Barbara McCauley - Texas Pride

“But why is it so important for you to build your center here?” Dylan asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to set up in town?”

She smiled then. The kind of smile a patient mother gives a child who’s asked a silly question. “Easier isn’t always best,” she said. “I want my kids to be as far away as possible from their everyday lives. They need a place where no one will judge them, a place where they can feel safe.”

There had been a fierce protectiveness in Jessica’s voice when she’d said “my kids.” If she was this devoted to kids she didn’t know, Dylan couldn’t help but wonder what she’d be like with children of her own. An image of her holding a dark-haired, blue-eyed baby brought a strange ache to his chest, and he quickly shook off the feeling. Hannibal spotted a mouse a few feet down the sidewalk and, with a sharp bark, bounded off after the intruder.

“And what about you?” Dylan asked, watching Hannibal disappear around the building. “Is that why you’re here? Because you feel safe?”

She studied him for a long moment, then slipped her hands into her pockets and looked away. “My mother died when I was fourteen,” she said quietly. “It devastated me, and I fell into a hole so black and so deep I thought I’d never find my way out. I ran wild, much to my brothers’ distress, and I came close to getting into some serious trouble. That’s how I ended up working in social services for kids after I graduated from college. I have a group here in town I work with. Right now we only meet on Tuesdays, but after Makeshift is open, we’ll have a full-time staff here and bring in kids from all over.”

“It’s hard to imagine you as a problem teen,” Dylan said.

She faced him, tilting her head and smiling slowly. “Because I look so innocent?”

He nodded.

“Looks are deceiving, Dylan. Take you, for instance.” She stepped closer to him and her gaze moved over his face. “You aren’t nearly as indifferent as you want everyone to believe.”

He didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. Nor did he like how close Jessica was standing to him. Close enough to catch the faint scent of jasmine. He felt his pulse begin to pound in his temple, and it took every bit of willpower he possessed not to yank her into his arms and show her that he was far from indifferent when it came to her. “It’s dangerous to be so trusting, Jessica.”

“I trust you,” Jessica said, and watched Dylan’s eyes narrow as their gazes meshed. Dangerous was a good word to describe him, she decided. He had a rugged, muscular strength that could intimidate the brawniest of men and make a woman feel light-headed.

When she realized she was actually feeling light-headed herself, she stepped away. “Makeshift will give these teenagers a second chance to get themselves on track again and move in the right direction. Along with general education, we’ll teach them job and business skills, too.” Hannibal trotted back and she reached down to stroke his fur. “Drafting and construction are viable careers. The center could use someone like you.”

His laugh was dry and short. “You’ve got the wrong man, there. Volunteer and do-gooder weren’t listed on my application, nor are they in my vocabulary. You’ll have to find someone else for the job.”

Was that how he spent his life? Jessica wondered. Moving from job to job, no family, no one to care about him? She couldn’t help the tug she felt in her heart for him.

Dylan Grant was becoming more dangerous by the minute, she decided. The thicker the wall he built between them, the more tempted she was to break through it. Hadn’t she learned the hard way to keep away from his type? Volunteer and do-gooder weren’t the only words missing in Dylan’s vocabulary. So were commitment and love and family. And at twenty-seven, she was ready for all three.

But first, she resolved, she had a town to rebuild.

She turned and moved down the sidewalk, pointing out her intentions for each building. The old hotel would be a functioning hotel for tourists and guests. The bank would be the business and accounting office, the tailor shop an arts-and-crafts room. The barbershop would train hairstylists, and the telegraph office would become a computer center.

As Dylan listened to Jessica describe her future town, he was hard put not to catch some of her enthusiasm. It was an impressive undertaking, and he had to admit he admired her dedication. Before he’d come here to Stone Creek and to Makeshift, every job he’d ever worked on had been much the same as the next. Other than the reason that had brought him here, he’d had no cause to think this job would be any different.

But now, as he followed Jessica to the far end of the town, he had the strangest feeling that this job was different. Very different. There was something about Makeshift he couldn’t put his finger on, something exciting. An energy in the air, in the buildings themselves, that made him feel as if he could do anything.

Except stay of course. That idea was ridiculous. Impossible. He’d tried to settle down once and it had been a disaster. He had no intention of repeating that mistake.

Jessica stopped in front of a small burned-out church at the far end of town. The faded paint had once been white, and half of the steeple was broken off. Mesquite and weeds choked the doors and steps, and a loose shutter rattled in the late-morning breeze. Of all the buildings in Makeshift, the church appeared to have fared the worst.

“I’m not sure where to start here,” she said, folding her arms as she stared at the dilapidated building.

“A bulldozer would be my suggestion,” Dylan said. “Tear it down and start from scratch.”

The light breeze suddenly turned into a cold wind. Dust and leaves flew everywhere. “What the hell...?” Dylan squinted, turning his face from the dirt and debris as he moved up the front steps of the church and struggled to pry loose one of the boards covering the front door. It wouldn’t give.

Jessica touched his arm and pulled him away. “The church stays,” she said over the noise of the wind and Hannibal’s insistent barking. “In fact, it’s the first building I want renovated.”

When she’d dragged him several yards from the church, the wind calmed to a breeze again. Weird, Dylan thought as he slapped at the dust covering his jeans and shirt. “It will cost a lot more to renovate than rebuild,” he said. “What difference does it make?”

Her fingers tightened on his arm. “We aren’t tearing it down, Dylan.”

Jessica’s statement went beyond an opinion or recommendation. It was an absolute, emphatic mandate. He looked down at the slender fingers gripping his arm and couldn’t help but wonder if the rest of her skin was as smooth and soft. He quickly pushed the thought from his mind.

“Promise me you won’t replace even one nail unless it’s absolutely necessary,” she said earnestly.

The way she was looking at him he would have promised her anything. Her eyes darkened to a smoky, deeper shade of blue, and the unexpected need he felt for her shifted to an ache. But he wasn’t the only one affected, he realized. He recognized the desire in her eyes, as well, mixed with surprise. It was like looking into a mirror.

They both stepped away at the same time.

“You’re the boss,” he said, and heard the strained sound of his voice. “I’ve seen enough today, anyway. I’ve got to get back to Cactus Flat and round up a crew.”

“How are you going to do that?” she asked with a sigh. “I’ve already seen what’s available.”

He smiled. “I’ve been around this business a few years more than you. I know where to look. I’ll set it up and be back tomorrow with my things.” He began to head down the street.