One More Knight

Chapter 3

July 1, 1977

Dear Diary,

Guess what! I think Richie Wilcox likes me. He told Bobby Hanratty he did, and Bobby told Kelly Grace, and Kelly Grace told me. I don’t know if I should tell Kelly Grace to tell Bobby to tell Richie that I like him back or not. I don’t want to be too forward. On the other hand, the Fourth of July picnic is coming up. Maybe Richie will ask me and Bobby will ask Kelly Grace, and then we can double-date! Yowza!

Thought for the Day: I think Richie does look just a little like J.T.

Troy was in the nursery putting the last screw in a four-switch plate when he heard the phone ring. Since he was pretty sure he knew who it was, he finished up what he was doing before he went across the hall to the master bedroom to answer it. He got there just before the machine picked up.

“Hey,” he said, without bothering with formalities, “‘bout time you guys checked in. You must be havin’ fun.”

All he got in response to that were some breathing sounds, which gave him a hint that it probably wasn’t his brother or Mirabella on the line after all. But before he could apologize and start all over again, a woman’s voice inquired in an ominous tone, “Is this the Starr residence?”

“Sure is,” said Troy cheerfully. “Sorry about that-thought you were somebody else. What can I do for you?”

“May I speak to Mirabella, please?”

“Ah, shoot-I’m sorry, she’s not here right now. Can I-?”

“Is this…Jimmy Joe?”

“Naw, this is his brother Troy. Neither one of ‘em’s here, ma’am. Gone to Atlanta for the weekend.” The silence on the other end of the line had a hollow sound to it, Troy thought, as if the person there had just run out of options. “Hey,” he said, trying to be helpful, “I’d be glad to give ’em a message for you, if you want.”

He heard more breath sounds, a quick in and out, the kind of breath people take to bolster their courage when they’re looking at the end of their rope. “Do you have a number where they can be reached?”

“Uh, sure don’t. I’m expectin’ to hear from ’em any minute, though. Thought that was who it was when you called, matter of fact. Tell you what, why don’t you give me a number where you can be reached, and I’ll have Mirabella give you a call? How’s that sound, ma’am?”

This time he got a high, muffled sound, about halfway between a snort of irony and a squeak of frustration, which made him more than ever suspicious that the person on the other end of the line might be just a little too tightly wound. His “Beg pardon?” was cautious.

A chuckle reassured him somewhat, and so did the dry humor in the voice when it replied, “Nothing-I’ve just about been ma’amed to death lately, is all.”

At least, he thought, whatever her problem was, the lady appeared to have some fight left in her. He ventured, “Well, ma’am, if you want to give me a name, I’d be glad to call you that instead.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, as if it was classified information he’d asked her for. Then she replied with an almost inaudible sigh, “It’s Charly. Charly Phelps. Mirabella’s friend-from California?”

The light dawned. “Oh, yeah-the maid of honor, right? You’re comin’ in next week?” Then another light dawned, and he thought maybe he had the whole thing figured out “Oh, Lord, it is next week, isn’t it? Don’t tell me. We haven’t got that wrong, have we? Where in the hell are you?” If she was sitting in Atlanta at the airport waiting for somebody to pick her up, it would explain a lot.

There was a pause before the answer came, in a curiously hollow tone. “I’m in Mourning Spring, Alabama.”

“Alabama! Well, what in the hell are you doin’ in Alabama?” And why did she say it like some sort of doomsday curse? “You lost?”

This time there wasn’t anything equivocal about the sound she made. It was definitely a snort. “You could say that. Listen, when you hear from Mirabella, just give her a message for me, okay? Tell her-”

“Wait, let me get something to write this down on.”

“Never mind. I don’t even know the number. Look, will you just tell her I’m in jail?”

“Jail? Wait, did you say jail? What-hold on, don’t… hang…up…” But he was talking to himself.

He thumbed the phone’s disconnect button and put it down, then ran a hand over his hair, which was still trying to grow out of its military cut. “Oh, man,” he muttered. “Oh, Lord.”

