“You should probably get out of those wet clothes,” Gavin said when Tara began to shiver. “Before you catch cold.”
She was wearing a blouse the color of a buttermilk biscuit tucked into a pair of snug jeans.
“Good try, Mr. Thomas. But I’m not that naive.” Nor foolhardy.
“The name’s Gavin. And believe me, sweetheart, I was only trying to keep you from catching cold.”
The sparring helped. Helped clear her head and calm her nerves. “Aren’t you considerate?”
“That’s me,” he agreed with equal sarcasm. “Mr. Consideration.”
She should have been irritated. Instead, dammit, she was undeniably interested. “Well.”
She took a deep breath, then wished she hadn’t as she watched his steady gaze slip from her face to her breasts. She glanced down and realized the tailored silk blouse that appeared so staid when worn with her oatmeal-hued suit in the office had suddenly become far too revealing for comfort.
The material was clinging to her breasts like a second skin and her nipples had pebbled—from the cold, she assured herself—and were pressing against the wet silk in a way guaranteed to instill dangerous thoughts in just about any man.
“On second thought, I think I will change my clothes.”
“Good idea.” His unenthusiastic tone said otherwise. Although he truly didn’t want to be responsible for her catching pneumonia, Gavin found himself more than a little reluctant to surrender the view. When his gaze returned to her face and he viewed her poisonous glare, he knew she’d been reading his thoughts.
Since he was not accustomed to apologizing for being either human or male, he gave her wet shoulder a fraternal pat.
“Your overnight bag is still on the porch. I’ll go get it.”
He was back in a moment.
She’d managed, during that brief interlude, to regain a bit of composure. And caution. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Thomas, I’d like to see some identification.”
“I was wondering when you were going to think of that.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his billfold and handed it over. “You’ll find an Arizona driver’s license, American Express card, a couple of Visas and a Mogollon County library card. That should convince you I’m who I say I am.”
She glanced through the plastic-encased cards and lingered momentarily over one, thinking that it was unfair for any mere mortal to look so sexy in a driver’s license photo. His dark hair, swept back from his forehead, was disgustingly thick, his hooded eyes were so darkly brown as to be almost black and his jaw could have been chiseled from granite. She decided that the cleft in that square chin was definitely overkill.
“You seem to be who you say you are,” she agreed. “But that still doesn’t mean I can trust you.”
“Your grandmother entrusted her house to me,” he said pointedly. “And there’s a letter waiting for you on the upstairs dresser that will undoubtedly vouch for me, as well.”
“She left a letter? For me?”
“It’s got your name on the envelope.”
“Why didn’t you send it to me?”
“Because I had my own letter instructing me to leave it for you to read when you arrived. Besides,” he pointed out, “it’s a good thing I didn’t forward it, since all my other letters appear to have gotten lost.”
Once again his tone told her that he knew she’d been lying. She would have been uncomfortable about that had her mind not latched on to another thought.
“Don’t you think that’s strange? Her death was so sudden, but she’d already written letters to both of us to be read after her death?”
“I did in the beginning. But then I decided she was just one of those people who likes to plan ahead. I’ve heard of people leaving instructions with their lawyers. Or letters in safe-deposit boxes.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Tara allowed. “Since you were included, you must have been close to her.”
He shrugged. “She was lonely.” His tone was edged with a hint of censure she tried to ignore. “She didn’t have any family in Whiskey River, and I was a stranger here, as well. So, I guess you could say we kind of adopted each other.”
“Did she happen to mention to you what she did for a living?” Tara’s voice held an unmistakable challenge.
“You’re not talking about her mail-order herbal business.”
She folded her arms across her chest and met his gaze with a long, level look of her own. “No, I’m not.”
“She told me she was a witch. Since the fantasy seemed harmless enough, I didn’t let it bother me.”
“How open-minded of you.” She reached out and took the gray overnight case from his hand. “And for the record, Mr. Thomas,” she said as she headed toward the doorway and the stairs that led to her grandmother’s bedroom, “it wasn’t any crazy old lady’s fantasy. My grandmother was a genuine, card-carrying, crystal-gazing, spell-casting, druidic witch.”
That said, she swept from the room, leaving Gavin to wonder if lunacy ran through the genes of all the Delaney women. Or just the gorgeous ones.
Her grandmother’s bedroom was just as she remembered it. Cabbage flowers bloomed on the yellowed ivory wallpaper and the antique sleigh bed was covered by a quilt that had been in the family for generations. Celtic animals and geometric patterns echoed the stone carvings and metalwork of that ancient time.
She found the letter on the dresser, just as the annoying man downstairs had told her. The handwriting was a bit more spidery than she remembered, but there was no doubt that it was her grandmother’s. And even if she hadn’t recognized the delicate script, the energy emanating from the ivory envelope was unmistakable.
The paper was handmade, speckled with dried flowers and herbs from the garden, and carried the familiar lavender scent that Tara had always associated with Brigid. She inhaled the evocative fragrance and sighed.
“I’m sorry, Grandy,” she said softly. “I should have been here for you. In the end.” Instead, she’d continually put off her grandmother’s requests that she visit, leaving a lonely old woman to befriend the man downstairs. A man who was not only a stranger, but an obvious disbeliever, as well.
Feeling horribly guilty, Tara sat down on the thick feather mattress and began to read.
Dearest Tara,
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve overcome your reluctance to return to your roots, at least temporarily. And although I have always understood your need to follow your own spiritual path, it saddens me that past circumstances have caused you to view the gifts you’ve inherited as a curse, rather than a blessing.
I realize how difficult this journey has been for you, darling Tara. And just as I cannot erase the pain you’ve suffered, neither can I promise instant miracles.
But what I do promise is this—if you stay beneath this roof for one cycle of the moon, your life will inexorably change. At the end of this time you’ll be able to put the past behind you and move on.
You’ve already made the first step, Tara. Now I’m asking you to trust in your grandmother, who loves you, one last time. I promise you will not be disappointed. Blessed be.
The traditional words of farewell blurred through the mist of tears gathering in Tara’s eyes. She had to blink to clear her vision in order to read the PS.
I know Gavin Thomas is not the type of man you’re accustomed to. But since his arrival in Whiskey River, he’s come to mean a great deal to me. In fact, I consider him almost