Sleeping With Beauty. Laura Wright

funny.”

      No flames licked at the cabin door when Dan returned with the wood, but there sure was a lot of smoke.

      Drifting out of the kitchen window was a dark cloud, accompanied by the sound of coughing. Without taking the time to put his shirt back on, Dan dropped the kindling and rushed into the cabin.

      Still dressed in his sweats, the woman stood at the stove fanning smoke away from two cast-iron pans.

      He was at her side in seconds. “What happened here?”

      She glanced over her shoulder at him, frowned. “You’re going to be pleased.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “You were right.” Shaking her head woefully, she added, “I must not know how to cook.”

      She turned and stared up at him with those violet orbs. She looked so pathetic he couldn’t stop himself from chuckling.

      “Why are you laughing?” she demanded, turning back and pointing at the pans. “Look at these eggs. Gray as the ashes in the fireplace. And look at this.”

      He glanced over her shoulder. Thin black strips of burnt something gaped up at him, still smoking. “What exactly was that?”

      “Bacon.”

      “Seriously?”

      “Of course I’m being serious!”

      “Well, it doesn’t look all that bad,” he lied.

      “Really?” She turned again to look at him, a shadow of hope crossing her eyes.

      “Really.”

      “Not so bad you might want to try some?”

      That’s what a guy got for being nice. Reminded him of the time Josh, one of his foster brothers had begged him to try a taco at a greasy local restaurant. Josh had just loved the place, could eat there every day. He’d pleaded, made offers of marbles, action figures—for two whole days. The kid could’ve been a top-notch hostage negotiator. But as it was, the other side of the law had offered Josh a better deal.

      Anyway, a seven-year-old Dan had gone and been the boy’s taste tester. Dan’s stomach lurched in remembrance. That beef taco had caused him to worship the porcelain god for three whole days.

      But that had been old, maybe even contaminated food. What Angel had here was just charred. Hell, if he could survive seventeen hours in a truck with Rank Ron Hunnicutt waiting on a fugitive, this’d be a walk in the park.

      He grabbed a fork, scooped up a bit of the goopy, gray eggs and took a taste. Actually, it was a crunch.

      He nearly choked on a shell, but covered pretty quickly. Or so he thought.

      “Not bad, Angel.”

      But she was no fool. Her eyes grew liquid and weary. “I’m sorry. Excuse me. I’m just going to get a breath of fresh air.”

      “Angel?”

      She didn’t answer him. She was out the door.