Kathleen O'Brien - Texas Trouble

Nora was too far away for Logan to see details, but his mind could conjure every inch. The silly auburn curls that frothed around her shoulders. The round eyes, too big for her face, forest-colored, mostly brown with shards of green and bronze. Little-girl pink cheeks, freckles and an upturned, cheerleader’s nose.

But a dangerous woman’s mouth, wide and soft and tempting.

Today, her head was bowed as she moved toward them, her pale face somber. She might have the coloring of a roseate spoonbill, but she had the soft melancholy of the mourning dove. The widow Archer. He squeezed the handle of the hammer he was holding. She was as beautiful—and as off-limits—as ever.

Dear Reader,

Many years ago, on a wintery Florida afternoon, my mother, my little girl and I spent a couple of hours at the nearby Audubon Center for Birds of Prey. It was an idle choice, mostly an excuse to get outdoors.

But as we walked under the spreading oaks, we were caught by the magic of the place. The long-taloned, steady-eyed raptors. The impossibly tiny owls, who peeked out of their houses, mere cottonballs with button eyes. The dignified barn owl turning his head solemnly from side to side while we watched. We laughed at his hauteur, but we were secretly honored that he had deigned to notice us.

My mother has been gone a long time now, and my “little girl” is a beautiful, independent woman. But that day lives on. That afternoon when we shared a mystical bond with nature, feeling completely at peace, one with the birds…and each other.

When I came to write Nora Archer’s story, I knew she needed a special kind of healing. Nora and her fatherless sons have been through so much. She needed a man, and a place, that could bring her that kind of peace. And so…I remembered the birds.

I hope you enjoy Nora and Logan’s story. If you have a wildlife sanctuary near you, please visit and support them. Then drop by www.KOBrienOnline.com and tell me all about it!

Warmly,

Kathleen O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Kathleen O’Brien was a feature writer and TV critic before marrying a fellow journalist. Motherhood, which followed soon after, was so marvelous she turned to writing novels, which could be done at home. She works hard to pack her backyard with birds, butterflies and squirrels. Indoors, her two cockatiels, Honey and Lizzie, announce repeatedly, if not humbly, that they are “pretty birds.” Her colorful Gouldian finch, who lives in her office, fills every day with music.

To my much-loved mother and daughter, who shared that extraordinary day with me.

I wish we could do it again.

And to the Audubon Center for Birds of Prey, for working magic year after year.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A DRAGONFLY HOVERED INCHES from Nora Archer’s shoulder, its wings hypnotically beating the warm air of the hacienda courtyard. She ought to get up, get going, get Sean ready for Little League, but peaceful moments were too rare these days. She used to love sitting out here in the late afternoon, when the Bull’s Eye Ranch was quiet, the shadows stretched across the bricks, and the breeze was full of honeysuckle and wind chimes.

Milly, the housekeeper, was vacuuming on the second floor, a way of keeping an eye on Sean without making him feel like a prisoner. So, temporarily off duty, Nora lay on the lounger, prepared to steal a few more minutes.

A battle was coming with Sean, and she wasn’t eager to engage. They’d quarreled as soon as he got home from school, about whether his homework could wait until after the game. She hadn’t budged, though as always she’d needed to steel herself against the pain behind his angry hazel eyes. He was only nine… He’d been through so much….

But dealing with Sean called for discipline and routine, not sloppy emotion and inconsistency. So she’d held firm. As usual, he’d stomped upstairs in a fury and slammed his door.

Most days, after a scene like that, she would send Harry up to remind Sean it was time to shower and put on his uniform. No matter how prickly Sean was with his mother, no matter how sour he’d grown about his former love, baseball, he never took it out on Harry.

The hero-worship of a little brother had once been the bane of Sean’s existence, but not anymore. These days, Harry was the only one Sean seemed to trust.

Unfortunately, Harry was playing at a friend’s house.

So for just a few minutes more, she wanted to watch the dragonfly, bask in the spring sunshine, and pretend everything was normal. She wanted to pretend that her boys had a father, who at any moment might come whistling around the corner, shouldering a trio of fishing poles. She wanted to pretend that Sean hadn’t grown surly and difficult, that he hadn’t begun to hate everything he used to love, and that his nights were peaceful under acres of starry Archer sky, not haunted by nightmares of madmen, guns and fear.

A lovely fantasy, but it couldn’t last. Too soon the quiet hour was gone. She opened her eyes and saw that the sunlight had abandoned the last inch of courtyard, the shadow of the tiled roofline on the west touching the shadow of the tupelo on the east.

She sat up. Had she just heard a sound…maybe a car coming through the iron gates at the front of the hacienda?

Evelyn, already? Could it really be almost five?

Nora’s sister-in-law had agreed to picked up Harry and meet them here so that they could ride to the game together. Darn. Nora had hoped to get the war with Sean over and won before Evelyn showed up to witness it.

Evelyn always meant well, but the older woman always preferred sandpaper to honey, so she and Nora rarely agreed about how to handle even the smallest parenting issues.

Nora was tugging on her sneakers when, suddenly, the air seemed to burst into chaotic sound.

First, the shrill ringing of the telephone. She felt around under the lounger for the cordless handset. Just as her fingers closed around it, a whoosh of air swept through the courtyard, followed by the bang of the massive wood-and-iron front door.

Then voices. Her sister-in-law’s agitated alto. “Sean Archer! I told you I want an answer! What have you been doing?”

“Sean!” The short, high-pitched squeal of the housekeeper, Milly. “How did you get out? What happened to you?”

And, finally, the tearful defiance of her older son. “I didn’t do it. I don’t care what they say. I didn’t do it.”

Nora flew into the great room, the telephone still ringing in her hand. She determined first that Sean was all in one piece—and so was Harry, who stood holding Evelyn’s hand, eyes wide. Clearly upset, all of them, but no one seriously hurt.

Then she noticed that Sean was covered in dirt, and his left cheek was bleeding.

“I found him trying to sneak in through the side loggia. Look at him! God only knows what he’s been up to.” Evelyn tried to grab Sean’s shirt, but he ducked away. “Explain yourself, Sean!”

Nora winced at the tone, which was guaranteed to make Sean—or anyone—mulish. “Honey,” she said more gently. “What happened?”

He took one step toward his mother, as though his instinct was to run to her arms. But then he checked himself. His eyebrows drew together, and his jaw jutted out. “I didn’t do it. That guy is a liar.”