Lone Star Dad. Линда Гуднайт

“I hope you die a painful death” stare.

      The tumblers rolled around behind Quinn’s eyes. “Satterfield,” he mused. “Yeah.”

      She held her breath.

      Finally, he said, “Ken and Anna Satterfield lived here, right? Good folks.”

      Relief seeped through her. He remembered her grandparents. That was all. Nothing suspicious in that. “Yes. They passed away, and the house was empty for a while until Derrick and I decided to move to the country.”

      “You decided,” Derrick said, making his feelings on the subject crystal clear.

      Quinn glanced at the sullen boy, holding his gaze steady until Derrick looked down. Gena’s blood chilled in her veins. Go away. Stop looking at him.

      As if he’d heard her thoughts and decided to comply, Quinn turned toward the door. Before stepping outside, he said to Derrick, “Fences are there for a reason. Pay attention or pay the consequences.”

      He slammed the door behind him.

      The living room trembled with the sound for several seconds before Gena pointed a finger at Derrick. “You are not ever to go anywhere near that man or his property again. Got it?”

      He made a noise in the back of his throat and rolled his eyes. And Gena could only pray he listened.

       Chapter Two

      Quinn didn’t expect to see the kid again, but even as he stoked the fireplace the next day and contemplated breakfast, he couldn’t help thinking about the surly boy with the soft blue eyes and his pretty, if hostile, mother.

      He hadn’t slept much last night, more because of the incident and the unexpected meeting than the pain in his arm. He wasn’t complaining.

      The boy, Derrick, who was probably eleven or twelve going on seventeen, had a chip on his shoulder as big as Alaska, and Quinn vaguely remembered Gena Satterfield from the old days. She’d been an underclassman, kind of nerdy, and hadn’t run in his circles. He remembered her sister better. A lot better. He’d made a point not to share that information with Gena.

      But Gena wasn’t nerdy anymore. She had grown up to be quite the looker—pale skin, round cheeks, cute nose and wavy blond hair to her shoulders. He’d nearly swallowed his tongue when she’d come charging out the door in fuzzy slippers and a baggy University of Texas sweatshirt like some warrior woman to protect her offspring. It had been a long time since he’d had that kind of visceral response to a woman, especially an angry one.

      He smiled a little, the curve of lips feeling unnatural. Mom said he didn’t smile enough anymore. Maybe so. He couldn’t think of much to smile about, but Gena Satterfield had both irritated and amused him.

      She was a doctor or nurse or something medical. Unlike the rest of his family, he didn’t pay much attention to Gabriel’s Crossing society, but when she’d first moved back to Gabriel’s Crossing, the newspaper had carried an article about her, the former resident come back as a primary care practitioner. Nurse practitioner—that was it. He remembered now. She worked with Dr. Ramos.

      What he hadn’t known was that she’d moved into the old Satterfield place. He didn’t notice much of anything anymore. But last night he’d noticed her.

      He jabbed the poker at the recalcitrant embers, stirring to get a fire going. Recalcitrant, like the boy.

      He’d put the fear in the kid during the ride home. Or he’d tried to. Derrick was a tough nut to crack, a city boy, who looked down his nose at small towns and country people. But he’d been fascinated by the gun. How he’d known about weaponry worried Quinn. City boys had no use for a hunting rifle, but Derrick had some basic knowledge. Enough to fire a lethal weapon. Not good. If the kid was going to handle a gun, he needed to learn to do it properly, to respect the seriousness and responsibility that came with the knowledge. Even then, accidents happened.

      He rubbed at his arm, then tossed a log onto the embers and left the fireplace to do its thing while he rummaged up some breakfast.

      Derrick Satterfield was not his problem. Not unless the surly kid stepped foot on his three hundred acres again.

      When he reached inside the refrigerator, his hand trembled. He folded his fingers into his palms and tried to think of anything except the one thing that eased the gnawing in his gut and the hand shakes.

      Maybe a run along the river. He grabbed the milk and poured a glass, then remembered the cat locked in his shed.

      With a sigh, he poured a bowl of milk, warmed it in the nuker, donned his coat and hustled across the cedar-stabbed yard. As his arm had predicted, a very thin sheet of ice coated the world, glistening in the intense morning sun. Like back-lit crystals, the ice was beautiful, though damaging to the trees.

      “Okay, lady, rise and shine. Today’s the day you hit the road. Drink your milk and g—” He stopped in the doorway. He should have expected this. “I told you no kittens.”

      The tuxedo face glared up at him as her body heaved. Two damp babies, half-naked, lay on the towels. More, apparently, were to come.

      He set the milk down on the floor. “Guess you’re not interested in this right now.”

      A third kitten slipped onto the towels. The first two had begun to squirm and make small mewing noises, their eyes tight and faces squinched. The mother gave each a nudge and then went back to tending the newest in her brood.

      “Cool. She’s having kittens.”

      At the unexpected voice, Quinn startled and bumped his head on the low doorway as he backed out of the shed. As soon as he saw the speaker, he frowned his meanest scowl.

      “What are you doing over here? I told you—”

      “I don’t have to do what you say. Her, either.” Derrick shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of a blue unzipped parka. Beneath, he wore a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his forehead. He looked like an inner-city gangster, which was probably his intent.

      “I could call the sheriff and have you charged with trespassing.”

      The threat had no effect on the dark-haired boy. “I know who you are.”

      Quinn tensed. “Yeah?”

      “Yeah. Some hotshot quarterback who got himself shot and ruined his chances at the NFL.”

      The cold morning air chilled Quinn’s breath and set the pain into motion. He squeezed his upper arm. “Where’d you hear that?”

      “Dude.” Derrick slouched his shoulders and gave off his best you’re-so-stupid attitude. “Don’t you know about the internet?”

      “You looked me up?”

      “So? I was bored.”

      “You got a smart mouth, you know that?”

      “I hate this place. She never should have brought me here.”

      “Why did she?”

      The kid went silent, his mouth broody.

      Trouble. Derrick must have been in trouble. “Where did you live before?”

      “Houston. It’s way better than this...” pale blue eyes gazed around at the vast woods and emptiness “...this squirrel-infested backwoods dump.”

      Quinn arched an eyebrow, shooting back as much venom as Derrick had aimed at him. “Afraid of the woods? Scared of the dark? Nervous when a coyote howls?”

      “I’m not afraid of anything.”

      No, he was terrified. Of life, of the new, unfamiliar environment, of looking soft. So many fears swam around in the kid’s head it was a wonder his ears didn’t flood. Quinn suffered an unwanted twinge of compassion. “We’re