Lone Star Dad
Linda Goodnight
The Secret Next DoorNurse Gena Satterfield knew raising her rebellious nephew, Derrick, would be tough, but moving to Gabriel's Crossing was supposed to help ease the transition into their new reality. That was before she realized her new neighbor was Quinn Buchanon—her teenage crush, the town's onetime star quarterback…and Derrick's father. Her sister's dying wish was that Gena keep this secret. Yet watching Quinn connect with the boy and penetrate his angry walls, Gena begins to see him in a whole new light. Now, torn between the truth and the promise she made, Gena has to follow her heart. And hope they can all heal together…as a family.
The Secret Next Door
Nurse Gena Satterfield knew raising her rebellious nephew, Derrick, would be tough, but moving to Gabriel’s Crossing was supposed to help ease the transition into their new reality. That was before she realized her new neighbor was Quinn Buchanon—her teenage crush, the town’s onetime star quarterback...and Derrick’s father. Her sister’s dying wish was that Gena keep this secret. Yet watching Quinn connect with the boy and penetrate his angry walls, Gena begins to see him in a whole new light. Now, torn between the truth and the promise she made, Gena has to follow her heart. And hope they can all heal together...as a family.
Her cranky, surly nephew sat on the bare floor while a mother cat licked milk from his fingertips.
Nestled around the black-and-white cat was a bunch of brand-new baby kittens.
Derrick raised a rapt face. “She had babies. I watched.”
Gena went to her haunches. “How many?”
“Four. She’s really tired now.” He sounded vulnerable and sweet, like the loving little boy he’d once been.
“I expect so.” She stroked a finger across the mother cat’s head. The animal seemed friendly. The big surprise to her was that Quinn Buchanon would own a cat. An attack-trained rottweiler, yes. But a cat?
She looked up at the bewildering man standing inside the door. Had she misjudged him?
He was watching her. Not Derrick or the cats but her. For ten seconds their eyes held. Gena suffered a dozen conflicting emotions—including completely unwanted attraction and a need to know the man behind the haggard face and bent, scarred arm.
LINDA GOODNIGHT, a New York Times bestselling author and winner of a RITA® Award in inspirational fiction, has appeared on the Christian bestseller list. Her novels have been translated into more than a dozen languages. Active in orphan ministry, Linda enjoys writing fiction that carries a message of hope in a sometimes dark world. She and her husband live in Oklahoma. Visit her website, lindagoodnight.com (http://www.lindagoodnight.com), for more information.
Lone Star Dad
New York Times Bestselling Author
Linda Goodnight
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Let us come boldly unto the throne of grace,
that we may obtain mercy,
and find grace to help in time of need.
—Hebrews 4:16
For family, who sustains me, and as always,
for the glory of Jesus.
Contents
Cover (#uf7dee0d4-2bb8-5958-ab6e-ec7992536a51)
Back Cover Text (#uafec1905-0971-5278-83d8-e109805b5abd)
Introduction (#u6829576c-7a4c-511d-9522-3f0e287443aa)
About the Author (#ub47099b4-fdc4-5030-a6ec-28f477b50750)
Title Page (#u5189c731-2a35-5522-908f-d382a11ff179)
Bible Verse (#uc0a84ea5-a012-57af-980c-509d63ad34f3)
Dedication (#u9868719d-9801-5644-917d-a4e911820d3b)
Chapter One (#ub6ab7715-da7e-540e-9222-13588a9cc921)
Chapter Two (#uba4e6545-1e31-5bdf-b0fc-c86740348886)
Chapter Three (#ue08aba5e-bb5b-557f-9224-87e5ffd9c2fc)
Chapter Four (#uc23d451e-6b8c-583b-8b84-7930d1524802)
Chapter Five (#u8284f68c-dc8b-508a-983b-967e6e9196e1)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_96b83faf-a0f5-558d-b5f4-deee75852ca0)
He wouldn’t do this. Not again. He wouldn’t shame himself or his family this way.
Quinn Buchanon clenched his jaw hard enough to make his face ache and slapped his outstretched hands against the fireplace mantel. He was off balance, as always, the fingers of his right hand barely reaching, while the left was just dandy. The bitter root of the last eleven years curled inside his chest. His arm throbbed harder.
He glanced up at the plastic clock tacked above the crackling fireplace. Two o’clock. Too early.
Releasing a slow, frustrated breath, he pushed back and rubbed his right arm, the exact spot where the surgical titanium rod pushed against the bent muscle and scar tissue. On winter nights, the ache was worse. Add precipitation, like tonight’s cold misty rain, and he was in a world of hurt.
Quinn had thought he’d conquered the problem during his stint in Dallas, but the last surgery and coming home to Gabriel’s Crossing brought the pain and grief and most of all the pure exuberant thrill tumbling back in. The glory days. The accident. Yes, accident, as he’d come to realize last year. Jake Hamilton had not intended to hurt him. If anything, the fault was Quinn’s. His own fault. His own misery.
Whoever was to blame, the damage was done and he’d never be the same. Most days, he didn’t even feel like a man, certainly not the toast of Gabriel’s Crossing and half of Texas that he’d once been.
Memories were killer.
Head starting to pound in that incessant ache he knew too well, he took long strides down the length of the cabin, through the living space and out onto the saggy front porch. The air would clear his head. The cold would give him something else to think about.
He liked the quiet, lonely spot here in the woods by the Red River where none of his well-meaning siblings—six of them—could casually drop by. He loved his family but he needed space.
A sharp, wet wind blew up from the river. Quinn reached back inside, grabbed his coat from the hook hanging next to the door and shrugged it on. He shoved his hands into his pockets but left his head bare. He lifted his face to the blast of wet air, needing the slap of cold.
The weathered old hunting cabin he called home was nothing fancy, but the rustic unpainted logs and bare-bones essentials nestled among the oak and cedar of northeast Texas suited him. The porch wasn’t much, either, a wooden floor and a sagging overhang with a weathered rocking chair, a pile of firewood and a dead potted plant from his landscaper mother that he’d forgotten to bring in before the frost.
He sucked in the cedar scent, held the frigid air in his lungs until they ached and then let it out in one gusty breath.
The pawpaw tree two steps off the porch clung to a single leaf like a mother holds on to a child’s hand in a hurricane.
He watched that one valiant leaf battle for life. When at last the wind proved too much and the quivering leaf sailed into the mist, lost forever, Quinn felt a little sad.
Battling. Buffeted. Lost. He could relate. He was hanging on for dear life and didn’t intend to let go, no matter how hard the wind slammed him.
A fine mist peppered his skin, soft rain edging toward sleet.
By tomorrow a thin sheen of ice would cover the grass and trees and sparkle in the sunrise. He’d be up. He always was. Sleep was short.
He settled in the rocker, a remnant from long-forgotten former owners, and tried to focus on the weather, the outdoors, the surrounding woods and creeks he’d loved since boyhood. Sometimes they helped. Sometimes not. Regardless, he wouldn’t let himself go back inside the cabin for a while. Personal discipline was the one lesson he’d never quite learned off the football field, but he had to learn now.
He had work to complete for Buchanon Built Construction, his family’s construction company. Maybe he could get his mind on a new set of architectural plans and off the pain.
He rubbed at his shoulder again, over and over. Up and down. Round and round. The ache went clear through his chest into his heart. Deeper yet, into his soul.
God seemed far, far away.
On the lane leading from the dirt road, the only road that connected him with anywhere, a shadowy creature appeared out of the mist. Quinn squinted through the drizzle. Maybe a raccoon. They were plentiful here. As the animal waddled closer, Quinn recognized a cat—a very pregnant cat, her belly swinging like a metronome.
He didn’t much like cats.
Yet she was a distraction and he watched her trot in his direction until she reached the porch, stopped at the edge, raised her thin face and mewed. Her troubled eyes gleamed golden yellow in a black-and-white face.
Quinn looked away. “Sorry, lady. You’re on your own.”
She wobbled onto the porch and rubbed against his leg. He felt the bumpy movement of her unborn kittens and, startled, moved his leg.
“Go on, now. Get out.”
She mewed again, gazed around the mostly empty porch. Finding no comfy spot, she sprawled across his feet.
Quinn gently slid his boot from under her disconcerting belly and went inside the cabin.
He hadn’t intended to go inside. Temptation waited there, calling his name with promises of relief that ensnared. The cat had left him little choice.
As if she carried a megaphone, the pregnant feline meowed loud enough for him to hear through the solid wooden door. Quinn turned on the television and though he could no longer hear her, he knew she was there. He peaked out the window. She was in his chair, though how she’d gotten her swollen body up that high defied the laws of physics.
He couldn’t leave her out there in the cold. What if she had those kittens? What if he awoke tomorrow morning to a pile of frozen baby cats on his front porch?
With a defeated sigh, he rummaged around until he found a cardboard box, dumped out the contents, added a couple of old towels and went back outside.
