My Name is Nell. Laura Abbot

crossed to him. “Excuse me, sir, but do I know you?”

      He closed his book—which she couldn’t help noticing was a Grisham legal thriller—and raised his eyes, a slow smile creating a devilish dimple in his left cheek. “No. I’m Brady Logan.” With athletic grace, he rose to his feet and now looked down on her. “I was at the forum last night, so, in a manner of speaking, I know you. Nell Porter, right?”

      She clasped her cold hands in front of her. “Yes.” She scrambled for words. “Did you enjoy it?”

      His eyes narrowed. “Discussion of conflict and violence is more painful than enjoyable.” He paused before going on. “I vastly preferred this morning’s activities.”

      “You’re obviously familiar with Alexander and the Dragon.”

      She detected a momentary steeling of his features. He offered no explanation but simply said, “Yes.”

      She couldn’t seem to tear herself away, but there was little more to be said. Steering from the personal, she grasped for the professional. “Is there something I can help you with?”

      “As a matter of fact, yes. I’m new to the area and am interested in doing some fly-fishing, maybe locating a nice place along the White River to stay. Have any suggestions?”

      Brady Logan didn’t strike her as someone so clueless about how to use a library, but then you never knew. “There are a couple of popular resorts near Flippin, or you might consider—”

      “I’m more a B-and-B kinda guy.”

      “Well, in that case—” his eyes found hers, as if he anticipated her next words “—you might try the Edgewater Inn.” More to escape his scrutiny than anything, she made her way to the travel section. “Here.” She pulled out a directory of Arkansas bed-and-breakfasts. “You can read all about it.”

      He took the book, thumbing through it until he found the listing and an accompanying photograph. “This looks nice.”

      “It is.” Then she found herself telling him all about her stay there.

      “Sounds peaceful,” he finally said.

      “Very.” A poignant memory came to her of cathartic tears shed on a lazy September afternoon rocking on a wooden porch swing overlooking the blue river.

      He took her by the arm, then as if realizing he’d overstepped his bounds, he released his grip. “Thanks, Nell Porter. You’ve been most helpful.”

      She found it hard to swallow. “I’m glad.”

      Reggie Pettigrew bustled up alongside them. “Nell, your daughter’s on the phone.”

      A strange look—wistfulness? sadness?—shadowed Brady’s face before he seemed to reassemble his features. He nodded his understanding.

      “Excuse me,” she said, then started for her office.

      “Nell?”

      She turned around. He smiled, then winked. “Beware of dragons.”

      On the way to her office, she couldn’t explain the tingly feeling short-circuiting her body. She had the strangest sense that he’d been waiting for her. Any number of other librarians could have helped him.

      Oddly, instead of making her uncomfortable, the thought filled her with the kind of anticipation she hadn’t experienced in years. He was an extremely attractive man.

      Any such frivolous thoughts were shattered when she picked up the phone. “Mom.” Abby’s voice was a harsh whisper. “I hate it here. Do I hafta stay?”

      THAT AFTERNOON Brady explored the secluded neighborhoods clinging to the sides of the steep hills rimming Fayetteville, drove north on I-540, astonished at the amount of commercial development, then ended up at a marina on Beaver Lake, where moored boats of all kinds rocked with the gentle swells. As a businessman, he recognized he’d stumbled into an investor’s paradise in this burgeoning northwest corner of Arkansas. He left his car and walked across the boardwalk to the marina office where he rented a small pontoon boat for a couple of hours.

      Slowly edging past the buoys, he pushed the throttle forward and skimmed over the clear water, practically deserted except for a few die-hard fishermen. If this lake were in California, it would be wall-to-wall boats no matter what the day of the week or time of day. When he reached the middle of a secluded cove, he cut the motor—aware of the peaceful quality of the sudden silence.

      Finally he let his thoughts return to Nell. He had been ill-prepared for her effect on him. She was a natural with the children and there was a kind of discomfiting synchronicity in her having selected Alexander and the Dragon to read. Nicole’s favorite bedtime story. He glanced skyward, willing away the involuntary spasm of grief.

      He forced himself to think about Nell again. When she’d approached him in the library, she had seemed skittish, her hands primly folded in front of her, her gray eyes wary. Her nose, dusted lightly with freckles, and her bare red-polished toes contributed to her overall sense of vulnerability. Yet she’d dared to confront him. Admittedly his observation of her had been rather obvious. When you’ve loved and lost, doubt replaces hope, insecurity replaces confidence and you wonder who you are.

      The boat bobbed in the wake of a passing jet ski. Was she still all by herself? He knew now she had a daughter. Despite her ringless fingers, was there a Mr. Porter?

      He devoutly hoped not.

      Since Brooke and Nicole had died, he had been unable to connect with anybody—not his friends, his neighbors or his colleagues. He thought of himself as a wraith. Improbable as it seemed, though, he wanted to connect with Nell Porter.

      Switching on the key, he started the motor and made his way back across the lake. By the time he reached the dock, he’d arrived at a decision.

      Tomorrow he would look for rental property in Fayetteville. He was staying. And Nell was the reason.

      NELL WAS REDECORATING the bulletin board in the children’s area with a back-to-school motif when she became aware of a presence behind her. She finished tacking up the book cover she was working on, then turned. Hands in his pockets, Brady Logan stood there smiling a killer smile, then shrugged as if in self-defense. “I’m back.”

      “Not the proverbial bad penny, I hope,” she said, attempting a nonchalance she was far from feeling.

      “No. I have a reason for being here.”

      She needed something to occupy her hands. Selecting another cover from the stack on the table, she said, “Anything I can help you with?”

      “I certainly hope so. I’d like you to have lunch with me.”

      She’d been fully prepared to direct him to the library’s fishing collection or to locate the latest issue of Field and Stream, but lunch? The thought filled her with mild panic. No man had asked her to lunch in a very long time and certainly no one who made her hormones react in such an unseemly fashion. “I beg your pardon?”

      He nodded his head. “You heard me right. Lunch. You know, where two people look at a menu, order and have polite conversation while they eat.”

      Smiling tentatively, she said, “I know what lunch is, but let’s face it, I have no idea who you are, really.”

      “That’s why I’m inviting you to lunch—to correct that deficiency.” Before she could offer further objections, he went on. “I’m new in town. I’m looking for someone to fill me in on the local scene. I figure a librarian is the perfect resource. This would be completely aboveboard.” He drew her to the window. “It’s broad daylight, pedestrians are everywhere. We could walk to the nearest restaurant, and if you decide I’m a threat, all you have to do is call for help.” He touched her lightly on the shoulder. “But I guarantee that won’t be necessary.”

      Nell fought the temptation induced by his honeyed voice and the pressure of his hand on her shoulder. Despite