Читать книгу Lone Wolf - Sheri WhiteFeather, Sheri WhiteFeather - Страница 10

Hawk Wainwright walked out onto his front porch, then stopped when he saw her.

The pretty woman next door.

She knelt on the grass, planting flowers in her yard. Curious, he watched her.

A soft breeze blew her hair across her face, shielding a delicate profile. She wore old jeans and a simple cotton blouse, but she managed to look ethereal. He suspected her eyes were blue, rivaling the color of the sky.

But the angelic beauty seemed determined to keep to herself. She never spoke to him, never met his gaze or acknowledged him in any way.

Not that Hawk expected special treatment. He wasn’t the friendliest person in the neighborhood. Nor were folks drawn to him. Since his youth, Hawk had been considered an outcast. Then again, he didn’t give a damn about socializing in Mission Creek. This town hadn’t been particularly kind to him, even if it had been home for as long as he could remember. He lived on the outskirts of Mission Creek, and for good reason.

Hawk was the unwanted, illegitimate son of one of the richest men in the county. And being the Wainwright bastard had taught him how to live on the fringes of society, how to thumb his nose at his daddy and his half siblings. They meant nothing to Hawk. Nothing at all.

Nothing but a childhood ache he’d long since outgrown. Standing six foot one with a set of broad shoulders and a pair of dark, unforgiving eyes, he was no longer a kid hoping his prominent, white daddy would notice him.

Thirty-three-year-old Hawk Wainwright was an Apache, a man who trained horses, rescued injured raptors and asked Ysun, the Creator of the Universe, the Apache Life Giver, to guide him.

And who was the pretty lady next door? he wondered, as he started down the porch steps to retrieve his mail. And why was she so shy? So cautious?

Maybe she’d heard the gossip about him. Eight years ago, Hawk had dated a pampered, rich, breathtakingly beautiful white girl. But after they’d slept together, he’d discovered that she had no intention of introducing him to her family or bringing him into her social circle. She had, however, treated him like a prized Indian stud, whispering quite naughtily that her roommate wanted a turn with him.

Stunned, Hawk hadn’t responded to the lewd offer. But just days later he’d approached both girls at a local bar. After kissing one and then the other, he’d quietly told both of them to go to hell. Naturally those hot, public kisses had culminated in a much-talked-about scandal.

But he’d learned his lesson, and these days Hawk no longer felt the need to explore his Anglo side by dating white women. Instead, he avoided them.

He glanced at his neighbor again. She was as fair-skinned as they came, but she still fascinated him. He couldn’t help but admire the way her gold-streaked hair caught the light or the way a spray of geraniums bloomed like a rainbow at her feet.

Let it go, he told himself. Stay away from her.

He turned and opened his mailbox, then sifted through the envelopes until an unfamiliar name printed on one of them caught his eye.

Jennifer Taylor.

He checked the address and saw that it was incorrect. The letter, bearing the logo of a fashion magazine, belonged to the lady next door.

Shooting his gaze in her direction again, Hawk weighed his options. Should he just put the letter in her mailbox? Or use this as an excuse to satisfy his curiosity and talk to her?

Curiosity won, along with a self-admonishing curse. He was doing a hell of a job of avoiding her.

Stuffing his own mail in his back pocket, he headed toward her, cutting across the adjoining driveways that separated their houses.

“Jennifer?” he said when he reached her.

She started at the sound of his voice, which told him she had been unaware of his presence.

Still kneeling on the ground, she looked up at him, shielding her eyes with a gloved hand.

“Are you Jennifer?” he asked.

“Jenny,” she said a little too softly. “I’m Jenny.”

“I think this belongs to you.”

She removed her gloves and stood. But when she reached out to take the envelope, she teetered.

“Are you all right?” he asked. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and the sun flushed her skin, making it look hot and pink.

“Yes,” she said, but her flushed face went pale.

Too pale, he thought.

The envelope fell from her hand, fluttering to the ground. And in the next instant, she was going down, too. Passing out, Hawk realized.

He reacted quickly, even though he had never been in the company of a fainting female before. Reaching forward, he caught her, and she sagged against him like a rag doll.

Unsure of what else to do, he lifted her into his arms and then stood beneath the blinding sun, like an Apache renegade who’d just scared the wits out of an innocent, young captive.

Now he knew why he avoided white women, he mused, mocking his penchant for trouble. He only wanted to meet his new neighbor, not create another scandal.

Hawk adjusted Jenny, cradling her against his chest. She didn’t weigh much, but handling her felt awkward just the same.