“You’re not coming in the cabin. Understand? There’s the well house. It’s heated. Pipes freeze, you know.” He motioned toward the leaning, unpainted building beside the cabin that housed the well and was where he kept his tools and basic man junk. “You can bunk there until this weather passes. No babies, though. You hear me? Tomorrow at the latest, you’re out of here.”
Gently, his stomach a little woozy when the kittens did all kinds of gyrations against his hand, Quinn lifted her into the box. As if she’d been expecting exactly this, she settled into the towels. He toted her, box and all, to the shed and put her inside.
She blinked up at him with big golden eyes.
Quinn growled deep in his throat, muttered, “Sucker,” and went back into the cabin for a bowl of warm milk.
He left the old girl lapping with her dainty tongue and jogged toward the porch. The mist spattered his face like tiny, cold pebbles.
From out of nowhere, a gunshot cracked the gray stillness.
Quinn whirled toward the sound. Blood roared in his ears. His heart thudded madly. It took all his willpower not to fall to the ground and low-crawl back to the cabin. He didn’t, a small victory.
A gunshot in the woods echoed far and wide and was hard to pinpoint, but this one was close. Too close. Even though Buchanon land was posted, poachers invariably tried their luck this time of year.
He clamped his jaw tight and stomped toward his truck. This poacher’s luck had just run out.
* * *
Someone was coming.
Gena Satterfield hung a tea bag on the side of a Nurse Practitioner Needs Chocolate mug, turned off the steaming kettle and walked through the house, curious. No one drove up that ungraded, potholed driveway, at least not without prior warning. The house was remote, exactly what she’d needed to keep Derrick out of trouble when they’d moved here last year.
At the front room window she tugged back the curtain and saw a black pickup bounce up the road. Someone would be mighty unhappy at the damage this driveway could do to a fancy truck like that. Whoever he might be, he was going too fast.
Gena watched, waiting to identify the driver. She didn’t open her door to strangers.
The truck jolted to a halt. A man hopped out and slammed the door with a force that echoed through the woods.
Gena’s breath froze in her chest. Quinn Buchanon.
What was he doing in her front yard? The one person in Gabriel’s Crossing she preferred never to encounter one-on-one. Especially not in her own home.
Mouth suddenly dry as cottonseed hull, she stayed huddled behind the curtain. He could knock but she wouldn’t open. Not to him.
He marched around the front of his truck, clearly in a fit of temper, yanked open the passenger-side door and hauled someone out by the scruff of the neck—a lanky eleven-year-old boy with a bad attitude.
“Oh, no. No, no, no!” Gena jerked at the knob, flinging the door wide to race down the steps in her fuzzy slippers, heedless of the gray, damp cold.
“Derrick! What are you—” She skidded to a stop, attention frozen on the rifle in the boy’s hand. In a terrible voice, she asked, “Where did you get that gun?”
“I—”
Before he could respond, she whirled on the detestable man. This was exactly the kind of irresponsible thing someone like Quinn would do.
She jabbed a finger at him. “Did you give him that gun? Have you lost your mind?”
Quinn glared at her. “I was going to say the same to you.”
“Me? I don’t own a gun.” She turned on the boy. “Where did you get that?” she asked again.
Derrick, mouth insolent, posture slumped, only shrugged. She hated when he did that, which was all too often.
“Tell me where you got that gun or no computer for a month.”
He twitched. “Service out here sucks anyway.”
“The deal still holds. Talk.”
“I found it.”
“Found a rifle? Where?” Oh, Lord. Please don’t let this be stolen. She’d never dreamed raising a boy alone could be this hard.
“The storage room. I went hunting. It’s no big deal. That’s what country boys do, isn’t it?”
His cocky, derisive attitude set her teeth on edge. He hated it here, deep in the country, away from the city, away from his so-called friends, away from taking things that didn’t belong to him, but until today he’d been in less trouble in Gabriel’s Crossing than in Houston. Less. He wasn’t Boy Scout material yet. She kept praying for him to settle in and be the happy boy he’d once been.
Quinn, who she was trying hard to ignore, scowled at her. “Haven’t you ever heard of a gun safe?”
“I had no way of knowing Derrick would be poking around and find a weapon. I didn’t even know it was there myself!”
“Well, it is.” He yanked the rifle from Derrick and shoved the offensive weapon into her hands. “Deal with it. He was poaching on my property.”
“Poaching?” Would the fun never end? “He shot something?”
Quinn hiked a diabolical eyebrow. “Want me to file charges?”
She looked at him full on now, fighting down the panic of having him in her space. Either he didn’t remember her or he didn’t kiss and tell. One was a check in the positive column and the other wasn’t. She didn’t know which she preferred—hating that he didn’t remember at all or admiring him for his respectful silence in front of the boy.
How old was he now? Thirty-four? Thirty-six? He was still gorgeous—sandy brown hair tipped in gold, hazel eyes and strong, athletic body—though lines bisected his forehead as if his problems had taken a toll. She squelched the pinch of pity. He’d been a player on and off the football field. He didn’t deserve her sympathy.
“I assure you, this will not happen again.” She hoped she could keep that promise.
She grabbed Derrick by the upper arm and propelled him toward the porch.
Quinn didn’t take the hint. He followed. “I’m not done with him. Or with you.”
“If you’re pressing charges, do it, but leave us alone.” Just go away.
She opened the door, gave Derrick her meanest look, willing him inside before this situation got worse.
A powerful left hand clamped on the screen door. “He could have been hurt. Someone with no gun experience in the woods this time of year is asking for trouble.”
Derrick, who never knew when to shut up, cast a derisive glance at Quinn’s bent right arm. “Is that what happened to you?”
Both adults froze. Gena lifted her gaze to Quinn’s face, which was suddenly as dark and empty as midnight.
He swallowed. “As a matter of fact, yes. I was stupid.”
“Well, I’m not. So bug off.”
“Derrick!” Gena, aching a little for the man she’d vowed to despise, entered the house and gingerly settled the rifle in a corner. Quinn followed as if he’d been invited. Which he definitely had not been.
“I’m going to my room.”
“No, we’re going to talk about this. Sit.” She pointed to the couch.
Rolling his eyes, Derrick slumped onto the cushions and crossed his arms.
To Quinn, she said, “I apologize for any problem he caused. Thank you for bringing him home. I’ll handle it from here.”
Her heart was hammering like a woodpecker against her rib cage. She wanted Quinn to go. Even if he didn’t remember, she did.
His hair glistening from the mist, Quinn stood in her living room bunched inside his jacket looking as blustery as the weather.
“Has he had a hunter education course?”
Derrick’s education was neither Quinn’s business nor his problem. “Tell me where you live so I can be sure he doesn’t return.”
“A fishing cabin about a mile west.”
She nodded. “I know the place. I thought it was empty.”
“I thought the same about this house,” he said with a quick glance around her cozy living room. “Satterfield place, wasn’t it?”
“My grandparents’ house. Yes.” She waited to see if he made the connection. He didn’t. Nervous, uncertain, she patted her hands together and said with only the slightest venom, “Well, now that we know each of us is out here, we can be careful not to cross paths again.”
Very, very careful.
Quinn frowned and didn’t seem the least inclined to leave. “I don’t like poachers. If the boy is going to hunt, he needs a license and you need to teach him to obey trespassing laws.”
Gena’s face tightened. “He’s not your concern, Mr. Buchanon.”
“He was today.” He squinted at her. “Do I know you?”
Her pulse thumped. “No.”
“But you apparently know me.”
“Everyone knows the Buchanons.” She kept her voice casual. Unlike an invisible bookworm named Gena, the Buchanons were known to everyone in Gabriel’s Crossing. Notwithstanding the four gorgeous sons and three pretty daughters, they owned a construction company and had built half the houses in the town. Maybe more.
“Then I’m at a disadvantage. What’s your name?”
Gena hesitated. If they were neighbors, which they clearly were, she couldn’t act weird. “Gena Satterfield. This is Derrick.”
Derrick glared at both adults with the “I hope you die a painful death” stare.
The tumblers rolled around behind Quinn’s eyes. “Satterfield,” he mused. “Yeah.”
She held her breath.
Finally, he said, “Ken and Anna Satterfield lived here, right? Good folks.”
Relief seeped through her. He remembered her grandparents. That was all. Nothing suspicious in that. “Yes. They passed away, and the house was empty for a while until Derrick and I decided to move to the country.”
“You decided,” Derrick said, making his feelings on the subject crystal clear.
Quinn glanced at the sullen boy, holding his gaze steady until Derrick looked down. Gena’s blood chilled in her veins. Go away. Stop looking at him.
As if he’d heard her thoughts and decided to comply, Quinn turned toward the door. Before stepping outside, he said to Derrick, “Fences are there for a reason. Pay attention or pay the consequences.”
He slammed the door behind him.
The living room trembled with the sound for several seconds before Gena pointed a finger at Derrick. “You are not ever to go anywhere near that man or his property again. Got it?”
