The Lawman Meets His Bride. Meagan McKinney

slid through a final, dogleg bend and spotted a fairly new, loden-green Lexus parked in the overgrown clearing out front of the cabin. George Henning himself, she presumed, was leaning rather oddly against one front fender.

      He looked nothing like she’d expected him to. He was no mountain man in search of an out-of-the-way cabin; instead she had a quick first impression of a business suit-clad but slightly disheveled man in his middle thirties. The short, neatly cropped black hair contrasted noticeably with his pale complexion. His handsome wingtips and subdued silk necktie suggested he belonged to the fast and furious urban jungle, not cool mountain heights.

      But in spite of his dark, conservative attire, she still didn’t fail to notice his pleasing physique: easily over six feet tall, wide at the shoulders, slim at the hips, an Olympic swimmer’s wiry, lithe build.

      That’s some professional attitude, Ms. Adams, she chided herself as she parked behind his car and set the handbrake. She slid from behind the wheel, smoothing her skirt with both hands.

      She felt a little flush of annoyance when he made no effort whatsoever to walk over and introduce himself. Instead, he remained leaning against his car, regally waiting for her to attend to him.

      “Mr. Henning? Hello, there! I’m Constance Adams, the listing agent on the property.”

      He gave her a closemouthed smile. Yet even that small politeness seemed to cause him great effort.

      “Miss Adams, thanks for agreeing to come out so late. I do appreciate it.”

      “Please don’t mention it. I enjoyed the drive, actually. I haven’t been up here in some time. I tend to forget how lovely it is.”

      “Yes, it is,” he replied curtly, a note of impatience creeping into his voice.

      Instantly her annoyance at him shaded over into dislike. He was big city and too busy for her. The fact that she was putting in overtime on his account didn’t rate at all. His time above all else was tantamount.

      He’s the customer, she tempered to herself. Still she didn’t appreciate the rude treatment. Nor the strange feeling she had whenever she looked at him. It seemed horribly akin to attraction, and after Doug, she was going to have none of that.

      “Since you had to wait for me,” she said, “I assume you’ve already seen the bridge?”

      He gave her a blank look. “Bridge? I…actually, no. I caught up on some work while I waited.”

      So he didn’t even bother to explore out back. It struck her as almost incredible that anyone serious about buying the place would not have stepped around back for a peek, at least. He seemed to resent her questions and made a big production out of looking at his watch to remind her he was in a hurry.

      But it wasn’t her way to let others treat her like a menial servant—not even for a potential sale. The more you pressure me, Mr. Henning, the longer it’s going to take, she resolved.

      “And what kind of work do you do?” she asked politely as the two of them began walking toward the cabin. She noticed that he favored his left leg.

      “I’m self-employed,” he replied, irritation clear in his tone and his face. He acted as if each word were being wrenched out of him. “I’m an investment advisor.”

      “How interesting.” She was playing his game with a coy vengeance, becoming more chatty and polite in proportion as he grew irritated and terse. “And where are you from, Mr. Henning? Surely you’re not from these parts, or I’d recognize you.”

      “Look, Miss Adams, I don’t mean to rush you. Or to offend you. But I really do need to hurry. Could we just skip all the polite chitchat? My flight leaves soon.”

      Again the imperious tone was back, as if he were the lord of the manor and she some lowly supplicant.

      Constance fished the key out of her purse. Instead of unlocking the heavy slab door, however, she deliberately aimed for the back corner of the cabin.

      “Oh, but Mr. Henning, you simply must see the creek and the bridge first,” she insisted, her voice saccharine-sweet. “The owner herself insists. It’s positively charming back here.”

      He scowled and lingered in front of the door, his face exasperated. He tapped his watch.

      Tap it till it cracks, Constance thought, willing away her attraction to him. I don’t live in your pocket.

      “Nonsense, Mr. Henning, you can see them from here. I promise, you won’t miss your plane or muss your shoes.”

      If he felt the barb she’d just thrust into him, Constance couldn’t tell it. He gave up and headed toward her. She wasn’t sure if he was simply limping, or limping and trying to cover it.

      “Look at that! Dead of winter, yet the fox grapes and wild mint are flourishing back here,” she pointed out. “The mint makes a delicious mountain tea.”

      “How interesting,” he replied from a stoic dead-pan, mimicking her. His voice sounded machine-generated.

      Not bothering to get his permission, Constance walked the short distance to the bridge. She wondered how he could not be captivated by the beauty of this spot.

      The creek formed a clear little pool beneath the stone arch of the bridge. The water’s calm, glassine surface wrinkled with each wind gust. Golden fingers of sunlight poked through the leafless canopy of trees surrounding them. From the bridge she could look straight down and glimpse the silvery flash-and-dart of minnows.

      He joined her on the bridge, pointedly ignoring the view. His cool, smoky stare riveted to her.

      Why, his face is sweaty, she noted. But it was quite brisk weather up here, practically no humidity. She felt chilly even with her wool blazer, while he had no topcoat at all.

      She pointed toward some mossy boulders half-submerged at the water’s edge. “Those always put me in mind of green-upholstered stools. Aren’t they fascinating?”

      His stony silence implied he couldn’t care less. Constance noticed how his shadow seemed long and sinister in the waning light. She’d left her sunglasses in the Jeep, and when she looked up at him she was forced to lift a hand to shade her eyes from the low sun.

      “Miss Adams,” he began, laboring to speak, “I confess I don’t give a tinker’s damn about those rocks. Now…are you going to unlock that cabin or not?”

      Or not? His pointed emphasis on those last two words altered her mood. Suddenly she was fully aware of his intimidating physical advantage over her. She wondered, for just a moment, what might happen if she said not. But she decided she didn’t want to find out.

      “Of course.” She gave in, stepping around him and walking down off the bridge. “But to be frank, Mr. Henning, I can’t imagine you being very…at home up here. As you can see, this is a nature lover’s hideaway. The place isn’t even wired for electricity.”

      “I’ll use a portable generator,” he replied curtly. “It’s just for vacations, anyway.”

      By now her dislike for this rude, intimidating man made Constance desirous of discouraging him. Like Hazel, she wasn’t simply interested in selling the cabin—she wanted to match it up with someone who appreciated its rustic charms. This creep would be bored by the Grand Canyon.

      She unlocked the heavy padlock, slid it from the hasp, and swung the front door wide open, flooding the dark, musty interior with light.

      “Pretty basic,” she told him, which was certainly true. The unfurnished cabin was partitioned into two rooms, with a sleeping loft over the largest.

      Only a few braided rugs covered the floorboards.

      “I need a little more light,” he told her, crossing to one of the shuttered windows. He slid it up, slid back the bolt lock on the heavy batten shutters, and swung them wide.

      She only wanted to be rid of this