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parked on his nose while submerged in the story. She fingered the words on the sleek cover.
    Earlier, when she had asked him what he was reading, he said, “It’s a book about a solider in the Civil War. I like historical books. What kind of books do you like?” There he was again—looking into her eyes while waiting for a response as if her opinion mattered.
    Margie was most taken aback by the question and the way his beautiful compassionate eyes always probed hers. Dropping her gaze, she searched her mind. Unbeknownst to her father, some of her mother’s old paperbacks were still in a box in the corner of the basement.
    “I like the ones with the good-looking guys holding the pretty girls on the front,” she blurted out.
    Scott’s eyes fell into a squint. “Do you mean romance-type books?”
    “Ummm, yep, those are the ones,” she lied. “You seem pretty smart, Scott. What are you still doing here? Why didn’t you go on to college instead of mucking stalls and living in the trailer park?”
    He studied her for a moment before lifting a shoulder. “Mom didn’t have the money to send me to school. No one from our family ever went to college. Everyone worked here at the track at one time or another. Then when mom got sick—Well, I had to stick around. It’s okay. It all worked out.” He returned to his book.
    She felt bad for him. He was stuck with Keystone Downs—the same way she was.
    She picked up the left-behind book and perused the pages. Her eyes narrowed. She recognized a word here or there. Easy words like: to, the, and, it, and horse . She knew that word well, that was a word that was on almost every sign around the racetrack, “horse”. But the rest she couldn’t decipher. Wishing she could, she shrugged. She replaced the book on the bucket and shuffled back to the bale of straw, and pile of dirty bridles.
    Charlie Rich crooned, “ Behind closed doors ...” Sighing, she submitted to hum along as if she had a choice in the matter.
    The early evening sunshine sliced into the barn when the door creaked open. The backwash of bright light provided only the silhouette of a man standing in the threshold. His broad shoulders eased down through his slender hips. “Hey, Margie, what’s going on?” Mike West’s voice carried like a song down the aisle.
    Her face lit-up. She pitched the rag to the floor, brushed back a frock of hair from her eyes, and wiped her hands on her cruddy jeans. “Hi, Mike. What brings you by?” She tried to smother a nervous giggle.
    “Coco’s horses.” He walked down the aisle to perch his boot on the bale next to her.
    Margie’s face drooped. Her shoulders slumped. She snatched up the rag and returned to her chore. Coco Beardmore, no freaking kidding. “My father ain’t here, and I don’t know when he’ll be back,” she said with a cool, clipped tone.
    “I was hoping you could help me,” he said with an easy smile.
    Stopping in mid-chore, she peered at him askance. “With what?”
    “How smart is that big grey gelding, Charlatan?”
    Margie sighed. After contemplating Mike’s question, and his gorgeous, piercing hazel eyes for a moment; she tossed the rag to the floor with a disgusted groan.
    Oh, it isn’t him. It’s me, and the fact that I can’t help myself. True, Mike West would never give me the time of day unless he needed something. Why should he? Look at him, just look at him, he’s fabulous. What’s wrong with Ava West? Carrying on with other men the way she does. If I had Mike, I’d never look at another man.
    She stood up. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”
    Following her toward the stable office, he glanced down with surprise at her attractive figure. She was slender and tall. Her ripped jeans resembled the designer label called hard freaking work , but they clung to her tight shapely buttocks. He noticed the startling gentle sway of her hips when she walked.
    She stopped abruptly at the office door and turned to him. Suddenly nose-to-nose with