Mirabella was going to love this. Just when she and Jimmy Joe had finally managed to get away for some R an’ R, too. Troy hadn’t been around long enough to get to know his about-to-be sister-in-law all that well, but it seemed to him she might’ve had about all the stress and strain she could handle lately, even for somebody as capable and efficient as she liked to think she was. First having the baby the way she had, then quitting her job in L.A. and moving all the way to Georgia, lock, stock and barrel. And now planning this wedding and trying to remodel the house to make a nursery for Amy Jo on top of it. Suffice to say, he was not looking forward to breaking the news to her that her maid of honor had gotten herself thrown in the pokey somewhere in Alabama.

However, if there was one thing Troy did know well, it was how to take control of a situation in crisis. And it didn’t take much for him to conclude that this was probably one he was better equipped to handle right now than either Mirabella or his brother.

Far better, he reasoned as he shaved and showered and packed his overnight bag with the efficiency born of long years of practice, if he just hopped on over to Alabama and took care of matters himself. That way he wouldn’t have to bother the happy couple with it, mess up their weekend in Atlanta and all. Shoot, the way he saw it, as his brother’s best man, it was no more than his duty.

And it would be a whole lot easier facing Mirabella with the news after the fact, when everything had already been straightened out.

So where in the hell was Mourning Spring?

He decided what he needed was a road atlas, which he was sure his brother would have in his truck, the big blue Kenworth tractor-trailer rig that was parked on its gravel turnaround out beside the house. Jimmy Joe kept it locked up tight when he wasn’t driving, mainly to keep young J.J. from playing in it, but that was no problem, either. Living where they did, in a small community where everybody knew everybody else, and Jimmy Joe being a trusting soul by nature, Troy figured he’d keep the keys in the handiest and most obvious place. And that’s where he found them-in the top drawer of the oak rolltop desk in his brother’s tiny, cluttered office, just off the kitchen.

He got the atlas out of the truck and took it into the kitchen where the light was good, where, with the help of a magnifying glass, he located Mourning Spring way up in the northeast comer of Alabama, near Tennessee. After that, all he had to do was put in a call to his mama’s house to let her know he was going to be gone for a while and to leave a message for Mirabella and Jimmy Joe, and then one last check of the house and his wallet and he was out the door.

Except that he’d forgotten about Bubba, who naturally had gotten wind that something was up, dogs having a natural sixth sense about things like that. All the way down the steps and across the front lawn, the pup did his best to get on all four sides of Troy at once, weaving himself around and between his legs and whumping him with his tail and slobbering all over him in his eagerness to be included in whatever that something might be. So when Troy opened up the back door of his brand-new Jeep Grand Cherokee and said, “Let’s go,” he almost got his legs knocked out from under him. Bubba shoved right through him and clambered up on the back seat, big tongue lolling and dripping, happy as a pig in petunias.

Troy was grinning himself as he backed the Jeep around and drove down the driveway and turned onto the main road. It felt good to be heading out on a warm summer night. It had been a long time since he’d had a mission-a place to go and somebody needing him. Okay, as missions went it wasn’t much, fetching a maid of honor out of a small-town Alabama jail, but it did beat the hell out of installing light fixtures and intercoms. If there was anything the past few weeks had taught him, it was that he wasn’t cut out to be a handyman.

Not that he had a clue what he was cut out for. To tell the truth, he’d never thought much about it. His life had been focused on training and conditioning, keeping himself in a constant state of readiness as a member of the most elite and effective strike force in the world. On missions the focus became the job, and survival-his own and that of the other members of the team-in that order. He’d learned not to think too far beyond that, nor to form emotional ties or acquire too many responsibilities.

Now he was learning that he was highly trained for a lot of things, most of which had very little application in a peaceful world. And that having few responsibilities and emotional ties was a sure-fire recipe for loneliness.

