Errant Angel. Justine Davis

      “I’d say you explained it just fine,” Dalton said. “Hand me that box of new plugs, will you?”

      Jimmy scooped up the small carton from the neatly organized workbench and handed it to him.

      “You’d like her, too,” Jimmy said.

      Not likely, Dalton thought. It had been a long time since he’d liked anybody. He only tolerated Jimmy hanging around all the time because he reminded him so much of himself at that age, full of anger and putting up a tough front to hide hurt feelings he wouldn’t ever admit to having. He knew the boy had been orphaned young, had lived in foster home after foster home since, and he couldn’t help the stirring of empathy he felt, despite his vow never to feel anything resembling closeness to anyone again.

      Jimmy was looking at him expectantly and, trying to hide the weariness of another near-sleepless night, Dalton asked the question Jimmy was expecting.

      “What makes you say that?”

      “Well,” Jimmy drawled, not disguising the bantering note in his voice very successfully, “it could be because she’s really awesome-looking. And she’s not married.”

      Dalton winced inwardly at the unsubtle words. But he didn’t react outwardly; he remembered enough about being fifteen to know that any reaction would just egg the boy on.

      Then, as if puzzled at himself, Jimmy added, “It’s weird, though. I always thought blondes were the best looking, but she’s got this hair that’s like...like those trees up in the mountains, that change color this time of year, you know? Kind of red, brown and gold all mixed up together. And big brown eyes, all soft and gentle, like that fawn that came out of the hills last year.”

      Dalton blinked; for Jimmy, the description was tantamount to poetry. As if he realized that, the boy instantly lapsed back into insouciance. “She’s kind of little, but she’s built, too—long legs, nice little butt, great ti—”

      “I get the idea,” Dalton interrupted.

      “Well, she’s no older’n you are, and there aren’t any single women as old as you around here—”

      “Thanks,” Dalton said dryly. “That’s what I get for turning thirty.”

      “I just meant—”

      “I know what you meant,” Dalton said, more kindly this time.

      After all, he thought as he bent over the fender of the old truck to begin installing the new spark plugs, how was the kid supposed to know that the absence of available women—or anyone else his age—was one of the attractions this little, out-of-the-way town held for him? People were abandoning small towns like this in droves, but he had searched this one out, looking for peace, not to forget, but to remember.

      “I like things just the way they are, okay? The last thing I need is some woman cluttering things up.”

      Especially some long-legged woman with a nice little butt and brown eyes like Bambi.

      “Yeah,” Jimmy said, grinning widely now, “but this one drives an absolutely cherry ‘57 Chevy.”

      Dalton straightened up, curious now. “A what?”

      “You heard me. It’s red and white, in primo shape, and is it hot!”

      “Two-door?”

      “You got it. Bel Air hardtop.”

      One corner of Dalton’s mouth quirked upward. “Two eighty-three, V-8?”

      Jimmy’s smile faded. “I...don’t know. I mean, it sounds hot, but I...”

      His voice trailed off in uncertainty, and Dalton remembered how hard it was at that age, when you’d worked so hard at that “cool, don’t care” attitude, to admit there was something you didn’t know.

      Dalton shrugged easily. “That’s why you’re here, right? To learn?”

      The boy’s expression brightened. “I told her I liked cars, that you were teaching me about them, so she let me look at it this afternoon.”

      The boy seemed suddenly embarrassed, and Dalton felt a flash of trepidation.

      “And?” he prompted.

      “I...”

      “Jimmy,” he said warningly.

      “I sort of...invited her over here today. I thought you’d like to see the car.”

      Dalton smothered a groan. He’d had a feeling he’d regret the day he let Jimmy start hanging around. He’d come here to be alone, not have everybody in town casually dropping by.

      “Damn it, Jimmy,” he began, but when he saw the boy’s face change, when he saw the flash of fear in his eyes before that uncaring facade snapped back into place, he bit back the rest of his exclamation; it was like looking at an image of himself at fifteen, all the walls already in place, hiding the fear that had filled him. By twenty, those walls had been nearly impenetrable. If Mick hadn’t come along—

      He cut the thought off swiftly, with the ease of long practice. He heard the sound of a car approaching—one that obviously, from the healthy sound of the motor, didn’t need his attention—but ignored it for the moment. Jimmy, he thought. Concentrate on Jimmy. He hadn’t meant to scare the kid.

      “Never mind,” he said. “It’s okay. I just had a lot of work to do today.” He shrugged. “But it’ll be here tomorrow. And how often does a guy get a chance to look at an ‘absolutely cherry ‘57 Chevy’?”

      Jimmy brightened up, and the practiced facade of indifference fell away. For a moment he looked like an average, excited fifteen-year-old boy. The boy Dalton had seen glimpses of, the boy the rest of Three Oaks would swear didn’t exist. They saw only the troublemaker, the tough-talking, rough-dressing kid, and they shook their heads and muttered about what was wrong with kids these days. Just as, in another town much like this one, adults had once shaken their heads and spoken as if the words Dalton MacKay and delinquent were inseparable.

      “You’re not really mad, then?” Jimmy asked.

      “No. Not really.”

      “Good,” the boy said with relief. “Because here she is.”

      He turned, realizing he should have guessed what the source of that healthy thrum was. He couldn’t help smiling when he saw what looked indeed like an “absolutely cherry” ‘57 Chevy, with the distinctive tail fins and the inimitable styling. The red-and-white car came to a halt, and the rumble of the powerful motor stopped. Dalton felt his smile widen; he’d always had a weakness for beautiful machinery, and this classic was all of that—perfectly straight, sleek and utterly spotless.

      Then the driver’s door opened, and a pair of legs that seemed to go on forever swung out. A woman stood up, a sweep of burnished auburn hair with golden highlights that danced in the sun falling forward as she tugged down a skirt that wasn’t that short to begin with, but seemed that way because of the length of the shapely legs beneath. A gold shape he couldn’t discern from here glinted against the skin below her throat.

      Besides the legs and that incredible hair, the rest of her seemed to live up to Jimmy’s advance billing, as well; she was petite, barely five-three, he guessed, but the womanly curve of hip combined with an eminently cuppable derriere was a potent combination. And speaking of cuppable, Dalton thought a little numbly, aware he was staring but somehow unable to stop, her breasts were more than nice, they were—

      They were none of his business, he snapped at himself, straightening the fingers that had involuntarily started to curl at his thoughts, angry at his unexpected reaction. But she was, as Jimmy had said, awesome-looking.

      Then she raised her head, looked straight at Dalton, and his heart slammed to a stop as his gut contracted fiercely. This was no fawn-innocent woman, despite the huge brown eyes. Those eyes had seen much, and held a bone-deep wisdom and gentleness he’d