was just one of those impossibly tragic accidents.”
Logan shrugged. “That doesn’t make it easier. But you don’t have to tell me this, Nora. I think I get it.”
“I’d like to explain, if you don’t mind listening. I think it might help you to understand Sean a little better.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks.” She gave him a grateful smile. “Anyhow, Harrison had just found out he was dying, and he wanted to avenge Paul’s death while he still could. So he…he took Trent out to the pond. It was the last place he’d ever been with Paul. Peggy, Harrison’s first wife, called us, and we came as fast as we could. We had no idea what we would find. And Sean…he ran ahead…”
She’d been telling the story with impressive composure so far. But finally, when she spoke about Sean, her voice trembled. Her eyes were shining, anguished, the muscles around them pulled so tight it hurt to see.
He picked up the hammer again and inspected the handle, which had felt a little loose when he was working earlier. He needed to resist this irrational urge to move toward her.
What was he going to do? Take her in his arms?
Oh, man. This was why he’d decided it was better to steer clear of her. There was something about her that wormed straight into the weakest chink inside him.
What exactly was her magic? She was small, only about five-four, he’d guess barely a hundred pounds. Nice figure, but she’d never stop traffic. She wore almost no jewelry or makeup, didn’t bother with ornamentation. She was soft-spoken and introspective.
She should have been easy to ignore.
And yet, ever since he’d moved to Texas eighteen months ago, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. Not then, when she’d been a meekly married woman, clearly in the no-touch zone. And not now, when she was the epitome of Mrs. Wrong: a single mother with troubled sons. Vulnerable, grief-stricken and needy. Oddly innocent, incapable of the kind of no-strings fling he specialized in.
“Look, it’s really okay,” he said gruffly, trying to ignore the tenderness that was threatening to create itself inside him. Her problems were her problems. He couldn’t solve them. Hell, he couldn’t even solve his own. “I’m not mad at Sean, and the damage is easily enough repaired.”
“That’s very generous.” She finally turned completely around. Max grumbled, sorry to lose the attention, and the hope of a treat. “But, for Sean’s sake, I have to do more. I can’t let him get away with this. He needs to pay for what he’s done.”
Logan felt his chest tighten. He didn’t like where this was going.
“I’ll send you a bill. You can make him work it off. You know. Chores around the house. Teach him his lesson.”
She moved a step toward him. “That seems so remote from the crime, though, don’t you think? Is there any work he could do at the sanctuary? It would teach him so much more. He’d learn what you do here, for one thing. Surely, if he understood that what you do is so valuable, so unlike what his fa—”
She broke off awkwardly. But he knew what she meant.
Harrison Archer, whose family tree had put its roots down in Texas before it was even called Texas, had never thought much of Easterners, and he damn sure didn’t think much of wasting a hundred acres of prime horse and cattle country to nurse a bunch of half-dead hawks and barn owls back to health.
He’d undoubtedly passed that disdain on to his son, the heir-in-training to all the Archer arrogance. Logan hadn’t connected the father’s attitude to Sean’s outburst, but perhaps Nora was right. If Sean hadn’t heard so much at home about how worthless Two Wings was, the urge to do it violence might not have been so close to the surface.
“You’ve got a point,” Logan said, trying to sound reasonable. “It would be nice to have next-door neighbors who don’t think Two Wings is a waste of space. But I’m afraid Sean’s re-education will have to be done at home. We have only about six weeks before we open Two Wings to the public, and I’m just too busy to play guidance counselor, or parole officer, or whatever you’re thinking.”
“No, I didn’t mean you. Of course you don’t have time.”
Her eyes had clouded again, and he realized his rejection had been more forceful than he’d intended. Damn it. Why couldn’t he reach equilibrium with this woman? Why couldn’t she just be another pretty neighbor? Why did the idea of having her, and her little boy, at Two Wings every day make him so uncomfortable?
“I meant your manager. Do you think Vic might have time? I promise you, Sean can be a hard worker. He’s smart and he’s strong.”
Logan had started shaking his head when she began to talk, and he didn’t stop. She frowned, clearly wondering why his resistance was so absolute.
“And of course I’d be happy,” she said cautiously, “to make a donation to Two Wings, to offset whatever inconvenience or expense Sean’s presence might create.”
“I don’t want your money.”
Crap. That had come out too harshly, too, especially given the obvious differences in their financial states. Smooth, Cathcart. Whip out the whole bag of insecurities, why don’t you? Want to tell her about the puppy that died when you were two?
She studied him for a minute, her wide forehead knitting between the brows. “What’s really the matter, Logan? Do you think Sean killed that bird? Is that why you don’t want him here? You’re afraid he’s crazy?”
“No. Of course not. No.”
For a minute he considered telling the truth. She knew he was attracted to her, and vice versa. It had never been put into words, but it was as obvious as a neon sign. Would it be so bad to just talk about it?
But what exactly would he say? I’m not interested in a long-term relationship with a woman like you, but as you know I’m wildly turned on by you anyhow. I’m afraid that if we spend too much time together, I might seduce you, and I might end up breaking your heart….
Yeah, right.
Not in this lifetime.
Besides, the attraction was only part of the problem.
The rest of it was that he just didn’t want to get involved in the Archer family tragedy. Call him a selfish bastard, but he didn’t want to feel their pain. He didn’t want to dig around in the muck of their grief and see if he could help them drain the swamp. He didn’t want to lend his ear, offer his shoulder or hold the Kleenex while they cried.
He couldn’t help them anyhow. Bereavement wasn’t like some club you joined. There wasn’t a secret handshake he could show them, no guided tour he could lead to help them feel at home.
It was a private hell, and everyone was locked up in their own solitary fire.
“I’m sorry, Nora,” he said. He picked up the tool box to show that he was out of time. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”
CHAPTER THREE
“JEEPERS,