To drown out that thought, he tuned the radio to a golden-oldies station out of Atlanta and opened the windows and let the car fill with the soft June night and the sweet smell of honeysuckle. He rolled down the back windows, too, so Bubba could stick his nose out and feel the wind tearing past his ears, which he thought might be a dog’s idea of heaven. Troy understood that. He felt a little bit the same way himself.

He picked up an hour at the Alabama state line, so it was only about eleven o’clock local time-2300 hours by the way he was used to reckoning-when he rolled past the Mourning Spring city-limits sign. Though by the time he’d driven another two miles without coming to anything resembling a city, he thought the sign was maybe a little bit optimistic.

Then, just when he was beginning to wonder if he’d missed it somehow, he drove past a sign that said Mourning Springs Motel. It was attached to one of those places that always seemed to him to belong to the same era as convertibles and drive-in movies, a row of dismal little one-story units painted a sickly green with doors that opened directly onto an asphalt parking lot. He was glad to see, though, that the Vacancy sign was lit up.

Even more encouraging, B.B.’s Barn, which occupied a cinder-block building across the street, appeared to be doing a booming business on this Friday night, and one of the two gas stations on the next corner was still open. He didn’t stop to ask directions to the jail; like most men, Troy liked to do his own reconnaissance.

Which didn’t prove to be too difficult. The main road into the town, which was empty of both cars and people, led him right to the town’s hub, a brick-paved traffic circle built around a nice little park and lit up with modern street lamps to a bleached and ghostly emptiness. He drove once around the square, past a stately brick courthouse and old-fashioned stores that had once housed banks and hardware and department and drugstores, and a five-and-dime or two. Now the signs in the windows mostly peddled antiques and real estate and insurance and flowers. There were a couple of restaurants, one of the basic-diner variety, the other a pizza place-both closed and dark even on a Friday night. Mourning Spring was definitely a town that rolled up its sidewalks soon after the sun went down.

On his second time around the square, alerted by a sign that said Police and an arrow pointing the way, Troy turned down one of the streets. A block farther on, slowing for the flashing yellow caution light over the street in front of the Mourning Spring Fire Department, he discovered that the police department evidently occupied the same building, with an entrance in the rear.

He parked in the brightly lit and almost empty parking lot, ran Bubba’s window down far enough for him to get his nose out and told him to stay. Bubba’s reply was a whine, followed by a heart-rending howl that followed Troy all the way to the door marked Mourning Spring Police Dept., Ring Bell For Admittance.

Troy pushed on the buzzer once and then tried the door, and since it was unlocked, he went on in. That put him in a little tiny vestibule with doors on both sides and a window straight ahead, behind which he could see a dispatcher sitting at a desk surrounded by muttering radios and glowing computer screens. The dispatcher had one hand cupped over the ear part of his headset and his elbow propped on the desk, and since whatever he was listening to didn’t appear to have him too excited, Troy went ahead and tapped on the glass to get his attention.

The dispatcher, who appeared to be the only officer on the premises, glanced up, nodded once and went on with his business. When he had it taken care of, he swiveled his chair around and got out of it, ambled over to the glass and said, “Yes, sir, can I help you?” The voice came through the glass muffled, sounding a mile away.

“Well, now, I hope so,” Troy said, raising his voice but smiling in a comradely way. He hadn’t quite figured out yet how he was going to play this, but the way he saw it, it was always a smart move to get on the good side of whoever was in charge. “What I’m lookin’ for is your jail.”

The officer, who, according to the pin on his pocket, was named Baylor, did not smile back. He had meaty-looking jowls and a buzz haircut and was built like the back end of a truck- sort of reminded Troy of Sergeant Carter on the old Gomer Pyle TV show. “Which jail would that be, sir?”

Troy scratched his head. “Lord, I don’t know. You got more’n one?”

“We got the county jail, down on Court Street, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for visitin’ hours tomorrow, sir. Unless you’re lookin’ for somebody in holding.”

“Holding?” Even though he’d been raised by people who would have skinned him alive if he’d ever been stupid enough to get himself arrested, and consequently his personal experience with such things was limited, Troy did know what “holding” was. He was just feeling his way.

