But he’d done some branding in his days, on the ranch where he’d grown up. It only took a second to mark a beast for life. Now he stood amid a ghostly smell of smoke, feeling scorched.
***
Jen Vance lunged for the table lamp on the nightstand. In some corner of her mind not fried by shock, she reasoned that this intruder would have to clamber over the bed between them to reach her. That would slow him down long enough for her to swing the bottom-heavy lamp at his head. If she aimed well, it would knock him out. Or at least disable him long enough for her to dial 9-1-1.
She curled her hand around the cool base and yanked it until the cord ripped out of the wall. Her heart pounding, she hiked the lamp over her shoulder and stared down the intruder. He had hooded eyes and wild black hair. A blinding white T-shirt bore witness to a powerful chest.
“Stay back,” she said, struggling to hold the lamp while keeping the towel fixed in place. “I’ll use this, I swear it.”
“Darling, you don’t need a weapon to knock me out.”
Switching the lamp to one hand, she seized the cell phone she’d left on the bedside table. She lifted the cell phone so he could see it, saying, “I’m calling the police now.”
“You do that.”
“I’m not joking.”
“I see that.” He crossed his feet, clad in scuffed cowboy boots. “Let the cops know I’m here.”
“Just—” She pressed a ‘9,’ her thumb shaking “—leave!”
“Oh, I ain’t leaving, Red. Not until I know who you are, and what the hell you’re doing in my cabin.”
“Your cabin?” She pressed ‘1.’
“My cabin.” He pointed with his chin. “My lamp. My shower.” His voice dropped. “My towel.”
The towel threatened to slip. She tightened her elbows against her ribs. He was lying. She knew the owner of this house, and he wasn’t a piercing-eyed cowboy who lacked only a Stetson and an oversized belt buckle to complete the picture. This morning, she’d found the house key exactly where Dr. Springfield had said it would be—hidden in a secret compartment of the cast-iron turtle under the geraniums. This was the right house. This was the wrong man.
Yet the hulking giant in the doorway looked as annoyed as she was stunned, standing here dripping with her legs pressed together.
She said, “This cabin doesn’t belong to you.”
“Doesn’t belong to you, either.”
“I know the owner, and he’ll have something to say about you staking a claim.” Her thumb hovered over the last ‘1,’ but she didn’t punch it as a doubt crept in. Her intruder didn’t seem afraid, nor was he threatening her physically. He just stood there and took in an eyeful.
“We arranged this months ago.” She swiped to her calendar to check the date. “We’ve been juggling our schedules. Two weeks, he told me, I’d have this place to myself. Dr. Springfield made no mention of a surly houseguest who never learned to knock on a—”
“Springfield?” He straightened up. The guy was six feet two, maybe three. “John Springfield?”
“Yes.”
“Why the hell would John bring you here?” The cowboy gave her a look-over rough enough to qualify as exfoliation. “He’s got a wife expecting his first child in a few weeks.”
“Yes?” The cowboy was angry, there was no faking the fierceness of his look, or the way he leaned those impressive shoulders into the room. “So?”
“You’d better start explaining, Red. John’s not the type to cheat, even with a woman who looks like you.”
A drop of water slid down her inner thigh and paused at the back of her knee. Did this guy really just jump to the conclusion that she was here for an extramarital affair? The implication was beyond ludicrous. Not just because she and John had been colleagues for years. Not just because John was head-over-heels in love with his wife. But because no one had ever accused her of being a cheating lover before. It turned her mind upside down. How her ex-boyfriend would laugh his ribs sore if he’d heard this accusation. You’re as heartless as the tin man, he’d said as he’d dumped her. And just as bloodless and cold.
“You’re not denying it,” the stranger prompted.
“Oh, I deny it.” She set the lamp back on the bedside table, put her phone beside it, and shifted the towel for better coverage. “I’m Dr. Jennifer Vance, of Clark University. Dr. Springfield is a colleague of mine.” She eyed the intruder the way she eyed certain students who had difficulty keeping their gazes above her chest. “I’m here on a research project, with Dr. Springfield’s blessing.”
His pause lasted one thick moment. “John didn’t say anything to me about you.”
“Dr. Springfield said nothing to me about a surly houseguest, either. He has an arrangement with the university to rent out this cabin to researchers involved in the university’s projects.” She eyed him, from the form-fitting jeans, to the white T-shirt, cowboy boots, and unruly hair. “I still don’t know who you are.”
“Macallister,” he barked, his face twisting in annoyance. “Logan Macallister. And John wouldn’t invite someone down here without telling me first.”
“He’s been busy.” She squinted at him. “How well could you possibly know him, if you haven’t heard the news?”
It was a wonder his gaze didn’t burn the cotton towel, the only thing between her and complete nudity.
“I heard the news from a colleague yesterday,” she said, “when I couldn’t get through to John to remind him I’d be arriving. The baby Dr. Springfield’s wife was expecting made an early appearance.”
“What?”
“Several weeks premature, so I’m told. According to his secretary, John—Dr. Springfield—hasn’t left the hospital since.”
“Damn it.”
The cowboy turned and
