A Knight In Rusty Armor. Dixie Browning

regain her identity—a process that had taken more than two years—she had begun to build herself a new life.

      Except for the phone calls. Evidently, crank calls were a common occurrence. As no actual threats had been made, the overworked, understaffed police force hadn’t taken her complaint too seriously. So she’d handled it the only way she knew how, by walking away. By that time there’d been nothing left to stay for.

      Trav sneezed, and she slid the box of tissues across the coffee table. “Sorry. That’s what you get for being a Good Samaritan.

      “Allergies,” he muttered.

      She smiled knowingly. “I don’t think so,” she said, but before she could add that hoarseness, flushed cheeks and glittery eyes weren’t standard allergy symptoms, the phone rang. As an indication of how far she’d come, both literally and figuratively, she hardly even flinched.

      Trav reached for it, stretching his long, lean torso so that his shirt parted company with his jeans on one side. Ru stared at the section of naked, exposed flesh. The man wasn’t even wearing an undershirt. She knew very well that flu was caused by a virus and not by the weather. All the same, there was such a thing as being too macho.

      “Miss Cal?” He cleared his throat. “No, I haven’t heard anything yet, I’ll let you know as soon as—He’s really bugging you, huh? Yeah, I can do that. I’ll bring a few sticks of wood and some kerosene while I’m at it, okay? Sure, no trouble—I’ll be glad to take him out . for you.”

      Trav hung up the phone, stretched again, liberating the rest of his shirttail, and then turned to Ru. “I’ve got to go out for a little while, will you be all right?” She was staring at him with that tight-eyed look again. “What?” he prompted.

      “Nothing. Nothing at all,” she said hurriedly.

      “Come on, Ru, something’s wrong. Are you afraid of the dark? Afraid to stay here alone? I can cut off the freezer and let you have more lights.”

      “No, please, you go right ahead with...”

      He watched her knuckles whiten again as she got a good grip on her mug. The sixty-watt bulb he allowed himself, in order to leave enough power for the freezer, refrigerator and water pump, didn’t put out a whole lot of light, but it was enough to see that she’d crawled back into her cocoon. “Dammit, Ruanna, talk to me. I can’t help you if you’re going to clam up.”

      She took a deep breath. He knew something about control. Hers didn’t come easy. “I’m not afraid of a power failure. I don’t need any help. You just go on and do whatever it is you’re going to do and don’t worry about me. I might just—um, go out and look around while you’re gone.”

      “Right It’s pitch-dark out there, the wind’s blowing a gale, and you want to go sight-seeing. You go right ahead, lady, don’t let a little thing like that stop you. But it’s only about twenty-eight degrees, so you might want to put on your coat. You’re just getting over the flu, remember?”

      And then he had to go and spoil his I-know-what’s-good-for-you stance by sneezing three times in a row.

      Snatching his leather jacket off the back of a kitchen chair, he slammed out the back door. A few minutes later he was back, a coil of rope over one shoulder and a red metal can in one hand. “Forgot my flashlight,” he muttered.

      Ru sat there after he left until the mug in her hand lost its heat. Then she got up and dumped the contents into the sink. She wasn’t going anywhere, and he knew it.

      Dammit, just when she thought she had everything under control, it happened again. Evidently she’d been premature with her self-congratulations. The phone rang, and just like Pavlov’s dog she reacted. Hearing all over again the soft laughter, the filthy whispered words, the implied threats that weren’t actually threats at all. At least, nothing to interest the police when she’d shown them the words she’d copied down verbatim.