She’d learned her lesson with charming men the hard way, and if that wasn’t enough, she had Dorinda’s experience to consider, as well. True, unlike Bud Thacker, Michael had never stolen so much as a tongue depressor, so far as Danica knew, and he was a fine physician. That didn’t change the fact that he had professed love to the devoted little wife at home, namely her, then carried on with half the nurses in Dallas as easily as he dispensed pills and treats to the children who came through his examining room, while remaining one of the more likable men she’d ever known.
Winston Champlain was every bit as attractive, charming and likable as Michael—when he wasn’t shouting. If he somehow seemed…stronger, as well, that hardly signified. The man had been involved with her sister. He’d taken advantage of Dorinda’s abysmal experience in her marriage and used her own vulnerability against her.
Danica frowned. Funny, he hadn’t behaved quite like a man who had just lost the woman with whom he was romantically involved. No doubt it had been very casual as far as he was concerned. Obviously Dorinda had been much more emotionally involved. Wasn’t the woman always more engaged emotionally? Well, not her. She didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t care a fig for the likes of Winston Champlain—no matter how good-looking he was or how wonderful he smelled, a unique combination of leather, smoke, mint and something she couldn’t quite define. No, it didn’t matter how safe she’d felt snuggled there against his chest, she knew what she knew, and that was the end of it.
Snatching up a dish towel, she went to the sink and moistened it before beginning to scoop the corn back into the can.
Chapter Two
“It’s okay, boy,” Jamesy told the dog, patting the sleek black head between the ears. “I’ll come see you real soon, I promise.”
Win sighed mentally. He’d had no luck getting off without the boy this morning, but once he’d explained that Dorinda’s sister had taken up residence at the Thacker place, Jamesy had known that the dog must go home. When he had bravely offered to tell “Miss Lynch” what the old dog “liked best to keep happy,” Winston had known that he couldn’t leave the child behind. It would have been easier to do this alone, but he felt that he had to honor his son’s generosity and courage by taking him along. After all, since Jamesy could walk and talk, Win had tried to teach the boy the importance of doing the right thing. Now he had to let him actually go through with it. He only hoped that Danica appreciated the boy’s effort.
They rounded the final bend in the narrow dirt road and pulled up in the same spot where Win had previously parked. Jamesy looked up, tilting his head far back in order to see past the wide, curled brim of his stained hat. Once off-white but now a mottled gray/tan, the hat was and always had been too big for the boy. The tall, round, felt crown had been spotted by an unexpected rain a few years earlier. Such heavy rainfall was so much a rarity in these dry plains that Jamesy had since worn the stains as a kind of badge of honor. Blowing dust, honest perspiration, falling snow and the occasional beverage gone awry had done the rest, but Jamesy had rejected all replacements. Win always thought the stained, too-big hat gave the boy a pathetic air. His sadness over the dog only added to it.
“Don’t worry, son. Everything will be fine.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” Jamesy promised, determination not quite covering the waver in his voice. “Twig and me’ve talked it over, and way we see it, nothing much is changing. We can still be special friends even if we ain’t at the same place no more.”
“Aren’t,” Winston corrected automatically. Then he smiled and clamped a hand onto the boy’s thin shoulder, saying, “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?”
Jamesy just gave him a watery smile and shook his head, glancing down at the dog again. Knowing that he could say nothing to make it better, Win opened the door and got out. Jamesy followed his lead, getting out on the other side of the truck. The dog dropped down onto the ground beside him, and together they waited until Win came around and joined them. They walked single file alongside Dorinda’s, rather, Danica’s truck and up onto the porch, where Winston wagged a finger at the dog.
“No more of that barking, now.”
With that Jamesy dropped down onto his haunches and wrapped both arms around the dog, obviously intending to quell any outburst. Winston knocked and waited for the door to open. When she didn’t immediately answer, he wondered if they’d come too early. It was going on half past eight, but Danica might be a late sleeper. He’d have called and set up a convenient time if the phone was working. As it was, he just had to take his chances. Finally, the inner door swung back.
“Oh,” she said through the screen. “I guess you want to talk about the restitution order. I did read it last night.”
“Actually, I, that is, my boy Jamesy and I brought your dog back.”
“Dog?” she echoed, frowning. “What dog?”
“This dog,” Winston explained, pointing downward. Finally she opened the screen and stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing sweats and socks, and from the way she went to smoothing her frazzled hair, he suspected that she’d slept in them.
“I don’t know this dog,” she said.
“This here’s Twig,” Jamesy told her, ruffling the dog’s black-and-white fur. “He’s a real good ’un.” As he spoke, the dog laved his face with its pale pink tongue.
“Okay,” Danica said uncertainly, “but he’s not my dog.”
“He belongs to the place,” Winston explained. “Old Ned, Bud’s uncle, used to train the best working dogs in this whole area. He raised Twig from a pup and trained him special. When your sister left here, she asked us to take care of him.”
“Well, then take care of him,” Danica said, watching the dog flop over so Jamesy could vigorously rub his belly. “It has nothing to do with me.”
“But he belongs to the place,” Winston pointed out again. “That means he’s yours.”
“I don’t want him,” she retorted. “You keep him.”
“Oh, boy!” Jamesy exclaimed. “Did you hear that, Twig?”
Winston frowned, wondering how this had gotten so complicated. “Listen,” he said to her, “you don’t understand. The dog belongs to you.”
“But I don’t want him, and the boy obviously does,” she pointed out.
“Can I keep him then, Dad?”
Winston sighed, exasperated. “No, you can’t keep him, son. Miss Lynch doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
“The hell I don’t! Why would I want to be bothered with some mutt?”
“I told you,” Winston said through his teeth, patience wearing awfully thin. “He’s a highly trained, valuable, working dog, and he comes with the place to you.”
She folded her arms. “Well, I’m not keeping him, so just take him back where you brought him from.”
Win threw up his hands. “I can’t do that. You don’t even have the telephone working yet.”
“And I don’t intend to,” she told him smartly. “What has that got to do with anything?”
“For Pete’s sake, woman, will you just listen to reason for a minute?” he erupted hotly.
“Oh, so now I’m unreasonable, am I?” She parked her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Well, if that’s the way you’re going to behave, I’ll thank you to take your stupid dog and get off my land.”
“He’s not my dog!” Winston roared.
“And he’s not stupid,” Jamesy added defensively. Winston