And the dumb-and-innocent approach did seem to be working; at least Officer Baylor finally cracked a smile. “Drunk tank. Mostly.”

“Ah.” Troy thought about it. Hard as it was to imagine a friend of Mirabella’s occupying a drunk tank, it seemed even less likely that one could have done anything to warrant actual jail time. “Damned if I know. Person I’m lookin’ for is named Phelps. Charly. That’s a woman.” He took a wild guess and added, “About mid-thirties.”

“Oh, yeah, sure-she’s back there.” Officer Baylor relaxed some more and jerked his head toward the door on Troy’s right. “Already been processed. I’m just waitin’ on confirmation of her ID. Should be gettin’ that from the California DMV any minute now. Then she’s free to go. She’s gonna need a ride, though. Her car’s not goin’ anywhere.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Troy uneasily, more than ever sure he was about to have an inebriated woman on his hands and looking forward to it less and less. “Why’s that?”

“Tried her best to climb a tree with it, is what I understand.”

“Oh, boy.” It wasn’t difficult to look shocked at that bit of news. “Is she okay?”

“Oh, yeah, just a little shaken up. She’s seen a doctor, everything checks out okay. But, uh…” He paused. “Turns out there’s a stolen-vehicle report out on the car.”

“Oh, man.” Oh, Lord, thought Troy, this was getting better and better by the minute. What in the hell had he gotten himself into?

Officer Baylor, who seemed to have become downright chatty now that he’d unbent, put up a hand to reassure him. “That’s lookin’ like just some sort of a misunderstanding. Turns out there were papers in the glove box. It’s a rental.”

“Well, that’s good.” A drunk, he thought, but at least not a felon.

“So,” the officer went on, “if she turns out to be who she says she is, she’s clear on that. Don’t think we’d be lettin’ her go if she wasn’t.”

“I…see,” said Troy, who wasn’t at all sure he did. “If…she’s who she says she is? You got some reason to think she isn’t?”

Baylor shrugged. “She didn’t have any ID on her.”

“No ID. You mean-”

“No license, no wallet, no pocketbook.”

“But how-?”

“Sir,” the officer said, looking stern, “unless you’re her lawyer, I really can’t tell you any more’n I already have.”

Which struck Troy as being kind of like locking the barn door after giving the horse away.

“Well, hell,” he said, deciding that the whole thing was just too damn weird not to see it through to the end. And besides, no matter what kind of fruitcake this Charly Phelps turned out to be, there was still Mirabella to contend with. “I can vouch for her, if that’s all you need.”

After he said that, he decided it was the truth, which was always his first choice, if at all possible. Even if he’d never personally set eyes on the lady, when she needed help, she’d called on Mirabella, hadn’t she? The way he saw it, a person would have to be a close relative or a very good friend to do that. Plus, he’d been listening to Mirabella talk about her best friend Charly for weeks now. So he almost felt as if he knew her.

“And you are…?” Officer Baylor was still minding his p’s and q’s.

“Family friend. My name’s Troy Starr.” He got out his wallet and held it up to the glass so the man could get a good look at the military ID next to his Georgia driver’s license.

Officer Baylor did so, then glanced up at Troy, trying not to look too impressed. “Navy, huh?”

“Yes, sir-retired.” He folded up his wallet and shoved it back in his hip pocket, then gave the officer a wry grin. “As of a couple months ago. Still gettin’ used to bein’ a civilian again.”

“I hear ya,” Officer Baylor said, slipping enough to grin back. Then he put on his policeman’s deadpan expression again. “Okay, sir, if you wanna step through that door there on your right? You can wait there at the counter, and I’ll bring Miz Phelps right out. Oh-” he started off, hand going for his belt, then turned back “-she’s gonna need somebody to pay her bail. You prepared to do that?”

“Let me guess-no money, either?”

“Not a dime.”

