Lone Wolf. Sheri WhiteFeather
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Lake City.
“Planting flowers is fine, I suppose. But now it appears you’ve got a touch of sunstroke. No wonder you passed out.”
He shook his head and sent those black talons dancing. Jenny watched them spin, thinking how primitive they made him look.
They lapsed into silence, so she took another sip of water and glanced around his house. The layout was just like hers, she realized, but the decor, with its sturdy furnishings, was undeniably masculine. An oak gun case filled with lever-action rifles made a strong, noticeable statement.
She scanned the rifles, recognizing what appeared to be an original Winchester Yellow Boy, the legendary 1866 model. Western relics had become a significant part of her design business, and she spent most of her free time scouting and researching special pieces.
“By the way, I’m Hawk,” he said, drawing her attention back to him.
“Hawk.” She repeated the name. Somehow it fit. She could see him gliding through the air. Or swooping down to prey on a smaller, weaker animal.
Like an unsuspecting female? she asked herself with a familiar shudder.
She bit her lip. “I should go. I’ve taken enough of your time already.”
“Not yet.”
He reached out and put his hand on her cheek, and she froze, stunned and speechless. His hand was cool and big, his palm rough and callused.
“I think you have a fever.” He moved to her forehead, brushing her bangs aside.
Jenny held her breath, resisting the urge to push him away, to protect herself from the emotion he inflicted. The affectionate gesture brought back too many memories.
But she couldn’t tell him that. Not without admitting that Roy used to stroke her face. And then raise his fists when his temper flared.
Hawk removed his hand. “I’ll get you a couple aspirin.”
“No. I just need to go home and rest.” She rose to leave, handing him the water.
He walked her to the door, then set the glass on a nearby table. “I forgot about the letter you dropped.”
“I’ll get it.” She glanced outside, assuming it was still on the grass somewhere.
“Why don’t you let me find it? I can slip it in your mailbox. You should stay out of the sun. Maybe take a tepid bath to break the fever.”
“All right,” she managed, and Hawk smiled. It gentled his rawboned features, softening the scar and adding a flicker of light to those dark eyes.
“Bye, Jenny.”
“Bye.” She turned away quickly, knowing he watched as she cut across the lawn and headed to her own house.
Taking a deep breath, she stared straight ahead, refusing to glance back or wave or smile. Jenny Taylor knew better than to get too friendly with a young, powerful, good-looking man.
Four days later Jenny wheeled her shopping cart out of the market, her grocery bags filled with frozen entrées, canned goods and fresh salad fixings. Cooking traditional meals for herself was too much trouble, so she prepared quick, simple things. Occasionally she dined out, enjoying the Yellow Rose Café at the Lone Star Country Club. She wasn’t a member of the club, but she was the interior designer who’d landed the prestigious job of designing the decor of the new wing. And although that job was complete, she’d since been hired to redecorate some of the original guest rooms. The Lone Star Country Club was an icon in Mission Creek, a Western resort catering to the crème de la crème of Texas.
“Hey, lady,” a youthful voice called out. “Do you want to adopt a puppy?”
Jenny turned, realizing she was the lady being singled out for the adoption.
Two adolescent boys, brothers, from the looks of them, sat in a shady spot in front of the market, a cardboard box between them.
A small, yippy bark echoed from the box, drawing Jenny closer.
“He’s a real nice dog,” the older of the two boys said. “And he’s the last one. We already gave the rest of the litter away.”
Unable to help herself, she peered into the box. The tan-and-black puppy yipped again, then wriggled uncontrollably for her attention.
The dog had green eyes, a narrow face and large floppy ears. Its rounded feet looked like four white socks.
She knelt to pet him and was rewarded with a sweet doggie grin. He was adorable, she thought, warm and soft and huggable.
Should she take him home? Give him a cozy place to sleep?
Instantly Jenny drew her hand back and came to her feet. How could she commit to a pet? She didn’t know how long she’d be staying in Mission Creek. Or where she would go if Roy found her. In a sense, she lived on the lam, running like a criminal from a nightmarish past.
“Cute critter,” a deep voice said from behind her.
Jenny turned to see Hawk, dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, a straw Stetson dipped over his dark eyes. The beaded hatband and lone feather dangling from it made his ethnic features seem more pronounced. The talons in his ears glinted dangerously in the April light.
Her heart slammed into her throat. Was he following her?
Of course not, she told herself a moment later. He had to come into town to shop, too.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Fine,” she responded, wishing her heart would quit dominating her throat.
Avoiding eye contact, she glanced at the ground. And noticed Hawk’s feet. He wasn’t wearing moccasins today. Instead, he sported a pair of dusty black cowboy boots, the toes turned up, the leather scuffed.
“I just got off work,” he offered.
“Oh.” Was he a cowboy of some sort? A ranch hand perhaps? His clothes were nearly as dusty as his boots.
“I’m a horse trainer,” he said, as though he’d just read her mind. “I lease a barn at Jackson Stables.”
Neither spoke after that. Jenny tried to relax, but she could feel Hawk’s eyes on her.
He stared at her hair, at the gold-streaked tresses that used to be a quiet shade of brown. She touched a strand self-consciously. She wasn’t used to being a blonde yet, but she’d changed the color hoping Roy wouldn’t recognize her so easily.
Hawk shifted his gaze to the dog. “Are you in the market for a puppy?”
“I don’t think I have enough time for him. My career keeps me busy.” And her fear of being tracked down by her ex-husband kept her on the move. “He is adorable, though.” She gave the floppy-eared mutt a loving glance.
“He looks like he’s got some Australian Shepard in him.” The boys perked up, realizing they had a potential adoptive parent kneeling to check out the dog.
“He’s part beagle, too,” the older kid said.
“That’s some combination.” Hawk picked up the puppy, then stood and faced Jenny. The young dog wiggled excitedly in his arms.
“I’ve never seen a mixed blood quite like this one, have you?”
She shook her head, distracted by Hawk’s choice of words. The dog was a mixed breed. Mixed blood was a term more suited to humans.
And then suddenly she knew why he’d made that subconscious error. Hawk was of mixed blood. She hadn’t noticed the Caucasian in him before, but she could see touches of his white ancestry now. His skin was more copper than brown, and the long, slim line of his nose bore a shape she often associated with English aristocracy. Of course, on Hawk’s strong-boned face, it didn’t look quite so genteel.
Jenny had never given her