Keeping Her Safe. Barbara Phinney

words were clipped, reminding him of the way he’d been treated in prison. No one really cared about him….

      Hunter drained his coffee and ignored the headache stabbing at him. “What’s first?”

      He took the short list of supplies she handed him. “I assume that the shed out back holds a bunch of stuff.”

      “Yes, but Dad had supplies everywhere. I need to make a few phone calls before we go into the city. Hopefully by then you’ll know what we need to pick up.” She pulled out the phone book from under a messy stack of papers. The resulting draft wafted that soft scent of roses over to him.

      Hunter automatically inhaled, then stopped himself. He was here to protect Rae. From what, he didn’t know yet, but he’d never find out sucking in rose-scented air.

      He stifled a yawn. In the middle of the night, he’d awoken, and unable to sleep, he rose. He’d searched the workshop for several hours, looking for some clue as to who would want to harm Rae. By four o’clock, he’d found nothing.

      He pivoted on the heel of his boot now and strode outside. He’d just have to keep his eyes open.

      The hours ticked by and the headache eased only slightly. He spent the morning assembling the lumber needed for the job, and finding to his irritation that Benton had become disorganized over the years.

      Living in a small cell had taught Hunter to be rigid with his own sense of order. More than once, his discipline came in conflict with other prisoners, and he had needed to defend himself….

      Enough. He wasn’t there anymore. He was here, trying to rebuild his life, and help Rae. Keep her safe.

      Lifting a pile of short boards and a drop cloth near the desk, he peered down at a large leather punching bag. Beside it, sealed in clear plastic, were a pair of boxing gloves.

      His hand stilled as he reached for them. The medium-size box that held them was made from bird’s-eye maple, cut and joined in Benton’s unique grooved style.

      The only source of that rare wood was on the government land behind their property. Was the illegal harvesting of wood they’d done a decade ago still going on?

      Hunter lifted the gloves. “Were you planning on taking up boxing?”

      “No. That was given to us a few weeks ago. The client couldn’t pay us because he’d hit bottom, financially. I just couldn’t make his life worse.”

      “So he gave you a punching bag?”

      Shrugging, she returned to her work. Even with her head bent he could see embarrassment stain her cheeks. “He had nothing else.”

      “But it can’t pay your bills.”

      Conceding, she flicked up a hand. “I can’t take him to court. He’s paying child support. I should try to sell the set.” She peered over at Hunter. “Or you could use it.”

      Benton’s firm words on fighting returned to him. “Punching a bag builds up a need to fight. It’s better to learn to manage anger,” he murmured.

      “You don’t look like you’ve stayed a pacifist.”

      “I won’t fight.” He dropped the boards back over the punching bag and gloves. Hunter knew she’d seen some of his scars, even though he’d worn a T-shirt to bed. If she continued to stare at him now, he didn’t know what he’d do.

      Eventually, he turned. “We have everything for the project, except, of course, the bird’s-eye maple.” He stepped in front of the box containing the gloves and bag, hoping she hadn’t paid any attention to it. If she noticed the wood, with its distinctive swirls, she’d start asking questions.