been with anyone since her divorce.
“I’m sorry I troubled you,” she said. “But I’m okay now.” She shifted to a sitting position to prove her point, but the movement lacked conviction. She was still a bit dizzy, her mouth as dry as dust.
He frowned at her, the scar twisting into that menacing shape again. “You don’t look okay to me.” He rose to his full height. He stood tall and powerfully built, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip. His clothes consisted of a white T-shirt, dark jeans and a pair of knee-high moccasins.
Clearly, no one would mistake him for anything other than what he was—a tough, striking, modern-day warrior.
“Sit still,” he ordered. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Although she wanted to escape, to rush home and recline on her own couch, she did as she was told. In spite of her neighbor’s gruff demeanor, he seemed genuinely concerned. But Jenny still feared upsetting him. Men, she knew, weren’t always what they seemed.
And this one, with his commanding voice and scarred frown, was probably used to getting his way.
He returned with a glass of ice water and resumed his seat on the edge of the coffee table.
Jenny wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to sit so close, but she couldn’t summon the courage to be that bold. Or that rude, she supposed. He was only trying to help.
“Sip slowly,” he said.
“Thank you.” The water tasted clean and refreshing. Revitalizing. “I just got over the flu. And I was tired of being cooped up in the house.”
“So you went outside and worked in the sun?”
“I enjoy planting flowers,” she responded, hoping it wasn’t a dumb thing to say. Roy used to tell her that she often made dumb, girlish comments.
She tried not to think about her ex-husband and what he would do if he saw her with this man. But Roy was always on her mind, and she was always worried about him being nearby, stalking her the way he’d done back home in Salt 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