He made his porch steps in record time. Turning the doorknob, he shouldered his way inside. Next he deposited her on his cedar-framed sofa, her clothes twisting a little as he did.

Hawk stepped back to study her, hoping she would rouse on her own.

But she didn’t. Jenny remained motionless, her crumpled cotton blouse exposing an intriguing slice of skin just above the waistband of earth-smudged jeans. He couldn’t help but notice her navel. Or the lean, yet feminine curves of her body.

Hawk frowned. Now he really felt like a renegade, checking out an unconscious woman.

Then quit looking, he told himself. And figure out a way to revive her.

Like what? Mouth to mouth?

Oh, yeah. That’s the gentlemanly thing to do, he thought as he rummaged through his kitchen for the first-aid kit he kept on a cluttered shelf.

Hawk grabbed the plastic box, opened it and found what he was hoping to—smelling salts.

Returning to Jenny, he knelt before her, broke the packet and waved it beneath her nose.

She stirred instantly, jerking as she regained consciousness. When their eyes met, he noticed how blue they were. And how wary.

Jenny pulled back, trying to put some distance between herself and the man staring at her. He was much too close, his face just inches from hers. She could see the tiny lines around his eyes, the pores in that rich, copper skin, the small scar near his mouth that gave his frown an element of danger.

His hair fell in an inky-black line, but light spilling in from the window sent a sapphire sheen over each shoulder-length strand.

Around his neck, a turquoise nugget dangled from a leather thong. Both ears were adorned with small black claws—talons as sharp as his cheekbones.

She knew he was her neighbor, but she’d done her best to avoid him.

“You passed out,” he said.

Jenny merely nodded, unable to find her voice. His, she noticed, was as rough as the Texas terrain.

Did she fall into his arms? she wondered, mortified at the thought. All she remembered was the world turning a hazy shade of white.

He sat on the edge of the coffee table. “Has this ever happened before?”

“No,” she lied. She’d fainted once when she was pregnant, but that wasn’t the reason she’d lost consciousness this time. There was no way she could be pregnant. Jenny hadn’t been with anyone since her divorce.

“I’m sorry I troubled you,” she said. “But I’m okay now.” She shifted to a sitting position to prove her point, but the movement lacked conviction. She was still a bit dizzy, her mouth as dry as dust.

He frowned at her, the scar twisting into that menacing shape again. “You don’t look okay to me.” He rose to his full height. He stood tall and powerfully built, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip. His clothes consisted of a white T-shirt, dark jeans and a pair of knee-high moccasins.

Clearly, no one would mistake him for anything other than what he was—a tough, striking, modern-day warrior.

“Sit still,” he ordered. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Although she wanted to escape, to rush home and recline on her own couch, she did as she was told. In spite of her neighbor’s gruff demeanor, he seemed genuinely concerned. But Jenny still feared upsetting him. Men, she knew, weren’t always what they seemed.

And this one, with his commanding voice and scarred frown, was probably used to getting his way.

He returned with a glass of ice water and resumed his seat on the edge of the coffee table.

Jenny wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to sit so close, but she couldn’t summon the courage to be that bold. Or that rude, she supposed. He was only trying to help.

“Sip slowly,” he said.

“Thank you.” The water tasted clean and refreshing. Revitalizing. “I just got over the flu. And I was tired of being cooped up in the house.”

“So you went outside and worked in the sun?”

“I enjoy planting flowers,” she responded, hoping it wasn’t a dumb thing to say. Roy used to tell her that she often made dumb, girlish comments.

She tried not to think about her ex-husband and what he would do if he saw her with this man. But Roy was always on her mind, and she was always worried about him being nearby, stalking her the way he’d done back home in Salt Lake City.

“Planting flowers is fine, I suppose. But now it appears you’ve got a touch of sunstroke. No wonder you passed out.”

He shook his head and sent those black talons dancing. Jenny watched them spin, thinking how primitive they made him look.

They lapsed into silence, so she took another sip of water and glanced around his house. The layout was just like hers, she realized, but the decor, with its sturdy furnishings, was undeniably masculine. An oak gun case filled with lever-action rifles made a strong, noticeable statement.

She scanned the rifles, recognizing what appeared to be an original Winchester Yellow Boy, the legendary 1866 model. Western relics had become a significant part of her design business, and she spent most of her free time scouting and researching special pieces.

“By the way, I’m Hawk,” he said, drawing her attention back to him.

“Hawk.” She repeated the name. Somehow it fit. She could see him gliding through the air. Or swooping down to prey on a smaller, weaker animal.

Like an unsuspecting female? she asked herself with a familiar shudder.

She bit her lip. “I should go. I’ve taken enough of your time already.”

