Free Reilly's Return by Tami Hoag Page B

of the house as soon as her palmist, Wanda Styles, had gone. Wanda had been no help at all, pointing out a winding, wobbly love line on her hand and predicting she would need to invest in an exotic, scented, edible body lotion. And Candi, whom Jayne had planned to use as a buffer to keep Reilly at bay, had been suggesting all kinds of ways for Jayne to snag the man. It had been downright unnerving to hear the girl’s schemes—especially once she realized her brain was giving them a certain amount of consideration.
    Jayne braced her arms on the rail of the stall before her and stared unseeing at Mascara, a black-and-white female llama with unbelievablylong lashes fringing her gentle brown eyes. The llama reached her long neck over the stall, begging for a scratching, which Jayne provided automatically as her thoughts turned back to her friends.
    The Fearsome Foursome had ended up in Anastasia, just as they’d planned all those years ago. Each had gone off to chase a rainbow, a rainbow that had shattered or lead down the wrong road or simply faded away. Now here they were, all living in the town they had chosen as a refuge of sorts. Faith and Alaina had found new lives here. Each had achieved her ultimate dream of fulfillment. Bryan was simply hanging on, trying to survive a family tragedy. And Jayne, Jayne mused, Jayne had been in a holding pattern … waiting for Reilly’s return.
    As if her imagination had conjured him up, he walked into the barn, stopping just inside the door. His face was an unreadable mask as his gaze drifted from Jayne to the man sitting on the hay. “Am I interrupting?”
    “Not at all,” Bryan said, pushing himself to his feet. He was every bit as tall as Reilly. Not as brawny, but equally athletic-looking, Jayne noticed. She didn’t miss the intensity in either pair of blue eyes as the men regarded each other. Bryanwas the first to offer his hand. “Bryan Hennessy. You must be Pat Reilly.”
    “I am.”
    As they shook hands, Jayne watched Bryan’s face. The hint of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth.
    “Jaynie,” Reilly said, not taking his eyes off the man before him, “you’ve got a phone call from the editor of the
San Francisco Chronicle.”
    “Oh. Thanks,” Jayne mumbled, nibbling on her thumbnail as her gaze darted back and forth between the two men. It settled on Bryan, and he looked at her, giving an almost imperceptible shrug. Jayne’s eyes widened.
    What do you mean, you don’t know? You always know
.
    Not this time, sweetheart
.
    Reilly frowned at the pair and the silent communication obviously going on between them. His scowl only darkened when Bryan reached out and gently tapped a forefinger against the little gold key that dangled from Jayne’s wrist. Jealousy burned through him. He’d always been a tad bit territorial, but with Jayne he felt downright primitive. He was sick of having to watch other men share her affections. He’d had no say in the matter when she’d been married to Mac, but damnedif he was going to let this buck move in to challenge him now.
    “Shake a leg, sheila,” he snapped at Jayne. “It’s a toll call.”
    Jayne gave him a strange look but hurried out just the same.
    The instant she was out of earshot, Reilly wrapped a fist in Bryan Hennessy’s shirt front and leaned toward him, the picture of male intimidation. “You lay a finger on her, and I’ll break it off and feed it to you for breakfast. You got that, mate?”
    Bryan had the gall to look mildly amused. He removed Reilly’s hand from his shirt with deceptive calm. “We’re clear on that, but maybe I should explain something to you. Jayne is like a sister to me. I wouldn’t hurt her any more than I would stand by and watch some outback Casanova break her heart. You got that,
mate?”
His voice was low and calm, but the threat was implicit.
    Reilly grinned suddenly. With the danger of a rivalry removed, he liked this Hennessy—a man who stood his ground and spoke his mind.