“Yes. Not that I owe this explanation to you, Evvie, but he was wrong.” Nora’s throat felt dry. She was telling the truth, but she knew it sounded like a lie. That made her angry, almost as angry as Evelyn’s constant criticism and her heavy-handed interference in the boys’ lives did.
“Harrison did once suspect that I might be attracted to Logan. But I assured him it wasn’t true, and he believed me. There has never been anything between Logan Cathcart and me.”
She clicked Talk, and the dial tone hummed. She had a choice between two pre-programmed buttons, the Two Wings manager’s office, and Logan Cathcart’s home number. As her finger punched the home number defiantly, she looked up at her sister-in-law.
“And that’s the last time I’ll ever discuss this with you, Evelyn, because frankly it’s none of your business.”
The phone began to ring. She looked toward the fireplace, signaling the end of the argument.
But she should have known she wouldn’t get the last word.
“My brother has always been my business,” Evelyn said quietly, her voice a deadly monotone. “And so are my brother’s sons.”
Nora’s shoulder blades tingled, but she didn’t turn around. The phone kept ringing hollowly, and she imagined it echoing through Logan Cathcart’s small log-and-stone ranch house, which he’d inherited from his great-aunt.
She knew, somehow, that he was no longer there.
Illogically, the unanswered rings made her feel even more alone.
Alone with a troubled son, a haunted heart and a woman who hated her.
“I am always watching, Nora,” Evelyn’s voice came at her in low, hard waves. “I would never have let you hurt Harrison, and the same goes for Sean and Harry. There’s nothing I won’t do to protect my own flesh and blood. So be forewarned.”
CHAPTER TWO
EVEN BEFORE SEAN ARCHER’S unexpected visit, and the mess that followed, Logan Cathcart had been up to his eyeballs in alligators. Two candidates had shown up for the clinic tech job, but neither had any experience, so he was still administering antibiotics and changing bandages himself.
Three injured baby owls had been left in a shoebox on his doorstep overnight, and two of them didn’t have a chance in hell.
Finally, the county had sent over a ream of red tape so convoluted it made his law school years look easy. He wanted to shred it up for nesting material, but since the Two Wings tax break depended on it he had to resist.
So, frankly, he hadn’t been in the mood to hear that a troubled kid from the ranch next door had appeared with a dead bird in his backpack and for no apparent reason started tearing up the enclosures they’d just built yesterday.
He knew the kid’s dad had died, and the family was going through a bad patch. He even felt sorry for him. His manager didn’t believe the kid’s story—that he’d been bringing the bird here for tending, but it died along the way—but Logan did. Somehow he just didn’t think Sean Archer was that kind of crazy.
Still. A nine-year-old kid reacts to a bird’s death by ripping apart everything he can reach? That didn’t smell like fresh-baked mental health to Logan.
So now not only was he having to repair the damage himself, but also he was going to have to talk to Sean’s mother, and that was something he’d vowed to do as little of as possible. He’d decided to steer clear of Nora Archer about two days after moving to Texas, about two minutes after meeting her.
He tossed his hammer onto the pile of wood chips and pulled the measuring tape out. He might have to order new wood. The kid must know karate—he’d really smashed things up.
“Boss?”
Logan raised his gaze, sorry to see his manager, Vic Downing, standing at the edge of the hawk enclosure. He dropped the tape measure. “What are you still doing here? You should be at home. Tell Vic to go home, Max.”
Max, a red-shouldered hawk who was never going to live in the wild again, moved nervously from one foot to the other, head lowered on his flexible neck, fixing Vic with a beady-eyed stare. As if obeying Logan’s command, Max let out an ominous screech, the perfect sound track for a horror movie.
Vic just rolled his eyes. “Shut up, pudgy,” he said affectionately. It was all an act, of course. Max was gentle-natured, one-winged and a pushover for a fistful of treats. “Look, Logan. I can stay a little while. Let me give you a hand with that.”
“You’ve already worked fifty hours this week. Didn’t Gretchen say she’d shoot you if you missed dinner again?”
Vic stuck a piece of Juicy Fruit in his mouth. “Yeah, but that was just the hormones talking.” He sighed. “You wouldn’t believe how insane pregnant women can be.”
Oh, yes, he would. But Logan didn’t say that, of course. He also didn’t say that Gretchen would undoubtedly get worse in the next few weeks. She had about a month to go, and if Logan remembered correctly from those last months with Rebecca…
But remembering was one thing he didn’t waste time doing.
He retrieved his hammer and a broken plank and started working out the nail that was stuck in one end.
“Anyhow,” Vic went on, “where I put the bullets, she’ll never find them.”
Logan looked up. “Where did you hide them?”
“Behind the Windex. Woman hasn’t done a lick of housework in months. Says it makes her cranky.” Vic tossed down the plank. “But what doesn’t?”
As they exchanged a sympathetic chuckle, Logan glimpsed the slow fluttering of something pale and pink at the edge of Vic’s silhouette. For a fanciful split second he thought it might be a roseate spoonbill, although he didn’t have any at the sanctuary, and undoubtedly never would. The delicate beauties didn’t show up this far inland.
He blinked, and the fluttering became the edges of a loose pink skirt. He blinked again, and saw the woman wearing it.
It was Nora Archer, probably the only woman on the planet who could wear that color with that red hair and pull it off.
She was too far away for Logan to see details, but his mind could conjure up every inch. The silly auburn curls that frothed around her shoulders. The round eyes, too big for her face, forest-colored, mostly brown with shards of green and bronze. Little girl pink cheeks, freckles and an upturned cheerleader’s nose. But a dangerous woman’s mouth, wide and soft and tempting.
Today, her head was bowed as she moved toward them, her pale face somber. She might have the coloring of a roseate spoonbill, but she had the soft melancholy of the mourning dove.
The widow Archer. He squeezed the handle of the hammer. As beautiful, and as off-limits, as ever.
Vic had noticed her now, too, and both men watched without speaking until she finally reached them. Max stared as well, cocking his head and rotating it slowly to follow her all the way. Logan smiled inwardly. It must be a male