“Not yet.”

He reached out and put his hand on her cheek, and she froze, stunned and speechless. His hand was cool and big, his palm rough and callused.

“I think you have a fever.” He moved to her forehead, brushing her bangs aside.

Jenny held her breath, resisting the urge to push him away, to protect herself from the emotion he inflicted. The affectionate gesture brought back too many memories.

But she couldn’t tell him that. Not without admitting that Roy used to stroke her face. And then raise his fists when his temper flared.

Hawk removed his hand. “I’ll get you a couple aspirin.”

“No. I just need to go home and rest.” She rose to leave, handing him the water.

He walked her to the door, then set the glass on a nearby table. “I forgot about the letter you dropped.”

“I’ll get it.” She glanced outside, assuming it was still on the grass somewhere.

“Why don’t you let me find it? I can slip it in your mailbox. You should stay out of the sun. Maybe take a tepid bath to break the fever.”

“All right,” she managed, and Hawk smiled. It gentled his rawboned features, softening the scar and adding a flicker of light to those dark eyes.

“Bye, Jenny.”

“Bye.” She turned away quickly, knowing he watched as she cut across the lawn and headed to her own house.

Taking a deep breath, she stared straight ahead, refusing to glance back or wave or smile. Jenny Taylor knew better than to get too friendly with a young, powerful, good-looking man.

Four days later Jenny wheeled her shopping cart out of the market, her grocery bags filled with frozen entrées, canned goods and fresh salad fixings. Cooking traditional meals for herself was too much trouble, so she prepared quick, simple things. Occasionally she dined out, enjoying the Yellow Rose Café at the Lone Star Country Club. She wasn’t a member of the club, but she was the interior designer who’d landed the prestigious job of designing the decor of the new wing. And although that job was complete, she’d since been hired to redecorate some of the original guest rooms. The Lone Star Country Club was an icon in Mission Creek, a Western resort catering to the crème de la crème of Texas.

“Hey, lady,” a youthful voice called out. “Do you want to adopt a puppy?”

Jenny turned, realizing she was the lady being singled out for the adoption.

Two adolescent boys, brothers, from the looks of them, sat in a shady spot in front of the market, a cardboard box between them.

A small, yippy bark echoed from the box, drawing Jenny closer.

“He’s a real nice dog,” the older of the two boys said. “And he’s the last one. We already gave the rest of the litter away.”

Unable to help herself, she peered into the box. The tan-and-black puppy yipped again, then wriggled uncontrollably for her attention.

The dog had green eyes, a narrow face and large floppy ears. Its rounded feet looked like four white socks.

She knelt to pet him and was rewarded with a sweet doggie grin. He was adorable, she thought, warm and soft and huggable.

Should she take him home? Give him a cozy place to sleep?

Instantly Jenny drew her hand back and came to her feet. How could she commit to a pet? She didn’t know how long she’d be staying in Mission Creek. Or where she would go if Roy found her. In a sense, she lived on the lam, running like a criminal from a nightmarish past.

“Cute critter,” a deep voice said from behind her.

Jenny turned to see Hawk, dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, a straw Stetson dipped over his dark eyes. The beaded hatband and lone feather dangling from it made his ethnic features seem more pronounced. The talons in his ears glinted dangerously in the April light.

Her heart slammed into her throat. Was he following her?

Of course not, she told herself a moment later. He had to come into town to shop, too.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine,” she responded, wishing her heart would quit dominating her throat.

Avoiding eye contact, she glanced at the ground. And noticed Hawk’s feet. He wasn’t wearing moccasins today. Instead, he sported a pair of dusty black cowboy boots, the toes turned up, the leather scuffed.

“I just got off work,” he offered.

“Oh.” Was he a cowboy of some sort? A ranch hand perhaps? His clothes were nearly as dusty as his boots.

“I’m a horse trainer,” he said, as though he’d just read her mind. “I lease a barn at Jackson Stables.”

Neither spoke after that. Jenny tried to relax, but she could feel Hawk’s eyes on her.

He stared at her hair, at the gold-streaked tresses that used to be a quiet shade of brown. She touched a strand self-consciously. She wasn’t used to being a blonde yet, but she’d changed the color hoping Roy wouldn’t recognize her so easily.

Hawk shifted his gaze to the dog. “Are you in the market for a puppy?”

“I don’t think I have enough time for him. My career keeps me busy.” And her fear of being tracked down by her ex-husband kept her on the move. “He is adorable, though.” She gave the floppy-eared mutt a loving glance.

“He looks like he’s got some Australian Shepard in him.” The boys perked up, realizing they had a potential adoptive parent kneeling to check out the dog.