He made a noise in the back of his throat and rolled his eyes. And Gena could only pray he listened.
Chapter Two (#ulink_4dcc9e43-9620-5ab2-a7b7-382fea6f127d)
Quinn didn’t expect to see the kid again, but even as he stoked the fireplace the next day and contemplated breakfast, he couldn’t help thinking about the surly boy with the soft blue eyes and his pretty, if hostile, mother.
He hadn’t slept much last night, more because of the incident and the unexpected meeting than the pain in his arm. He wasn’t complaining.
The boy, Derrick, who was probably eleven or twelve going on seventeen, had a chip on his shoulder as big as Alaska, and Quinn vaguely remembered Gena Satterfield from the old days. She’d been an underclassman, kind of nerdy, and hadn’t run in his circles. He remembered her sister better. A lot better. He’d made a point not to share that information with Gena.
But Gena wasn’t nerdy anymore. She had grown up to be quite the looker—pale skin, round cheeks, cute nose and wavy blond hair to her shoulders. He’d nearly swallowed his tongue when she’d come charging out the door in fuzzy slippers and a baggy University of Texas sweatshirt like some warrior woman to protect her offspring. It had been a long time since he’d had that kind of visceral response to a woman, especially an angry one.
He smiled a little, the curve of lips feeling unnatural. Mom said he didn’t smile enough anymore. Maybe so. He couldn’t think of much to smile about, but Gena Satterfield had both irritated and amused him.
She was a doctor or nurse or something medical. Unlike the rest of his family, he didn’t pay much attention to Gabriel’s Crossing society, but when she’d first moved back to Gabriel’s Crossing, the newspaper had carried an article about her, the former resident come back as a primary care practitioner. Nurse practitioner—that was it. He remembered now. She worked with Dr. Ramos.
What he hadn’t known was that she’d moved into the old Satterfield place. He didn’t notice much of anything anymore. But last night he’d noticed her.
He jabbed the poker at the recalcitrant embers, stirring to get a fire going. Recalcitrant, like the boy.
He’d put the fear in the kid during the ride home. Or he’d tried to. Derrick was a tough nut to crack, a city boy, who looked down his nose at small towns and country people. But he’d been fascinated by the gun. How he’d known about weaponry worried Quinn. City boys had no use for a hunting rifle, but Derrick had some basic knowledge. Enough to fire a lethal weapon. Not good. If the kid was going to handle a gun, he needed to learn to do it properly, to respect the seriousness and responsibility that came with the knowledge. Even then, accidents happened.
He rubbed at his arm, then tossed a log onto the embers and left the fireplace to do its thing while he rummaged up some breakfast.
Derrick Satterfield was not his problem. Not unless the surly kid stepped foot on his three hundred acres again.
When he reached inside the refrigerator, his hand trembled. He folded his fingers into his palms and tried to think of anything except the one thing that eased the gnawing in his gut and the hand shakes.
Maybe a run along the river. He grabbed the milk and poured a glass, then remembered the cat locked in his shed.
With a sigh, he poured a bowl of milk, warmed it in the nuker, donned his coat and hustled across the cedar-stabbed yard. As his arm had predicted, a very thin sheet of ice coated the world, glistening in the intense morning sun. Like back-lit crystals, the ice was beautiful, though damaging to the trees.
“Okay, lady, rise and shine. Today’s the day you hit the road. Drink your milk and g—” He stopped in the doorway. He should have expected this. “I told you no kittens.”
The tuxedo face glared up at him as her body heaved. Two damp babies, half-naked, lay on the towels. More, apparently, were to come.
He set the milk down on the floor. “Guess you’re not interested in this right now.”
A third kitten slipped onto the towels. The first two had begun to squirm and make small mewing noises, their eyes tight and faces squinched. The mother gave each a nudge and then went back to tending the newest in her brood.
“Cool. She’s having kittens.”
At the unexpected voice, Quinn startled and bumped his head on the low doorway as he backed out of the shed. As soon as he saw the speaker, he frowned his meanest scowl.
“What are you doing over here? I told you—”
“I don’t have to do what you say. Her, either.” Derrick shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of a blue unzipped parka. Beneath, he wore a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his forehead. He looked like an inner-city gangster, which was probably his intent.
“I could call the sheriff and have you charged with trespassing.”
The threat had no effect on the dark-haired boy. “I know who you are.”
Quinn tensed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Some hotshot quarterback who got himself shot and ruined his chances at the NFL.”
The cold morning air chilled Quinn’s breath and set the pain into motion. He squeezed his upper arm. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Dude.” Derrick slouched his shoulders and gave off his best you’re-so-stupid attitude. “Don’t you know about the internet?”
“You looked me up?”
“So? I was bored.”
“You got a smart mouth, you know that?”
“I hate this place. She never should have brought me here.”
“Why did she?”
The kid went silent, his mouth broody.
Trouble. Derrick must have been in trouble. “Where did you live before?”
“Houston. It’s way better than this...” pale blue eyes gazed around at the vast woods and emptiness “...this squirrel-infested backwoods dump.”
Quinn arched an eyebrow, shooting back as much venom as Derrick had aimed at him. “Afraid of the woods? Scared of the dark? Nervous when a coyote howls?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
No, he was terrified. Of life, of the new, unfamiliar environment, of looking soft. So many fears swam around in the kid’s head it was a wonder his ears didn’t flood. Quinn suffered an unwanted twinge of compassion. “We’re all scared of something.”
Derrick huddled deeper inside his hoodie. His ears and nose were red, his breath gray.
“Does she know you’re over here?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you should go home. Get off my land and quit giving her such a hard time.”
From inside the shed came a chorus of plaintive mews. Derrick straightened, his attention riveted on the dim interior. “She had another one.”
“You like cats?”
“Not much.”
“Me, either.”
“Look at ’em.” Derrick leaned inside. “They’re so little.”
Quinn sighed. “Yeah.”
“It’s cold out here.”
He wasn’t asking the kid inside. No way. He didn’t want people here. No one. Certainly not seventy-five pounds of trouble. “Get in the truck. I’ll drive you home.”
“Nah. I can walk. Nothing else to do out here.” But he made no motion to leave. With his eyes still on the kittens, he kicked his toe against the side of the shed. Ice chipped off. “Were you as good as they say you were?”
Quinn snorted and avoided the kid’s probing gaze. “Too long ago to remember.”
“A guy doesn’t forget stuff like that.”
He was right about that. Some things hurt forever. “Doesn’t matter now. I got work to do. Go home.”
Quinn spun away from the shed, the cats, the kid and the memories and stomped back to the house, ice cracking underfoot. His boots sounded like thunder on the hollow porch.
To his relief, Derrick didn’t follow. He didn’t even turn around. Instead he stepped inside the shed and shut the door.
Quinn blew out a hard sigh. The kid needed to learn two things: obedience and respect.
He went inside the house, warm now that the logs had caught and burned brightly, and tried to remember where he’d put his phone. After a five-minute search, he found it, battery dead, under a stack of blueprints. Most of the time, he left it turned off. Service was spotty anyway. If he wanted to speak to someone, he’d call them—a rare event.
The practice drove his family crazy.
He plugged in the charger and called Information for Gena Satterfield’s number and wasn’t surprised to discover she had a landline. Cell phones worked when they wanted to and in her profession, effective communication was probably requisite.
He punched in the number, and when she answered in her smooth-as-silk, professional voice, he ignored the quiver in his belly to say, “Derrick’s at my house again. Come get him before I call the sheriff.”
* * *
Gena fumed all the way down the twisty, bumpy trail that passed for sections of road between her house and the old hunting cabin on the river. She couldn’t decide who irritated her most, Derrick or Quinn.
Derrick had been curled up under his covers when she’d looked in earlier. At least, she’d thought he had been. She’d let him sleep late this Sunday morning, not in the mood to fight with him about going to church. She didn’t like to miss services but she had paperwork and dictation to catch up on anyway. The Lord knew and understood her schedule. She couldn’t always attend services, but she never forgot her faith.
At the corner, she slowed the red SUV and tried to remember exactly how to access the cabin. She hadn’t been there since the last time she and Renae had spent the summer with Nana and Papa. She and her sister had been into photography that summer. Somewhere she still had the pictures they’d taken, including shots of the abandoned hunter’s cabin. She couldn’t imagine anyone living in the ramshackle structure, but Quinn came from a construction family. He could fix whatever was broken.
This morning was a photographer’s dream, and a desire to revisit the old hobby curled upward in her thoughts. Though the roads were mostly clear and the puddles of ice easily cracked beneath her wheels, the grass and trees sparkled in the sun like diamonds. By midmorning, the beauty would be melted away.
She drove toward the river, invisible from here because of the thick trees, and spotted chimney smoke. In minutes, she funneled through a tunnel of trees that parted like the Red Sea in front of the cabin. The house didn’t look much better than it had when she was a teenager.
She slammed out of the now-dirty red Xterra and, careful on the ice-encrusted grass, made her way to Quinn’s door. He opened it before she could pound her fist on the wall in frustration.
