“Sean Kershaw. Where is he?” A low, gravelly voice, its steadiness somehow more deadly than any shout. No drama to this rage, but pure, cold intention.
“Sean?” Whatever this invasion was, it wasn’t what she’d thought. Still, it was bad—trouble. Teacher? she asked herself, and rejected the hope immediately. This was no indoor man. His face was tanned to the color of buckskin. The lines fanning out from the corners of his blue eyes spoke of years squinting in the harsh sun. “Wh-why do you want Sean?”
“That’s between him and me.”
The intruder turned a slow circle on his heels, scanning the kitchen as if Sean might be cowering in a corner. He wore boots, Dana realized, which was why he seemed so enormous. Though even in his socks he’d still top her five-three by nearly a foot.
Nevertheless, she let go of her weapon. She could no more imagine herself stopping this man with a knife than she could imagine stopping a train. “I’m afraid it isn’t,” she said coolly—to his back. He was striding back the way he’d come.
Hey! She goggled after him, then felt rage awaken as he retreated. “It’s considered polite to knock, you know!” she cried, hurrying to catch up.
“I knocked. You didn’t hear me.” He was already past the dining room, heading for the front door.
Good riddance, whoever he was! But no—her mouth dropped as he turned toward the stairs.
“He’s up there?”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Good.” He took the stairs two at a time without a backward glance.
Her baby! The hair bristled on her arms, at her nape. Dana flew up the steps, a primal humming sound in her throat. You stay away from my baby!
The door to Petra’s room stood wide. Dana flung herself through it and slammed into his back—“Ooof!”
“Huh?” he muttered absently. He’d stopped short just inside the room to flick on the light. She grabbed his elbows from behind and, with a little growl of despair—might as well try to uproot the oak banister!—she attempted to wheel him around and out. He glanced over his shoulder with a startled frown, then simply shrugged, breaking her hold. “Who’s this?” He nodded at the sleeping child.
“Mine,” Dana said flatly. She caught a fistful of the back of his shirt and tugged, and, lucky for him, he allowed himself to be towed backward out of the room. He hit the light switch as he passed it, then pulled the door quietly shut.
Dana let him go and swung around to put herself between him and Petra’s door. Chin up, she stared at him, breathing hard. “Get out of my house this…minute.”
Startling white against the tan, a reluctant smile flickered across his hard face. “Good for you,” he said simply, then turned away…
To open the next door down the hall—Sean’s room! Dana pressed a hand to her throat, swallowed, then charged after him. But—thank you, God—Sean hadn’t returned.
The stranger stood in the center of Sean’s bedroom, surveying the posters pinned to the wall—surly rock groups and a surfer shooting a blue-green pipeline at Maui. The desk piled high with books and camera accessories. Discarded shirts and jeans draped over the chair and the top of the closet door.
“Get out.” Dana bared her teeth. She supposed she could run uphill and ask her wrangler, Tim, for help, if by any miracle he was home on a Saturday night. Or run downstairs and phone the sheriff. But no way would she leave Petra to do either.
“You’re his sister, I reckon?” the man murmured, without turning.
“His stepmother.”
His dark head snapped around, and the blue eyes reassessed her, a quick head-to-toe appraisal. She crossed her arms over her breasts and glared back at him. Why the surprise? “And who the hell are you?”
“Rafe Montana.” He brushed past her and stalked out the door, headed for her bedroom.
“He’s not here,” she hissed, bracing her hands against the doorjamb and leaning after him. “Can’t you see?”
He stood there, looking down at the big brass bed that she’d shared with no man for fourteen months and thirteen days. The soft, rumpled down comforter that was no substitute for Peter’s living warmth.
“So where is he?” Montana turned to take in the rest of her room.
She felt his eyes touch the books stacked on her bedside table, testimony to all the nights she could not sleep; the vase of blue columbines on the wide windowsill; the bottles of perfume on her dresser, which she hadn’t uncapped for more than a year—and she felt as if he’d run his hands across her body. You trespasser. She stamped her foot to reclaim his attention. “I’m not about to tell you, when I don’t know what you want. When you barge in here like a—a maniac!”
“That’s about how I feel,” he said, swinging to face her. Two long strides and he towered above her. “I’m Zoe’s father.”
“Who’s Zoe?”
“Who—” His eyes narrowed with rage. “You don’t know?”
She shook her head wordlessly. His daughter. He was no longer a maniac, but an outraged…father. And he wants Sean. Her hand rose of its own accord to her lips. My Sean?
“Uh-huh,” Montana said dryly, as if she’d spoken her thought aloud. “And where’s his father?”
“He’s…not here, either.” Montana might seem somewhat more human, claiming a daughter, but still, no way was Dana admitting she didn’t have a man to back her. “He should be home any minute.”
“Sooner the better.” Montana walked out of her bedroom, glanced through the open door to the empty bathroom, then headed back down the hall.
Hands clenched, Dana tagged at his heels. “If you would just tell me what this is about—”
“He’s around here someplace, isn’t he?” Montana growled, descending the stairs. “You thought he was in his room. So…” He walked through to the kitchen again, then out the back door.
She caught up with him on the deck. He stood with big hands on his lean hips, staring up the slope toward the corral and the barn. A light shone through the cottonwoods from one of the cabins along the creek. “Where is he, Mrs. Kershaw? In the barn? Or—what’s that house beyond—the bunkhouse?”
“One of the guest cabins. But if you barge in on my dudes, I’ll call the sheriff and have you arrested, so help me God. Now, tell me—” She stopped with a gulp as a thought hit her. “Oh…” She drifted past him, down the two steps to the gravel where her old pickup should have been parked. Turned a slow circle of bewilderment.
Montana joined her, glanced down at the ruts made by the tires, and swore. “Where’s he gone?”
“I…don’t know.” At fourteen, Sean had no license yet. Peter had allowed him to drive the truck on their property, and though Dana didn’t entirely approve, she hadn’t dared revoke that privilege after Peter was gone. Sean had extended his range without asking, she’d noticed this last six months, to include the private road out as far as the highway. But he wouldn’t dare—“Did you pass an old pickup on your way in from the public road?”
“I passed nobody.”
Which meant, she supposed, that Sean had already departed. Or fled, she realized, staring up at Montana. He knew you were coming! That phone call during supper.
“Where would he be on a Saturday night, Mrs. Kershaw? Down in Trueheart at one of the bars?”
“Sean?” She laughed incredulously. “Of course not!”
He stepped closer, till they stood almost