damask silk. The baby grand piano, where she’d practiced endless scales and learned Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” still stood in the corner between the bay window and the pink marble fireplace.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the scents of lemon oil, beeswax, and memory. This house had once belonged to her grandfather, Aunt Miriam’s older brother. Savannah had spent many happy summers here.
Miriam came to a stop beside the oak stairway. “Oh, there you are. I called you to come down five minutes ago,” she said as a dark-headed man of about thirty-five sauntered down to the landing and leaned into the newel post.
He hooked his thumbs through the loops of his Wranglers, lazily crossed one cowboy-booted heel over the other, and assumed the traditional Western pose. Too hard and rangy to belong to the house with its 1940s cabbage rose wallpaper, lace doilies, and china figurines, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a grade-B western.
He gazed at Savannah with a pair of sexy eyes as blue as Bradley Cooper’s, and the corner of his mouth tipped up in a craggy smile. “It’s been a long time,” he said in a twangy drawl.
She blinked a few times, taken by her visceral reaction to his accent. Recognition flashed through her like the Roman candles Granddaddy used to set off on the Fourth of July.
“Cousin Dash,” she said. “You still sound like a Texan.”
Dash’s gaze did a slow circuit of her body, and she felt naked as a jaybird under his intense inspection. “And you’ve grown up some since I saw you last, princess.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m not ten years old anymore.” Granddaddy had called Savannah princess until the day he died, but in Dash’s mouth the word came out as a twisted insult.
“No, I guess not.” His eyes flashed to Todd and back. “And I see you’ve become a momma.”
She turned toward her son. “Todd, this is Cousin Dash. When he was twelve, he put a snake in my bed and blew up my favorite Barbie doll with a cherry bomb. I’m sure he is very sorry for what he did. And I am very—”
“Did the Barbie doll melt?” Todd asked.
Dash chuckled. “As I recall, it blew apart in about a dozen flaming pieces. But yeah, it melted.”
“It was my favorite, Twirly Curls Barbie. And—”
“Cool. What kind of snake did you put in the bed?” Todd asked.
“A garter snake, entirely harmless. Scared your momma to pieces, though. You should have seen her running through the hallway in her baby-doll nightie. It was the—”
“Dash, I really don’t think we have to rerun our entire history for Todd’s benefit, do we?” Savannah said.
“If we’re talking about the past, princess, it’s because you raised the issue.”
Aunt Miriam entered the fray. “I declare you two sound just like you did when you were children. Now both of y’all act like the adults you are and c’mon back to the kitchen and have some dinner. I’ve got one of Jenny Carpenter’s pies. A cherry one, I believe.”
Dash flashed a bright smile in Miriam’s direction. “Yes, ma’am, I will try to behave. But no thank you, ma’am, to the dinner and pie. I have errands to run up at the stable. Aunt Mim, will you be all right if I leave you with Savannah for a little bit?”
“You go on, Dash. I’m fine,” Miriam said.
He nodded to Savannah. “Welcome back,” he said without much enthusiasm. Then he strode toward the front door, his cowboy boots scraping across the oak floor. He stopped at the rack by the door and snagged an old, sweat-stained baseball hat bearing the logo of the Houston Astros. He slapped it down on his head and turned toward Miriam. “Don’t wait up. I’ll probably be late,” he said, then turned toward Savannah. “Princess.” He tipped his hat and headed through the open door.
“Dash, don’t slam—” Miriam’s admonishment was cut off by the loud bang of the front door slamming.
Todd spoke into the silence that followed. “He’s really tight.”
Oh, great. Dash Randall was the last person on earth that Savannah wanted as a role model for her problem child.
“Boy, that was a big mistake,” Dash muttered as he watched the television above the bar. The Atlanta Braves’ pitcher had just served up a meatball, and the batter had clocked it 435 feet.
“Uh-huh. Dash, honey, you want another Coke? You’ve been nursing that one for the better part of an hour now, and it’s mostly water,” said