Читать книгу Fathers and Other Strangers - Karen Templeton - Страница 10

“Ewww…why are we stopping here?”

Jenna Stanton cut the engine to her Corolla, then glanced over at the sour-faced thirteen-year-old girl she loved with all her heart. Usually. Ignoring the flood of terror now threatening to expel the contents of her stomach, Jenna forced a smile, wincing when her lower lip cracked. From behind her seat, Meringue let out a plaintive mew, protesting her incarceration in her carrier.

“This is the place I told you about,” Jenna said, still gripping the steering wheel. “Where we’re going to spend the month.”

Blair shoved a tangled strand of copper-red hair behind one recently-pierced ear and crooked her neck to get a better look at the Double Arrow Guest Lodge. “It’s a motel,” she said, her words laced with a disgust usually reserved for fried liver and Disney movies.

“We’re not staying in this part. There are cottages down by the lake.”

That got a “yeah, right” look which immediately settled into a scowl. Not that Jenna blamed her; from this angle, the Double Arrow looked like any other two-bit motel—single story, beige stucco, utilitarian doors and windows. Maybe twelve units that Jenna could see, only three with cars parked out front. The cottages she’d have to take on faith, since they weren’t visible from here.

Still, the place wasn’t quite as puke-worthy as her niece would have the world believe. Quivering shadows from dozens of ashes and cottonwoods softened the stark, unimaginative architecture, caressed the occasional plot of perfectly mowed grass and tubs of vibrant annuals. The air was still and hot, yes, but the silence was thick and sweet and luscious, punctuated only by the occasional brilliant trill of some bird or other. From what little Jenna had seen, Haven, Oklahoma was already living up to its name. On the surface, at least.

“It’s actually very pretty, don’t you think?”

“It’s boring.”

Jenna squelched her sigh, as well as the urge to squirm from the perspiration seeping through her bra. “Oh, Blair…you’d say any place with a population of less than a million looked boring.”

Resentful blue eyes zinged to Jenna’s as Blair hooked her thin arms across a still-flat chest. She’d been a pretty baby—not to mention a cheerful one—but the onset of adolescence was not being kind, either physically or emotionally. Her hair was too fine, her legs too long, her teeth held prisoner by several thousand dollars’ worth of intricate engineering. And the poor child had more freckles than there were lobbyists on Capitol Hill.

“I don’t get it,” Blair said, not quite whining but close enough to set Jenna’s teeth on edge. “You always set your books in D.C. Always. Now you have to set one in Oklahoma?”

This would make…let’s see…at least the fiftieth time they’d had this conversation since March, when Jenna had realized exactly how limited her options were. Plucking at her damp T-shirt—the car’s air conditioner had given out around Nashville—she tried another smile. “I told you. I was getting burned out. I needed a change—”

“What am I supposed to do for a whole month while you write for ten hours a day?” Tears glistened in Blair’s eyes, and Jenna’s heart cracked. Guilt had practically eaten a hole in Jenna’s heart already that she couldn’t tell her niece the truth. Not yet, anyway. “I don’t know anybody here! I mean, God, why didn’t you send me to camp or something?”

Jenna swiped a hand through her own wind-tangled mop, still smelling slightly of the hair-coloring chemicals from her do-it-yourself job the day before. “One, you hate camp. And two, I told you, sweetie—I’m not planning on doing much actual writing. Just going over the galleys for my December book, maybe some preliminary scribbles for this new one, but that’s about it. This is mostly a research trip. So we’ll do lots of sightseeing, maybe some camping. You’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Like you know anything about camping.”

“Do you, smartypants?”

“No.”

“Well, then, I suppose we can both learn.”

Silence vibrated between them for a second or two until, in a flurry of jabbing elbows, Blair unhooked the seatbelt, fumbled with the door handle for a moment then shoved open the door. “I gotta pee,” she announced, bolting from the car. The little pink pom-poms on the heels of her tennis socks wobbled frantically as she tromped toward the sign that said Office.

Jenna finally gave in to the sigh that had been building like a storm cloud for the past ten minutes, then grabbed her purse from under her seat and followed suit, tugging at the seat of her cargo shorts. It wasn’t fair to Blair, dragging her out here like this. And guilt that she couldn’t tell her niece the truth had practically eaten a hole in Jenna’s heart. She couldn’t tell her the truth yet, anyway. If things didn’t work out, maybe not ever. But all she could do was take this one step at a time and hope for the best.

