Free Texas Pride by Bárbara McCauley Page B

“come-on-in-and-don’t-mind-me” dog. At the smell of food, though, the animal lifted his head and sniffed the air. “I’m just trying to imagine what it was like to live here more than a hundred years ago.”
    â€œWhy don’t you just ask your ghosts?”
    She lifted a brow. “Is that sarcasm I hear in your voice?”
    â€œMe? Sarcastic?” He grinned and sat down next to her.
    Food had obviously improved his mood, Jessica noted, and felt relieved he wasn’t still angry about the breakfast. She was also glad he placed the paper bag on the seat between them. She needed whatever barrier she could find between herself and Dylan. The smells from the bag, however, were driving her nearly as crazy as the man.
    â€œFor your information,” she said with a lift of her chin, “the ghosts here are real.”
    The bag crackled as Dylan rummaged through it. He pulled out a paper-wrapped hamburger and handed it to her.
    She shook her head stubbornly. “I was planning a stew. I found a recipe in an old cookbook.”
    He pressed the hamburger in her hand. “Toss it in the trash with those biscuits.”
    Hunger overrode her pride. She took a bite and sighed with pleasure as she settled back and glanced at the bag. “Please tell me you have fries in there.”
    â€œCatsup, too.”
    She dug in the bag and popped a fry into her mouth. “You are too good to be true, Dylan Grant.”
    He looked away from her, and his glance assessed the work done that day. The crew had removed the debris and the worst of the burned pews; the boarded-up windows were open, but had no glass. There was an airy, reverent feeling inside the church, and Jessica felt herself relaxing. Dylan broke off a piece of his hamburger and tossed it to Hannibal, then he, too, settled back to eat. “Tell me about your ghosts.”
    â€œThey aren’t my ghosts.” She rarely talked about them. No one believed her, so what was the point? Her family humored her on the subject, as she knew Dylan was doing now. Still, it made no difference to her what Dylan did or didn’t believe.
    â€œHave you seen them?” he asked.
    He handed her a packet of catsup, and the amusement she saw in his eyes made her spine stiffen. “I hear them,” she said. “Sometimes just a word or two, other times more.”
    There was more, Jessica thought. A great deal more. But she’d never shared that with anyone, and she certainly didn’t intend to start with Dylan of all people. He wouldn’t believe it. Sometimes she wasn’t sure even she believed it.
    Dylan didn’t believe a word of what Jessica was saying of course, but he certainly enjoyed listening to her. And the expression on her face and the way her blue eyes shone as she talked about her spirits captivated him. He wouldn’t care if she wanted to talk about quilt making. “So you’ve never seen them,” he said. “You just hear them.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    He chewed thoughtfully. “Didn’t you say you knew their names?”
    â€œMeggie and Lucas. Meggie was the schoolmarm, and Lucas owned the saloon.”
    â€œMeggie and Lucas,” he repeated. “Nice names.” The shadows deepened and a cool breeze flowed over them. Dylan watched one loose strand of hair curl around Jessica’s cheek. Instinctively he reached out and tucked it behind her ear. “Were they lovers?”
    Lovers. The word hovered between them. His touch was no more than the brush of his finger on her cheek, yet desire flared with an intensity that startled him. Her lips were close. Close and tempting.
    Jessica had gone still at his touch. “Does it matter?”
    He smiled. “Probably to them it did.”
    The air grew heavy and thick, as if a storm was coming. The cool breeze turned to a warm wind.
    Jessica leaned closer, her expression intense. “Dylan, didn’t you ever