“Bear up,” Kyle advised. “The mandatory waltz of the maid of honor and best man will be over in another minute. It can’t come soon enough for me, either.”

He had a wonderful voice, husky and deep and resonant, like twilight and campfire smoke, like distant mountains and the wind through the cottonwoods. A lover’s voice—warm and honey-smooth, with an undercurrent of intimacy shaded into the masculine tones.

But none of that was for her, because she was his enemy, too. Like the Hatfields and the McCoys, their families had been hostile even before the boating incident.

“I beg your pardon?” she said as if she had no idea what he meant. Her tone was calm, not at all in sync with the haunting melancholy inside her.

His lips curled up ever so little at the corners in a knowing smile filled with the acid sting of disdain. “Being forced into my arms appears to be your idea of hell. You’ve sighed three times in the last minute.”

“You overestimate your influence,” she informed him with cool regard. “My sighs have nothing to do with you, only with…life.”

She hated the hesitant note as she searched for a word that sounded innocuous, yet meaningful enough to account for her uncharacteristic moodiness.

Her enemy studied her, his thoughts unreadable in the depths of his gray eyes. A year ahead of her in high school, he’d treated her as if she hardly existed on the occasions they couldn’t avoid each other, such as the Honor Society meetings. Kyle Herriot, football captain, had been vice president, then president when she’d been the treasurer.

Smart. Athletic. All-around hero.

A shiver raced through her, a sinister warning of something she couldn’t name.

Tonight he was incredibly handsome in a white dinner jacket and black pants, a boutonniere of pink-edged golden roses attached to the lapel. His black hair gleamed in the multiple lights of the candles spaced about the patio and rolling lawn.

June in Wind River, Wyoming, was unpredictable, but Mother Nature had chosen to be kind this year, so that the wedding reception could be outdoors rather than in the formal dining hall, cleared for the occasion. The night sky was star-spangled, the air crisp but warm enough for Megan to wear only a silk shawl draped over her long evening gown of golden silk.

Around them, other couples took to the floor, urged by the bride, who called out happy greetings to friends and family members as she danced with her new husband.

The tension eased from Megan’s shoulders as skin-prickling stares shifted to other couples. A Windom in the arms of a Herriot was news in this part of the world.

Kyle led her in an intricate step. He was a wonderful dancer, as firm and decisive as a professional. Once he’d found out she could follow him easily, he’d surprised her with his skill. How odd, to know they clicked effortlessly on the dance floor when their chance meetings were filled with silent accusations and distrust.

Inhaling deeply, she caught the scent of his cologne and the clean smell of balsam shampoo and soap mixed with pine and cedar from the mountains. The aroma of the light floral perfume she wore wafted around them, too.

Confusing sensations swept through her. She was surrounded, surfeited by it all—the evening, the first stars, the beauty of the wedding, the happiness of the bride and groom, the complex emotions of the day coupled with the memories she couldn’t erase and those she couldn’t recall—

“Easy,” the velvet-smooth voice murmured in her ear.

Kyle caught her close as her feet stopped moving, causing them to stumble. She thanked him and tried, really tried, to smile, but her lips trembled with the effort.

“What troubles you?” he asked.

Surprised by the question, she answered honestly. “My father sat out here and cried the night of my mother’s funeral. That was in June, too. Fifteen years ago.”

The words tumbled out, startling her. She hadn’t been consciously aware of them in her mind.

Kyle’s expression hardened, but he said nothing.

“My room is up there.” She nodded toward the window overlooking the patio. “I sat on the window seat and watched him, each of us alone and hurting, but I didn’t go to him. I couldn’t; it was too frightening, listening to my father weep. I’ve always regretted that.”

“You were a child, what, nine, ten?” His tone was rough, not exactly sympathetic, but not hostile toward that child, either.

“Eleven. I’d just turned eleven in May.”