Her sandals crunched the sandy dirt as she followed her niece toward the office, willing saliva back into her mouth. Thank God there’d been at least a barebones Web site for the place. Otherwise, she would have had a devil of a time explaining how she’d just happened to stumble across the Double Arrow, located on the outskirts of a town too small to show up on most maps to begin with.

She’d only spoken to Hank Logan once, when she called and asked about renting one of his cottages for the month. His voice was burned into her memory—low, edgy and heavily seasoned with sarcasm. A voice completely at odds with the image of a man who’d buy a run-down motel and—according to the information she had—single-handedly restore it, shingle by shingle.

A voice completely at odds with neatly trimmed grass and tubs of cheerful petunias and marigolds.

“Something I can do for you?”

Yeah. That voice.

Blair whipped around first, her hand poised to knock on the office door. But Jenna froze, watching her niece’s face, even though Blair wouldn’t have a clue who she might be looking at. Conversely, while Blair looked nothing like Jenna’s sister Sandy, if she looked anything like Hank—if he could see something in her niece’s face that he recognized—Jenna was screwed. Then again, if he didn’t, this whole outrageous scheme of hers might be a total waste of time. A name in a diary, a few coincidences, was all she had. What she didn’t have was proof.

Between the chronic shyness she’d never completely overcome and the particulars of this situation, Jenna’s stomach once again threatened mutiny as she forced herself to turn around.

The good news was, Blair looked nothing like Hank Logan.

The bad news was, Blair looked nothing like Hank Logan.

“Is there a bathroom I can use?” her niece asked, her high-pitched voice knifing through Jenna’s pounding heartbeat.

“Right through that door and to your right. Go ahead, it’s unlocked.”

Then eyes cryptic as midnight focused on Jenna, and her stomach turned inside out.

It took less than a second for Hank to size the woman up as the one who’d called from D.C. a few weeks back. Not that her pale-green T-shirt and khaki shorts were fancy or anything, but something about her—her stance, the way she’d shoved her sunglasses on top of her head to hold back her messed-up blond hair, her prissy little sandals—just told him she was.

He shrugged off the wooden ladder biting into his shoulder to rest it against the trunk of a nearby cottonwood, then grabbed his black T-shirt from the rung where he’d slung it earlier. He used it to make a half-assed attempt at wiping the dust and sweat off his face, then yanked it on over his head, trying to remember the last time it’d rained.

Lord, she was staring at him like she’d never seen a man’s chest before. Which he might have found amusing, once upon a time. Now he just found it annoying. But then, he found most things about women annoying these days.

Then he remembered his manners and said, “You Jenna Stanton?” Hank was not a man inclined to use more words than necessary.

She nodded, pale-blue eyes wary in a face free of any makeup that he could tell, her wide mouth set in a no-nonsense expression that matched what he remembered about her voice. He pegged her to be about his age, pushing forty, maybe a little older. The breeze blew her straight, light hair into her face; she shoved it back. She looked hot.

He almost smiled at the words’ double meaning.

She looked kinda scared, too. Like maybe she was afraid of him. Well, hell, he’d be afraid of him, too, if he saw himself for the first time. Bad enough his parents’ first successful attempt at procreation had resulted in a face that was all angles and jutting bones without Hank’s embellishing their handiwork with a twice-broken nose, an effect only intensified by a head of ornery black hair, a throwback to some Native American ancestor or other. He’d been told he could look mean without even trying, which had worked in his favor when he’d been a cop. Now it just kept folks from messing in his business, which was fine with him. And if they were tempted, all he had to do was add a scowl to the mix, and that pretty much settled the issue.

“I take it you’re Mr. Logan?” she said, finally.

“You got it.”

The woman looked as if she might step closer, then seemed to think better of it. “I’m Jenna Stanton. I spoke to you on the phone a few weeks ago? About renting a cottage?”

“Yeah. I figured that’s who you were.”

“Oh. Well, um, I know we’re a little early, but I was wondering if our cottage is ready?”

Hank almost grinned at that, too. He picked up the ladder, walked past her to thunk it against the outside office wall. “Well, ma’am, this is your lucky day. The previous occupants checked out ahead of schedule.”

“So…the cottages are more popular than the single units?”

Annoyance started to burn, right in the middle of his gut, only half because he’d wasted a perfectly good sarcastic comment. “It’s early yet. Things’ll pick up in a couple weeks. So, you ready for me to show you to your cottage or what?”

