“It’s very simple, Ainsley,” her mother answered calmly, tapping her Montblanc pen against her leather planner. “You have the perfect man right here, and yet you persist in rejecting his proposals. Go to Wyoming and see the dirty, rough life that waits for you if you don’t make the right choice and marry Edward.”

Her mother tossed her a small manila envelope, decorated with a swirling script and addressed to Ainsley at the Fairfax home. Ainsley narrowed her eyes at her mother’s pointed stare as she caught the envelope and then ripped it open.

Drawing her dark cloak tighter around her, Shallah edged quietly through the throng gathering around him, never taking her gaze from his battered face. Even partly obscured by his matted, bloody hair, she could see his dark eyes were keenly intelligent, dangerously angry…and hauntingly familiar. A snarl curled lips that had they not been cracked and split, would have been full and sensuous.

As she watched him glare defiantly at the mob closing in on him, an echo of a dimly remembered dream tugged at the corners of Shallah’s mind, forgotten images and vague memories she could find no root for.

Then the sight of a woman paralleling his path in the deepening shadows drew his attention. She fled across the rain-soaked valley, her red curls whipping behind her in the breeze like a proud knight’s banner.

“Elizabeth!” Ephraim shouted, resheathing his sword, and dashed for her—the fear they’d soon be caught, cutting short the brief elation.

Bolting through sweet heather, she altered her course in the direction of his voice. Elizabeth, his only reason to live his immortal life.

Damn the clan wars that had kept them apart—but no more.

I tried not to stare, but when his hand slid past her waist and over her hip, I slammed my locker shut and stormed off in the opposite direction. Not that anyone noticed. The problem – not only was I that gorgeous jock’s secret girlfriend, I also had a secret power.

I’m invisible.

OK, not invisible invisible. But, in the not-so-mythical land of Highschoolia where blending in equals obscurity, I rated a negative seven JD on the Jane Doe to Lindsay Lohan visibility scale. I’d be the first to tell you I didn’t mind – well, typically.

Those were good times, but they weren’t enough to erase this.

Mom was gesturing out the windows of our two year old Sedan, the one we’d bought when we still had money, and giving commentary on our new home. She’d gone into her super-mom mode, just like every time she talked to me since her therapy “break through.” She had her happy face on. Pulling into the hotel dad cashed our life in for before getting himself killed, hers was the only face doing the whole bright and shiny thing.

Jackson lowered his hand to his hip, calm assurance enveloping him as his fingers slipped around the worn, wooden grip of a well-oiled Army Colt. Patiently, he waited as the rider guided a handsome Bay straight toward the saddlebags near the fire; the glow from the low flames highlighting expensive leather chaps and a set of Mexican spurs strapped snuggly around dusty, silver-tipped boots. And despite the chill of the encroaching night, his evening caller’s black jacket hung open, revealing a holstered revolver buckled low around a denim-covered hip.

With a smooth dismount, the rider dropped to the ground beside the saddlebags.