to do with it.”
“I’ll have to call a locksmith. Do you mind if I use your phone?”
Maxie was getting a migraine, her first in two years. “I’ll tell you something, Garrett. Even if I was your missing model, which I’m not, I would never, ever, ever consent to an interview with a sneaky, opportunistic, underhanded, oily—”
“Oily?” Sneaky, opportunistic and underhanded Connor could live with. Oily was a slur on his personal hygiene. “That was below the belt, Ms. Calhoon. You know, I’m beginning to think it was a mistake to come out here. If I could get in my car, I’d say good riddance and leave this very minute.”
Maxie deeply regretted never training Boo to kill on command. How could so much go so wrong in such a short period of time? Life had been so wonderfully uncomplicated when she’d walked into Howdy-Do Farm & Feed that morning. She’d just come from the bank and felt optimistic about her loan. Knowing both she and her cows would have money for food during the coming winter was a tremendous relief. She’d stopped at the donut shop and enjoyed the best apple fritter of her life. She was a contented woman.
And then Connor Garrett had stuck that lousy photograph under her nose and the bubble had burst.
“I don’t like you,” she told Connor succinctly, eyes narrowed. “You have no redeeming qualities.”
“You don’t know me yet,” Connor pointed out. “It’s much too soon to make a judgment call.”
“Believe me, I know you as well as I’m going to.”
He gave her a slow smile, a light of challenge in his dark eyes. “Wanna bet?”
While Maxie fortified herself with a Twinkie, Connor called a locksmith, but had to leave a message on his voice mail. When he hung up the phone, he looked at Maxie’s stormy expression and shrugged helplessly. “What am I supposed to do? Is it my fault he’s the only locksmith in Oakley? I’m sure he’ll get back to me as soon as possible.” Then, glancing beyond the kitchen window, he said, “I suppose I could wait outside. It looks like it might start raining again, but I certainly don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Why don’t I just wait on the porch swing? With any luck, the locksmith will get the message before I freeze to death. I’ll just leave you in peace, all right? I don’t want to be a bother….”
His wounded-puppy-dog act had no effect on Maxie. Still chewing, she shepherded Connor to the front door, pulling an afghan off the sofa along the way. “How considerate of you. Here, take this blanket. Wrap up snug and tight, and you probably won’t freeze to death.”
The glint of humor in Connor’s expression faded abruptly. “The hell you say! You actually expect me to wait outside?”
“It was your idea, Mr. Garrett,” Maxie said cheerfully. “I’ll turn on the porch light so you won’t be scared of the mutant rabbits. Bye-bye.”
“Wait just a damn min—”
She shut the door on his protest without even the tiniest qualm of conscience. Then with an evil smile she turned on the porch light as promised. She knew how happy all the mosquitoes in a five-mile radius would be to have fresh meat on the porch.
She went back to the kitchen, choosing a juicy red apple from her fruit basket on the table. As she crunched on it, she found left-over roast chicken in the fridge and popped it into the microwave. She noticed the wind was turning rather fierce outside, rattling the kitchen windows in their frames.
What a shame, she thought. This would certainly ruin the last of her petunias in the garden.
She took her dinner back to the living room and flicked on the television. She always looked forward to Friday nights. There was a wonderful show on cable called A Day in the Life of a Veterinarian. It was very educational.
She had a pad of paper and pencil standing by in case she wanted to take notes. Tonight’s episode dealt with “The Lurking Peril of Brucellosis.”
And speaking of lurking perils…. For the first timesince shoving Connor out the door, she glanced outside. There he was, huddled on the swing, the afghan pulled up to his eyeballs. He caught her eye and lifted the tips of his fingers far enough over the edge of the afghan to give a pathetic little wave. His new tangled dreadlocks gave evidence of the night wind’s ferocity.
Maxie pulled a face as she heard the first drops of rain on her tin roof. Darn. Even she couldn’t leave the man out in a rainstorm. She had a hard enough time leaving her cows outside during poor weather.
Scowling, she gestured for him to come inside. He hopped off the swing with the speed of a naughty little boy who’d been forced to sit in a corner, dashing across the porch and inside with the blanket held over his head. A freezing spray of rain and wind came inside with him.
“It’s l-l-like a hurricane out there.” His lips were frozen, the color faded to an interesting pale blue. “I hope you’re happy.”
“Of course I’m not happy,” Maxie replied. “I hate to see any animal suffer.” Then, grudgingly, she gave up her place on the couch. “Sit. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”
Connor burrowed into the sofa cushions, staring at the plate of chicken bones on the coffee table. “You had chicken.”
“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.”
“I love chicken.”
“I ate it all.”
“Of course you did,” he muttered.
Maxie glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Don’t worry about feeding me. I could stand to lose a few pounds.”
She took a deep breath. “You do like playing the martyr, don’t you? How on earth did a delicate soul like yourself ever survive playing professional football?”
He brightened considerably. “You watched me play pro football?”
“Never. I just heard somewhere you played football before you became a reporter.”
“Well, I didn’t play much,” he admitted. “Two games and I was out for the count. I blew out my knee when—”
“Do you want something to eat or not?” Sitting there on the sofa with his wet mop of hair, melting brown eyes and touching tale of woe, he was almost endearing. Maxie couldn’t afford to feel sympathetic. “If you’re really hungry, I’ll fix you a plate of…something.”
He smiled weakly. “Before you go…would you mind covering me with the blanket? I’m still a little chilled.”
“Fine.” She whipped the blanket out of his fingers, spreading it over him. “There we go, Mr. Garrett. All tucked in, nice and cozy. Is there anything else I can get for you? A hot-water bottle? Earmuffs? Perhaps a mustard poultice?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any brandy, would you?”
“Brandy? I can barely afford hay for my cows!”
“Don’t get all prickly on me,” he said. “You’re probably tired.