She was giving him of one those figuring-out looks that women were so good at and that Hank hated with a passion. She crammed her hands into her shorts pockets, which is when Hank decided she had pretty nice legs. For a woman her age. “I forgot to ask when I spoke with you before—what are the cooking facilities like?”

Hank felt his brows take a dive. “Julia Child probably wouldn’t wet her pants over them, but long as you don’t mind bein’ creative, I’m sure you’ll get by okay. And by the way, there’s no air-conditioning in the cottages, ’cause the old units weren’t any good and I haven’t gotten around to replacing ’em yet. All the rooms have ceiling fans, though.”

Her mouth twisted. “You sound as if you’re daring me to stay.”

“Nope. Just stating facts.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Logan—” she plucked her sunglasses off her head, only to stick them right back up there “—I am hot, have just enough of a headache to be considered dangerous and have spent the last two days on the road with a crabby teenager who’s convinced she’s just been consigned to hell. As long as there’s indoor plumbing, the mattresses don’t look like flophouse rejects and I don’t have to share the place with various and sundry critters, I’ll be a happy camper.”

Hell, he could practically see her pulse ramming in her throat from here. Maybe her words sounded tough, but her eyes—heavy-lidded, deep-set under naturally arched brows—told a whole other story. Too bad he had no idea what that story was. Like most men, Hank was totally clueless when it came to reading women’s minds. However, his cop instincts were rattling around in his brain, telling him that something seemed funny about this. And it was going to bug him to death until he figured out what.

“Well,” he said, scratching his unshaven chin and playing the hayseed to the hilt, “the mattresses are all new, the plumbing’s old but it usually works, and if you see any wildlife inside, I’ll be happy to send somebody up to shoot it for you. How’s that?”

She paled. “I don’t want to kill anything. I just want to be sure it all stays outside, where it belongs.”

Hank hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Well, honey—” he used the endearment deliberately, figuring it would set her off, which wasn’t something he normally did but something about this one just begged for it “—I hate to break it to you, but where you’ve got country, you’ve got critters. And since they were here first, they don’t have too many qualms about wandering on inside a place if the mood strikes. The four-legged ones’ll generally run back out if you make enough noise, and the six- or eight-legged ones you can just squish. So, that was a two-bedroom you wanted, right?”

He stepped into the office, a wood-paneled affair boasting a counter with a computer on it, a hookboard with the keys, a phone, and a couple of slightly beat-up chairs he’d gotten off Curly Mason after his wife left him and he couldn’t bear to look at her stuff anymore. Oh, and some photos of the area the former owners had put up about a million years ago which Hank hadn’t gotten around to taking down. The kid, he saw, was studying them with a tight frown wrinkling her forehead. Red-headed and peppered with freckles, she was going to be taller than her mama, he imagined, who was taller than average to begin with.

He heard Jenna Stanton’s footsteps behind him. Waited for a reaction that didn’t happen. Except, when she spoke, her tone had gone all tight-assed.

“Yes, a two-bedroom,” she said, then added, “and I forgot something else. I need a phone jack for my Internet connection.”

The key already in his hand, Hank made a face, then turned around and exchanged that key for another. See, that’s what was bugging him. If she was so damn picky, why hadn’t she asked about all this earlier? And why would a woman like her want to stay way the hell out here in the middle of nowhere, anyway? Especially with a teenager who was probably gonna be nothing but a pain in the can the whole time they were here. Just didn’t add up.

“There’s a jack in this one,” he said, holding up the key. Good thing he’d had Cherise clean out more than one cabin. “Former owners used to live there, so it’s got more outlets, too. Although, if you don’t mind my asking, what kind of operation you planning on running while you’re here?”

The girl moved on to the next set of pictures, as though she was trying to pretend none of this was going on.

“No operation,” the woman said with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m a writer. I’m here…doing research for my next book.”

“Huh,” Hank said, not missing the kid’s snort in response. “Okay, you can sign right—” he turned the register around and handed her a pen “—here.”

She signed left-handed. A left hand adorned with a wide gold wedding band and a knock-your-socks off engagement ring. An observation that provoked more brain-rattling, even as Hank told his brain to go lie down and be quiet, already.

He turned the register around. Her handwriting was strong, the letters uneven but legible. “Will…Mr. Stanton be joining you?”

“No.”

He looked up, but she hadn’t. “Credit card?”

“Oh. Of course.” She switched the small leather purse sitting on her hip around and up onto the counter, dug out her wallet and a credit card. Her nails were short; she didn’t wear any perfume that he could tell, although whatever she used in her hair was smelling up the whole office. From the heat, he supposed. He swiped a blank receipt, then handed her back the card.

