“Who else?” he prompted.
She did look at him then, chin high, defiant. “My brother.” It came out sounding like a taunt.
He didn’t rise to the bait. “And…?”
One more person came to mind. “A friend. She lives in Los Angeles. Her name is Dulcie Samples. I met her at a writers’ workshop. She has red hair and honest hazel eyes and the biggest heart in California.”
“A friend and a true one.”
“You got it.”
“A friend found at… a writers’ workshop?”
“That’s right.”
“You are an author?”
“Wannabe.”
“Wanna—”
“Want to be,” she clarified. “I’ve started ten novels. Haven’t finished a one.”
“You say that with such bravado. Why?”
“I didn’t finish college, either. Some have remarked that there seems to be a pattern here.”
If there was a pattern, Eric didn’t seem particularly concerned about it. He asked, “And your friend, Dulcie?”
“She’s written three, I think—all the way through to the end. Hasn’t sold one yet, but I really believe, for her, that day will come.”
“For her—yet not for you?”
She waved a hand. “I gotta be honest. All that sitting, I just can’t stick with it.”
“A woman of action.”
“Well, yeah. I guess so.” A few feet away, Svald shook her head and snorted. “See? I get no respect. Not even from my horse.”
“I respect you.” He was looking at her teasingly, but it didn’t matter. She knew he meant what he said. His expression changed, turned more serious. “And what about men? Other than your father… and your brother. Is there a man to whom you feel bound?”
“Not… at the moment.” Was that a lie? Maybe. Maybe she did feel bound. Just a little bit—to Eric.
Did he sense she felt that way? If he did, he let it pass. “But there have been men you have… cared for?”
Was this somewhere they ought to be going? Probably not. Still, she heard herself answering, “A few. Somehow, it just never seemed to work out.”
“Good,” he said.
She couldn’t resist. “Fair’s fair. What about you?”
“A dalliance or two. Foolish. Long over. For the past seven years, I’ve been waiting for you.”
Oops. No doubt about it now. Time to change the subject.
But she didn’t. “Eric. Come on…”
His grin was slow and lazy. “Lead the way.”
“Oh, puh-lease. Seven years is pretty close to a decade—and you’re how old?”
“I am thirty.”
“That’s… wild.”
“No. It is simply the truth.”
“I gotta ask, when you say you were waiting for me, you don’t really mean me, specifically?”
“That is exactly what I meant. You. Specifically.”
“Get outta town.”
“Since we are not in town, I will assume that is simply one of your American expressions.”
“Good thinking. But seriously, at the age of twenty-three, you suddenly decided, ‘Hey, enough of this dallying. I’m waiting for Brit.’ Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Ah. I understand your question now. The truth is that I was waiting for you, specifically. But I didn’t know who you would be until you came here, to the Vildelund, in search of me. Until I saw that you wore my medallion.”
She found she was staring at his chest again. Staring at the medallion, she told herself.
Yeah, right.
Their saddles almost touched. It was way too easy for him to slide over next to her. He cupped the back of her neck, his warm fingers gliding up into her almost-dry hair.
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