Storming Whitehorn. Christine Scott
still standing beside the silver car. “Mr. Hunter,” she said, “if you wouldn’t mind waiting, there’s something I’d like to tell you.”
Not bothering to wait for his answer, Jasmine turned away and led her mother inside.
Storm Hunter didn’t like being told what to do. Not by anyone. But most especially not by an outspoken young woman who was nearly half his age.
A part of him wanted to get into his rented car and leave this place, this home of the Kincaid family, and never look back. The other part, the impulsive, illogical part, was curious as to what Jasmine might have to say.
“Jasmine,” he murmured her name out loud, savoring the sound of it as it tripped over his tongue. An exotic name for an exotic beauty, he mused silently as he stood beneath the glaring sun on the white rock-covered driveway of the B and B, with his hands on his hips, staring at the door through which she had disappeared. Her image was as fresh in his mind as though she were still present.
Jasmine the woman, he decided, was a contradiction in terms. A delicate flower, as her name might suggest, though one who’d found roots and strength in the wild, untamed lands of Montana. With her black hair cut short in a pixie style, she seemed so young and innocent. The cut and color emphasized the paleness of her skin, the smooth perfection of her complexion and the classic lines of her features. Yet, at the same time, he saw the wisdom of an older woman in her eyes, one who’d experienced much of life. She was tall and slender, but with enough womanly curves to make any man stand up and take notice. Her eccentric way of dressing—black cowboy boots, a red pleated skirt and a white eyelet blouse—certainly made him wonder. Yet, the outfit hinted at a personality that was free-spirited and vivacious. Traits that he envied. Traits that he’d lost over the years, somewhere along the way.
Storm blew out an irritated breath. What was wrong with him? He was spending entirely too much time speculating about a young woman who was destined to play nothing more than a fleeting role in his life. She was a Kincaid. He was a Hunter. As history had already proven, the two did not mix. If it hadn’t been for her mother and his misguided sense of chivalry, their paths would never have crossed.
Earlier, when he’d stopped by the sheriff’s office on yet another fruitless call upon the investigator in charge of his brother’s murder case, he’d happened to bump into Celeste Monroe. To say her reaction to his appearance had been strong would be an understatement. One fearful look at his face and the woman had collapsed in a dead faint. She’d looked as though she’d seen a ghost.
It wasn’t until after she’d reluctantly accepted his offer of a ride home that he’d realized who Celeste Monroe really was. Celeste Kincaid Monroe, sister to Blanche and Jeremiah Kincaid, the very people he’d blamed all these years for the loss of his brother. The family who’d been at the very heart of his troubled life.
And now he was being unwise enough to let his hormones blur his judgment. He’d allowed himself to become intrigued by a Kincaid—a family he’d sworn to hate. Jasmine…
Though she’d never invited him inside, curiosity got the better of him. Quietly, Storm crossed the gravel driveway and climbed the steps of the large front porch. The double doors stood wide open, allowing anyone to enter.
Even an unwanted Cheyenne, he told himself, allowing his rancor to fester.
The floors were of polished pine. The rooms were large and spacious. The ceilings were high, measuring at least ten feet; rough-hewn beams graced the dining room ceiling. Natural wood trim stretched as far as the eye could see. The house itself was mostly furnished with the clean lines of the mission-style decor, but there were enough chaise longues and over stuffed club chairs to make a guest comfortable.
Storm stepped through one of the living room’s set of French doors and onto a wide screened-in porch. The porch ran the length of the back of the house. From here, the view of Blue Mirror Lake was spectacular. Its flat, shiny surface, indeed, looked like polished glass. A dense forest of pine trees surrounded the property, and the air was thick with their pungent scent. In the distance, he saw the mountains of the Laughing Horse Reservation.
His breath caught painfully at the sight. Though he’d traveled many miles to escape from his past on the reservation, he could never completely leave behind its harsh memories. He glanced around the bed-and-break fast, at the casual display of Kincaid wealth, and felt a bitter taste rise in his throat. No matter how many college degrees he might acquire, or how much money he made in his law practice in New Mexico, he would never forget his troubled past, his poor, hand-to-mouth up bringing. He would never be able to stand tall in a world that included the Kincaid family.
With the ghosts of the past chasing him, Storm whirled away from the sight of the reservation and strode back into the house. The heels of his shoes pounded against the pine floor as he made his way to the front door. But he didn’t care about the noise. He didn’t care about anything but escaping.
“Mr. Hunter…Storm.” There was a note of desperation in Jasmine’s sweet melodic voice.
Storm clenched his jaw in annoyance and told himself to keep walking. Don’t look back. Don’t stop, no matter how great the temptation might be.
Her boots tapped an urgent beat against the wood floor as she hurried toward him. Guiltily, he heard the breathless quality of her voice as she called, “Please wait. I’d like to talk to you.”
A heavy hand of frustration pressed against his shoulders, slowing his pace. Though he was only a few steps from a clean getaway, he couldn’t find the strength to abandon her. He chided himself for being so weak-willed and wondered what it was about this woman that, when she was near, made him lose all sense of judgment.
Wheeling to face her, he didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. “Ms. Monroe, I’m very busy. I don’t have time—”
“This won’t take long,” she assured him. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion. Her chest rose as she took in a steadying breath. “I—I just wanted to thank you.”
He raised a brow in disbelief. “You want to thank me?”
She nodded. “That, and to apologize.”
He didn’t respond. Instead he waited for her to continue, purposefully schooling his face to be void of expression, uncertain whether to trust her unexpected change of heart.
“Earlier I jumped to the wrong conclusion. When you brought my mother home, she looked so weak and helpless, I—I was shocked. I said the first thing that popped into my mind. I accused you of hurting her, without knowing the facts. For that I’m truly sorry. Please don’t think that I would judge you, or anyone else, for that matter, solely on the color of their skin. Because it just isn’t true.”
He believed her.
During her plea for understanding, Jasmine had looked him straight in the eye. Her gaze had never wavered, not once. Either she was the coolest liar he’d ever met, or she was telling the truth.
He’d bet the house on the latter.
Grudgingly he asked, “Your mother, is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” she said, striving for a light hearted tone, and failed. Blushing, she gave a self-deprecating smile and added, “Or at least she will be, now that she’s home. Thank you, once again, for taking care of her.”
Then, with the impetuousness of the young, she reached out and enfolded him in an innocent hug of gratitude.
While he told himself the gesture was probably not unusual for this woman who seemed so open with her own feelings, he wasn’t prepared for such a free-spirited reaction. To his chagrin, his body reacted in a most uncordial manner.
With her soft curves pressed against him, he felt himself harden in response. His hands caught her waist with the intention of pushing her away. Instead he found himself pulling her closer.
As though she sensed a shift in the mood, Jasmine pulled back. With her hands still linked behind his neck, she lifted her eyes to his. A slight frown wrinkled