The Loner's Guarded Heart. Michelle Douglas
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life instead of putting it off, then she could get on with living that life and leave this awful place behind. Marty and Frank would forgive her for curtailing her holiday if she came up with a plan.
At the top of the page she wrote: ‘What do I want to do with my life?’ Her mind went blank, so she added an exclamation mark, in brackets.
Familiar doubts and worries flitted about her. She swallowed and tried not to panic. She was looking at this all wrong. She should break it down into smaller, more manageable bits. Skills. She should list her skills.
1—Assistant in Nursing certificate. 2—She could give bed baths. 3—She could measure out medicines. 4—She could coax a difficult patient to eat. 5—
No. No. No.
She slammed the pen to the table. She didn’t want to do those things any more. There had to be other things she could do. She had to have at least one talent that could steer her towards a new vocation. Take her brothers. Frank had a great head for figures, which made him a successful accountant. Marty had great spatial abilities, which was why he was an architect. She had…?
Nothing.
Her shoulders sagged. She couldn’t think of one single thing she had a talent for. Except looking after sick people, dying people. Fear clogged her throat. She couldn’t do that. Not any more. She’d loved her father dearly, missed him terribly, and she didn’t regret one single day she’d spent looking after him. But…
She couldn’t take on another dementia patient. She couldn’t watch another person die.
She leapt up and started to pace. The grey drabness of the cabin pressed in against her. The only splashes of colour were the labels on her groceries. Her gaze drifted across them, paused on the packet cake mix that, for some reason, she’d thrown in. What? Did she think she’d be giving tea parties? Her laugh held an edge that earned her a low bark from Molly.
She’d love to give a tea party. A sigh welled up inside her. She chewed her bottom lip and cast another glance at the cake mix. She could cook it up for Kent.
As a thank-you for last night’s bottle of wine.
Maybe he’d even invite her to stay and share it. She chewed her bottom lip some more. She wanted to find out what made him tick, what made him so strong. She wanted to be more like that. She put her list away and reached for a mixing bowl.
Kent rubbed his hands together as he waited for the tea to brew. With his chores done, he could kick back and enjoy the fading golden light of the afternoon, his favourite time of day.
The cattle were fed and watered. He ran a herd small enough to manage on his own. And between them, the cattle and the cabins, they kept him busy enough through the days.
The nights, though…
The nights nothing!
A knock sounded on his back door. He swung around. Josie?
It had to be. He rarely had visitors out here, which was the way he liked it. He wasn’t a sociable man. He thought he’d made that plain to her this morning.
Guilt wormed through him. He scowled at the teapot.
Maybe she’d come to return the key and tell him she was leaving? His jaw clenched. Good. She could drive off into the sunset. He didn’t care. No skin off his nose.
‘Kent?’ She knocked again.
He bit back a string of curses and strode out to answer the door. The sharp remark on his lips died when he found her standing on the bottom step with a frosted chocolate cake in her hands and a hopeful expression in her gold-flecked eyes.
Damn.
‘Hello.’ She smiled, or at least her lips gave the tiniest of upward lifts.
He grunted in reply. Things inside him shuffled about and refused to settle into place.
She’d recently showered and damp hair curled around her shoulders. It gleamed in the last shaft of sunlight that touched his house for the afternoon, and he could pick out more shades of brown than he thought possible for one person to possess. Everything from light honeyed brown all the way through to rich walnut.
And not a mouse in sight.
She smelled fresh and fruity. Not run-of-the-mill apples and oranges either, but something more exotic. Like pineapple and…cucumber? She smelt like summer nights on the beach.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat on a beach. Or when he’d last wanted to. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten chocolate cake either. He tried to stop his mouth from watering.
She thrust the cake towards him. ‘This is for you.’
He had no option but to take it. ‘Why?’ His eyes narrowed. He didn’t trust the sensations pounding through him and he didn’t trust her either.
Her gaze darted behind him into the house. She moistened her lips when she met his gaze again. ‘I, umm—’
‘You want to use the phone again?’ Typical woman. Couldn’t be without—
‘No.’ She drew herself up. ‘It’s a thank-you for last night’s bottle of wine.’
He’d known he’d end up regretting that bottle of wine. He stared at her. She had a pointy little chin that stuck out when indignant. He wanted to reach out a finger and trace the fine line of her jaw.
He darn well didn’t! He shoved the cake back at her. ‘I don’t want it.’
She took a step back and blinked. Then amazingly she laughed. ‘Wrong answer, Mr Black; you’re supposed to say thank you.’
Shame bore down on him. There was a world of difference between unsociable and downright rude. Jeez. ‘You’re right.’ He dragged his free hand down his face. ‘I’m sorry.’ He pulled in a breath and tried to gulp back hasty words clamouring for release. ‘You better call me Kent.’
He couldn’t grind back the rest of his words either.
‘I’ve just made a pot of tea. Would you like to join me?’
The gold flecks in her eyes lit up. ‘Yes, please.’
Josie wanted to run from Kent’s scowl. Then she remembered the only place she could run to was her cabin. Her bleak, lonely cabin. She gulped back her trepidation and followed him into the kitchen.
She wrinkled her nose as she glanced around. Definitely a bachelor’s pad—no frills, no colour, next to no comfort. A woman wouldn’t put up with this.
She glanced at Kent. She had a feeling he wouldn’t give two hoots what a woman thought.
A large wooden table dominated the room. That was about all she’d taken in yesterday when she’d made her quick phone call. She wondered if there was a separate dining room, then dismissed the idea. The house wasn’t large enough.
She glanced through the doorway leading through to the rest of the house. It looked like a typical gun-barrel miner’s cottage. The next room along would be the living room then a short hallway would lead to two bedrooms at the front of the house.
She also guessed she’d never make it past this kitchen.
Heat suddenly flamed through her. Not that she wanted to make it as far as the bedroom with Kent Black, of course. Good lord. She couldn’t imagine him unbending his stiff upper lip long enough to kiss a woman, let alone—
Are you so sure? a wicked voice asked.
Umm…
She slammed a lid on that thought, swung away and found herself confronted with the hard, lean lines of Kent’s back…and backside, as he reached into a cupboard above the sink for two mugs.
Oh, dear. She fanned her face and swung around another ninety degrees. She didn’t want to ogle his, uh, assets. In fact, it probably