cracker price on the cash register. “Thought I might be neighborly and check up on him in a day or two, see if he has everything he needs up there. That’ll be twelve-ohfive.”
Cara’s next trip to the real estate and recreational rental office across the street proved to be another warehouse of information, as well. Beverly Patterson, the apple-cheeked, gray-haired office manager, pleasantly informed Cara that there were indeed rentals still available by Silver Tree Lake.
“Are there other cabins rented?” Cara gave Beverly what she hoped was a timid look. “I don’t mean to be nosy, it’s just that being a woman up there alone and all, well, I thought I might feel safer knowing who else was around.”
“A woman can’t be too careful.” Beverly nodded in understanding. “But don’t you worry, dear. There’s a couple on their honeymoon just checked into cabin six at the farthest end of the lake, and Ian Shawnessy’s in cabin three. I’ll put you in cabin four right next to him.”
“Ian?” Cara’s insides did a tap dance, but she kept her voice tiny and her expression worried. “Is he someone you know?”
“Land sakes,” Beverly said with a flip of her hand, “everyone in Wolf River knows Ian. But don’t you go listening to any stories about him. Just kicked up a little dust before he went off to join the Army, that’s all, and that trouble twenty years ago with Hank Thompson was never deserved. Some folks just don’t have the good sense to let go of an old bone. Ian Shawnessy is a fine boy. You have any problems up there, you just give him a holler.”
Cara was about to ask what the trouble with Hank Thompson had been when the bell over the office door jangled. Two men dressed in fishing gear—one stocky, with silver hair, and one slender, younger, with a blond crew cut—came through the door.
“I’ll be right with you gentlemen.” Beverly smiled at the men, then turned back to Cara and slid a key across the counter. “All the cabins have phones, dear. If you need anything, just give a call.”
She made a quick trip to the market, then found the road off the main highway that led to Silver Tree Lake. The twolane road was narrow and wound upward through thick dogwood and pines. Twenty minutes later she’d unloaded her groceries and gear from her Jeep into her cabin, zipped on her overalls and grabbed her backpack.
Piece of cake, she’d thought when she’d settled herself into the tall weeds across the lake and found her man lazing on the front porch of his cabin. She snapped a roll of pictures, munched on dried apricots and crackers and replayed Casablanca in her mind to pass the time.
But as the heat settled in and the humidity rose steadily over the next three hours, that piece of cake began to quickly crumble.
When the first big drop of rain hit her on the cheek, the cake all but dissolved. The next drop splashed on her nose at the same time thunder rumbled the ground and lightning zigzagged across the dark sky. Cara might be the first one to admit she’d done a lot of foolish things, but never stupid. She at least knew enough to get out of a lightning storm. Tomorrow was always another day, as the saying went.
Tossing her binoculars into her backpack, she rose on her hands and knees and started to crawl backward out of the thick cattails.
And froze when she hit something very solid.
And very human.
Slowly she glanced over her shoulder, then swallowed hard at the sight of one Killian Shawnessy towering over her.
“Hi, there.” He stared down at her; the tight smile on his mouth did not reach his narrowed eyes.
She opened her mouth to respond, but the only sound that came out was a whoosh of air when he lunged, then neatly flipped her onto her back and pinned her down. Even in this suddenly embarrassing and demeaning situation, Cara had to admit that he was good.
Damn good.
Nonetheless, he was also a man. And with him lying on top of her like he was, he was almost in perfect alignment for her best and most effective move, a move that would have him singing soprano for days.
Adrenaline pumped wildly through her blood, but despite her finely honed instinct to slam her knee upward, she clenched her teeth together and resisted. She didn’t come here to hurt him, after all.
“You wanna tell me why you’ve been spying on me all afternoon?” he asked smoothly.
She forced her heartbeat to slow down and struggled to concentrate on his face rather than the press of his hard body against hers. His expression was calm, but his jaw was set tight, his eyes as sharp and focused as a cat with a mouse under its paw. What a strange time to notice that his eyes were brown, as she’d guessed. Deep, dark brown, with a black ring around the iris.
Eyes like Margaret Muldoon’s.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” She feigned indignation and made a pitiful attempt to pull away from his grip. She’d always found it to her advantage to pretend weakness until her opponent was off guard and the time was right. “Get off me.”
To her annoyance, his large hands tightened their hold on her wrists. He leaned closer, his broad chest pressing her down into the cattails. Sweat dripped down his throat and disappeared into the open collar of his shirt. The scent of hot skin and pure masculinity clung to him.
“I asked you a question, Blondie. I want an answer. Now.”
Blast it, if the man wasn’t solid muscle and outweighed her by at least seventy pounds. But what she lacked in strength she always made up for in endurance and timing, both of which were on her side at the moment. She didn’t want to hurt him, but if he didn’t let go of her soon, her pride would insist on taking over. Especially after the Blondie crack. Lord, how she hated those obnoxious little names men gave women.
What had been a heavy sprinkle of rain gradually increased, and Cara blinked the drops out of her eyes. “Look, buster—” she chose her own annoying little name for him “—this isn’t private property and I’m not trespassing. I’m renting the next cabin down, and I was just taking in a little scenery while I’m on vacation, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Is that so?” He scanned the length of her. “You always take in the landscape on your stomach with binoculars?”
“I’m a bird watcher. Last I heard there’s no law against that.”
One shock of dark hair fell over his damp forehead as he considered her answer. “What bird?”
“What bird?” What bird…what bird… Damn. She knew nothing about birds.
Impatience deepened his frown. “What bird have you been watching for the past three hours?”
“Oh. A three-toed, yellow-rumped sapsucker. It’s nesting in that Douglas fir twenty yards off your cabin. Very rare.” She prayed there was a bird up there. Any bird, or something that even remotely resembled a nest.
“Is that right?” He lifted his gaze to the thick grove of trees and stared. “Three-toed sapsucker, huh?”
“Yellow-rumped,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Now get off me.”
The weight of his body matched the heavy gaze he dropped back down to her.
