that time or distance was going to change the way he felt.
She'd been little more than fifteen when he'd first recognized her as a woman. Until then she'd been a pesky kid. Living next door, so to speak, Trey had dealt mostly with Dillon, Jenny's father.
He remembered the day he'd realized she was a woman. He'd driven over to talk to her father about one thing or another and gone into the barn. Jenny had been there, grooming her filly and practicing her lines for a school play, when he'd stumbled upon her by accident. Without missing a beat, she'd continued with a flawless delivery. She'd ended her soliloquy by dramatically throwing herself into his arms, then leaning back and planting the back of her hand against her forehead. Less than a second passed before she'd recovered from her death, leaped upright, and asked him what he'd thought of her performance.
What he'd saw, Trey realized now, was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Until that moment Trey had thought of Jenny as a kid. But it hadn't been a child he'd held in those few moments.
Trey had scowled and muttered something about needing to talk to Dillon. Then for the next several years he'd waited impatiently for Jenny to grow up so he could court her. Three long, torturous years. It hadn't been easy watching her date one young buck after another. Nor had he liked her riding over to tell him about her dates and seeking his advice.
Trey suspected Jenny's parents knew how he felt about their daughter. But if they did, neither one said anything to him, and for that he was grateful.
By the time Jenny entered community college, she was dating one particular young man, and it looked for a time as if the two of them might be growing serious. More than once Trey had thought to go to her with his heart on his sleeve and tell her the way he felt.
This happened shortly after his parents had died, one after the other, within a nine-month period, and he was struggling financially. Dealing with his family's estate had drained his ready cash. Unfortunately this was about the same time that beef prices had plummeted. While he was fighting off the banks and barely holding his head above water financially wasn't the time to be asking a woman to be his wife.
By the time he felt he had something to offer Jenny, she'd made the decision to leave Montana for New York.
Trey remembered that Jenny's family had thrown a big going-away party for her. Trey couldn't force himself to attend. He knew if he let her leave, there was a good chance he'd never see her again, at least not the Jenny he knew. New York would change her. New York would make her into one of those sophisticated women who carried their dogs under their arms while they went clothes shopping.
Letting Jenny leave Montana was a testament of how much he loved her. His love couldn't compete with her dreams. The bright lights of Broadway was her destiny. He was a cattle rancher with damn little to offer someone as talented as Jenny Lancaster.
At the last minute, Trey had stopped by the ranch and managed to wish her his very best. He remembered he'd said something corny about her breaking her leg in New York. Then he'd stood with her family and waved good-bye.
She'd driven off with her friends and taken his heart with her.
Afterward, Trey had gone home and gotten soundly drunk.
The first year after she'd left had been the worst. He'd made a dozen or more excuses to visit the Lancasters and ask about her. He'd been tempted to write her but had promised himself he wouldn't. She was out of his life now and would soon be a big shot on Broadway.
Only it hadn't happened quite like that. By the second Christmas she was away, he'd been semisuccessful in pushing the memory of her to the back of his mind. He still asked about her occasionally and was surprised to learn that her name wasn't lighting up any marquees. It was then that he'd begun to hope Jenny would throw in the towel and move home to lick her wounds.
It was the small quiver in her voice when he'd phoned that had first alerted Trey to the fact that something was wrong. He hadn't been able to put his finger on it. After all this time, he didn't expect