Troy heaved a sigh, and he and Baylor exchanged a “Women-what are you gonna do with ’em?” kind of look.

“Yeah, sure,” Troy said; “I’ll pay it.” He watched the officer disappear through another door, shuffling keys.

The door on his right opened into a long hallway with a counter partitioning off the dispatch room on the left. While he waited there, leaning his elbows on the countertop and listening to the radios burp static and unintelligible mumbles, he told himself it wasn’t any of his business what kind of crazy, screwed-up lady this Charly Phelps was. His job-his mission-was to get her out of this jail and this town and deliver her safely to Mirabella in time for her wedding. Period.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d rescued somebody whose character wasn’t exactly stellar, or whose politics he didn’t agree with.

He didn’t have to wait long; it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before he heard a door swish open down at the other end of the hallway. He turned his head that way, then slowly straightened up and watched them come toward him-Baylor and the woman he was holding by the arm.

He couldn’t be sure what it was he was feeling right then, just that it wasn’t anything he could recall ever feeling before. Later, when he tried to take it apart and put it back together in a way that made sense to him-he still thought of it as “debriefing” himself-he was astounded to recall that his first reaction had been a gut-level antagonism, an almost possessive resentment, and that it seemed to be centered around the officer’s meaty masculine hand encircling the woman’s bare arm. The kind of thing where, if he’d been in a bar and already a few too many beers to the good and possessed of a lot less self-control than he was, he might be inclined to grab the guy by the collar and snarl, “Hey, get your filthy hands off of her, bub!”

Then he thought about it some more, and that’s when it really got interesting. Possessive? How could that be? How could another man touching a woman he’d never laid eyes on before make him seethe with a kind of primal, caveman jealousy that to the best of his knowledge wasn’t even in his nature to begin with?

It sure couldn’t be anything sexual; in Troy’s judgment, Charly Phelps wasn’t a sight to arouse a man’s lust, at least not right then. In fact, if you asked him, she looked like hell warmed over.

Her hair, which was black or close to it, was mostly straight and came just about to her shoulders, and it was pretty obvious it hadn’t seen a comb or brush in a good long while. And her clothes…well, he was no expert, but hers-gray slacks and a peach-colored knitted top with no sleeves-looked like they might have been expensive, maybe even silk. Which was a shame, because it looked to him that they were going to be hard to salvage. He’d seen people on the losing end of a barroom brawl in better shape.

Though there wasn’t anything wrong with the body underneath all the dirt and wrinkles, now that he thought about it. Taller and a little less cuddly than he liked, personally, but rounded out in the right places without being obvious about it. And he liked the way she carried herself-head up, shoulders back and a sassy bounce in her step, which was not exactly what he’d expected from somebody who’d just spent several hours in a drunk tank.

Oh, yeah, Troy thought, she was trying. But it was her face that gave her away, especially her eyes. Even though he could see the burn of anger and defiance there above the dark thumbprints of exhaustion, even though the vulnerable softness of her mouth was more than offset by a certain go-to-hell feistiness to the set of her chin, he’d seen enough of the real thing to know that hers was mostly bravado. Whatever had happened to the lady, it hadn’t got her beat, not yet. But she was holding on with sheer guts and willpower.

And when he got around to figuring it all out, he thought maybe that explained all those possessive and protective impulses. He’d always been a sucker for underdogs. It was as simple as that.

She didn’t say a word as she came closer to him. Mindful of the fact that underdogs are apt to bite, Troy limited himself to a casual nod and a wary and all-purpose “Hey.”

She didn’t reply to that, either, just nodded while she watched him with a sideways look that had some resentment in it, but maybe a touch of curiosity, too. Up close he could see that her eyes were what people generally call hazel, for want of a better way to describe eyes that change color depending on the mood and the light. Right now hers were mostly brown, with just enough green in them to make him think of deep woods and soft, sweet-smelling earth.

“I’m Troy,” he said genially. “We spoke on the phone…?”

