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plans, which she followed up by inviting them for an extended visit to
the Bar M to recover from trials, tribulations and shootings.
    An extended visit with Nicholas McGraw suited Star very well.
    Thoughts of him had followed her to Texas: recollections of
his bright eyes and his deep, smooth voice tossing out curse words and sexual
innuendoes without a flicker of shame. A thrill coursed through her veins and
into her belly as she scanned the crowd for sight of him. Because of the
necessity of spending much of their time in Denver planning the wedding, she’d
had but two days at the Bar M after leaving Texas. It had only been enough time
to fuel the fire. Now, halfway through the reception, she was ready to pursue
the reward she’d worked so many hours for: a brief, lust-driven liaison with
Nicholas—hot, exciting and discreet, for surely no liaison could be more
discreet than one carried on fifteen hundred miles from home.
    “Well, Star, I must confess,” someone said at her elbow,
“I’d not have believed it due to the short notice, but you and Port pulled the
thing off, didn’t you? Pity he couldn’t be here to enjoy it.”
    Star turned to smile at Del—Caldwell Huntington. He hated
his given name even more than Port did his. It was one of the few things they
had in common, beyond the fact that their fathers were the best of friends, as
close as brothers. In sentiment, it made the Huntingtons and Montgomerys
cousins.
    “He missed Meredith horribly, and with mother here now, he
felt he should be with her.” Her eyes fell on Del’s wife, Jane, across the
room, a woman of medium height and beauty. “We’re very glad you and Jane could
come.”
    Pain flashed through Del’s dark eyes, followed by a touch of
hope. “I am also. We’ve had our difficulties, but after I returned from San
Francisco, we had several heart-felt discussions. I believe that we’re, at
last, on the path of reconciliation.”
    Star controlled a wince. Del and Jane had had “difficulties”
for the full three years of their marriage. Of course, many marriages had
trouble. Caroline Astor, queen of New York Society, rarely saw her husband, who
spent most of his time aboard his yacht with other woman. As their separations
were quiet and discreet, Society deemed their marriage to be all that was
proper.
    Del’s was not. Del and Jane’s marriage was too often the
talk of the town—of every town up and down the Eastern Seaboard.
    “Well,” she said hesitantly, “coming here was a good start.”
Although now Jane was flirting with Rick Winchester. A better start would be if
Jane—and Del—would suppress their attraction to the opposite sex. Or if Del
would control his lamentable temper, and Jane her penchant for igniting it.
    He glanced at Jane again and his jaw tightened. “At any
rate, that’s not my purpose in seeking you out. I’ve brought some distressing
news with me.” With a deep breath, he turned from Jane, took Star’s elbow and
led her to a chair against a wall. “Take a seat, sugar.”
    Sugar. Del was the only man alive who would address her so.
In their youth he had employed the term to annoy her and then later to attempt
to win her favor. Over the years, however, it had become an expression of
friendly affection.
    She arched an eyebrow. “Take a seat? Del, you must know that
I’m not so paltry as to swoon at the mention of bad news.”
    In the midst of seriousness, his eyes lit up with mischief.
“That’s merely because you refuse to lace your corset so tightly as to cause
loss of breath.”
    She laughed. “Now that comment deserves a slap, Del
Huntington. You ought not to talk to a lady about corsets.”
    “Generally I don’t, unless I’m occupied with removing them.”
    “Or about that, you rogue! Now, pray tell me your dire
news.”
    The amusement melted from his face. “It’s about Isabella
Kingston. My apologies sugar, but she’s dead.”
    The blood drained from Star’s face as she sank into