Lone Star Dad. Линда Гуднайт
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mighty unhappy at the damage this driveway could do to a fancy truck like that. Whoever he might be, he was going too fast.
Gena watched, waiting to identify the driver. She didn’t open her door to strangers.
The truck jolted to a halt. A man hopped out and slammed the door with a force that echoed through the woods.
Gena’s breath froze in her chest. Quinn Buchanon.
What was he doing in her front yard? The one person in Gabriel’s Crossing she preferred never to encounter one-on-one. Especially not in her own home.
Mouth suddenly dry as cottonseed hull, she stayed huddled behind the curtain. He could knock but she wouldn’t open. Not to him.
He marched around the front of his truck, clearly in a fit of temper, yanked open the passenger-side door and hauled someone out by the scruff of the neck—a lanky eleven-year-old boy with a bad attitude.
“Oh, no. No, no, no!” Gena jerked at the knob, flinging the door wide to race down the steps in her fuzzy slippers, heedless of the gray, damp cold.
“Derrick! What are you—” She skidded to a stop, attention frozen on the rifle in the boy’s hand. In a terrible voice, she asked, “Where did you get that gun?”
“I—”
Before he could respond, she whirled on the detestable man. This was exactly the kind of irresponsible thing someone like Quinn would do.
She jabbed a finger at him. “Did you give him that gun? Have you lost your mind?”
Quinn glared at her. “I was going to say the same to you.”
“Me? I don’t own a gun.” She turned on the boy. “Where did you get that?” she asked again.
Derrick, mouth insolent, posture slumped, only shrugged. She hated when he did that, which was all too often.
“Tell me where you got that gun or no computer for a month.”
He twitched. “Service out here sucks anyway.”
“The deal still holds. Talk.”
“I found it.”
“Found a rifle? Where?” Oh, Lord. Please don’t let this be stolen. She’d never dreamed raising a boy alone could be this hard.
“The storage room. I went hunting. It’s no big deal. That’s what country boys do, isn’t it?”
His cocky, derisive attitude set her teeth on edge. He hated it here, deep in the country, away from the city, away from his so-called friends, away from taking things that didn’t belong to him, but until today he’d been in less trouble in Gabriel’s Crossing than in Houston. Less. He wasn’t Boy Scout material yet. She kept praying for him to settle in and be the happy boy he’d once been.
Quinn, who she was trying hard to ignore, scowled at her. “Haven’t you ever heard of a gun safe?”
“I had no way of knowing Derrick would be poking around and find a weapon. I didn’t even know it was there myself!”
“Well, it is.” He yanked the rifle from Derrick and shoved the offensive weapon into her hands. “Deal with it. He was poaching on my property.”
“Poaching?” Would the fun never end? “He shot something?”
Quinn hiked a diabolical eyebrow. “Want me to file charges?”
She looked at him full on now, fighting down the panic of having him in her space. Either he didn’t remember her or he didn’t kiss and tell. One was a check in the positive column and the other wasn’t. She didn’t know which she preferred—hating that he didn’t remember at all or admiring him for his respectful silence in front of the boy.
How old was he now? Thirty-four? Thirty-six? He was still gorgeous—sandy brown hair tipped in gold, hazel eyes and strong, athletic body—though lines bisected his forehead as if his problems had taken a toll. She squelched the pinch of pity. He’d been a player on and off the football field. He didn’t deserve her sympathy.
“I assure you, this will not happen again.” She hoped she could keep that promise.
She grabbed Derrick by the upper arm and propelled him toward the porch.
Quinn didn’t take the hint. He followed. “I’m not done with him. Or with you.”
“If you’re pressing charges, do it, but leave us alone.” Just go away.
She opened the door, gave Derrick her meanest look, willing him inside before this situation got worse.
A powerful left hand clamped on the screen door. “He could have been hurt. Someone with no gun experience in the woods this time of year is asking for trouble.”
Derrick, who never knew when to shut up, cast a derisive glance at Quinn’s bent right arm. “Is that what happened to you?”
Both adults froze. Gena lifted her gaze to Quinn’s face, which was suddenly as dark and empty as midnight.
He swallowed. “As a matter of fact, yes. I was stupid.”
“Well, I’m not. So bug off.”
“Derrick!” Gena, aching a little for the man she’d vowed to despise, entered the house and gingerly settled the rifle in a corner. Quinn followed as if he’d been invited. Which he definitely had not been.
“I’m going to my room.”
“No, we’re going to talk about this. Sit.” She pointed to the couch.
Rolling his eyes, Derrick slumped onto the cushions and crossed his arms.
To Quinn, she said, “I apologize for any problem he caused. Thank you for bringing him home. I’ll handle it from here.”
Her heart was hammering like a woodpecker against her rib cage. She wanted Quinn to go. Even if he didn’t remember, she did.
His hair glistening from the mist, Quinn stood in her living room bunched inside his jacket looking as blustery as the weather.
“Has he had a hunter education course?”
Derrick’s education was neither Quinn’s business nor his problem. “Tell me where you live so I can be sure he doesn’t return.”
“A fishing cabin about a mile west.”
She nodded. “I know the place. I thought it was empty.”
“I thought the same about this house,” he said with a quick glance around her cozy living room. “Satterfield place, wasn’t it?”
“My grandparents’ house. Yes.” She waited to see if he made the connection. He didn’t. Nervous, uncertain, she patted her hands together and said with only the slightest venom, “Well, now that we know each of us is out here, we can be careful not to cross paths again.”
Very, very careful.
Quinn frowned and didn’t seem the least inclined to leave. “I don’t like poachers. If the boy is going to hunt, he needs a license and you need to teach him to obey trespassing laws.”
Gena’s face tightened. “He’s not your concern, Mr. Buchanon.”
“He was today.” He squinted at her. “Do I know you?”
Her pulse thumped. “No.”
“But you apparently know me.”
“Everyone knows the Buchanons.” She kept her voice casual. Unlike an invisible bookworm named Gena, the Buchanons were known to everyone in Gabriel’s Crossing. Notwithstanding the four gorgeous sons and three pretty daughters, they owned a construction company and had built half the houses in the town. Maybe more.
“Then I’m at a disadvantage. What’s your name?”
Gena