“Okay, ma‘am, I’m gonna need you to sign some things.” Officer Baylor was spreading some papers out on the countertop. He nodded in Troy’s direction. “This gentleman here is postin’ your bail. This here’s your order to appear. You might want to get yourself a lawyer ’tween now and then. Make sure you read and understand everything before you sign.”

“Where?” Her voice sounded rusty, but she didn’t bother to do anything about it.

“Right there, ma’am. And initial it here, and here.”

“You take a check?” Troy asked, reaching for his hip pocket.

Officer Baylor glanced at him. “No, sir, we do not.”

He’d been pretty sure of that answer, and was already assessing the contents of his wallet. “How much we talkin’ about?”

The officer told him. He had enough to cover it but figured he was going to have to be looking for an ATM soon. He counted out bills and handed them over, took the receipt the officer handed him, folded it and tucked it where they’d been. And all the while Charly stood in silence beside him. Not stony, though-it seemed to him he could almost feel her seething.

“That do it?”

Officer Baylor nodded. “Yes, sir. Ma’am, you’re free to go.”

As soon as he said that, she turned on her heel. She made it through two doors before Troy had a chance to open one for her. Once outside, though, she stopped so suddenly he ran into her, muttering blasphemy under her breath as an eerie howl floated toward them out of the artificial twilight. He could hardly blame her; it was enough to raise the hair on the back of Troy’s neck, and he knew what it was.

“What in the hell,” she croaked, breathing hard, “is that?”

He’d taken hold of her upper arms to steady them both. He could feel tension vibrating through her muscles, just under skin as soft as…he didn’t know what. But it felt nice. He got a sudden reprise of the image of Officer Baylor’s big ol’ beefy hand on that skin, and the feeling it had aroused in him. The night got warmer.

“That’s just my dog, ma‘am. Sorry about that. He cries when I leave ’im.”

She angled a look at him across her shoulder and said evenly, “Next person to call me ma’am is going to become a homicide statistic.”

He let go of her arms and backed away in mock alarm, holding up a placating hand. “Sorry, ma’am-won’t happen again.”

Her only reply was a snort, a sound he remembered from the telephone, as she headed off across the parking lot, taking her reckoning from the racket Bubba was making. He lengthened his stride and as he pulled up alongside her, she was shaking her head and muttering something along the lines of, “Of course he’d bring his dog…”

Troy didn’t bother to answer that; the way he saw it, he hadn’t had much choice in the matter. And in case she’d forgotten, neither did she.

They’d reached the truck. Charly pulled up short and said, “Good G-” while Troy was singing out, “Hey, ol’ Bub-” They both got no further because by that time Troy had gotten the door open and Bubba was doing his best to leap out into his arms.

Charly was backing away, muttering the kinds of things they teach you in Sunday School not to say if you want to stay out of hell. “That’s not a dog, that’s a lion!”

“Ah, no…Bubba’s just a great big ol’ baby,” Troy purred. “Aren’t you, boy? You miss me? Yeah…! know.”

He gave the dog a wrestle to pacify him and managed to get a grip on his collar before he could turn his attention to the lady, who was obviously intending to make Bubba’s acquaintance from a considerable distance. Not out of fear, though-Troy was pretty sure of that. He just wasn’t sure what to make of the expression on her face. He tried to ease things by explaining to her that ol’ Bubba was still just a puppy and hadn’t even got his growth yet, but he could see she wasn’t going to be soft-soaped.

She said, “He’s got yellow eyes,” in a tone somewhere between revulsion, disbelief and awe.

“Well, sure,” said Troy, “he’s a chocolate Lab. They have eyes like that.”

“And of course his name would be Bubba.”

Troy heard the soft hiss of an exhalation, and then a muttered something he couldn’t quite hear. But he didn’t miss the note of sarcasm in it He glanced up at her, but she was gazing off into the trees, looking as if she hoped a taxi was going to happen along any minute, or at the very least, a Greyhound bus.

