be bringing Molly, Kevin’s baby.That was all the consolation Crimson could ask for. At six months, Molly was a dream, warm and loving and absolutely adorable.

      And if Crimson was leaving Silverdell soon, she was glad of every minute she could get with the baby.

      It didn’t take her long to pack up.

      She always traveled light and didn’t have much to clear out. The plate of cookies, her tea mug, her purse and a couple of spare black T-shirts she kept in case she spilled something...that’s all she’d ever moved into the shop, even after a year.

      She dumped her portfolio in Pete’s trash can, where it hit bottom with a thud. A swoosh of relief moved through her as she realized she wouldn’t ever need it again. However much she loved Pete, she wasn’t a tattoo artist. This job had only been an attempt to leave behind the old Crimson, the “real” Crimson, who would have been happier in a restaurant or a kitchen, or waiting tables, or anything that involved food.

      At the last minute, Pete came out to the car and hugged her awkwardly. His droopy brown eyes made him look like a basset hound with indigestion, and she patted his shoulder as if he were the one who’d been fired, not her.

      “Damn it, Red,” he said thickly, “if you’d just behave yourself—”

      “But I won’t. You know that.”

      He shoved his hands into his pockets. Glancing at the sky, which was as lumpy and gray as a pad of old steel wool, he sighed. “Look, it’s going to rain. Why don’t you come on back inside? We can talk it over.”

      She shook her head, smiling. He was so softhearted, poor guy, and he’d been good to give her a job sterilizing his equipment when she didn’t have a single reference, or a single day’s experience. She didn’t want him to agonize over this.

      “It’s okay, Pete,” she said. “It’s time. Past time. I needed a nudge.”

      He squinted as a few fat drops of rain splatted against his cheeks. “Maybe. Hell, at least don’t be a stranger. Come see me sometime. If you ever decide to get that tattoo we’ve been talking about, it’s on the house.”

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