Her breath caught. He looked tired or maybe ill, his hazel-green eyes circled with fatigue and his mouth pinched with lines of something that to her expert observation appeared to be pain. But he still took a woman’s breath. A foolish woman.
“Are you all right?” Her profession kicked in even when she didn’t want it to.
He blinked, clearly surprised at the question. “Why?”
This wasn’t her business. “Never mind. Where’s Derrick?”
Quinn motioned toward a small unpainted building to the left of the house.
“You locked him in a shed?” she asked, horrified.
Quinn snorted. His eyes, so tired before, lit with wry amusement. “I didn’t think of that or I would have. Maybe you should try it.”
He was joking. He had to be. “What’s he doing out there?”
“Go see for yourself.” He slammed the door in her face.
Gena stared at the peeling front door. The friendly, smiling young Quinn who could charm the spots off a leopard was now a snarly, moody recluse.
“Well, fine.”
She straightened her shoulders and started across the leaf-covered patch of yard. It was better this way. The less she saw of Quinn, the safer her secret. She refused to let him upset her. She wasn’t the shy, aching teenager anymore who thought he’d hung the moon.
The cabin door opened behind her. Gena heard footsteps. She tensed and glanced over one shoulder. Quinn was coming her way, shrugging into a coat.
“I’ll get him and go,” she said. “No need to come out.”
Quinn kept right on walking. Sun shot gold through his hair and haloed his head, though he’d never been choir boy material. An amicable guy, but hardly perfect. Except in the looks department. He was still broad shouldered and built like an inverted wedge, a man women noticed. Time might have changed his personality but not his good looks and charisma.
Gena jerked her attention away. No matter how pretty he was, pretty is as pretty does.
She grabbed the wobbly shed handle and yanked, relieved when it didn’t fall off in her hand. Derrick was so grounded.
“Derrick, get in the...” At the sight before her, the words died in her throat unspoken. Her cranky, surly nephew who didn’t seem to care about anything at all these days sat cross-legged on the bare floor while a mother cat licked milk from his fingertips. Nestled around the black-and-white cat was a wad of brand-new baby kittens.
Derrick raised a rapt face. “She had babies. I watched.”
Gena went to her haunches. “How many?”
“Four. She’s really tired now.” He sounded vulnerable and sweet like the loving little boy he’d once been.
“I expect so.” She stroked a finger across the mother cat’s head. The animal seemed friendly. The big surprise to her was that Quinn Buchanon would own a cat. An attack-trained Rottweiler, yes. But a cat?
She looked up at the bewildering man standing inside the door. Had she misjudged him?
He was watching her. Not Derrick or the cats but her. For ten seconds their eyes held. Gena suffered a dozen conflicting emotions—completely unwanted attraction and a desire to know the man behind the haggard face and bent, scarred arm. Remembrance of who he’d once been, of what he’d done. Fear that he would learn the truth and hurt Derrick more. The last thought tugged her focus back to the boy.
“We should go. I have work to catch up on and you have homework for tomorrow.”
The sweet expression disappeared so fast she thought she’d imagined it. “I hate school.”
Big news. He said those same words every day. “Derrick...”
Quinn squatted beside her; the scent of wood smoke and cold air circled around him. To Derrick he said, his voice almost gentle, “Don’t worry about the kittens. They’ll be okay.”
Derrick’s pale eyes flashed to Quinn. He tried to appear nonchalant but Gena saw what she’d missed, what Quinn had seen. The boy had always had a soft spot for animals, but she’d thought it had disappeared along with the rest of his sweet nature.
“The mother knows what to do,” she said. “She’ll care for them.”
“But they can’t see. Their eyes are glued shut. What if they get too far away from her?”
“She’ll bring them back.” To prove the point, Quinn reached into the box and gently lifted a tiny kitten by the scruff, moving it slightly away from the mama. It mewed. Instantly, the mother cat rose to bring the kitten back with the others and gave it a rough-tongued lick for good measure.
“Oh.” Derrick swiped a sleeve over his nose and sniffed. “Dumb cats.”
Gena felt a smile coming on. Without intending to, she glanced at Quinn and saw his eyes spark, too.
Suddenly afraid, she scrambled to her feet. “Let’s go. We promised Mr. Buchanon to stay away from here.”
“You promised. I didn’t.”
The mulish attitude was back.
“You don’t get a say in this, kid. I’m the boss around here.” Quinn’s voice was casual but made of steel as he rose to his full and impressive height. What was he? Like six-five or something?
“But if you behave yourself, you can come back another time to see the kittens. And I won’t call the sheriff.”
Derrick’s shoulders relaxed the slightest bit. “Yeah?”
“No!” Gena shoved the shed door open, pulse thrumming. The bare wood slammed against the wall, ripping the gray morning.
Derrick was giving her heart trouble. At this rate, she’d be in cardiac arrest before her next birthday. “You can’t come here again. I’ve already told you that, but if you don’t argue, I’ll ground you from the computer for only two days.”
“That’s stupid,” he groused, but exited the well house and stomped across the frozen ground toward the SUV.
Gena sighed, aware that she’d won one battle but lost another. Derrick seemed to slip further away all the time. No matter what she did, he resented it.
Quinn came up beside her. She didn’t look at him, didn’t trust herself to look into his weary face and feel things that weren’t allowed. He was the enemy of all she held dear, and she’d do well to remember it.
“Has he always been this belligerent?”
“No.” Gena stared at the frozen ground, saw the gleam of ice that would soon melt away. If only problems would do the same. “He used to be the sweetest boy, the happy, cuddly kid who adored me.”
Back when she hadn’t been the boss. Back when Renae— She shut the door on the useless thought. She’d chosen this life for Renae’s sake, and she refused to regret the decision.
Without another word or glance, she strode to the SUV and drove away. Derrick simply could not come back to this place. Ever.
Chapter Three (#ulink_1aec9884-4100-5012-a000-387638d72137)
Two weeks passed, but Quinn knew he hadn’t seen the last of the troublesome neighbors. There was daily evidence that Derrick had snuck into the well house to see the kittens. He figured Gena didn’t know. Otherwise, why the secrecy?
This morning an opened but uneaten can of tuna was stashed in one dark corner of the shed. He’d smelled it the minute he’d opened the door.
Now at work inside the offices of Buchanon Construction, Quinn frowned at the sets of blueprints on his desk. His office was in the back of the warehouse, a quieter space than the front desks ruled by two of his sisters. Here he could work in peace and hang out with the coffeemaker. And wonder about his unexpected neighbors.
He refused to worry that the mother cat hadn’t been in the shed this morning. Or last night, for that matter. She came and went as she pleased. They weren’t his cats. He didn’t like cats.
But he wasn’t an ogre, either, contrary to popular opinion. He’d put a heating pad under the babies, turned to low like the internet said, to keep them warm. While he cleaned out the box and set up the heating pad, he’d put each kitten inside his zippered jacket, next to his warm skin. They were soft as down, and now that their eyes were squinted open, they were kind of cute.
“We missed you yesterday.” His brother Brady, the company’s manager and his closest sibling in age, propped a hip on the edge of his desk. As youths they’d been constant companions but after the accident that destroyed his throwing arm, Brady continued to play college football while Quinn was left behind to deal with surgeries and rehab and pain. Their lives had gone in separate directions, certainly not the direction he’d intended, and only in the last year had they intersected again. Brady didn’t know all he’d gone through in Dallas. Quinn didn’t want anybody to know.
He pretended to study the diagrams. “I was busy.”
“Yeah? Doing what?”
“Stuff.”
Brady barked a laugh. “You missed a good basketball game. The Mavericks beat the Thunder in OT.”
Yes, and his mother probably made chili or pot roast and the siblings stocked the kitchen with chips, dips and other snacks. Sunday afternoons were a tradition at the Buchanon house. Everyone came to watch a game. It didn’t matter what kind of game. Football was the favorite, but they watched basketball, baseball, anything that gave them an excuse to gather after church and yell at the TV—all in fun, of course. He missed those times with his family, but they didn’t understand how hard it was for him to be there.
He’d fallen off the proverbial wagon last night. Not as completely as he had in the past but enough to shame him.
He did all right at work. Rigidly, every day, he brought exactly two pain pills to the office. The prescribed amount. Two and only two to get him through the day.
Nights were murder. Last night the pain had won.
He rubbed his shoulder and swallowed the thick, nasty taste of failure. “Maybe next week.”
“That’s what you’ve said every week since last Christmas. We miss you, brother.” Brady’s voice softened. “I miss you.”
A lump rose in Quinn’s throat. “Yeah, well...” What could he say? He loved Brady. Loved his family. But he was lousy company, unfit to be part of the wholesome Buchanon clan until he defeated the monster living inside him.
“Want to talk about it?”
Startled, he glanced up. “About what?”
No way Brady could know the truth. Quinn had been too careful.
“Whatever it is that’s keeping you away.”
