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Erasmus quit whining.
“Miserable beast,” the voice muttered again.
Cassie’s heart slammed against her rib cage. Who was in the kitchen? Her throat cotton-dry, she silently crossed the worn living room carpet, opened her father’s gun closet and cringed at the soft click of the lock. Quickly she withdrew her old .22. It was unloaded, of course, but the intruder, whoever he was, wouldn’t know that.
Did Erasmus know the man? she wondered wildly, disturbed that the dog had obeyed the rough command. She clenched her fingers tightly around the stock and barrel and padded noiselessly to the kitchen. Lifting the rifle to her shoulder, she stepped into the light.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded, then stopped dead in her tracks. She nearly dropped the .22.
There, in the middle of the room, was Colton McLean—the one man in the world she detested. Big as life, his wet Stetson low over his eyes, he straddled one of the chipped maple chairs and scratched Erasmus’s ears. The traitorous dog whined in pleasure.
His gaze, as cold as silver, clashed with hers. “Cassie,” he drawled. “It’s been a long time.”
Chapter Two
Cassie’s heart nearly dropped through the floor. “What’re you doing here?”
Tipping his Stetson back, Colton surveyed her through slitted silvery eyes. “Waiting.”
“For?”
“Your father.”
“He’s not here.”
Colton merely shrugged. His gaze narrowed on her, his expression murderous. His face was rugged, craggier than she remembered it. A full beard covered his jaw, and his features were lean and jaded with the added years. His denim jacket, stretched taut across his shoulders, was wet from the rain. His attention drifted to the rifle. Its barrel gleamed blue in the dim light from a single low-watt bulb mounted high on the ceiling.
“What’re you going to do, Cassie? Shoot me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” She lowered the rifle.
“I’ve been used for target practice before.” His teeth flashed beneath his beard, and her stomach knotted as she remembered the rumors she’d heard about the shooting in Northern Ireland—how he was lucky he hadn’t been killed.
“How’d you get in?”
“The door wasn’t locked.”
“So you just waltzed in and made yourself comfortable?”
His lips twisted. “Believe me, Cass, I’m not comfortable.”
“But you had no right—”
“Probably not.” His cold gaze slid slowly up her body before resting on her face. She felt stripped bare.
Several heart-stopping seconds ticked by before she found her voice. Her hands were clammy; her voice threatened to shake. Colton McLean was the last person she’d expected to find in her kitchen. Though he’d been back in Montana for nearly six months, he’d been reclusive and, according to the rumors circulating in town, hadn’t been seen much. Cassie hadn’t run into him once. “Don’t you believe in knocking?” she asked.
He glanced at the open door and the unlatched screen. “Don’t you believe in locking your doors?”
“Dad lost his key—oh, never mind!”
“I knocked. Twice. No one answered.”
“I was in the—”
“I can see where you were. I heard the shower running.”
Suddenly aware of her damp hair, her towel-buffed skin and her naked body protected only by a ragged terry robe, she clenched the rifle more tightly. She wasn’t afraid of Colton McLean, not really, but the sight of him brought back too many memories—dangerous memories—of a love affair she’d rather forget.
