though. You hear me? Tomorrow at the latest, you’re out of here.”
Gently, his stomach a little woozy when the kittens did all kinds of gyrations against his hand, Quinn lifted her into the box. As if she’d been expecting exactly this, she settled into the towels. He toted her, box and all, to the shed and put her inside.
She blinked up at him with big golden eyes.
Quinn growled deep in his throat, muttered, “Sucker,” and went back into the cabin for a bowl of warm milk.
He left the old girl lapping with her dainty tongue and jogged toward the porch. The mist spattered his face like tiny, cold pebbles.
From out of nowhere, a gunshot cracked the gray stillness.
Quinn whirled toward the sound. Blood roared in his ears. His heart thudded madly. It took all his willpower not to fall to the ground and low-crawl back to the cabin. He didn’t, a small victory.
A gunshot in the woods echoed far and wide and was hard to pinpoint, but this one was close. Too close. Even though Buchanon land was posted, poachers invariably tried their luck this time of year.
He clamped his jaw tight and stomped toward his truck. This poacher’s luck had just run out.
* * *
Someone was coming.
Gena Satterfield hung a tea bag on the side of a Nurse Practitioner Needs Chocolate mug, turned off the steaming kettle and walked through the house, curious. No one drove up that ungraded, potholed driveway, at least not without prior warning. The house was remote, exactly what she’d needed to keep Derrick out of trouble when they’d moved here last year.
At the front room window she tugged back the curtain and saw a black pickup bounce up the road. Someone would be 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,