The air hummed with expectation. Brady wanted an answer. Quinn wasn’t giving him one.
Finding a smirk, he said, “You’re too busy romancing Abby to miss me.”
Brady got a besotted grin on his face. “I can’t wait to marry that woman. She’s something special.”
Quinn softened. His brother was happy. Regardless of the problems plaguing Buchanon Construction and a fire that had destroyed his Christmas home-makeover project, Brady had fallen in love with the recipient. Waitress Abby Webster and her little girl had filled the lonely spot in Brady and become as much a part of the family as if they’d always been there. “I’m happy for you, Brady.”
“You should think about finding a good woman for yourself.”
A pair of angry green eyes flashed through his head. Irritated, he said, “Don’t want one.”
“Who are you kidding? You love women. And they love you.”
“That was a long time ago. I’m not that guy anymore.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Brady said quietly. “Mom said you had a run-in with the new nurse practitioner. What happened?”
“Long story. She’s got this kid. Pain in the neck. I caught the little twerp hunting on my property. And there’s this cat.”
“You have a cat?”
He scowled. “No, I don’t have a cat. I don’t like cats. But a pregnant mama had kittens in my well house a couple of weeks ago. What was I supposed to do? Toss them in the river?”
“What does this have to do with Gena Satterfield?”
“Nothing.” He ran an irritated hand through his hair. “Like I said, she’s got this kid. He’s infatuated with the kittens.”
“Didn’t you date her sister? Renae, wasn’t it?”
Quinn huffed. “Yeah.”
“I wonder where she is now.”
“A rhetorical question, I hope. I certainly don’t know.” But he’d wondered plenty of times.
Bothered, he crossed to the coffeemaker. One of the twins, Sawyer probably, had arrived early and filled the Bunn maker to capacity. Buchanons imbibed massive amounts of coffee.
Talk of Gena or Derrick or, heaven forbid, Renae, set his nerves on edge.
“Her kid’s named Derrick.” He didn’t know why he’d said that. Maybe because he’d been thinking about the Satterfields too much. Gena had a son but there was no man in her life. He’d figured that much out. He’d asked around. Carefully. Subtly. A man needed to know who his neighbors were, especially when they trespassed with regularity.
And yeah, he was curious about her and the guy she’d loved enough to have a son with. A jerk, apparently. Maybe his absence was the reason Derrick was so angry.
“Whose kid?” Brady asked. “Renae’s?”
“No, meathead, Gena’s.” He poured two cups and handed one to Brady.
“You didn’t date her, too, did you?”
Quinn barked a rusty laugh. “No.”
“I had an appointment with Dr. Ramos last week, routine stuff, and ran into Gena in the hallway.” Brady lifted an eyebrow. “Nice. Pretty, too.”
Yeah, he’d noticed. Maybe not the nice part but the pretty for certain.
He pretended to study the steam rising from his mug. “Want me to tell Abby about your sudden interest in the new nurse practitioner?”
“I’m talking about you, dunce cap.” Brady shook his head in dismay. “From what I hear, she’s still single, and obviously she’s smart and successful. Plus, she lives close enough for the two of you to get acquainted.”
Quinn offered a scowl. “I don’t like people in my space.”
“Suit yourself, bro.” Brady lifted a hand in dismissal.
“She doesn’t like me.”
Brady dropped his hand and frowned. “No vibes?”
“None.” At least not from her direction. His vibes had done a few calisthenics. Maybe a couple of wind sprints.
“The old Buchanon charm didn’t work?”
His charm had been in his right arm. Women didn’t care about the real Quinn. They cared about the prestige of being seen with the nation’s top college quarterback, destined for the big time and lots of money, not about a damaged man who struggled to get through every day and night without falling down the rabbit hole. Even now, his arm ached and he wished for the bottle of painkillers waiting on the counter at the cabin.
“Are you going to work today or harass me about my single status?”
“Both.” Brady plunked the half-empty mug on the long counter that ran behind Quinn’s desk. “I need some minor tweaks to the Robinson house.”
“Figures. Let me pull those up.” He rotated his computer screen and typed in the project name. “The mama was gone this morning.”
“Our mama? Where did she go? I thought she was helping Charity fluff the resale house on Hannah Street.”
Quinn poked his brother’s arm with the side of his fist. “Not our mama. The mama cat. She wasn’t there last night, either.”
“Kittens still there?”
“She didn’t move them, if that’s what you’re thinking. She’s gone. The kittens aren’t.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” Brady pinched his upper lip. “You’ve got coyotes out your way. What are you going to do if she doesn’t return?”
Quinn squeezed his aching biceps. If it wasn’t one problem, it was another.
“I have no idea.”
* * *
When he arrived home that evening, the sun was low in the west and shadowy tree fingers gripped the shed. He hoped the mother cat had returned. He’d even stopped at the IGA and picked up a few cans of cat food for her. Not that he wanted her sticking around once the kittens were old enough to travel, but she needed her strength to see them to adolescence.
He dumped the bag of groceries on the counter along with a foil-wrapped casserole his mother had brought to the office. He glanced at the bottle of painkillers sitting harmlessly next to the sugar bowl. He picked them up and read the warning label for the thousandth time.
“‘May be habit-forming.’” He spat a cheerless laugh. “No kidding.”
The crawly craving started up. Just one more. Just one extra pill and his arm would stop aching and he wouldn’t have to think so much about all he’d lost. His mind would slide away into that peaceful place where nothing hurt, not even his soul, and...
He slammed the plastic container onto the counter and, heart pounding, jogged out into the cold, across the yard and to the shed.
Derrick was already there. He held a baby kitten in each hand.
Quinn’s heart sunk lower than the setting sun. The mama was nowhere in sight. Four babies writhed and cried as if they hadn’t eaten all day.
“Something’s wrong with them,” Derrick said, his usually sullen face creased in worry.
“The mama wasn’t here this morning.”
“I know.”
Quinn shot him a quick look. “Last night, either.”
“I didn’t think she’d run off like that.”
“Something must have happened to her. She wouldn’t leave them on purpose. She’s a good mama. Like yours.”
Derrick’s expression turned belligerent. “What would you know about it?”
“Not a thing.” He didn’t know why he wanted to butt into the shaky relationship between Derrick and Gena. They were not his problem. These cats were. Sort of.
Quinn hunkered down beside the box and lifted one of the kittens, a solid white puffball. Her mouth opened in a display of pointed teeth, pink gums and desperation. She wailed, loud and strong.
Awkwardly, he stroked her head and back. “Shh. Don’t cry, little one. Shh.”
“You really think the mama’s gone for good?” Derrick looked as sad as if they were orphaned humans instead of stray cats.
“Whether she is or not, the fact remains, these kittens won’t survive without her much longer.”
“You got a computer?”
“Why?”
Derrick slumped and shook his head in disgust. “Dude. Haven’t you ever heard of research? Somebody knows what to do. Google it.”
The kid was likely right, but company in his cabin was not Quinn’s favorite thing.
He carefully replaced the crying kitten, sympathy tugging at him. They were pitiful little creatures. He weighed their struggle against his own and gave in. “My laptop’s on the table inside.”
Derrick didn’t hesitate. With a gentle hand that belied his don’t-care attitude, he settled the kittens onto the warm pad, murmured reassurances and rose. “Let’s go. They’re starving.”
“Maybe Gena would know what to do.”
As he shuffled to the doorway, Derrick glanced to one side, eyes avoiding Quinn’s. “I doubt it.”
“She doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”
The kid looked up and scoffed. “Are you kidding me? She’d ground me for years.”
“I must have made a great impression on her.” He’d been less than friendly, which he figured was justifiable. They’d trespassed. Not him. But Gena’s attitude rankled him. He didn’t want people hanging around, but he wasn’t Jack the Ripper, either.
“She gets all twitchy and weird when I mention your name.” The kid shoved his hands into the pouch of his hoodie. “Did you, like, know each other back in the old days or something?”
The old days. Right.
Quinn led the way out of the shed and took care to secure the rickety latch. Darkness blanketed the yard except for the pale light from a white moon. The kid shouldn’t be here this late. Home was a long walk in the cold and dark. “We both attended Gabriel’s Crossing High School but didn’t run in the same circles.”
“Yeah, you were Mr. Big Shot. She was nobody.”
Quinn cut the kid a sharp look. “Did Gena tell you that?”
“She didn’t have to. Your picture is plastered in the trophy cases and on all kinds of plaques. Hers isn’t.”
A hot pain slid up Quinn’s elbow and into his shoulder. “Still?”
“Yeah. Kind of weird.”
It sure was.
Quinn fell silent. Old memories made for long nights. Forget the past. Move on.
Inside the house, he turned his attention to the kittens. “Laptop’s there. Have at it.”
The boy lifted the lid and said in a reverent tone, “Touch screen. Sweet.”
“I’m an architect. High tech comes in handy.”
Derrick’s fingers raced over the keyboard. “You do graphics and stuff?”
