“Like you know anything about camping.”
“Do you, smartypants?”
“No.”
“Well, then, I suppose we can both learn.”
Silence vibrated between them for a second or two until, in a flurry of jabbing elbows, Blair unhooked the seatbelt, fumbled with the door handle for a moment then shoved open the door. “I gotta pee,” she announced, bolting from the car. The little pink pom-poms on the heels of her tennis socks wobbled frantically as she tromped toward the sign that said Office.
Jenna finally gave in to the sigh that had been building like a storm cloud for the past ten minutes, then grabbed her purse from under her seat and followed suit, tugging at the seat of her cargo shorts. It wasn’t fair to Blair, dragging her out here like this. And guilt that she couldn’t tell her niece the truth had practically eaten a hole in Jenna’s heart. She couldn’t tell her the truth yet, anyway. If things didn’t work out, maybe not ever. But all she could do was take this one step at a time and hope for the best.
Her sandals crunched the sandy dirt as she followed her niece toward the office, willing saliva back into her mouth. Thank God there’d been at least a barebones Web site for the place. Otherwise, she would have had a devil of a time explaining how she’d just happened to stumble across the Double Arrow, located on the outskirts of a town too small to show up on most maps to begin with.
She’d only spoken to Hank Logan once, when she called and asked about renting one of his cottages for the month. His voice was burned into her memory—low, edgy and heavily seasoned with sarcasm. A voice completely at odds with the image of a man who’d buy a run-down motel and—according to the information she had—single-handedly restore it, shingle by shingle.
A voice completely at odds with neatly trimmed grass and tubs of cheerful petunias and marigolds.
“Something I can do for you?”
Yeah. That voice.
Blair whipped around first, her hand poised to knock on the office door. But Jenna froze, watching her niece’s face, even though Blair wouldn’t have a clue who she might be looking at. Conversely, while Blair looked nothing like Jenna’s sister Sandy, if she looked anything like Hank—if he could see something in her niece’s face that he recognized—Jenna was screwed. Then again, if he didn’t, this whole outrageous scheme of hers might be a total waste of time. A name in a diary, a few coincidences, was all she had. What she didn’t have was proof.
Between the chronic shyness she’d never completely overcome and the particulars of this situation, Jenna’s stomach once again threatened mutiny as she forced herself to turn around.
The good news was, Blair looked nothing like Hank Logan.
The bad news was, Blair looked nothing like Hank Logan.
“Is there a bathroom I can use?” her niece asked, her high-pitched voice knifing through Jenna’s pounding heartbeat.
“Right through that door and to your right. Go ahead, it’s unlocked.”
Then eyes cryptic as midnight focused on Jenna, and her stomach turned inside out.
It took less than a second for Hank to size the woman up as the one who’d called from D.C. a few weeks back. Not that her pale-green T-shirt and khaki shorts were fancy or anything, but something about her—her stance, the way she’d shoved her sunglasses on top of her head to hold back her messed-up blond hair, her prissy little sandals—just told him she was.
He shrugged off the wooden ladder biting into his shoulder to rest it against the trunk of a nearby cottonwood, then grabbed his black T-shirt from the rung where he’d slung it earlier. He used it to make a half-assed attempt at wiping the dust and sweat off his face, then yanked it on over his head, trying to remember the last time it’d rained.
Lord, she was staring at him like she’d never seen a man’s chest before. Which he might have found amusing, once upon a time. Now he just found it annoying. But then, he found most things about women annoying these days.
Then he remembered his manners and said, “You Jenna Stanton?” Hank was not a man inclined to use more words than necessary.
She nodded, pale-blue eyes wary in a face free of any makeup that he could tell, her wide mouth set in a no-nonsense expression that matched what he remembered about her voice. He pegged her to be about his age, pushing forty, maybe a little older. The breeze blew her straight, light hair into her face; she shoved it back. She looked hot.
He almost smiled at the words’ double meaning.
She looked kinda scared, too. Like maybe she was afraid of him. Well, hell, he’d be afraid of him, too, if he saw himself for the first time. Bad enough his parents’ first successful attempt at procreation had resulted in a face that was all angles and jutting bones without Hank’s embellishing their handiwork with a twice-broken nose, an effect only intensified by a head of ornery black hair, a throwback to some Native American ancestor or other. He’d been told he could look mean without even trying, which had worked in his favor when he’d been a cop. Now it just kept folks from messing in his business, which was fine with him. And if they were tempted, all he had to do was add a scowl to the mix, and that pretty much settled the issue.
“I take it you’re Mr. Logan?” she said, finally.
“You got it.”
The woman looked as if she might step closer, then seemed to think better of it. “I’m Jenna Stanton. I spoke to you on the phone a few weeks ago? About renting a cottage?”
“Yeah. I figured that’s who you were.”
“Oh. Well, um, I know we’re a little early, but I was wondering if our cottage is ready?”
Hank almost grinned at that, too. He picked up the ladder, walked past her to thunk it against the outside office wall. “Well, ma’am, this is your lucky day. The previous occupants checked out ahead of schedule.”
“So…the cottages are more popular than the single units?”
Annoyance started to burn, right in the middle of his gut, only half because he’d wasted a perfectly good sarcastic comment. “It’s early yet. Things’ll pick up in a couple weeks. So, you ready for me to show you to your cottage or what?”
She was giving him of one those figuring-out looks that women were so good at and that Hank hated with a passion. She crammed her hands into her shorts pockets, which is when Hank decided she had pretty nice legs. For a woman her age. “I forgot to ask when I spoke with you before—what are the cooking facilities like?”
Hank felt his brows take a dive. “Julia Child probably wouldn’t wet her pants over them, but long as you don’t mind bein’ creative, I’m sure you’ll get by okay. And by the way, there’s no air-conditioning in the cottages, ’cause the old units weren’t any good and I haven’t gotten around to replacing ’em yet. All the rooms have ceiling fans, though.”
Her mouth twisted. “You sound as if you’re daring me to stay.”
“Nope. Just stating facts.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Logan—” she plucked her sunglasses off her head, only to stick them right back up there “—I am hot, have just enough of a headache to be considered dangerous and have spent the last two days on the road with a crabby teenager who’s convinced she’s just been consigned to hell. As long as there’s indoor plumbing, the mattresses don’t look like flophouse rejects and I don’t have to share the place with various and sundry critters, I’ll be a happy camper.”
Hell, he could practically see her pulse ramming in her throat from here. Maybe her words sounded tough, but her eyes—heavy-lidded, deep-set under naturally arched brows—told a whole