has known since fifth grade and lives near Dallas in a ninety-five-year-old Victorian home with her husband, Darrel, and two dogs, Rio and Leia.
How positively…uncivilized, Mariah Duncan decided as she followed the directions that took her out of Sherman and into the brushy country surrounding Lake Texoma. Wildflowers of every color rioted along the roadside, rousing banners for a bright new season that dressed up the overgrown bracken behind them.
It had always intrigued her that one could leave any metropolitan area in Texas and within minutes be virtually in the wild. Not that Texoma was inordinately remote. Still, it occurred to her that, should she take Wiley Albright on as a client, she’d be making this rather rugged journey regularly.
Spying a landmark, Mariah braked gently, tires bumping over the patched asphalt. Now came the tricky part, following the kind of instructions true locals gave. “Keep on a-goin’ till you pass the picnic area on your right,” Mr. Albright had told her. “There’s a gravel road just beyond, but don’t take it, just slow down a bit, ‘cause there’s a hump comin’ up that’ll put your stomach up ‘round your tonsils if you ain’t lookin’ for it. Then I’d say maybe a mile, mile and a quarter farther, you’ll see a sign for Bubba J.’s Everything For Fishing And Camping. Can’t miss it. Turn left past Bubba J.’s and take the lane behind the store on down the hill. The house there—that’s the place.”
And so it was. The house sitting among a stand of pecan trees was actually an older-model mobile home. A skirt of flashing rimmed the bottom in the same beige as the trailer’s siding. Upon the attached porch, its floor and steps covered in green artificial turf, sat a well-used barbecue and a couple of blue-and-white-webbed lawn chairs. Past the mobile home, the lane continued down to the shore of the lake, where there was a private boat ramp and both a small boat house and a U-shaped dock. Incongruous with the rest of the modest surroundings, a sleek and expensive-looking boat, secured in the narrow slip formed by the dock, bobbed in the water under the shade of a weeping willow.
The whole effect was placid and prosaic—and a world away from what she was used to. She had yet to learn exactly what service Mr. Albright required of her, and she had to admit she was stumped. Most of her clients lived the hectic lives of city dwellers—hence their appreciation for the enrichment her services brought them.
Mariah parked on the shady side of the trailer, next to the huge satellite dish she presumed to be de rigueur in rural areas, and gathered her bulky organizer into her arms. Leaving her car, she climbed the stairs to the porch and knocked firmly on the frame of the screen door, with no answer.
Becoming concerned for the first time, she checked her watch. Mr. Albright had said after six. And this had to be the right place. Hugging the black leather organizer to her chest—typical of spring, the day’s warmth was dispelling rapidly with sunset—Mariah glanced around the yard and thought yet again how truly wild this setting was.
A whole different kind of person lived in this environment, she mused, descending the steps slowly. People who had their own ideas about what constituted a civilized lifestyle—which was often protected by means of Smith & Wesson.
Had she been naive coming out here merely on the basis of a friendly phone call?
Nonsense, Mariah told herself staunchly. Still, she decided to err on the side of caution. She would drive back up the lane to the store on the corner and wait there. Although Mr. Albright hadn’t mentioned Bubba J.’s other than as a landmark, the proximity of the business to the house—plus the well-traveled path leading from its back door to the trailer—led her to guess an association existed between the two.
She was halfway to her car when she heard a sound coming from the direction of the dock. With a private nod of confirmation, she rounded the corner of the mobile home just as a tall man did the same.
They collided, and she had the impression of a broad, unyielding chest pressed against hers before call used hands grasped both her upper arms. Whether the hands were meant to steady or constrain wasn’t immediately obvious. What was clear was the physical impact of this man, solid and real.
Her chin came up, and she was blinded by the setting sun behind the man’s shoulder. The man’s physical presence and the setting sun, plus the realization that a barking dog was insinuating itself between them, caused her survival instincts to go into overdrive. Oh, she had been naive!
Mariah dropped her organizer in order to flatten her hands against that firm expanse of muscle and shove herself away. An ant might as well have tried to move a mountain.
Now totally unnerved, she struggled madly. “Let me go!”
“Whatever you say,” came the surprisingly mild answer, and suddenly Mariah found herself without support and backpedaling for footing on the muddy ground. Arms flailing, she nearly fell, catching her balance only at the last second. Then she almost lost her footing again as the dog doused her and the man in a spray of water as it shook itself.
“Lucy!” He bent slightly to loop his fingers under the dog’s collar and retreated a few feet. She understood the precaution as the animal strained against the restriction before she, too, dropped back. The dog, a white one with black markings of indeterminate breed, sat on her haunches and leaned against the man’s leg.
It was then Mariah noticed the dog’s tongue lolling in a grin of barely contained welcome. So this was the vicious beast that had sent her into a near-frenzy.
“You almost scared me to death, Mr. Albright,” she explained crossly. More from embarrassment than necessity, Mariah concentrated on brushing her clothes off.
“Did I, now?” he drawled in a tone that said he wasn’t quite sorry. It brought back all of her apprehension. Where was the affable man she’d talked with on the phone?
“You are Mr. Albright, aren’t you?” she asked with a boldness she hardly felt. She couldn’t prevent herself, however, from raising one hand to finger the strand of pearls at her throat in an ingrained gesture of security, as if to reassure herself after the fright he’d given her—and still was rousing in her, for she watched his mouth tighten visibly at her action.
He stooped to retrieve her organizer, wiping it against the thigh of his jeans before handing it to her.
“Yes,” he finally answered her question. The word was cautious, which puzzled her. She was the one on unfamiliar territory right now. The one who had something to be wary of, something to lose.
His face now visible to her, she studied it, looking for clues. What she discerned first was that he was younger than she’d believed, judging from his voice over the telephone. She could see why he himself had been unperturbed by Lucy’s dousing: the faded white T-shirt he wore, patchy with sweat and stains and even a hole or two, looked in little danger of being damaged by a few drops of water off a dog. In fact, his tousled, dark brown hair was already wet, as if sometime in the past half hour he’d dunked his head to cool off and hadn’t even bothered to finger-comb away any residual moisture.
Yes, he looked wild and uncivilized—and not a little annoyed with her, for some reason.
How was she to get past this unfortunate start with this man? Or perhaps the question was, did she really want to?
“You did say between six and six-thirty,”