“Yeah. Stuff. Lots and lots of stuff.”
“Plenty of sites about orphaned kittens.” The boy clicked on one of them.
Quinn leaned over his shoulder to watch. In minutes, they’d learned the rudiments of caring for the kittens. “Looks like we’ll need milk replacer from the vet. Too late for that tonight.”
“We can try this homemade stuff.” Derrick pointed at the screen and rattled off the list of ingredients.
“I have the eggs but not the condensed milk.”
“We could go to the store.” Derrick’s voice was hopeful, though his expression said he expected Quinn to turn him down.
“You need to go home.” His mom would be getting worried by now.
“And let the kittens die?” Derrick slammed out of the chair in a fury, fists tight at his side. “Creep. If you won’t take me to town, I’ll walk.”
“Whoa. Whoa. Calm down there, tiger. Call home for permission first. I don’t want her on my case.”
Derrick didn’t ease off. “That makes two of us.”
Quinn tried to remember where he’d left his cell. “Phone’s in the truck. Be right back.”
As he stepped outside, Gena’s SUV broke through his protective line of trees. She jerked to a stop next to his pickup and stormed out, slamming the door with vehemence.
“Is Derrick over here?”
No use getting testy with him. He hadn’t invited the little twerp. “In the house.”
She shot him a hard glance and marched to the front door. She waited there in her jaunty knitted cap with her arms crossed over a blue coat as if unsure whether to barge into his cabin or wait for his permission. Feeling obstinate, he didn’t give it. Instead he took his sweet time finding his cell phone, all the while watching her from the corner of his eye.
She was steamed, whether at him or Derrick or both, he couldn’t say and didn’t care. They were trouble. Pains in the neck. He didn’t need them or their intrusion on his peace and quiet.
He forced a leisurely stroll across his own front yard. The air seeped through his shirtsleeves, but he refused to rush. She made him want to get under her skin. “You know anything about feeding orphaned kittens?”
She uncrossed her arms, pursed pink lips easing open. “Did something happen to the mother?”
“Appears so.” He reached the porch and pushed open the door, motioning her inside. She crossed in front of him and he was surprised that she smelled nice, not like the antiseptic medical scent he’d expected. Something subtle, spicy and warm wrapped around his senses.
She was average height, reaching him about chin high. And beneath her coat she wore turquoise scrubs, a good color with her green eyes.
He gave an inner laugh. Stupid thought process. What did he care about the color of her eyes? He just wanted her and her little twerp out of his house.
Gena strode directly to Derrick. “You could have left a note.”
“You knew where to look.”
Derrick shrugged her off and turned back to the laptop. Gena shifted on her Crocs, uncertain. She wasn’t assertive enough with the kid. She let him get away with too much.
The room pulsed with silence, not that Quinn minded. He liked quiet. The woman and boy weren’t his concern.
He moved to the fireplace, crouching to add a log. Behind him Gena said something to Derrick about the kittens and they discussed the milk replacer.
He heard her say, “They’ll need to be fed at least every six hours.”
“I can do it. I’ll come before school and right after. I’ll even come in the middle of the night.”
Quinn pivoted around, quiet and watching.
Gena was shaking her blond head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Derrick, come on, be sensible. You have school and I have work.”
“It would only be for a little while.” His expression went from sullen to impassioned. “I can’t let them starve to death!”
She seemed to contemplate the determined, disobedient kid along with the problems inherent with feeding animals orphaned this young.
“I suppose we could take them home with us. That’s a better solution anyway. Then you won’t be over here bothering Quinn.”
“Can we?”
Quinn pushed up and away from the fireplace. “No.”
Both woman and boy turned to stare at him. “Why not?”
He hitched a shoulder, feeling obstinate. What right did she have to come into his house and dictate what became of the animals in his shed? “My cats.”
“You said they were strays.”
“They were until they took up residence in my shed.” What was he doing? Let her take them. Be rid of them. Be rid of her and her sulky kid. Get back to normal. Alone. The way he liked. “They stay.”
“Are you going to feed them?”
“We’ll work out a schedule.”
“I don’t want Derrick over here.”
“Why not?” That was what was bugging him most. Now that he’d offered the invitation, he didn’t appreciate her attitude. As if he was some kind of evil influence on children. He was the one making the sacrifice by letting Derrick invade his private sanctuary.
She parked a hand on one hip. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? First you threaten to call the sheriff if he steps foot on your land, and now you’re asking me to let him come here several times a day.”
She was really cute when she got fired up. Like a bunny rabbit on a rampage. He wanted to laugh. For the first time in a long time, he was sparring with a woman who attracted him. He even wanted to make her like him. But he was rusty in the charm department.
He knew he should give in and let her take the kittens. The last thing he needed was to have a troubled boy hanging around for two or three weeks. If the kid followed through. Which he probably wouldn’t.
“The responsibility would be good for him.”
“Come on, Gena,” Derrick wheedled. “It’ll only be for a week or two.”
Gena? Why would her kid call her by her first name? Disrespect?
The little twerp needed his head thumped.
She put her hand on the boy’s shoulder and massaged. “Honey, I know you’re worried about the kittens, but—”
Derrick yanked away, his face closed and his breath coming fast and short. “But what? You’re not going to let me do it because you don’t like Quinn?”
Quinn raised both eyebrows and pinned her with a stare. Her cheeks reddened.
“There are some things you have to trust me on. This is one of them.” She shot Quinn a snarky look. “The cats belong to Quinn. He can take care of them. Now get in the car and let’s go home.”
Derrick’s face darkened. His mouth was tight, his eyes laser hot. “I don’t have to do what you say. You’re not my mother. Stop trying to be.”
Gena’s face went whiter than wall plaster. Her pale green eyes flashed toward Quinn. “Derrick!”
Shocked, confused and feeling stupid, Quinn looked from woman to boy and back to the woman.
She wasn’t his mother? Then who was?
Chapter Four (#ulink_ff396817-753e-5851-a56c-e5125865902d)
Gena’s heart was pushing through her chest. Any minute now, she’d collapse dead on Quinn Buchanon’s rough wooden floor.
If she was fortunate. Which today she was not.
Quinn stared squint-eyed at her, the way he must have stared down offensive linemen back in the golden days. Looking angry and dangerous, he awaited an explanation.
“She’s my aunt,” Derrick said with a sneer. “Good for me.”
Quinn’s chilly gaze swung to the boy. “Your aunt.”
“Yeah. Are you deaf? What did you think? That she was my mom or something?”
Thanks for the vote of confidence, Derrick.
Mouth tight, Quinn pointed a warning at Derrick before those cold eyes swung back to her. She held them with her own green ones, fighting the rising panic, blustering her way through the awkward situation. She’d worked in trauma. She didn’t rattle easily.
“His mother died. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Quinn lifted both hands. “Right. Not my business at all.”
Gena waited for the flicker of recognition that never came. If he remembered Renae, he didn’t make the connection.
Derrick slumped to one hip. “So are you gonna let me take care of the kittens or not?”
“Not,” she managed. “And don’t give me any more nonsense. My patience is gone.”
Kittens or not, she was done here. Done.
Without waiting to see if her nephew would follow, Gena escaped Quinn’s dangerous stare before the world caved in.
* * *
Quinn squinted at the clock next to his bunk. Midnight. He’d slept two whole hours, as if his body wanted to wake and torment him for the remaining two. His arm ached, nothing new there, and sleep wouldn’t come again until after the medication. He shoved out of the bed and dressed in sweats. The kittens would be hungry soon and he didn’t expect Derrick to show, not after the fiasco this afternoon.
He felt misled and shouldn’t. He wasn’t exactly social, so he had no reason to know through the grapevine that Derrick was Gena’s nephew.
Which meant Renae was the little twerp’s mother.
It hit him then, like a gunshot. Renae was dead.
“Whoa.” Quinn scrubbed a hand over his scruffy jaw and stood stock-still for several seconds. Renae was dead. No wonder the kid was angry.
He padded on the cold wooden floor into the kitchen to prepare for the kittens’ feeding.
He wanted to ask Gena what had happened, but she would say it wasn’t his business.
It wasn’t. He didn’t want it to be. In fact, he hoped he never saw either of his problematic neighbors again. He didn’t want people infringing on his privacy and blundering around on his land. He’d bought three hundred acres of remote nothing for a reason. To be alone.
Alone was the only way to be until he got the monster off his back.
With the four tiny bottles of warmed milk replacer in his coat, Quinn stepped out into the cold night. Frost lay like a young snow over the grass and bushes, while the moon cast a white, ghostly hue over the shadowy trees and well house.
Winter was not a friend to scar tissue and damaged bone.
The surgical scars started their steady thrum of hot pain, and he whispered a thank-you to the heavens that the kittens would keep him occupied for a while. Anything to block the hunger for another painkiller.
A thin beam of yellow light slanted through the crack in the well-house door.
Quinn blew out a cloudy breath and shook his head.
Was the kid here?