“He’s part beagle, too,” the older kid said.

“That’s some combination.” Hawk picked up the puppy, then stood and faced Jenny. The young dog wiggled excitedly in his arms.

“I’ve never seen a mixed blood quite like this one, have you?”

She shook her head, distracted by Hawk’s choice of words. The dog was a mixed breed. Mixed blood was a term more suited to humans.

And then suddenly she knew why he’d made that subconscious error. Hawk was of mixed blood. She hadn’t noticed the Caucasian in him before, but she could see touches of his white ancestry now. His skin was more copper than brown, and the long, slim line of his nose bore a shape she often associated with English aristocracy. Of course, on Hawk’s strong-boned face, it didn’t look quite so genteel.

Jenny had never given her own ancestry much thought, but she suspected Hawk’s mattered to him. Or at least the Native American side did.

“Will you dog-sit once in a while?”

She blinked. “I’m sorry. What?”

“The puppy. I’m thinking about keeping him.”

She gazed at the dog and laughed when he nudged her with his paw. He looked snug as a bug in Hawk’s sturdy arms. Fluffy and sweet. Now she wanted to go back into the market and buy him a cart full of chewy treats and squeaky toys.

“Yes,” she said, without thinking clearly. “I’ll dog-sit as often as I can.”

“Great.” Hawk’s lips curved into that fleeting smile, the one that gentled his features and softened the scar near his mouth.

Jenny only stared. And then her heart went crazy, pounding like an out-of-control drum.

Dear God. How could this be happening? She was attracted to Hawk. After all she had been through with Roy, and now this. She wasn’t ready to feel this way, to confront a physical attraction.

“I have to go,” she said abruptly.

“Are you sure you can’t stay for a few more minutes?” He held up the puppy, and the floppy-eared little guy yipped happily at her.

“No,” she responded a bit nervously. “I can’t.”

Hawk watched Jenny wheel her cart across the parking lot. Why was she so cautious? Why did she run away from him every chance she got?

At this point, he didn’t think his reputation had preceded him. Whatever plagued Jenny went much deeper than frivolous gossip.

There were moments she reminded him of a wounded creature—a skittish filly or a bird with a broken wing.

Of course, Hawk had experience in both those areas. But he’d never gotten close to a woman with a fragile spirit.

Then again, he’d never gotten close to anyone.

“Are you gonna keep the dog, mister?”

He glanced at the kids. “Yeah, I am. Is that okay with you two?”

“Sure. He needs a home.”

Well, he’s got one now, Hawk thought, as the puppy continued to wiggle like a furry, wet-nosed worm. Reaching into his pocket, he removed his wallet and handed the boys some cash.

Dumbfounded, they stared at him. “He doesn’t cost anything. We’re giving him away.”

“I know, but I don’t mind paying for him.” Hawk wanted the dog to know that he was just as valuable as a pedigreed dog with papers. Animals, like humans, he believed, sensed their worth.

“Our dad said he was the runt.”

“Right now maybe. But look at the size of these feet.” He held out one of the pup’s big clumsy paws. “He’s not going to be a runt forever.”

The boys grinned and accepted the donation just as Hawk’s cell phone rang.

He walked away for some privacy. “Hello?”

“Hawk, it’s Tom Jackson. I think you better get back to the barn.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“You’ve got a client waiting on you. And he’s the impatient sort.”

Hawk frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone at the barn, not at this hour. “Then put him on the phone.”

The other man paused. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather not. I think you need to handle this in person.”

“All right.” Whoever the client was, he certainly had the owner of Jackson Stables jumping through hoops. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Hawk loaded the puppy into his truck and decided not to speculate about who was waiting for him. If someone had a professional beef with him, he would find out what the problem was and remedy it. Hawk considered himself an ethical man, a man who didn’t brawl over things a firm handshake and a calm, rational attitude could fix.

The commotion next to him caught his attention. The dog wouldn’t sit still. The feisty little critter paced the bench seat, finally settling on Hawk’s lap with an insecure whine.

“It’s okay.” He scratched the puppy’s head. “You can stay there for now. But sooner or later, you’ll have to toughen up.”

By the time Hawk reached Jackson Stables, the dog was asleep. He chuckled and turned into the driveway that led to his barn.

And then he spotted the truck and horse trailer bearing the Wainwright logo.

What the hell was this?

Hawk parked his rig, exited it and set the puppy on the ground.

Squaring his shoulders, he went around to the back of the trailer where he saw none other than Archy Wainwright—the son of a bitch who’d spawned him—leaning against it.