you probably would’ve invited him to dinner.”
Hannibal looked up at her and wagged his tail.
“I’m not hiring him,” she said firmly, taking the dog’s head in her hands and staring into his eyes. “I don’t need any distractions right now, and that man is trouble with a capital T.”
Hannibal whined, then barked softly.
“No.” She shook her head. “I need to concentrate on Makeshift right now. Everyone in my youth group is counting on me. There are too many kids out there who desperately need a place like this. I haven’t time for romantic notions, especially concerning arrogant men who obviously don’t understand the importance of what I’m doing here. Mr. Dylan Grant is going to have to find another job somewhere else.”
Jessica stood, nearly tripping over Hannibal as he circled her knees. She scooted him away, wondering what in the world had gotten into the dog. He’d never acted like this before.
She moved to the window, looking down at the street, and felt the steady beating of her heart. Come to think of it, she’d never acted this way before, either.
All the more reason not to hire the man, she told herself, then turned her attention back to the box of books she’d been unpacking. She lifted one heavy volume on the Old West and smiled. As of one o’clock tomorrow, Mr. Dylan Grant would be like the book in her hand—history.
* * *
“Oh, Lucas, isn’t Mr. Grant wonderful?” Meggie asked as she watched the motorcycle disappear. “He’s absolutely perfect for Jessica.”
Lucas stood in front of the hotel beside Meggie, his arms firmly folded. “I knew a man named Grant once. From Cheyenne. Town hung him for horse stealing.”
“The president of the United States also happens to be named Grant. Or at least he was president.” Meggie put her hands on her hips and faced Lucas. “Anyway, you’re just being overprotective.”
Lucas frowned. “I am not.”
“Oh, really? Then what was that little business in the hotel room when Mr. Grant got a little too close to Jessica? I suppose it was a coincidence he suddenly couldn’t breathe? If Hannibal hadn’t stopped you, you might have hurt the poor man.”
“I didn’t like what he was thinking.”
Meggie lifted one brow. “And since when can you read minds? That ability is for Hannibal only. And if Hannibal likes Dylan Grant, which he does, then that’s good enough for me.”
With a flip of her head, Meggie turned and moved across the street to the saloon. Lucas watched her go, admiring the slender figure that had once been warm and firm under his touch. He smiled, remembering the soft moans she’d made when he’d kissed her the first time, and the shy touch of her hands on his body one afternoon in a small secluded cave not far from town.
His smile faded, and he stared out at the Texas plain. Something was happening. Lucas had felt it the instant Dylan walked into Jessica’s room. It was something powerful, something important. He was filled with an overwhelming feeling of anticipation, a mixture of excitement and dread.
Lucas cursed his inability to understand what was taking place. Despite what people thought, ghosts had limitations and restrictions. He knew that something was going to happen, but he had no idea what it was. He also had no idea if it would be good, or if it would be bad.
He only knew that the minute Dylan Grant had come into town, none of them—Jessica, Dylan, Meggie and himself—would ever be the same.
Two
Dylan sat in the corner booth of the Bronco Diner, his legs stretched out comfortably under the table, and sipped a cup of hot coffee a pretty little brunette waitress kept filled. He’d polished off a hamburger and french fries a few minutes ago, then settled back with his coffee to enjoy the entertainment, which was watching Jessica in another booth across the aisle interview an interesting assortment of potential foremen.
She’d dressed very businesslike today, Dylan noted. Her navy blue suit was tailored, the skirt resting conservatively at her knees. She’d buttoned her white blouse to the neck and tightly pulled her dark hair to the back of her head, held there by a gold barrette. It was an obvious but futile attempt to downplay her femininity and discourage male interest.
Didn’t she realize that by dressing so severely she actually encouraged a man’s fantasy? Dylan had seen the way the men had looked at her: like they wanted to strip that suit off, pull her hair loose, then drag her slim body underneath their own. The woman was too naive for her own good, Dylan thought, his irritation building as each man took the seat across from Jessica.
Her sixth and current applicant, a long-nosed, thin-haired redhead, had never actually worked in construction, he explained, but had helped his brother-in-law build a carport once. When the man proceeded to describe the building of the structure in excruciating detail, Jessica quickly thanked him for coming and told him she’d call as soon as she made her decision.
Dylan had given Jessica his application over an hour ago, but she had yet to call him. Every time she finished an interview, she’d smile at him, then call someone else. Since there was only one more applicant left, a heavyset man with whiskers, she couldn’t put off the inevitable much longer.
And since he had all the time in the world, Dylan ordered a piece of apple pie and settled back to wait.
The interview ended quickly after the heavyset man referred to Jessica as “girlie.”
When she finally turned to Dylan, he raised his brows and gave her a blank look. She frowned at him, then picked up one application and crossed over to him. She looked tired, he thought. And frustrated.
“Mr. Grant,” she said, staring at the form in her hand, “I’ve gone over your application.”
He gestured for her to sit across from him. “Is there a problem?”
She hesitated, then tugged off her jacket and sat.
“I’d say so. You have a structural-engineering degree from Indiana University, and you’ve worked on everything from high-rise construction to the building of bridges in the jungles of South America.”
“Does that disqualify me?”
“No, it overqualifies you.” She stretched her neck with a weary sigh, then undid the top button of her blouse. “Mr. Grant, did you read my ad in the paper this morning?”
He forced himself not to look as her fingers fiddled with the button. “My name is Dylan, and yes, I did read your ad.”
“Then you know how much I can afford to pay?”
He nodded.
“And you still want the job?”
She unclipped the barrette from her hair. Dylan watched as she shook her head and pulled her fingers through the thick strands. He felt hotter than the weather warranted, and his pulse began to pound.
He had to remind himself she’d