Sure enough, Derrick sat on the floor inside, holding a kitten that sucked greedily at a milk bottle while the other three still in the box yowled in high-pitched desperation.
Quinn ignored the kindness of a boy traipsing through dark woods at midnight to feed motherless kittens. He scowled. “I told you to stay home. I got this one.”
“I was awake.”
Quinn grunted. So was he.
No point in asking if Gena had given permission. She hadn’t. But the kid was her problem, not his. If she let him get away with that kind of disobedience, she’d have to live with the consequences. He had his own problems.
Managing to squeeze his big body into the narrow space opposite Derrick, Quinn scooped two squirming, squalling babies into his left hand while balancing the pair of bottles between the fingers of his right one. Awkward but efficient.
Derrick watched for a second and then looked at his much smaller palm cradling a single baby. Quinn could tell he wanted to say something but the chip on his shoulder weighed him down.
“Big hands,” Quinn muttered, remembering the way a football fit perfectly and wondering why he bothered to make conversation with a pain-in-the-neck boy who should be home in bed.
Derrick’s defensive pose softened as curiosity got the better of him. “Can you palm a basketball?”
Quinn jerked a nod. “Haven’t in a while, but yeah.”
“I wish I could.”
“You’re still growing.” He was a good-sized boy for eleven, tall and lanky and on the verge of adolescence, when his jeans would be shorter every time he put them on. In the next couple of years, he’d grow even taller.
“I like football better anyway.”
“Me, too.”
The kid snorted. “Obviously.” And then surprisingly, “Do you miss playing?”
“Sometimes.” All the time.
“You still work out.” When Quinn’s glance questioned, he pretended to be cool. “I saw your weight set inside.”
Except for his arm, Quinn was in the best shape of his life. Rehab and running miles and miles with an addiction chasing you would do that. He punished his body because it had let him down.
When the kitten emptied the bottle, Derrick pressed the now-calm baby against his cheek and stroked its tiny belly with one gentle fingertip. Quinn watched, mesmerized by the boy’s tenderness with animals, a tenderness he hid from humans.
Derrick punished humans because they’d let him down. Or maybe he was punishing himself.
Quinn pondered the thought, not wanting this quiet, warm mood of empathetic companionship springing up in the well house over a box of cats nobody wanted.
But he had to admit a grudging admiration for a kid who would drag himself out of bed in the dark and cold to care for an animal. The action showed something caring and decent about the inner person.
The boy placed his now-fed runt of the litter, a tuxedo like her mother, into the box and gently lifted the final crying baby, a solid black. Quinn’s pair, one tuxedo and the other white, nursed contentedly, their tiny paws massaging the nipple as they would their mother.
He and the boy didn’t say anything more for a while. From the corner of his eye, Quinn watched the tired face across from him. Derrick was trying so hard to remain tough and aloof, he was about to implode.
“Why are you so mad at her?” he asked softly.
His face, smoothed by the kittens, went sullen again. “What do you care?”
“Just making conversation. She doesn’t seem so bad.”
A shoulder jerked. “You don’t know anything.”
“She beat on you?”
Surprised, Derrick’s eyes lit in an almost smile but he caught himself in time to scoff. “No.”
“Starve you?”
“She’s like a doctor or something, man. She wouldn’t do that.”
“So what’s your beef?”
Derrick stared down at the kitten and mumbled, “She shoulda told me.”
“Told you what?”
One beat passed. “Nothing.”
That’s what he got for asking. Nothing.
Quinn removed the bottles from the sated kittens and placed them on the heating pad. Derrick did the same. Neither spoke until they exited the building.
“Get in the truck. I’ll drive you home.”
“I walked here, didn’t I?”
“Suit yourself.” Quinn spun and started toward the house. As his foot thudded on the loose porch boards, Derrick said, “Uh, hey, uh.”
Quinn stopped but didn’t turn. “The name’s Quinn.”
“Uh, yeah, Quinn. I guess you can drive me home.”
A grin wiggled against Quinn’s lips. He headed for his Ram. Derrick hopped inside, slammed the door and slumped down in the seat, hood up and hands in his pockets.
They drove in silence down the bumpy trail to the gravel road, shivering deep in their coats until the heater grabbed hold.
The dash clock showed two o’clock. He’d made it, thanks to the cats and the kid. One small victory. One night without regrets.
“You have school tomorrow?”
“Like I can avoid it.”
“GC is a pretty good school.”
“Nobody likes new kids.”
Quinn flicked a glance at him. “Maybe because you have a mountain-sized chip on your shoulder.”
“So?” His glare said it all.
So? So plenty of guys could snap you like a number-two pencil, you little twerp.
All he said was, “Be careful or someone will knock it off.”
Derrick huffed. “Let ’em try.”
“You play sports?”
“Used to. I quit after—” He slid farther down in the seat. Pity welled in Quinn. The dash glow showed a sad kid, not a bad one.
He knew a little about being so sad that you wanted to disappear and the only emotion you could muster was anger.
The words pressed at the back of Quinn’s throat until they fell out in the dark silence. “Lousy, about your mother.”
Derrick didn’t answer. He turned toward the window and stared out at the black night.
Not your business, Buchanon. You don’t need this.
So he shut up. Making conversation with Derrick was like trying to pet a rabid porcupine anyway. What was the point?
At the corner leading to the rear of the Satterfield farm, the kid suddenly came to life. “You can let me out here.”
Quinn tapped the brake. “You think she won’t find out?”
“You gonna tattle?”
“I’ll think about it.”
The kid slid to the ground. “Thanks for the ride.”
Quinn jerked a nod. “Sleep in. I’ll feed them at six.”
“I’ll be there.” Derrick slammed the door and took off in a jog down the road.
Quinn watched the penlight bob across the field and into the backyard and finally disappear into the house before he turned the truck around and drove back to the cabin.
* * *
The next day, the Family Medical Clinic was jammed with sick people, and Gena’s brain vacillated between medical mode and stressing over Derrick and the untenable situation with her cranky neighbor.
Her sister had been right. Quinn was a player, a user. He didn’t even remember.
She ripped off a prescription and handed it to her latest patient, the owner of a local café, The Buttered Biscuit, who’d contracted a mean sinusitis complicated by otitis media.
“I’m prescribing some antibiotics for the infection, Jan. Three times a day for fourteen days. Take all of them, even if you think you feel better. Ear infections can be tricky to clear.”
Jan nodded her head miserably, then winced at the pain the movement generated. “I’d eat rocks for a month to get rid of this. I sure don’t want it to come back.”
Gena smiled. “Smart woman. You can take over-the-counter pain reliever if you need it. Which I’m guessing you do. The same with a decongestant or nasal spray. Call me if you don’t see improvement by Friday.”
“Thanks, Gena. You’re a blessing.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to get some rest, let someone else run the café for a few days.”
“I feel so awful, I will. Abby can handle it.”
Abby. Fiancée to one of the Buchanon boys. As if she needed another reminder of that prominent family today.
Gena opened the exam room door and let the woman pass before going to the sink to wash her hands.
Moving back to Gabriel’s Crossing had seemed like the best solution when Derrick began acting out. Here was a familiar place where she knew people and had roots that she could share with him, a place where he could learn small-town values, a place with a mortgage-free home in the country and a medical practice that needed her. Now she wondered if she’d done the right thing.
Maybe she should move back to Houston, away from the danger of Quinn Buchanon.
She scrubbed harder, soaping her wrists, zoned out in thought. Houston didn’t have Quinn, but her parents’ city had plenty of other worries, especially concerning her nephew.
She loved it here in Gabriel’s Crossing, loved living in Nana and Papa’s house with its wonderful memories and quiet woods and pretty yard. Nana had planted something for every season, even winter, when the red berries against deep green holly fed the birds and the spirit. Spring would soon arrive and Nana’s lilacs and forsythias would brighten the world.
She didn’t want to move again.
Since she’d joined Dr. Ramos last September, her practice had grown rapidly. She loved knowing her patients on a personal basis, seeing them at church and in stores. People liked her personal involvement, her follow-up phone calls, the smart, concerned care she gave. She was a good certified registered nurse practitioner, and she wanted to practice in a rural town where doctors were in short supply. Gabriel’s Crossing was perfect. Almost.
Derrick was furious with her about the kittens and had locked himself in his room with his computer, refusing to come out until this morning. Oddly, he’d been up and dressed but his eyes were red rimmed and tired, as if he hadn’t slept much.
He worried her out of her mind. And she felt guilty about the baby kittens. Had Quinn fed them? Would he?
Quinn. The biggest problem of all.
Lord, what am I supposed to do? I can’t break my promise, but I can’t return to Houston. Derrick is better off here in a small town where I can keep a close eye on him. But what if—
Someone tapped on the exam room door. “Gena?”
“Come on in.” She glanced up.
Alabama Watts, both nurse and friend, poked her head around the door edge. “Mr. Chard in room three and little Clara Jameson in five are both ready. And Dr. Ramos wants you to take his patients for the next couple of hours. He had an emergency at the hospital.”
