for an animal.”
“But the bullet nearly hit my head, and s-someone was in the house when I went inside,” Hailey said, stiffening. “He…left a note. He threatened me.”
“What?” He pulled her closer against him, but Hailey backed away again, hands fisted, her survival instincts roaring to life.
“When I went inside,” Hailey said, struggling for a steady breath, “someone was upstairs. They left dead gardenias on the table and a picture of the Lyles’ murder…” Her voice broke as images of the carnage flooded her.
Another shot rang out, echoing in the distance. Thankfully it sounded farther away this time. Hailey’s gaze found the cliff. A vulture soared above, swooping downward in a wide arc, its black feathers stark against the aquamarine sky, its talons bared as it zeroed in on its target. Just seeing the bird reminded her all too much that if Rex hadn’t grabbed her, she might have plunged to her death below.
REX STUDIED HAILEY, his mind battling his body’s natural reaction. He’d only meant to keep her from running off the cliff, but the moment he brushed against her, his sexual instincts had stirred to life, strong and more alive than they had been in months. Hell, maybe years.
Physical arousal, he told himself. A basic human reaction, a natural animal one. But this time his senses had become skewed with the need to fold her in his arms and hold her for the night, to protect her and make promises that he couldn’t keep.
But these urges went against the free man he needed to be. Free like the falcons…
Some birds of prey are monogamous, a voice whispered.
But not him. He had no room for a woman in his life. Especially this troubled one.
Had someone really been in her house threatening her? Maybe it had been a prank…
“There was a note, too,” Hailey whispered.
The wind swirled the strands of her reddish-brown hair around her face. Her cheeks were red from exertion and cold, her lips parched from the sun and wind. She looked so damn beautiful another twinge of desire spurted through him.
“And they tacked pictures of the Lyle family’s murder on the wall,” she said, knotting her hands together. “It was awful.”
He nodded. He’d seen the photos, had imprinted them in his brain since he was a kid.
“Come on.” He coaxed her forward, back through the thick pines and aspens, up the rocky hills toward Falcon Ridge. “You’re freezing, we need to get you inside.”
She stiffened. “Where are we going?”
“To my place.” He grabbed her arm again and hauled her close to him, lowering his voice. “If that hunter returns, we don’t want to be here.”
“But…”
“You’re not going back to the Hatchet House alone,” he growled. “I’ll go with you and check it out, but I need my gun.”
“You have a gun?”
He nodded, wondering at the streak of fear that darted into her eyes. “It’s for protection. You should get one, too.”
Her breath glowed white in the air as she nodded and stumbled forward, trying to keep up with him. He slowed his pace to accommodate her, pushing the loose branches and bramble out of the way so they wouldn’t scratch her delicate face as they threaded their way back up the mountain.
He’d never brought a woman to Falcon Ridge before, never shown one his home. He wondered what she’d think of it.
A few minutes later, they stepped onto the portico of the stone structure, and he opened the massive front door and ushered her inside. She was trembling, the temperature outside having dropped ten degrees in the last hour. The frightening ordeal had obviously drained her, because her shoulders were beginning to slump, and her flushed face paled with exhaustion.
“Come on, let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll fix you something hot to drink.”
She scanned the inside of the foyer, the ten-foot ceilings and dusty old paintings. He tried to see the monastery-type house through her eyes. His mother had hated the desolate location, had claimed the stone walls and dark paneled interior shrouded any light and warmth that might filter through the mass of trees surrounding the five-thousand-foot structure. He opened his mouth to explain that his parents had inherited the place, but he refrained, avoiding the subject of his family.
He reached for her arm to guide her to the kitchen’s woodstove, but she squared her shoulders and resisted.
“I’m not going to attack you,” he said, irritated that she was afraid of him. She’d felt his erection, knew he wanted her.
The realization put him on the defensive. He didn’t like this craving that happened when he was around her. And he especially didn’t like the fact that she didn’t reciprocate the feeling.
Was she afraid of all men or just him?
Had another man taken advantage of her?
He swallowed hard, the mere idea making his blood run hot. But he realized it was true. The bruises on her cheek and neck the first time he’d seen her had come from a man’s hands.
A man she had probably trusted.
HAILEY DIDN’T TRUST THIS MAN, although she had no idea why. He had saved her life. If he’d wanted to kill her or hurt her, he could have done so by now.
But he hadn’t. He’d offered to help her renovate her house. He’d escorted her into town. And now he’d rescued her from an attacker, and saved her from plunging over a cliff.
Who had been in the house? Thad maybe? Or someone who didn’t want her living in the Lyle house?
Rex moved through the doorway, obviously giving her space. Keeping her distance, she followed. The finely woven, handmade dream catchers dangling in the window seemed at odds with the masculine stone structure.
“Coffee, hot chocolate or tea?” he asked once they were in the rustic kitchen. Copper pots hung above a center work island, the stove encased in a brick arch. Natural light bled through a bay window that overlooked the woods and mountains above, looking majestic and giving the room an airier feel than the foyer. A small garden area surrounded a terrace, and beyond it, she noticed several large birdcages. She counted three that were empty. The fourth one was draped in a cloth.
“Hailey?”
She tensed, her mind in a tailspin, distrusting everything. “Whatever you’re making.”
He reached for the coffeepot, filled it with water and added coffee, then pressed the on button. The slow drip splintered the awkward silence.
“You can heat your hands by the woodstove.” He retrieved two thick ceramic mugs from the cabinet, found the sugar and cream set and put it on the scarred plank table.
She moved slowly to the stove, thrusting her hands above the steel frame, relief echoing in her sigh as heat drew the sting from her numb fingers. He filled the mugs, then gestured toward the sugar.
