Texas Trouble. Kathleen O'Brien

in his backpack and for no apparent reason started tearing up the enclosures they’d just built yesterday.

      He knew the kid’s dad had died, and the family was going through a bad patch. He even felt sorry for him. His manager didn’t believe the kid’s story—that he’d been bringing the bird here for tending, but it died along the way—but Logan did. Somehow he just didn’t think Sean Archer was that kind of crazy.

      Still. A nine-year-old kid reacts to a bird’s death by ripping apart everything he can reach? That didn’t smell like fresh-baked mental health to Logan.

      So now not only was he having to repair the damage himself, but also he was going to have to talk to Sean’s mother, and that was something he’d vowed to do as little of as possible. He’d decided to steer clear of Nora Archer about two days after moving to Texas, about two minutes after meeting her.

      He tossed his hammer onto the pile of wood chips and pulled the measuring tape out. He might have to order new wood. The kid must know karate—he’d really smashed things up.

      “Boss?”

      Logan raised his gaze, sorry to see his manager, Vic Downing, standing at the edge of the hawk enclosure. He dropped the tape measure. “What are you still doing here? You should be at home. Tell Vic to go home, Max.”

      Max, a red-shouldered hawk who was never going to live in the wild again, moved nervously from one foot to the other, head lowered on his flexible neck, fixing Vic with a beady-eyed stare. As if obeying Logan’s command, Max let out an ominous screech, the perfect sound track for a horror movie.

      Vic just rolled his eyes. “Shut up, pudgy,” he said affectionately. It was all an act, of course. Max was gentle-natured, one-winged and a pushover for a fistful of treats. “Look, Logan. I can stay a little while. Let me give you a hand with that.”

      “You’ve already worked fifty hours this week. Didn’t Gretchen say she’d shoot you if you missed dinner again?”

      Vic stuck a piece of Juicy Fruit in his mouth. “Yeah, but that was just the hormones talking.” He sighed. “You wouldn’t believe how insane pregnant women can be.”

      Oh, yes, he would. But Logan didn’t say that, of course. He also didn’t say that Gretchen would undoubtedly get worse in the next few weeks. She had about a month to go, and if Logan remembered correctly from those last months with Rebecca…

      But remembering was one thing he didn’t waste time doing.

      He retrieved his hammer and a broken plank and started working out the nail that was stuck in one end.

      “Anyhow,” Vic went on, “where I put the bullets, she’ll never find them.”

      Logan looked up. “Where did you hide them?”

      “Behind the Windex. Woman hasn’t done a lick of housework in months. Says it makes her cranky.” Vic tossed down the plank. “But what doesn’t?”

      As they exchanged a sympathetic chuckle, Logan glimpsed the slow fluttering of something pale and pink at the edge of Vic’s silhouette. For a fanciful split second he thought it might be a roseate spoonbill, although he didn’t have any at the sanctuary, and undoubtedly never would. The delicate beauties didn’t show up this far inland.

      He blinked, and the fluttering became the edges of a loose pink skirt. He blinked again, and saw the woman wearing it.

      It was Nora Archer, probably the only woman on the planet who could wear that color with that red hair and pull it off.

      She was too far away for Logan to see details, but his mind could conjure up every inch. The silly auburn curls that frothed around her shoulders. The round eyes, too big for her face, forest-colored, mostly brown with shards of green and bronze. Little girl pink cheeks, freckles and an upturned cheerleader’s nose. But a dangerous woman’s mouth, wide and soft and tempting.

      Today, her head was bowed as she moved toward them, her pale face somber. She might have the coloring of a roseate spoonbill, but she had the soft melancholy of the mourning dove.

      The widow Archer. He squeezed the handle of the hammer. As beautiful, and as off-limits, as ever.

      Vic had noticed her now, too, and both men watched without speaking until she finally reached them. Max stared as well, cocking his head and rotating it slowly to follow her all the way. Logan smiled inwardly. It must be a male thing.

      When she got close enough, he stood. While she was shaking hands with Vic, Logan dropped the hammer again, and brushed his hands against his jeans, sorry that they were gritty with sawdust and dirt.

      But that was dumb. His hands were always dirty. The days when he spent all his money on designer suits and weekly manicures were long gone and unlamented.

      “Hi, Nora,” he said. “I was going to call you again later.”

      “Logan.”

      She held out her hand, and he took it. It had been six months, and yet he knew to brace himself for the little electric jolt. She felt it, too, he could tell, though she had always been polished at covering it.

      “I came to talk about Sean. To apologize, first of all. He told me what happened this afternoon. He said he did a lot of damage.”

      “Not so much. He busted up a couple of enclosures. Nothing we can’t fix.”

      Logan was amused to see Vic nodding vigorously, although an hour ago the manager had been ready to wring Sean Archer’s neck with his bare hands. That was the effect Nora Archer had on people. Male or female, young or old, one look into those wistful hazel eyes, and they wanted to don armor and jump on a white horse.

      She let go of his hand quickly, then gazed around, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Did he—were there birds in any of the enclosures?”

      “The screening wasn’t finished yet. It was just bare boards, really. Don’t worry, Nora. He hurt stuff, nothing living.”

      She smiled, still sad but clearly grateful, then turned to Vic. “He tells me you were disturbed about the bird he brought with him. He thinks you believe he killed it.”

      “Well, I—” Vic looked uncomfortable. “I couldn’t be sure. It was dead by the time I got here, and he was kind of going nuts, breaking boards and—”

      “I can see why you were worried,” she said. “I was worried, too. But I’ve talked to Sean about it, and he told me everything. I’m convinced he’s telling the truth about that part. He simply doesn’t have that kind of brutality in him.”

      Vic didn’t look quite as sure, but when he opened his mouth to respond, Johnny Cash’s voice suddenly growled out of his back pocket, promising in his rumbling baritone that he found it very, very easy to be true.

      Max squawked, disliking the sound instinctively, and Nora’s eyes widened.

      As the manager dug hurriedly in his back pocket, Logan chuckled. “Vic’s cell phone,” he explained. “That must be the new ringtone Gretchen put on it. That’s not the one that means the baby’s coming, is it?”

      Vic shook his head. “No. That one’s ‘Stop, In the Name of Love.’ Johnny Cash is the get-your-ass-home-for-dinner ringtone.” He clicked the answer button. “Sorry, honey. I know what I said. I’m leaving right now. Yes, right now. No, not five minutes from now. Right now.”

      Logan pointed at the clinic parking lot, urging the other man to get going. With an apologetic smile and a wave to Nora, Vic loped off toward his truck, keeping his wife updated on every step he took. “I’m ten feet from the truck, honey…”

      The few seconds after Vic’s departure were subtly awkward. Nora stood in a ray of sunshine that poured in dappled blobs of honey through the oak branches. Logan stood stiffly by the broken wood, in the shadow of the hawk enclosure, surrounded by busted planks and tools.

      Well, of course it was awkward. It was the first time he had