Roxanne Rustand - Lone Star Legacy

“It might even help her feel included here, if she has a friend.” Gina gave Beth’s arm a gentle squeeze, then she dug around in her purse for a business card and handed it over. “This has my cell, home and work numbers on it, so we can figure out the details later.”

Scooping her daughter up into her arms, Gina started for the door, then turned back. “Don’t even think about what Tracy said. You reopen that café and I promise you’ll end up busier than you want to be. I must be related to half the people in this county, and I’ll pass the word.”

“Thanks!” But Tracy’s words kept coming back to her for the rest of the evening. Was it foolish to even think about trying?

“NO, HE’S NOT MARRIED.” Following Dorothea Wilbert’s intent stare, Beth glanced over her shoulder and saw Joel disappear into Walt’s office, where he was installing an entire wall of oak shelving for Walt’s library of veterinary books and professional journals. Anticipating the next question, she added, “And far as I know, he is not attached.”

“If I was a few years younger…” Dorothea’s eyes gleamed. “He’s quite a hottie, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Beth tried to smother a smile, but failed. A hottie? The woman had to be eighty if she was a day and her slang was a tad out of date, but she definitely deserved points for sheer spunk.

Dorothea lifted her cat carrier from the counter and angled a look at Beth’s bare left hand. “If I were you, I’d snap him right up.”

“If I ever decide to start looking, I’ll give that some thought,” Beth retorted dryly.

At least this was a variation on an all-too-familiar theme. One week at this part-time job, and she’d already fielded questions from at least a dozen women about Joel’s marital status. Women who were interested for themselves, or who just happened to have daughters, granddaughters, or nieces who might like an introduction.

Joel tried to avoid them.

Beth found it amusing when he couldn’t.

But that interest was no surprise, really. Other than a few grizzled cowhands who’d flirted with her while stopping in at the clinic, she hadn’t seen many eligible guys around town.

A situation that suited her perfectly well.

With Walt out in the country on farm calls, the clinic was quiet this afternoon save for a handful of people who’d either stopped in to buy pet supplies, or came to collect their pets after boarding them.

Beth stretched, working out the stiffness in her muscles from last night’s siege with a wallpaper steamer, then she turned back to the bank of file drawers behind her.

Joel sauntered up the hall, a carpenter’s pencil tucked above one ear, and that gunslinger tool belt riding low on his hips. With a nod in her direction, he went outside.

What was it about him that made her pulse pick up a faster beat whenever he walked by?

He certainly wasn’t her type…and she wasn’t in the market, at any rate.

In college, she’d gravitated toward the guys with armloads of philosophy books, who talked about the meaning of life, politics or social reform. White-collar guys who were safe, responsible. Who impressed parents and promised the kind of security a smart girl wanted.

Joel had an edge. An air of darkness and danger that promised he could handle any threat that came his way. But she’d learned early on that the bad boys in school were exciting, but they were the ones who casually broke hearts and disappeared. At the age of thirty she’d not be playing that game with Joel or anyone else—especially a man who was so clearly uncomfortable around Sophie.

Luckily, she and Joel had moved past that initial suspicion of his to a fledgling level of friendship, but that was as far as Beth would ever go.

According to Walt, the man had been a cop. A chill swept through her at the thought of what he could uncover if he got a little too curious and began researching her past. What if her anonymous caller was right—and Patrick had somehow tangled her up in the paperwork on his illegal dealings? Or she’d been implicated through some false evidence, by the very person who kept calling her? And then there was that suspicious fire….

She’d been cleared once. But what if the investigators had second thoughts and looked closer?

The clinic door opened and Joel came back in with a box of wood screws and a level. But this time, he didn’t just walk on by. He strolled into the receptionist’s area and leaned a hip against her desk, his too-long hair disarrayed by the windy day; his dark, thick lashes and smoldering brown eyes entirely too sexy and compelling.

But it was the hint of a boyish twinkle in those eyes that calmed the nervous flutter in her stomach.

“Ma’am, I need a favor. A big one.”

Surprised, she gave him a glance. “If it involves sewing or ironing, you’re flat out of luck.”

The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “What would you say about a date on Saturday night?”

IF HE’D TOLD HER the entire town was afire, she couldn’t have paled any faster, though she quickly masked her initial look of shock with a forced laugh. “I…don’t think so.”

He raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. “Dorothea would say you’re making a mistake.”

“You heard that?” Some color came back into her cheeks.

“Couldn’t help it. She has the voice of a revival preacher on Saturday night. Not,” he added wryly, “that I believe a thing she said.”

“Half the female population of Lone Wolf does, though.” She tipped her head and surveyed him from head to foot. “You being a mystery man from the far reaches of the U.S. and all. Most people here probably know each other from birth to death.”

“Anonymity is a good thing.”

“And speaking of that, I need some facts, so I know what to say to these people. As in, where you are from exactly, and why you came here.” She tapped a forefinger against her lips, thinking. “Oh, and what you did for a living. That’s for starters. Unless you just want the local gossips to take care of things.”

Joel felt his defenses rise, his muscles tense. “Gossips?”

She gave a delicate shrug. “People know I work here and that you’re remodeling the clinic, so they ask me. Walt said you were a cop, but I’ve heard rumors that you are an ex-CIA agent, an FBI agent, or a private investigator.”

He sighed heavily. “Detroit PD. Worked a lot of areas, though the last was homicide. I…just burned out, and needed a change.”

He’d made a career of being good at noticing small details. Reading body language. Analyzing behavior and motivation. But even a rookie couldn’t have missed the subtle shift of her position, or the brief flare of uneasiness in her eyes.

And he realized that though she’d been superficially friendly, she’d probably been even less forthcoming about her background than him—and was better at blithely skirting subtle questions, too.

“I’m sure it was a tough career,” she murmured.

“Challenging. So about Saturday—”

“Mistake. A big mistake.” She seemed to cast around for an excuse, then brightened. “Since we’re working together and all.”

“There’s a rule? In Walt’s clinic?”

“I’m sure there must be.” Her gaze skated away. “Or there should be.”

He tried to remember if he’d been turned down with such determination. Probably never, because he and his wife had been high school sweethearts and married young. Later, he’d lost all interest in any sort of social life after the heart-wrenching loss of their daughter, and a subsequent divorce so acrimonious that he still felt singed by Andrea’s anger and accusations.

Then he realized that he hadn’t quite made his intentions clear. “The town’s annual street dance and barbecue is Saturday night. I just thought the evening could be casual—something between friends.”