“And…what do you do with the receipt?” she asked.

“Goes into the safe until you check out. Nobody can get to it except me. You can drive on around to the cottage—yours is the second one you’ll come to, with the blue porch.” He hesitated. “You need any help unloading the car?”

For a second or two, that wary gaze—now blended with a touch of pissed-offedness—tangled with his. “No,” she said. “We can handle it.” Then she straightened her shoulders and turned to the girl. “Blair, sweetie? You ready?” Obviously expecting the gal to follow, Jenna Stanton pivoted on her fancy little shoe and headed back outside.

“Yeah, ready to barf,” the girl muttered as she slowly trudged after.

Jenna stood on the cottage’s front porch, soaking in the peaceful view, giving herself a chance to get both her breath and her bearings. The lake, maybe fifty yards away, was more of a large pond, but it sparkled prettily in the sunshine, and there was a dock jutting out from the shore, so maybe there was swimming. Or wading. Something. A dense grove of trees bordered the far shore, a thousand shades of lush green back-dropped by the blurred blues and purples of the Ozark foothills in the distance. It was hot, and the mosquitoes had major attitude, but God, it was beautiful.

She inhaled as deeply as she could, letting her breath out slowly as she leaned against a support post, willing her neck muscles to unknot.

Well. About the best Jenna could say of her first encounter with Hank Logan was that she’d gotten through it relatively unscathed. Relatively being a, well, relative term. Criminy, she wouldn’t be surprised if her hair was standing on end. Damned if she could define her reaction, though. Oh, she could come up with a bunch of words, they just didn’t fit together in any sort of logical pattern. Except for one thing: based strictly upon her first impression, Hank Logan was only about a millimeter above her sister Sandy’s usual taste in men. He was scruffy—it was everything Jenna could do not to ask when he was planning to shave—he was close enough to rude to make the finals, and he clearly didn’t have a shred of affinity for children, if his completely ignoring Blair was any indication.

And damned if he hadn’t set her hormones to blaring like a city full of drunken revelers on Mardi Gras.

Geez Louise, she thought as she trekked down the porch steps to get her last bag, she really had been living in a cave these past three years, hadn’t she? Since when did she lust after men who looked as though they lived in one?

Since when did she lust, period?

Knowing what she did about Hank Logan’s recent past, she supposed she’d have to make allowances. To a point. After all, it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume his brusque demeanor masked a whole gamut of emotions he probably hadn’t yet handled. Maybe couldn’t handle, given both his gender and his former occupation. Still, there was no way she was going to let any of that—or her totally off-the-wall reaction—cloud her judgment.

Jenna returned to the cottage, thunking the bag in the middle of the worn but clean braided rug that took up most of the scuffed wooden floor in the sitting area. Okay, so the place was no five-star hotel. No surprise there. But then, she hadn’t stayed in one of those since she was a child. Phil’s income from his paintings had been far too spotty to allow for such things. And even though her last three or four Stella Moon mysteries had done well, all those years of trying to build a readership—after nearly a decade of trying to convince some publisher, somewhere, to take a chance on her writing—had left her so far in debt for so long, she still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of having money in the bank.

Jenna crossed to the nearest window, keeping an eye out for furry or scaly uninvited guests. So far, so good. She pushed aside the wooden bi-fold shutters and cranked open the window, noting that the screening was new, the windowsill freshly painted. Unfortunately, the outside air seemed totally disinterested in venturing inside, making her even more grateful for the protective canopy of trees shading the lot.

She made a quick check of the bedrooms, which were small but scrupulously clean, simply but adequately furnished. And yes, the mattresses—she yanked back the bedding to check—did indeed appear to be new. The pillows were synthetic, however. And Blair had given her grief for bringing their own goosedown ones. Hah!

Basking in her own smugness as she fanned herself in the sweltering heat, Jenna returned to the living area where she opened more windows, pausing only to flip the switch to the large ceiling fan and frown at the back of her niece’s head. Or at least, what she could see peering over the arm of the Mission-style sofa hunkered against one paneled wall. As usual, Blair was plugged into her Discman, Her Royal Felinity draped across her stomach. Jenna walked over, unplugged one ear: the Hottie du Jour—Jenna no longer even tried to keep up with who was in and who wasn’t—held forth tinnily from the earpiece. A purring Meringue yawned, then disinterestedly batted at the dangling cord.

“Hey—which room do you want?”

