Lottie Graham approached
the entrance to Barclay’s Mercantile and two women gossiping in its shadow
flattened themselves against the weathered board and batten, whisking
their skirts tightly against their legs as though fearful of contamination
from the slightest contact with Crazy Lottie.
Turning a hard stare
upon them she charged, unseeing, through the open door of the Mercantile
and jostled hard against someone entering from the other side.
"I beg your ..." She
looked up, the apology dying on her lips, as she gazed into eyes as blue
as the Irish sea. Eyes that could fill with passion and darken to the
deepest hue of midnight. Eyes she had dreamed of for ten long years. The
room began to whirl about her, the floor tilting up at a bizarre angle,
the shelves seeming to buckle and heave before her eyes.
"Ma’am?" The Irish
lilt was right but the voice was too deep.
She stared at the
stranger. He was the right height, about six feet, but he had broader
shoulders than the man she remembered. The blue eyes looked out from a
more rugged face and there was no smile to curve the wide mouth. She had
been mistaken. The room took on its proper form and her heart died within
her .... again.