Free After Dark by Beverly Barton Page B

creating secluded little tents around their trunks. The one and only time he had ever kissed Lane had been beneath one of these willows.
    Nighttime insects chortled late summertime choruses, the sound blending with the gentle rush of the river. Southern humidity seeped into the skin of man and beast alike, creating a heat within and perspiration on the flesh. Even the buildings weren’t spared the effects of the weather, sweating and moaning and waiting for the relief of autumn.
    As a young man, he had loved summertime. Swimming in the river. Drinking cold beer over at Goodloe’s Tavern. Watching the girls walk by in their short-shorts. Getting all hot and sweaty by heating up the sheets with a willing woman. And watching Lane Noble watching him while he mowed their grass and pruned their hedges. He had usually worked in cutoff jeans and without a shirt, getting himself a dark tan and giving the ladies an eyeful.
    Johnny Mack chuckled. He had been such a cocky SOB. A white trash rounder who hadn’t had sense enough to stay where he belonged. The ladies on Magnolia Avenue had been Off Limits to him, but he hadn’t let that stop him. He had sampled the delights of the rich, pampered, spoiled debutantes—and a few of their mamas, too. But he had drawn the line at bedding Mary Martha because he’d known she might be his half sister. Even a bad boy like him had had his principles, few that they were. And even a guy who had prided himself on screwing his way through the country club set had known true quality when he had seen it, when he’d touched it, when he’d loved it. And in his way, he had loved Lane. God, he had worshiped Lane!
    She had represented everything he had wanted, everything that was good and kind and genteel. Breeding and character and a gentle heart. He had known that she was far too good for the likes of him. But hell, she had been way too good for Kent Graham, too. So why had she married the sorry son of a bitch? The thought of Kent even touching Lane made him sick.
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    With her mind a jumbled mass of confusion, Lane escaped to the rose garden behind the house. She gazed up at the night sky as memories long buried deep in her heart resurfaced. Johnny Mack was back in town! Dear Lord, what was she going to do? She had truly believed that she would never see him again, that he would never return to Noble’s Crossing.
    Will hated Johnny Mack. Kent had seen to that with his vile, vindictive ranting, giving her son the worst possible scenario of Johnny Mack’s life from birth to twenty-one. She had known Kent could be cruel, but until he had tried to destroy Will with his bitter hatred, she hadn’t realized just how cruel her ex-husband could be.
    God forgive her, she had wanted Kent dead. And thoughts of killing him had crossed her mind. But except to protect herself or Will, she never could have taken Kent’s worthless life. But someone else had done the deed for her. Someone who hated Kent even more than she did. Someone who had been pushed over the edge.
    Her greatest fear was that Will had murdered Kent. When she had found her son, dazed and confused, standing over Kent’s body, she had decided then and there that she would protect her child, no matter what the cost to herself. She was as much at fault as Kent or Sharon or Lillie Mae. She had been a perpetrator in the great hoax. Every day of her married life, she had lied to her husband.
    I did it for Will.
    And for yourself, her conscience reminded her. You wanted Johnny Mack’s child. You would have done anything to have prevented Sharon from aborting his baby.
    If only she could go back fifteen years. No, she would have to go back farther than that. Back nineteen years. Back to when she was fourteen. Back to the first moment she laid eyes on Johnny Mack Cahill.
    But what good would going back in time do? Would it change the fact that she had fallen head over heels in love, the way only a young girl