“This can’t be happening. Gotta go, Will.” He slammed on the brakes.
The car veered and Adam held tightly to the wheel, trying to see where the kids had disappeared to. The car spun and then jolted, slinging him to the side as it came to rest against a tree with a thud.
His brand-new car. The thought barely registered when he heard the whoosh of the air bags. Other words slipped through his mind. And he still didn’t know if he’d hit those kids or their dog.
His phone rang. He pushed at the air bag and freed himself from his seat belt. The phone rang again. Will’s ring tone. Adam lifted it to his ear as he leaned against the headrest, waiting for his heart to stop hammering against his chest.
“I’m fine, Will.”
“Do I need to call 911 for you?”
“Like I could give directions to this place. Talk about…”
“No such thing as Godforsaken, buddy.”
Adam groaned as he pushed past the pain in his shoulder. “Save the sermon for my funeral. I have to make sure these kids are okay.”
“Kids?”
“There were two kids out here. I swerved to keep from hitting them and their dog.”
He pushed at his driver’s side door. It wouldn’t open. Will was still on the other end, asking questions.
“I can’t get out of my car.”
“I can call for help.” Will sounded a little too amused. “Doesn’t that car have one of those fancy talking computers that asks if you need assistance?”
“I had it disconnected. I don’t need a bossy female asking me if I’m lost or need assistance. I’ll call you later.”
He pushed and then kicked the passenger’s side door. It opened and he climbed out of the car, stumbling as his feet hit the ditch. Thorns from a wild rosebush caught his arms and sleeves. He untangled himself and waded through tall weeds to reach the road.
The boys were standing at the edge of a gravel drive. The dog, a black-and-white border collie, sat next to them, tongue hanging out and ears perked. They watched him, eyes big and feet moving nervously—like they were getting ready to run for their lives.
He probably looked like a giant coming up out of that ditch. Especially to two little boys.
“What are you boys doing by the road?” He glanced up the drive to the old farmhouse not two hundred feet away. The house was old, but remodeled, the white siding wasn’t green with moss, and the windows gleamed.
The boys shifted in front of him, tugging on the dog’s leash, keeping it close to their side.
“Our dog needs to learn to walk on a leash,” the heftier of the two boys, obviously twins, answered. They weren’t identical, but they were close.
“Well, that dog won’t do you any good if you get her hit, or get yourselves hit.” He spoke as softly as he could, but it still came out in a growl. They had scared ten years off his life.
He stood at the edge of the road, thinking he should march them up to the house and let the parents know what they’d been up to.
Or he could leave and forget it all.
A glance over his shoulder and he knew he wouldn’t be driving away, not in the car that was lodged against a tree, two tires flat.
He’d had some bad days of late. This one took the cake. He didn’t even like cake.
“Our dog’s a him,” the bigger boy muttered, his gray eyes wide, not looking away. “Are you a giant?”
“No, I’m not a giant. Where are your folks?” Adam eyed the smaller boy, the one with the thumb in his mouth. The kid was shaking. Adam took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “And what are your names?”
The bigger twin started to answer. The little one nudged his brother with a bony elbow that prompted him to say, “We don’t talk to strangers.”
Both boys nodded and the bigger twin chewed on his bottom lip, obviously wanting to break the no-talking-to-strangers rule. Adam wanted to laugh, and that took him by surprise.
“Well, this stranger wants to let your parents know what you were up to.”
A screen door slammed, reverberating through the quiet of an Oklahoma afternoon. He glanced toward the house and knew he was in big, big trouble, because he didn’t have the skills for dealing with mad wet hens. She came off the front porch and stomped toward him, brown hair with streaks of blond, bouncing, lifting in the soft breeze. Faded jeans and a T-shirt, her face devoid of makeup, and he was suddenly sixteen again.
He let out a breath and remembered who he was and why he was here. And he remembered to be angry about his car and everything else that was out of his control.
“What’s going on here?” She came to a stop behind the boys, her accent an Oklahoma drawl, half Southern belle and half redneck woman. She was pretty, but looked like a scrapper, like she wouldn’t be afraid to come at him if he messed with her or the boys.
And the dog was growling now.
“Your dog was in the road, and the boys were pretty d—”
She raised a hand and her eyes flashed fire. “Watch it.”
“Your boys were close to getting run over, and you’re worried about my language?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Great, total insanity.”
“Only partial.” She smiled. Huge brown eyes lit with golden flecks caught and held his gaze. She took a few more careful steps and he realized that she wasn’t much bigger than her two boys. Five feet nothing, and he felt like a giant towering over her.
Adam stamped down the desire to ask her name. He pushed aside old habits that had gotten him into more trouble than he could handle. More gossip than real trouble, but to the world, it might as well be true.
“I’m really sorry about the boys, and the dog.” She had rounded up all three and they gathered close, in a tight-knit huddle at the side of the road.
“It’s okay. I just wouldn’t want them to get hurt.”
“You’re right, of course. I’m Jenna Cameron.” She held out a small hand with pink-painted nails. “Welcome to Dawson.”
“Yeah, thank you. I’m looking for a half-finished summer camp.”
“You sound happy about that.”
“Real happy.” Because he never expected to lose his cousin, and he hadn’t expected the camp to be unfinished. He pulled the directions out of his pocket and read them off to her. “Do you have any idea where that is?”
She stepped to the edge of the road and pointed. Three hundred feet ahead, on the other side of the road and barely visible due to shrubs and grass, was a gravel drive. “That’s your place.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” He took a step closer to her and the dog snarled, raising an upper lip in a pretty convincing warning. Adam backed away.
“Sorry, he’s my guard dog.” Her hand rested on the dog’s head. “I’m afraid I don’t reprimand him for doing his job.”
“No need, as long as he doesn’t bite me.” He didn’t want to add dog bite to the things that had gone wrong today. He looked at the overgrown drive and the address on the crumpled paper in his hand. “Are you sure that’s it?”
It was a cow pasture dotted with trees. He couldn’t see much of the property because trees lined the fence