Page 20 of More Than Meets the Eye

He never actually said the words, but his actions and countless sacrifices proved them true. So a few years ago, she’d decided to start saying them for him.

Zach rolled his eyes. “Brat.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Tyrant.”

They shared a smile, and Evangeline’s heart filled with the warmth of family. She headed to the washtub to start cleaning the dishes, her step light and bouncing until Seth’s determined voice echoed from behind her.

“I think you left a few details out of your story, Evie. Time to tell us more about this man in the woods.”

7

Logan leaned an elbow on his knee as he bent forward to place the eight of clubs he’d just drawn atop the nine of diamonds lying among the rest of his solitaire stacks. He chanced a glance at the sun dipping ever lower in the afternoon sky, then drew another card from the shrinking pile in his hand.

Queen of hearts. Useless. She didn’t play anywhere. No black kings were hanging out, waiting for her. Unlike the foolish knave sitting on his bedroll with a deck of cards, twitching at every leaf rustle or twig snap.

Logan tossed the feckless queen atop his solitaire offerings with enough force to scatter the center stacks.

She wasn’t coming. Of course she wasn’t. Why would she? He’d all but run her off with his abrupt manner and dark conjectures. Stupid conscience. Why had he felt the need to warn her away? Evangeline Hamilton was the perfect pawn. Naïve. Soft-hearted. Trusted by the enemy.

Fate dealt him an ace, and like an idiot, he’d discarded it.

Maybe he should be glad that she’d failed to follow through on her impulsive promise to return. She might make a great pawn, but she was certain to be a distraction. One he couldn’t afford. He had to stay focused on the end game, on enacting justice. He didn’t need a spunky wood sprite showering him with happy-sappy fairy dust at every turn. Spouting ridiculous adages about joy and hope and telling him to peddle his pessimism elsewhere.

Logan’s mouth quirked into a reluctant smile at the memory. She might be a romantic idealist, but she had the gumption of a military general when it came to standing her ground and advancing her position. No wonder his horse had taken to her.

A quiet nicker sounded behind him.

Speaking of his horse. . . .

Logan pushed to his feet, his eyes scanning the wooded area in front of him. His heart pounded in moronic anticipation as his neck craned in an effort to peer deeper into the trees. Having maintained a grasp on at least a few of his faculties, he kept a hand on the butt of his revolver as his ears finally picked up the soft treads that had alerted Shamgar to their approaching company.

A flash of red caught his eye. Dark red, like wine. His gut tightened. His chest throbbed. Then she cleared the trees. Her red skirt snapped in time to her purposeful strides. An ivory blouse with thin, matching red stripes outlined subtle curves he couldn’t seem to look away from. The high collar and upswept hairstyle accentuated a graceful neck that he’d failed to notice yesterday during their tackling and sparring session.

Good gravy, but she was a beauty. Not that he hadn’t figured that out during their first encounter, but today she wasn’t covered in dirt and debris from an unneeded rescue. Today she looked . . . fresh. Bright. Like she’d purposely taken care with her appearance. For him.

A touch of male swagger loosened his limbs as he strutted forward to meet her.

Dropping his hand from his weapon, he reached forward to relieve her of the basket she carried. “No pig today?”

Evangeline shook her head, her mysterious eyes twinkling. “I didn’t think it wise with food involved.”

He lifted the towel covering the basket, and the aroma hit him. Bread. Fresh bread. Fresh, still warm bread.

Logan’s mouth watered and his stomach rumbled with embarrassing volume. He hadn’t eaten fresh bread since . . . he couldn’t remember when. The last time he’d visited his mother at his aunt’s house, he supposed. How long had that been? Five months? Six?

The cook at the logging camp in east Texas where he’d worked for the past three years tended to serve dry, crumbly biscuits that were only palatable under gravy. And the saloons he’d frequented to keep his card skills honed focused more on catering to the male appetite for whiskey, women, and winnings than food. Suddenly coming nose-to-basket with what he’d been missing stirred a surprising hunger inside him.

His companion giggled. “I can hear you salivating from here. Don’t worry, I won’t make you wait. There are few pleasures more delightful than warm bread with butter.”

Logan jerked his gaze up to her face. “You brought butter, too?”

The little minx grinned. “Of course. A small crock you can keep cool in the stream that runs past your corral.”

Logan held a hand out to her when they reached a rough patch of terrain. Pink tinged her cheeks, but she laid her fingers in his palm and allowed him to help her over a tiny ravine breaking apart the ground in their path. Not that she needed his help—her adroitness yesterday proved her surefootedness—but he’d not completely forgotten the manners his ma had taught him.

Picnic basket, pretty gal in nicer-than-usual clothes, fella with an empty belly and an appreciation for rosy blushes and teasing conversation—this outing had all the markers of a legitimate social engagement. Well, maybe not legitimate. His intentions were not entirely honorable, after all. He’d never harm the lady or her reputation, but he fully intended to seduce information from her—learning how Hamilton’s thought processes worked, what he valued, what secrets might be hanging about that could be exploited. Logan planned to mine Evangeline for every nugget of insight he could extract.

All while trying not to hurt her in the process.