Blair made a face. Shrugged. Grabbed the earpiece from Jenna and rammed it back into place.

Reminding herself that this was no time to lose her patience, Jenna left Blair to her sulk and cranked open the next window, finally letting in some air. Hallelujah. Thus fortified, she returned to her niece and repeated the unplugging procedure. “Well, why don’t you go look at them and decide?”

That got a disgusted look. “I don’t care, okay? Geez, Jenna—there isn’t even a pool or anything. And it smells funny in here.”

“It’s just a little musty because it’s been closed up,” Jenna said, although she had to admit the aroma was doing nothing for a tummy already on the fritz from nervousness, exhaustion and heat. “It’ll clear out now that the windows are open.” And after I get my hands on some Lysol. “And maybe we can swim in the lake.”

Horror streaked across her niece’s features. “There’s probably, like, fish and…things in there! And seaweed! Gross!”

Jenna pointed out it would be tricky for seaweed to grow in a freshwater pond. Especially in the middle of the continent. Then, commandeering the last shreds of her quickly fading energy, she swatted her niece on the sole of her sneaker. “Come on—I need you to help me lug in the cooler. Then we can see about doing something for dinner. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Although, to be truthful, the last thing Jenna wanted to think about right now was food. No, actually, the last thing she wanted to think about was Hank Logan. Or any of the reasons why they were there to begin with. All she really wanted to do was go to sleep for about a week and forget about moody nieces, revelations in diaries, P.I. reports and newspaper clippings and sexy, rumpled, grumpy men with bedroom voices who wigged out her hormones.

Speaking of grumpy…Blair actually deigned to haul her tush off the sofa and out to the car, dumping a miffed Meringue onto the floor in the process.

Jenna’s spirits lifted, just a little. Miffed cats she could handle.

Springing earth-shattering news on people was something else again.

“Jenna! Jenna—wake up!”

Fighting her way out of a dream, Jenna pried open one eye and looked—if you could call it that—at Blair. “Wha—?”

“The toilet’s overflowing!”

At this point, Jenna experienced one of Life’s Little Truisms, which is that one’s urge to pee is in direct proportion to the discovery that there’s no toilet. Especially when one last went—Jenna finally screwed up enough oomph to peer at her travel clock—ten hours ago.

“Jenna! It’s like really coming out fast, all over the bathroom!”

Three seconds later found Jenna wading through the inch of surprisingly frigid water rapidly threatening the living room. Cursing and muttering, she prayed there was a turn-off valve under the toilet, both because she didn’t relish the idea of swamp living and because the gushing water was doing nothing for her full bladder.

There was. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t budge. Cursing and muttering more loudly, especially at the dumb cat who got right smack in her path, Jenna sloshed out of the bathroom and across the living room to the kitchen, where the valve under the kitchen sink did work. Which stopped the flooding—which was the good news—but also shut off the water for the entire cabin. Which was the bad.

She swore again, a meatier word this time, then stomped back to the bathroom, grabbed the spare roll of toilet paper off the commode, said, “I’ll be right back” and hotfooted it outside, still in her shortie pj’s. When she returned a few minutes later, Blair was standing on the porch, her expression duly horror-stricken.

“You went in public?”

“Yes, Blair,” Jenna said, zipping past her and on into her room, where she rummaged in her still-packed bags, grabbing the first things that came to hand. Okay, she was now officially in a bad mood. Dammit—she had planned to sleep in. She had planned on a bracing run, then a leisurely shower. She had not planned on dealing with Hank Logan before coffee. Or a shower. “I went all the way back to the road and squatted right where anybody coming or going could see me. For heaven’s sake—” she quickly hauled on shorts and a white T-shirt “—it was just me and about five million startled birds.”

She turned to face her niece, whose expression had changed from horrified to disgusted. Jenna grabbed her Redskins ball cap from the nightstand and crammed her hair up into it, feeling about as attractive as grout gunk. “I’m going to report this. You might as well get dressed while I’m gone, since I guess we’re having breakfast in town. TP’s on the coffee table if you need it.”

“This was a really stupid idea, Jenna.”

Jenna looked up and saw the tears cresting on her niece’s lower lids. On a sigh, she closed the gap between them, pulling the girl into her arms.

“I’m sorry things started out so badly,” she whispered into her niece’s soft, slippery hair. “But it’ll get better. I promise.”

Then she left before the hysterical laughter escaped.

Even after more than two years, Hank still occasionally had mornings where he’d jerk awake in a sweat, gasping for air as though somebody’d dumped a load of wet cement on his chest.

