'Rafe's married. I was.'
'Oh.' She handed him back the cigar. 'And now you're back on the farm.'
'That right. Actually, if I hadn't waffled, I'd be living in your cabin.'
'Is that so?'
'Yep. My place in town's on the market and I'm looking for something around here. But you already had a contract on your place by the time I started looking.' He picked up a stick and drew in the dirt. 'The farm,' he said, sketching lines. 'Rafe's. The cabin.'
Savannah pursed her lips at the triangle. 'Hmm... And the MacKades would have owned a nice chunk of the mountain. You missed your shot, Lawyer Mac-Kade.'
'So it seems, Ms. Morningstar.'
'I suppose you can call me Savannah, since we're neighbors.' Taking the stick from him, she tapped the point of the triangle. 'This place. It's the stone house you can see on the hill from the road into town?'
'That's right. The old Barlow place.'
'It's haunted.'
'You've heard the stories?'
'No.' Interested, she looked over at him. 'Are there stories?'
It only took him a moment to see she wasn't playing games. 'Why did you say it was haunted?'
'You can feel it,' she said simply. 'Just like these woods. They're restless.' When he continued to stare at her, she smiled. 'Indian blood. I'm part Apache. My father liked to claim he was full-blooded, but...' She let words trail off, looked away.
'But?'
'There's Italian, Mexican, even a little French mixed in.'
'Your mother?'
'Anglo and Mex. She was a barrel racer. Rodeo champion. She was in a car accident when I was five. I don't remember her very clearly.'
'Both of mine are gone, too.' Companionably he offered her the cigar. 'It's tough.'
She drew in smoke. 'This one shouldn't have been, for me. I lost my father ten years ago, when he booted me out. I was sixteen, and pregnant with Bryan.'
'I'm sorry, Savannah.'
'Hey, I got by.' She passed back the cigar. She didn't know why she'd told him, except that it was quiet here, and he listened well. 'The thing is, Jared, I've been thinking more about my father in the last day or so than I have in years. You can't imagine what eight thousand dollars would have meant to me ten years ago. Five.' With a shrug, she pushed back her hair. 'Hell, there was a time eight dollars would have made the difference between— Well, it doesn't matter.'
Without thinking, he laid a hand over hers. 'Sure it does.'
She frowned down at their hands, then slowly, casually, slipped hers away and stood. 'The thing is, I have Bryan to think of. So I'll talk this over with him.'
'Let me state the obvious again. You've done a terrific job raising your son.'
She smiled. 'We've raised each other. But thanks. I'll be in touch.'
'Savannah.' He rose, faced her on the path. 'This is a good town, mostly a kind one. No one has to be alone here unless they want to.'
'That's something else I have to think about. I'll see you around, Lawyer MacKade.'
Jared hadn't been to a Little League game in years. When he pulled up at the park just outside of town and absorbed the scents and sounds, he wondered why. The single swatch of wooden stands was crowded and noisy. And kids who weren't on the field were running and racing behind the low chain-link fence or wrestling under the shade of the stands.
The concession hut drew others, with the smell of steaming hot dogs and sloppy joes.
He pulled his car behind the long line of others along the bumpy shoulder of the narrow road and walked across the uneven grass. He had an eye peeled for Savannah, but it was little Connor Dolin who caught his gaze.
The pale-haired boy was waiting quietly in line for food, staring at his feet as a couple of burly older kids harassed him.
'Hey, it's nerd brain Dolin. How's your old man like his cell?'
Connor stood stoically as they bumped and shoved him. The woman ahead of him in line turned and clucked her tongue at them, which had no effect at all.
'Why don't you bake him a cake with a file in it, butthead? Bet a wussy like you bakes a real good cake.'
'Hey, Connor.' Jared stepped up, aimed one look that had the two bullies scrambling away. 'How's it going?'
'Okay.' Humiliation had stained his cheeks, fear of abuse had dampened his palms around the money he clutched. 'I'm supposed to get hot dogs and stuff.'
'Mm-hmm.' In the way of males, Jared knew better than to mention what he'd just seen. 'How come you're not playing ball?'
'I'm not any good.' It was said matter-of-factly. He was much too used to being told he wasn't any good to question it. 'But Bryan's playing. Bryan Morningstar. He's the best on the team.'
'Is he?' Touched by the sudden light in those shy gray eyes, Jared reached out to flip up the visor of Connor's ball cap. The boy jerked instinctively, went still, and reminded Jared that life had not been all ball games and hot dogs for this nine-year-old. 'I'm looking forward to watching him,' Jared continued, as if the moment had never happened. 'What position does he play?'
Ashamed of his own cowardice, Connor studied the ground again. 'Shortstop.'
'Yeah? I used to play short.'
'You did?' Astonished by the idea, Connor just stared.
'That's right. Devin played third, and—'
'Sheriff MacKade played baseball?' Now the astonishment was mixed with a pure case of hero worship. 'I bet he was real good.'
'He was okay.' It pricked the pride, just a little, to remember he'd never been able to outhit, or outfield, Devin. 'How many dogs you want, Connor?'
'I've got money. Mom gave me money. And Ms. Morningstar.' He fumbled with the bills. 'I'm supposed to get one for her, too. With mustard.'
'It's my treat.' Jared held up three fingers at the vendor as Bryan worried his lip and stared at his money. 'This way I get to hang out with you and Ms. Morningstar.'
Jared handed the boy the first hot dog, watched him carefully, deliberately squeeze on a line of bright yellow mustard. 'Are your mother and sister here?'
'No, sir. Mom's working, and Emma's with her down at the diner. She said it was okay for me to come down and watch, though.'
Jared added drinks to the order, and packed the whole business up in a flimsy cardboard box. 'Can you handle this?'
'Yes, sir. Sure.' Pleased to have been given the job, Connor walked toward the stands, holding the box as if the hot dogs were explosives and the soft drinks a lit match. 'We're way up at the top, 'cause Ms. Morningstar says you can see everything better from up high.'
And he could see her, Jared mused, as they approached the stands. She sat with her elbows on her knees, her chin cupped in her hands. And her eyes— though he had to imagine, as they were shielded with dark glasses— focused on the field.
He was wrong about that. She was watching him, walking beside the boy, flashing that killer smile or giving a quick salute whenever someone hailed him. And noticing several women—of varying ages—who put their shoulders back or patted at their hair as he passed.
That was what a man who looked like that did to a woman, Savannah supposed. Made her instinctively aware of herself on a purely physical level. It was like pheromones, she decided. The scent of sex.
Those long legs of his carried him up the stands behind the small boy. Now and again his hand touched a shoulder or shook a hand. Savannah picked up the jacket she'd set in Connor's place and squeezed over toward the rail.