Now, he was generally a patient and easygoing soul by nature, and he was certainly mindful of the fact that she’d had a few things happen recently that might upset her. But she was starting to get to him-kind of like a rock in his shoe; he was willing to overlook the aggravation for just so long.

“If you don’t mind,” he said carefully, “I think maybe I ought to take ol’ Bubba for a walk. He’s been in the car awhile.”

“By all means. I’ll wait.”

While Troy was getting the leash out of the back of the Jeep, she went around to the front passenger’s seat and got in. He looked back once before Bubba hauled him out of range, and saw her sitting there staring straight ahead through the windshield, her face pale as marble. Kind of made him wish he hadn’t looked. He thought he’d never seen anybody so alone. Made it kind of hard for him to stay ticked off at her.

In the warm, gray stillness that smelled of equal parts new car and young dog, Charly was fighting for control with every ounce of strength she had left in her. Her belly jumped with every pulse beat; tremors vibrated through her muscles and resonated inside her chest. She wanted to scream and kick and tear things. She wanted to cry-great racking sobs, the kind that felt like they would turn her whole body wrong side out. But she wasn’t going to. She’d already done that. She’d cried in front of him today; she was never going to forgive herself, or him, for that. And she’d cry no more. Not for anybody. Ever again.

Oh, but I’d give almost anything to make this pain go away.

There had been a moment…just a moment…when it had dampened some. When the volume of the pain had seemed to diminish at least to a bearable level-something like what happens when you stick your fingers in your ears to shut out noise.

It had happened in her first moment of freedom, when she’d burst out into the soft June night and heard that god-awful howl and stopped dead in her tracks. And he-Troy-hadn’t been able to stop, and had run into her, and suddenly she’d felt his body, solid against hers, and his hands, strong and sure on her arms. Then for a moment, just a moment, as his masculine heat and smell had enveloped her, she’d felt a flash of warmth and comfort, an instant’s surcease of pain.

Then she’d made some smart-ass remark and he’d removed his hands from her arms and stepped away from her, and the moment was gone.

She thought about that moment as she sat watching the man-shape and the dog-shape playing hide-and-seek with the shadows of the woods at the edge of the parking lot. She remembered the way he smelled of warm male and clean clothes and soap and aftershave-she wasn’t up on masculine scents enough to know the name-and just enough of a hint of dog to call to mind the way he’d looked, tussling with that golden-eyed monster. The way the muscles pulled taut across his back and shoulders and rippled down his arms, bunching beneath smooth, tanned skin.

And this was Troy Starr. Mirabella’s about-to-be brother-in-law. Jimmy Joe’s big brother. Perfect…just perfect.

What, she thought, did I ever do to deserve this?

Oh, there was no doubt that he was a magnificent specimen of masculinity-broad of shoulder and narrow of hip and with pecs and abs that were, as she could personally attest, as closely akin to steel as you’d ever want human flesh to be. He had dark blue eyes with both squint lines and thick lashes, a jaw and chin Dudley Do-Right would envy and a mouth with a long upper lip that turned up at the corners, as if it enjoyed smiling. His hair, right now roughly the colour of those famous amber waves of grain, would probably have golden highlights if he ever let it grow out to a decent length. And to lend just the right touch of character and maturity to what might otherwise have been too much perfection, his hairline appeared to be receding just a bit, while his nose looked as if it had been broken, probably more than once.

In short, he was the all-American male, clean-cut and wholesome as grits, the recruitment poster boy for A Few Good Men.

And he was everything Charly despised. She’d known him ten minutes, and already she knew that he was polite to a fault, greeted people with “hey” instead of “hi,” and addressed every female over the age of consent as “ma’am.” He had a dog named Bubba that went everywhere he did-probably slept with him-and he drove an American-made 4X4 that she was certain was lacking a gun rack only because it was so new he hadn’t got around to installing it yet. He was, in short, Southern. And even if his touch did seem to have affected her like a straight shot of Tennessee bourbon, there was no way in hell she was going to let him get that close to her again. Ever.

But, oh Lordy, hadn’t it felt good.