Texas Pride. Barbara McCauley
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deeply into his lungs. “I don’t see anyone here now.”
She brought her gaze back to his with an intensity that surprised him. “What you see—or don’t see—can be very deceiving, Mr. Grant.”
As she continued to stare at him, Dylan felt as if a weight were pressing on his chest. The air in the room seemed to grow heavy and he found it difficult to breathe. Hannibal stood suddenly, his ears pricked, and started to bark.
The sensation eased, then disappeared. The Texas heat was definitely getting to him, Dylan thought as he drew in a deep breath and stepped to the armoire. “Interesting wardrobe.”
Jessica moved beside him. “They were my great-great-grandmother’s. My mother kept them and everything else here in storage. I still have more furniture, plus several large trunks in my brother’s attic that I haven’t had time to bring here and go through.”
A smile curved Jessica’s lips as she reached out and touched one black silk evening gown. Dylan felt a jolt of electricity move up and down his arm as she stroked the lace sleeve of the dress with her long slender fingers.
Jessica Stone was certainly a surprise. And he didn’t like surprises. He realized that if he was going to be working with this woman, he was going to have to keep his distance.
The hardwood floor creaked beneath his boots as he stepped away from her and glanced around the room. “Is this the only room you’ve restored?”
She shook her head. “The bedroom next door, also, and the connecting bathroom has modern conveniences, plus there’s electricity in the kitchen for the refrigerator. But the only thing I get credit for is the paint. My brothers fought my moving out here every step of the way, but once they knew I couldn’t be swayed, they reluctantly gave in and took over. At least I have indoor plumbing and electricity now.”
Dylan moved to the window and stared down at the empty street. The buildings themselves, though worn and faded with the years, appeared structurally sound. “Exactly what kind of camp are you intending to build here?”
“Maybe youth center is a better description,” Jessica said as she closed the armoire doors. “A place for kids to get away from the problems of modern-day life.”
Frowning, he turned to look at her. “You mean you want to turn this place into a playground for juvenile delinquents?”
Jessica realized that not everyone could understand what she was trying to do here, but she still couldn’t help the irritation that shot through her at this man’s ignorance. She could explain to him how Makeshift had turned her own life around, but she doubted he would understand. It was also none of his business.
“Teenagers need all the help they can get these days. I want to give them a place they can come to if things get rough. Let them know that someone cares. If you have a problem with that concept, I suggest you apply for another job.”
He shrugged. “You can build a bridge here if it makes you happy. One job is like any other to me. It would just seem more practical to sell this land and build something closer to town.”
“This is Stone Creek, Mr. Grant. I wouldn’t consider selling even one acre of what my father has left me, practical or not. Once the review board approves my construction progress in early January, I’ll have my license, and Makeshift will be a legitimate state-approved youth center.”
“And if they don’t approve the progress?” he asked.
“They have to approve it,” she said firmly. Her chest tightened at the very thought that they might not. As if sensing her tension, Hannibal slipped his head under Jessica’s hand.
Dylan folded his arms and leaned against the windowsill. “So when do we start?”
We? Jessica bit back the first answer that came to mind and went with the second, more polite one. “I’m interviewing for the position tomorrow in town. One o’clock at the Bronco Diner in Cactus Flat.” She moved to a nightstand and opened the top drawer. “Fill out this application and we’ll talk then.”
His gaze held hers, and even though he took the form from her, he never once glanced at it. “Shall I get there early to avoid the rush?”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she said dryly, annoyed that he was making fun of her. “Just take a number and be seated.”
He held out his hand. “Until tomorrow, then, Miss Stone.”
Jessica hesitated, then placed her fingers in his palm. The texture of his skin was rough, and she felt a shiver run up her arm. His scent was masculine, the warmth of his touch disarming.
Quickly she pulled her hand away. “Tomorrow, Mr. Grant.”
He pushed away from the windowsill, then bent and rubbed Hannibal’s head. The animal seemed to smile at him. “See ya later, pal.”
Jessica struggled to compose herself as Dylan crossed the room. When he turned abruptly at the doorway, her breath caught.
“I think your brothers are right, Jessica,” he said. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
He turned and left then, whistling a Bob Seger tune. She moved to the window and watched as he walked to his motorcycle and pulled on his helmet. When he glanced up at her, she didn’t even pretend not to be looking. He grinned, then got on his bike and left.
Jessica exhaled sharply. Her knees felt shaky as she sat on the edge of her bed. Hannibal laid his head on her lap.
“Some watchdog you are,” she murmured, absently stroking the animal’s soft fur. “If you could talk, you probably would’ve invited him to dinner.”
Hannibal looked up at her and wagged his tail.
“I’m not hiring him,” she said firmly, taking the dog’s head in her hands and staring into his eyes. “I don’t need any distractions right now, and that man is trouble with a capital T.”
Hannibal whined, then barked softly.
“No.” She shook her head. “I need to concentrate on Makeshift right now. Everyone in my youth group is counting on me. There are too many kids out there who desperately need a place like this. I haven’t time for romantic notions, especially concerning arrogant men who obviously don’t understand the importance of what I’m doing here. Mr. Dylan Grant is going to have to find another job somewhere else.”
Jessica stood, nearly tripping over Hannibal as he circled her knees. She scooted him away, wondering what in the world had gotten into the dog. He’d never acted like this before.
She moved to the window, looking down at the street, and felt the steady beating of her heart. Come to think of it, she’d never acted this way before, either.
All the more reason not to hire the man, she told herself, then turned her attention back to the box of books she’d been unpacking. She lifted one heavy volume on the Old West and smiled. As of one o’clock tomorrow, Mr. Dylan Grant would be like the book in her hand—history.
* * *
“Oh, Lucas, isn’t Mr. Grant wonderful?” Meggie asked as she watched the motorcycle disappear. “He’s absolutely perfect for Jessica.”
Lucas stood in front of the hotel beside Meggie, his arms firmly folded. “I knew a man named Grant once. From Cheyenne. Town hung him for horse stealing.”
“The president of the United States also happens to be named Grant. Or at least he was president.” Meggie put her hands on her hips and faced Lucas. “Anyway, you’re just being overprotective.”
Lucas frowned. “I am not.”
“Oh, really? Then what was that little business in the hotel room when Mr. Grant got a little too close to Jessica? I suppose it was a coincidence he suddenly couldn’t breathe? If Hannibal hadn’t stopped you, you might have hurt the poor man.”