Gena shut off the water and reached for a paper towel.
She was needed here. Badly.
“Who’s first?”
“Mr. Chard. I set up a suture tray. His hand is wrapped in a towel but bleeding through. Chain saw bit him, he said.”
“Ouch. Let’s go see.”
The rest of her day was wildly busy, so by the time she arrived home, the sun had set. She parked the SUV under the carport and opened the side entry door, frowning to see no light glowing from Derrick’s room. The bus ran by the house around four. He should have been home three hours ago.
“Derrick?” She tossed her keys and bag on the kitchen counter and went to his room.
The door was shut. She tapped. “Derrick, honey. I’m home.”
Nothing.
“Are you hungry?” Wasn’t he always?
Still no answer, so she tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. With a deep breath, she stepped into his bedroom. It was empty. His laptop was open and on but dark. His books had been dumped on his unmade bed. If he had homework, he’d likely not done it.
With an exasperated growl, she knew where he’d gone. Quinn’s. The kittens.
Wearily, she rubbed at her temples.
She’d been foolish to believe she could avoid anyone in a town this small. Derrick’s blatant disregard for her rules meant he was sure to do exactly what she forbade.
As she started out, some gut instinct stopped her. She stared at Derrick’s laptop.
She’d not checked his history in a while, and from his weariness this morning, she suspected he’d stayed up late last night trolling the internet. With him out of the house, it was a good time to have a look at his search history without starting another war.
She tapped the touch pad and the screen lit up.
Facebook. Dandy. He wasn’t old enough to have an account. But when had she been able to stop Derrick from doing something he wanted to do?
She stared at the selfies of the handsome young boy with the sullen mouth and that blasted black hoodie pulled low over his eyes.
With a tap, she refreshed the screen and scrolled, checking out his friends and messages.
The more she read, the colder she got. One “friend” flashed gang signs and puffed on something that looked suspiciously like a marijuana joint. One urged him to hitch his way back to Houston. Another bragged about a “piece” he’d stolen from his old man.
A piece? As in a gun?
“Oh no. Not guns and drugs.” She’d thought the shoplifting episode was scary. “He’s not even twelve!”
But the young and angry, she knew from her clinic experience in the inner city, were prime targets for gangs and trouble. Derrick was both.
Holding her stomach, she closed the laptop and left the room, reeling. What if he’d read the messages and run away? Houston was miles and miles from Gabriel’s Crossing.
Frightened now, Gena grabbed her keys and loped for the Xterra, praying he was at Quinn’s place with the kittens. Even there was better than on the road to Houston.
Chapter Five (#ulink_7a8b3c2d-82e3-5d9d-a958-958dc371a338)
Quinn stirred the stew pot and breathed in the warming beef-and-tomato scent. Though the calendar had turned a page, the weather remained lousy cold until he wondered if spring would ever come. A pot of stew would last him for days.
He clanged the lid on and went to his work table; the plans he was tweaking for Brady waited. Work and pain. That’s all his life amounted to these days.
He rubbed his arm, wishing for relief like always this time of day, when the last painkiller had long since worn off and the hours until the next one loomed long and horrible.
The kid was with the kittens, but Quinn saw no reason to join him. He wasn’t in the mood for company.
He’d spotted Derrick coming through the woods as he’d pulled in from work, grumpy as usual after a day of haggling with his workaholic father and brother. The Huckleberry Addition had been problematic since they’d turned the first shovel of dirt. Vandalism, delays, changes.
He focused on the blueprints. Adding an extra bathroom and closet meant an overhaul of the south side. He’d have to give it some thought and run some cost calculations.
The pain crept down his shoulder, flared like hot embers in his bent elbow and spread into his fingers. He opened and closed his hand. He used to do that after a touchdown pass. Flex his fingers, feel the strength that allowed him to throw a ball like a precision torpedo thirty or forty yards past the line of scrimmage. Long, medium or short—no matter the yardage, the Mighty Quinn had been deadly accurate.
These days he couldn’t hit a trash can with a paper wad.
Rotten day. Rotten weather. Stinkin’ rotten nagging pain.
He glanced at the clock.
Too long. He’d never make it. Why fight the inevitable?
Before he could think too much, he walked the short distance to the sink and opened the brown prescription bottle. One or two? He shook the pills into his hand. Two.
He was going down the tubes anyway. Might as well go without his arm screaming.
Quickly, he washed the pills back with a slug of water. The medication had no more than hit bottom when the shame rushed in.
Failure and shame. Once a month, he drove an hour to refill his prescriptions so no one in Gabriel’s Crossing would know their former gridiron hero might have a drug problem.
He was a Christian, or professed to be. Christians weren’t supposed to become dependent on painkillers. So where did that leave him?
Defeated, he made his way back to the computer, then to the stove, restless and waiting for relief.
Quinn wondered if Gena had learned about her nephew’s trudge through the woods last night.
He should probably tell her, but she didn’t seem too eager to communicate, and the kid needed those cats to soften him up.
Or maybe Quinn enjoyed getting under Nurse Gena’s skin.
She didn’t like him. Even Derrick said so. No big surprise. He wasn’t a superstar any longer. After the accident, women had run away from him like cockroaches from a spotlight. Derrick’s mother had been one of those fair-weather women. Renae. They’d had something good going—or he’d thought they had—until she learned he was damaged, disabled, a has-been.
“Come on, oxy, do your job.”
He flopped on the couch and aimed the remote, scrolling through the satellite until he found elevator music. Tipping his head back, he let his body relax. The pain began to ease and the stress of the day floated away on a river of relief. He knew the relief wouldn’t last, but for now it was enough.
As he drifted a bit, waiting for his stew to cook and listening to easy music, enjoying a few minutes of peace, the sound of a car penetrated his comfortable place.
With a low growl, he opened his eyes.
Someone from his family or Gena.
He remained where he was. If his intruder was family, he’d have to force himself off the couch and make up excuses. Gena could get the kid and go.
An urgent knock rattled the wooden door. “Quinn! I know you’re in there. Please open the door. I need to talk to you.”
Gena. So much for solitude.
With an irritated huff, he stomped to the door and yanked it open. “What do you want?”
“Derrick.”
He jerked a thumb toward the shed. “The usual.”
She sagged a little, and he noticed then what he hadn’t before.
“You’re shaking.”
“Can I come in for a minute?”
Alarmed and wishing he wasn’t, he stepped aside to allow her entrance. She wore the same blue coat with rubbery Crocs, but the jaunty knit hat was missing and her blond hair was mussed.
“I was so scared.”
“That I’d strangled the little twerp?”
She managed a shaky laugh. “When you aren’t scowling, you’re pretty funny.”
He used to be Mr. Charm-and-Wit. Now he was Mr. Scowl-and-Growl.
“I’m a laugh a minute. Sit down before you collapse.”
“Thank you.” She slid the coat off her shoulders and folded it over the arm of his saggy couch. “Something smells amazing.”
He ignored the compliment. “What’s wrong?”
“I thought Derrick had run away, back to Houston.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me, either, but why today?”
“I found some very disturbing information on his Facebook profile.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead as if needing a minute to catch her breath. “Derrick can freak me out worse than a ruptured artery.”
He didn’t want to know this. “So what did you find?”
“Most of his friends on there are a lot older, and they’re doing things he shouldn’t even know about.”
He settled on the equally-saggy armchair at her elbow. “Such as?”
“Gang stuff. Guns. Drugs. I’ve worked in the ER enough to understand gang stuff.”
TMI, his brain screamed. Too much information. He didn’t want to think that the tenderhearted, hurting kid in his shed could be heading for the gutter.
“But he didn’t run away. He’s out there feeding kittens. Problem solved.” Now go away.
“I wish. As long as he’s communicating with those kids, he’s in danger.”
An inward sigh. She was like a tenacious linebacker. She wouldn’t quit coming at him. “So what are you going to do?”
“Ground him.”
Quinn’s eyes rolled up in his head. “How’s that been working for you?”
“Not at all.” Her lips twisted in defeat. He didn’t focus there. In fact, he wasn’t focusing that well at all.
“When the defense reads the play before the ball is even snapped, the quarterback better call an audible. The kid is getting away with murder, and you’re sacked before you leave the pocket.”
“Football analogies?” She jacked an eyebrow. “Really?”
“It’s what I know. Look.” He dangled his clasped hands between his knees and leaned toward her. “What you’re doing doesn’t work. Change strategies.”
“I don’t know any other strategies.”
He didn’t, either. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to get involved. “Let the kid come over here. Give him some responsibility. I’ll see if I can talk to him.”
She thought about it way too long. Her sorry opinion of him rankled.
Quinn huffed out an irritated sigh. “I promise not to hurt him.”
She gave him the strangest look, like when a deer spots a human. “You have a point. He’s besotted with those kittens, the first sign of caring about anything he’s shown since we moved here.”
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