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He loved sneaking up behind her when she was busy. He’d plant a kiss on her neck or her hair and she’d spin around, face flushed, to fall against him for a real kiss.
Sometimes at night when he crawled into the king-size bed, he let himself imagine what it would be like if Jenna was lying beside him. They’d talk about the day’s events, laugh at things the kids had done, and then make love sweeter than any cookie frosting ever created.
He spooned the thick soup into his mouth and moaned with appreciation. His Jenna was a fine chef. His Jenna. Was she? Did she want to be? He thought she did but he had to be sure. She had to be sure.
She was in his house and in his heart. He wanted her in his bed, too.
Making love didn’t scare him. Falling in love did.
They’d never spoken of age, but that rainy day in her arms had convinced him that Jenna was far more woman than girl. Part of him still worried that he was too old, too broken and too bitter to give a young, vibrant woman what she needed.
But hope had come to the Southpaw and Dax clung to it like a drowning man to a bit of flotsam. For indeed, he’d been dead inside when Jenna Garwood and her baby had opened the door to his empty heart and made themselves welcome.
Though still convinced that she had secrets, he was afraid to ask. What if he didn’t like the answers? What if he drove her away? For now, he couldn’t take the chance. Maybe by spring, he’d be more confident—if he could keep his libido in check that long. Jenna deserved more than an employer who took advantage.
He slathered butter on his corn bread and bit down. Jenna had never before baked corn bread but when he’d mentioned a fondness for the Southern dish, it had appeared at the next meal, just the way he liked it with a touch of sugar. He took another bite and realized he was smiling.
She’d left the Christmas tree lights on and last night, she and Gavin had hung the elaborately quilted and personalized stockings on the gleaming wood mantel. The house was alive with her special touches.
Outside he heard the sound of a car and his heart leaped. Jenna must be back early. Forgetting all about his half-eaten meal, he shoved off the bar stool and hurried to the door. Though she’d only been gone a couple of hours, he missed her.
He yanked the front door open and paused. A long, sleek, black car pulled into his drive. No one he knew drove a car of that caliber, at least not out here in the country. This looked like something a government official would drive.
A sense of foreboding crawled up the back of his neck. He shook it off.
A uniformed driver complete with a flat cap like something out of a movie, exited the car and opened the back door. With a stiff bow, the chauffeur extended a hand to assist the occupant. Out stepped a dark-haired, middle-aged woman in a crisp tan suit. Nose high, she gazed around, taking in the brown landscape and finally coming to rest on him. She looked him over and then squared her shoulders and said something to the chauffeur. From the other side of the car, a burly man exited and came around to stand beside the elegantly clad woman. To Dax’s way of thinking, the man looked like a cop—or a gangster.
Normally, Dax went out to greet his company, but something about this group bothered him. He didn’t know them, but something didn’t feel right.
The dark-haired woman and the burly man came toward the house. Dax stepped out onto the porch.
“You folks lost?”
“I think not.” The woman’s voice was high-brow and disdaining. “This is the Southpaw Cattle Company, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And may I inquire as to who you are?”
Both the phrasing and the accent sounded eerily familiar. “Dax Coleman. This is my place. And you are?”
“Elaine Carrington. May I come inside please? We have some business to discuss.”
He couldn’t imagine what business he could possibly have with a woman he’d never heard of but he motioned toward the house. “Come on in.”
He led the way, taking note that the burly fellow followed but hadn’t been introduced. The man cast a suspicious eye in all directions as they entered the foyer and passed into the living room.
“Have a seat,” Dax said. He waited as politely as possible while the woman settled on the divan and then he perched on the edge of a nearby chair. The burly man didn’t sit, rather took up residence at the end of the couch, his arms crossed over his chest.
What was this guy anyway? Some kind of bodyguard?
“I’ll get straight to the point,” the woman said. “I’m looking for my daughter, Genevieve Carrington.”
Dax relaxed the slightest bit. For a minute there, he was scared she was going to mention Jenna. “Sorry, ma’am. I don’t know her.”
