Free Smoketree by Jennifer Roberson Page A

I think he’s a good guy. ”
    I shot him a scowl. “Never mind. I’m already embarrassed enough; can we forget the whole thing?”
    “Sure. Why don’t you come with me to get a nightcap while I settle my things in my cabin?”
    “Thanks, but I’ll pass. You go on.”
    We parted at the porch. Brandon wished me a good night’s sleep, kissed me briefly and chastely on the forehead near the scar, and went into the Lodge. Surprised, yet also gratified for his understanding, I headed toward my cabin.
    As I walked, smiling to myself over Brandon’s welcome arrival, I heard the roar of a powerful engine. It approached rapidly, inexorably, and as I turned I was struck full across the face by a set of blinding headlights.
    Suddenly I was taken back six months, frozen behind the steering wheel of Tucker’s sleek European sports car as the approaching vehicle veered into our lane. I recalled shouting something to Tucker, but he was slumped, asleep, against the door I had carefully locked.
    I did not shout this time. My throat locked up and all I could do was stand very, very still, one hand thrust out against the headlights, the other wadding the fabric of my sweater into a twisted lump against my flesh.
    The car stopped. The headlights were shut off. The engine died. I saw a burgundy Porsche 924 parked before me. Illumination from the Lodge lent a muted glow to the area, encompassing the car, but I was still half-blinded by the headlights. As the door swung open I saw a middle-aged, rotund, balding man wearing glasses climb out.
    “Is this Smoketree?” he asked.
    I felt ill. My muscles ached with the sudden release of tension. Automatically I tugged my sweater back into shape and tried to recover my composure. My hands were shaking.
    “Yes—yes, it’s Smoketree.”
    He didn’t seem to notice the quiver in my voice. “Oh good! I was afraid I’d taken the wrong turning.” He grinned impishly, adding to the overall impression of a slightly over-the-hill cherub. “I’m not terribly good at remembering directions, and I’m afraid the map got left behind at the restaurant. ” He paused, losing a little of his ebullience as I said nothing. “Do you work here?”
    “No. I’m a guest.” I approached, not particularly offended by his mistake. “That’s the Lodge”—a wave of my hand—“someone up there can check you in.”
    Before he could say anything further his passenger swung open her door and stepped out. My mind registered vague surprise as she uncoiled herself from the Porsche. She wasn’t even remotely the type of woman I’d associate with the man.
    She was a black-haired, black-eyed beauty, perhaps in her early thirties. She moved with exquisite grace as she paused by the sleek dark hood of the Porsche, and I saw the calm confidence associated with affluence and influence reflected in her eyes as she observed me. I smiled at her, totally aware of what she was doing as she made a smooth, professional assessment of me. The time-honored female ritual had been played out.
    “If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll fetch Harper.” I could just as easily excuse myself, but I was curious as to how the cowboy would react when he set eyes on her.
    I went back toward the pens where I had last seen him, and found him doling out coffee-can portions of grain to each horse feeder. I leaned against the rails of one pen, waiting as he finished, and finally he came over.
    “You down here to accuse me of all sorts of things again?” In the dark, thank God, he couldn’t see the instantaneous blush. But I had no doubts he could hear the defensiveness in my tone. “That was a joke, you know. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
    I scowled at his irritatingly serene face. “You have guests. Up there, by the Lodge.”
    “You could have sent them in to Nathan.”
    “Yes,” I agreed. “But maybe I just wanted to see if you were sabotaging anything else.”
    It wiped the amusement out of his eyes. “So much for your joke.