Shutting his eyes against the almost painful pounding of his heart, he rolled himself up to sit on the edge of his bed, fumbling for his cigarettes. His hands shook so badly it took him three tries to get the damn lighter working. He’d actually quit for several months a year or so ago, but between the memories during the day and the night terrors…well, the smoking seemed the lesser of the evils, frankly.

He took his first drag of the morning and waited for his heart rate to settle down. Ryan, his pain-in-the-ass brother, who happened also to be Haven’s sole M.D., ragged on Hank whenever he saw him about the smoking. Which was one reason Hank tended to stay out of Ryan’s way. Besides—damn, how long was it gonna take for the nicotine to kick in, already?—it wasn’t like he had any real reason to prolong his life….

Aw, hell. Who was banging the crap out of the office bell this early?

He swore, took a last pull on the cigarette and stamped it out, then yanked on the pair of jeans he’d left by the bed the night before. Didn’t bother with underwear. The way he figured it, if this was who he figured it was at—what the hell time was it, anyway?—seven-fifteen in the morning, she should be grateful he bothered getting dressed at all.

For some reason, the image of Jenna Stanton’s expression at the sight of him in the altogether brought a glimmer of sunshine to what was undoubtedly fixing to be a rotten day.

“You can lay off the bell now,” he said, jerking open the door between his apartment and the front office. Predictably enough, she jumped back, her eyes huge underneath the brim of her ball cap, her breasts straining against the fabric of her tucked-in T-shirt like a pair of little—very little—kids’ faces pressed against a candy shop window.

“Mr. Logan! What if this had been Blair?” She flapped her hands at him; he bet she’d be fit to be tied if she realized how red her cheeks were. “Please—g-go back and finish getting dressed. I’m not in that much of a hurry.”

Hank’s accession to her demands extended as far as snapping his jeans’ waistband. And while he wouldn’t go so far as to say he was enjoying watching her watching him, he did have to admit he was getting a perverse sort of pleasure out of ruffling Ms. Stanton’s very ruffleable feathers.

“You come knockin’ before 8:00 a.m., Ms. Stanton, you take me as you find me. Now am I correct in assuming you’re not here to invite me to breakfast?”

Her eyes snapped to his. “The t-toilet was overflowing. In the cabin. I turned off the main valve to the cabin, but now we obviously have no running water. So it needs to be fixed right away.”

Hank scratched his chin, thinking maybe he’d get around to shaving today. Or maybe not. He’d have to think on it for a bit. “No water, huh? You need to use my can?” He nodded toward the apartment.

“No, I don’t need to use your…bathroom. We, um…”

In spite of himself, he felt a grin tugging at his mouth, if not chasing away what was left of the nightmare, at least dulling its effects somewhat. Lord, but it had been a long time since he’d had this much fun yanking a woman’s chain.

“I take it, Ms. Stanton, you have enough sense not to use leaves to—”

“Blair and I are going into town for breakfast,” she interrupted, her cheeks full-out blazing now. “I…I’d appreciate it if you could see to the problem before we get back?”

Then she turned on her heel—rope-soled shoes today—and stormed out, her fanny not daring to move a single extra muscle as she went.

“Ms. Stanton?”

She turned, brows hoisted. Hank dug in his jeans pocket and extracted a five-dollar bill. “Since you’re going into town anyway, d’you suppose you could bring me back a bacon and egg sandwich from Ruby’s? With a side of hash browns? Oh, and while you’re at it—” he went on a second excavation for another five “—get me a chocolate shake, too.”

For a good two or three seconds, she regarded him with what could only be described as a cross between stupefaction and profound pity. But she tromped back over to the counter and snatched the bills from Hank’s hands. “I suppose that’s the least I can do in exchange for your checking out my plumbing so early in the morning.” In rapid succession, she blushed, cleared her throat, and said, “You drink milk shakes for breakfast?”

For some dumb reason, a big old smile stretched across Hank’s face. “Spoken truly like somebody who’s never had one of Ruby’s chocolate shakes.”

She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, only to spin around again. This time, he let her make it all the way outside, thinking he sure did like that indignant little backside of hers.

Yep, Jenna Stanton might be a priss, but she was a damned attractive priss. In fact, she was the kind of woman that set a man’s hands itching to stroke some of the starch right out of her, to back her up to whatever was handy and kiss her senseless. Just for the challenge, y’know?

And Hank was damned grateful that he was old enough, and, he hoped, smart enough, to know that he had no business thinking he might be that man.