money to put food on the table for four hungry kids, he thought. In her own way, she’d tried to make as much of a home as she could for them. Her untimely death and the brutal circumstances surrounding it had left a hole in him that he figured would never heal.
A few steps away, Blossom studied the distant, preoccupied expression on his face. At this moment he was far away from her, and she could only surmise that thoughts of his mother had tugged him to some other place in his past.
Larkin was a young man. Even if the woman had given birth to him in the latter part of her childbearing years and she’d died only recently, she couldn’t have been old. The notion filled Blossom with curiosity. Yet she didn’t ask him to elaborate about his mother. From his earlier comments, she’d gathered that he thought of her as a prying reporter. He wouldn’t believe that her questions could ever be strictly from a human interest.
“My mother is in Florida now,” she said as she made a quick survey of the cabin’s interior. “With her fourth husband. She’s been married to him for a year now. Much longer than I ever expected.”
The small room contained a living, dining and cooking area. Along the front wall was a plaid couch, the green and orange colors faded and worn from years of use. To the right of the couch, in the far corner, was a small square table constructed of mismatched pine boards. Huge trunks of hardwood trees about a foot in diameter and twice that much in height passed for chairs. The area where she and Larkin stood was the cooking area, complete with a single iron sink covered with chipped and stained porcelain, a relic of a cookstove. Wooden crates covered with dusty white curtains served as cabinets.
Next to the table, across the back wall of the room, was a small doorway. Another dingy curtain partially covered the open space. From where she was standing, it was impossible to see what was beyond the curtain. She could only surmise that it was a bedroom.
“Are you saying your mother and marriage don’t mix?” he asked.
She grimaced. “My mother likes men too much to stay married to one for very long. Her motto is too many men, not enough time.”
He wrapped a dish towel around the skillet handle and picked it up from the burner. “This stuff is ready,” he said. “Get some plates out of the cabinet while I carry it over to the table.”
He hadn’t asked her; he’d told her. But Blossom wasn’t going to point that out to the man. She was hungry, and so far he’d done all the meal preparation. Besides, she was the type of person who could bend. Up to a certain point.
After a quick search of the cabinet shelves, Blossom found a stack of chipped and mismatched plates, cups and bowls. To one side of the dishes, stored in a plastic jug, was a handful of silverware. She dug out two forks and spoons and, after wiping everything off with a damp dishcloth, carried the dining equipment to the table.
Larkin dished the food equally onto their plates, and by the light of a coal oil lamp they began to eat the simple meal. Even if the globe had been washed of dust and soot, the primitive lighting would have still been dim. Across the table, she was barely able to discern the lines of his face.
“I’ve had candlelit dinners brighter than this,” she said in an attempt to make light of their intimate predicament.
“I’m sure.”
With each bite, she could feel herself growing more weary. Her shoulders and eyes were both beginning to droop, making her reach for the camp coffee he’d brewed.
“What does that mean?” she asked, while pouring the dark liquid into one of the cracked cups.
“Nothing. Just that I’m sure you’ve had lots of…dining out.”
He made the word dining sound like a sexual romp, and she couldn’t make up her mind whether to be insulted or flattered. Blossom realized she wasn’t necessarily a raving beauty. Yet she was aware that the combination of her blue eyes, blond hair and lush curves were an attractive package to men. Even so, she’d never been overwhelmed with offers for dates.
It’s that air of independence you have, Blossom. Men like to think they’re needed and they don’t feel that way with you.
Dena Woodward had often spoken those words of warning to Blossom. Even so, it wasn’t in her to pretend to be something she wasn’t. And anyway, she’d be crazy to take her mother’s advice. Dena might know how to attract men, but keeping them around as a family member was another story altogether.
“In spite of what you’re thinking, I’m not much of a socializer,” Blossom told him. “For the most part men keep their distance and I keep mine.”
Larkin shook his head with faint amusement. “You’d try to make a person believe water isn’t wet.”
She shoveled a forkful of hash into her mouth and chewed. After she washed it down with a swallow of coffee, she said, “I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you before today. Yet you behave as if you know me better than your own grandmother. Have you been…stalking me?”
It was true that he’d come to Austin because of her, Larkin silently admitted. And it was also true that he’d been wanting to learn some things about her. Mainly why she was searching for Luke Maitland. But he’d certainly not been stalking her. For any reason. In fact, it was still hard for him to believe that fate had virtually dropped the woman into his lap.
“First of all, I never knew my grandmothers. Secondly, as I’ve tried to tell you before, Blossom, I’m not a deranged person. If I’ve been implying that I know you personally, it’s only because I’ve seen you at work on television and made my own deductions about you.”
He could be telling the truth, but she couldn’t be sure. For the past two months she’d had the eerie feeling that she was being followed and watched. The notion could have been all in her mind. But what if Larkin had been stalking her all this time, just waiting for a chance to abduct her. The idea sent a river of goose bumps over her heated flesh.
“Then that puts me at a disadvantage,” she said, “because I haven’t been privy to any information about you.”
He shrugged as though she shouldn’t view that as a problem. “There’s nothing interesting or necessary for you to know about me.”
“Are you from Texas?” she asked. “You don’t sound like it.”
After he’d turned eighteen he’d never lived in one place long enough to acquire a local accent. His job had turned him into a tumbleweed that carried nothing but dirt behind it. For ten years he’d not had a family or home and he could only think of a handful of people he could call true friends.
“No. I’m not a Texan. Just a transplant.”
The hash on her plate was gone so she put down her fork and looked at him through the meager light. Lines of fatigue were beginning to etch his face, but Blossom instinctively felt there was more to his weariness than just the stressful day they’d had. She couldn’t imagine why the idea touched a soft spot inside her. Besides keeping her here against her will, he’d been nothing but a jerk.
“You don’t want to tell me about yourself, do you?”
“No.”
“Why?” she persisted.
Without glancing her way, he poured himself
