“My friend Nora is the county deputy clerk of court,” she reminded him. “If you get a speeding ticket, it will go through her office and she’ll tell me.”
His mouth twitched. “I got a small ticket.”
“There’s only one size,” she said.
He ignored her. He reached for a roll, buttered it and took a bite. He wore the same expression that was dominating Clark’s face. Fresh rolls were a treat. Their cook, Mrs. Johnston, couldn’t make bread, although she was a great cook otherwise.
“There’s some salad left,” Winnie commented, pushing the bowl toward him.
“Where did you learn to make rolls?” he asked Keely, and seemed really interested in her answer.
“When I lived with my father, he ran a big game park. One of his temporary workers had been in the military and traveled all over the world,” she recalled. “He was a gourmet chef. He taught me to make bread and French pastries when I was twelve years old.”
“What sort of animals did your father have?” Boone persisted.
“The usual ones,” she said, without meeting his eyes. “Giraffe, lions, monkeys and one elephant.”
“African lions?”
She nodded. “And one mountain lion,” she added. No one noticed that her fingers, holding her fork, went white.
“They have mean tempers,” Boone said. “One of my ranch hands had to track one down and kill it when he worked over in Arizona some years ago. It was bringing down cattle. He said it killed one of his tracking dogs before he could get a clear shot at it.”
“They tend to be vicious, like most wild animals,” she agreed. “They’re not malicious, you know. They’re just wild animals. They do what they do.”
“What was your job at a wild game park?” Boone murmured.
“I fed the animals and watered them and made sure the gates were locked at night so they couldn’t get out,” she said.
He finished his roll and followed it with sips of black coffee. “Not a smart job for a twelve-year-old kid,” he remarked.
“It was just Dad and me,” she said, “except for old Barney, and he was crippled. He’d hunted a lion who became a man-killer in Africa and it fought back. He lost an arm and a foot to it.”
“Did he keep the pelt when he killed it?” Boone asked.
She smiled faintly. “He made a rug out of it and slept on it every night. When he left us, he was still carrying it around.”
“The rolls were good,” Boone said unexpectedly.
“Thanks,” Keely replied shyly.
“You could get a job cooking,” he pointed out.
She frowned. “Why would I want to give up working for Bentley?”
His pleasant expression went into eclipse. “God knows.”
Winnie gave her brother a piercing look. He ignored it. He studied her face and frowned. “You’ve been crying,” he said abruptly. “Why?”
She paled. She didn’t want to talk about it.
“Why?” he persisted.
She knew it was useless to try to hide it from him. Someone would tell him, anyway.
“I almost got Kilraven killed,” she confessed, putting down her fork.
“How?”
“I got rattled and forgot to warn him that the man involved in a domestic dispute was armed,” she said quietly. “Luckily for Kilraven, the clip was missing and the man couldn’t figure out how to get the safety off.”
“Luckily for the man,” Clark elaborated dryly. “If he’d shot Kilraven, he’d be awaiting trial in the hospital.”
“That would depend on where he shot him,” Winnie replied.
“Kilraven’s steel right through,” Keely teased. “No bullet could get through that hard shell.”
“She’s right.” Clark chuckled. “They’d have to hit him with a bomb to make a dent in him.”
None of them noticed that Boone was sitting rigidly, with his eyes staring blindly into space. There was a look in them that any combat veteran would have recognized immediately. But nobody in his family had ever been in the military, except for himself.
Keely did notice. She knew that Boone had been in the war, that he’d been a front line, Special Forces soldier. She knew that he was reliving some terrible memory. Keely knew about those, because she had her own. Without saying a word, her eyes communicated that knowledge to the taciturn man across from her. He frowned and averted his eyes.
He finished his coffee and got to his feet. “I’ve got to make a few phone calls,” he murmured.
“Keely made cinnamon buns,” Winnie said. “Don’t you want one?”
He hesitated uncharacteristically. “Bring me one in the office, with a second cup of coffee, will you?” he asked.
“Sure,” Winnie said.
“No.” His dark eyes slid to Keely. “You bring it,” he said.
Before she could answer him, he strode out of the room.
“Well!” Clark said, surprised.
“He’s in a mood to bite somebody,” Winnie said solemnly. “Boone’s a horror when there’s no audience to slow him down. If he disapproves of you dating Clark, he’ll make your life hell. I’ll take his dessert to him.”
“No,” Clark said. He looked at Keely. “You have to stop being afraid of him and stand up to him,” he told her. “This is a good time to start.”
Keely became pale. She hesitated and looked to Winnie to save her.
But Winnie hesitated, too. She frowned. “Maybe Clark’s right,” she said after a minute. “You’re afraid of Boone. He knows it, and uses it against you.”
Keely bit her lower lip. “I suppose you’re right. I’m a wimp.”
“You’re not,” her best friend replied, smiling. “Here’s your chance to prove it.”
“With your shield or on it,” Clark intoned dramatically.
Keely glowered at him. “I am not a Spartan.”
“An Amazon, then,” Clark compromised, and grinned. “Go get him!”
“We’ll be right here,” Winnie promised. “You can yell for help and we’ll come running.”
Keely had her doubts about that. Winnie and Clark loved Boone, but neither of them had ever been a match for his temper. If she yelled for help, they’d assume that Boone was bristling and ready for a fight, and they’d be under heavy pieces of furniture trying not to get noticed. Still, they had a point. She was almost twenty years old. It was time she learned to fight back.
She poured a
