The Hand-Picked Bride. Raye Morgan

one. Selling her baked goods here was her main means of support. Driving in from the apartment she shared with Mandy, a week after the runaway incident, this time she came prepared with a borrowed old-fashioned wooden playpen that was sure to keep Kevin in one spot.

      “Okay my little caged bird,” she muttered as she gave him a last hug before getting to work, stroking the downy blond pelt that covered his round little head. “You’ve got twenty-five toys in here with you. Plenty to do. No running away. You hear?”

      He cooed happily, but as she drew back, she noticed that his gaze was on something over her shoulder and his mouth had fallen open in a perfect O.

      “Cookie!” he cried, thrusting out his fat little fist.

      Rising, she turned to find the man from the week before standing at the counter watching her exchange with her son.

      “You again,” she said, gazing at him curiously.

      “Yes, it’s me.” He smiled at her a bit ruefully, then waved at Kevin. “Hi, kid,” he said softly. “How are you doing?”

      Kevin made a sound that bore a strong resemblance to a Bronx cheer, but Jolene didn’t notice. Her bright eyes narrowed as she looked Grant over, taking his measure. He was a handsome man with a sense of humor shining in his eyes. The smile he gave her was infectious, a fact that immediately made her wary. She didn’t trust men who smiled too easily.

      Behind the smile, beware the guile. That had been one of her grandmother’s favorite sayings, and Jolene had once ignored it and paid the price.

      But she had to admit, this man didn’t look threatening. He was probably in his thirties, but his face had a boyish look that was immediately endearing. His nicely tailored suit was just saved from looking too formal for this scene by the casual air of assurance he wore with it, and she was suddenly aware of the contrast she made in her crisp jeans and plaid shirt, the tails tied into a knot just above the waist. The Daisy Mae braids didn’t do much to help her look sophisticated, either.

      Dogpatch meets Madison Avenue, she thought, laughing at herself.

      “What can I do for you?” she asked, hanging back a bit. She had no reason to think badly of him, but what had happened last week had been a little strange. He smiled at her, his white teeth gleaming in the morning sunlight, making her blink.

      Women usually melt when he smiles like that, she thought to herself. That’s what he does it for. But she wouldn’t. No way. She’d been through the fires and come out stronger than most.

      “I came by to make sure the child was all right,” he told her. It sounded nice, sounded caring, but it was a complete lie.

      He often came by the Farmers’ Market on Thursdays to search out something unusual the gourmet farmers might have brought to town. As owner and manager of a restaurant that prided itself on being ahead of the trends, he liked to be on the lookout for what was developing, poised to be the first to notice, and this was a good place to explore for possibilities. He’d been walking down the street, checking out the marketplace as he usually did on Thursdays, and suddenly there she’d been. It hadn’t occurred to him before that she might be a vendor here. He couldn’t imagine how he could have avoided noticing her on previous visits.

      But in the moment he’d seen her, his first impulse had been to turn and go another way. If it hadn’t been for those strange and beautiful eyes, he probably would have done exactly that. Anything to avoid another encounter with the child from...well, maybe hell was a bit strong. The child from mischief-land, at least.

      But he smiled and went on with the masquerade. “I felt badly about what happened last week and I wanted to make sure you understood I didn’t do anything to the boy.”

      She nodded slowly. “He’s fine. There’s no need for you to worry.”

      “Uh, good. I’m glad to hear that.” Grant hesitated, then held out his hand. “My name’s Grant Fargo,” he told her. “And yours is...?”

      She really didn’t want to tell him, but there didn’t seem to be any way to avoid it. “Jolene Campbell,” she said.

      “Nice to meet you, Jolene.”

      She nodded solemnly, not conceding anything.

      His attention was centered on her eyes and she looked away with a gesture of impatience, denying them to him, turning to the side. It always started this way. She was going to have to start wearing sunglasses so that she could get on with her life without all these interruptions. There were things to do and she meant to get them done.

      Ignoring his presence, she began to pry open the large cardboard boxes she’d used to cart her wares in from the parking lot to her booth. The boxes were filled with pastries she’d been up most of the night baking. She began to take them out one by one, filling the display case with the ones that didn’t need refrigeration. But all the time, she could see him out of the corner of her gaze and she knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

      “You know, your eyes—they’re really strange.”

      He said it as though he’d just discovered something he was sure no one else had ever noticed before. As though it would be news to her. She paused and drummed her fingers on the counter. Talk about her eyes was old hat. She’d heard it all before. Too many times.

      But he wasn’t going to let it go. “Your eyes. They’re just so...so...”

      She raised her gaze to meet his, giving him the full treatment and watching him react with a wonder mixed with impatience. It was odd what her eyes sometimes did to people. They felt like normal eyes to her, but most passersby did a double take when they noticed them. She’d gone through periods where she’d cursed having such attention getters, and gone through periods where she’d been downright proud she was different in some way. Lately she’d just been bored with the whole thing. She had a life to live and attention to her unique eyes got in the way.

      She watched as he struggled for words to describe them. “All-seeing?” she suggested, only slightly sarcastic. “All-knowing?”

      He frowned, his face quite serious as he studied her. “No, that’s not it.”

      Her wide mouth quirked at the corners. At least he wasn’t merely pandering. “Eerie? Outlandish? Creepy?” This was actually starting to be fun as his expressive face reacted to each word she threw out. “Otherworldly?”

      “No. Not exactly.” He was shaking his head, his straight, dark brows drawn together in concentration.

      She widened her eyes dramatically and batted the lashes. “Spooky?” she guessed.

      He shook his head. “No, not at all. They’re quite beautiful. They...they give me shivers.”

      He wasn’t kidding. There was something in his tone, something in the light in his eyes, that caught her up short. He had the look of someone who’d just seen something that had touched him, found a chord in his soul and elicited a response, like someone who’d heard a beautiful piece of classical music that had surprised him by sending emotion slicing through him.

      Their gazes seemed to lock, and things on the street behind them seemed to fade and run like watercolors. She felt funny, light-headed, and she shook herself, as though to bring back reality.

      “What?” he said, looking at her strangely.

      “I didn’t say anything,” she told him, trying very hard to frown. She stared at him for a beat too long, then recovered her senses and made an impatient gesture meant to encourage him to move on.

      “Look, I’m really going to be busy here in a few minutes, and I need to get things ready. So if you don’t mind...”

      “No, I don’t mind,” he murmured, but his words didn’t really make any sense.

      She hesitated, then turned from him and set up her cash box, determined to ignore him if he wouldn’t go away. And for the first time, he seemed to rouse himself from his trance, to take