Lone Wolf. Sheri WhiteFeather

at her feet.

      Let it go, he told himself. Stay away from her.

      He turned and opened his mailbox, then sifted through the envelopes until an unfamiliar name printed on one of them caught his eye.

      Jennifer Taylor.

      He checked the address and saw that it was incorrect. The letter, bearing the logo of a fashion magazine, belonged to the lady next door.

      Shooting his gaze in her direction again, Hawk weighed his options. Should he just put the letter in her mailbox? Or use this as an excuse to satisfy his curiosity and talk to her?

      Curiosity won, along with a self-admonishing curse. He was doing a hell of a job of avoiding her.

      Stuffing his own mail in his back pocket, he headed toward her, cutting across the adjoining driveways that separated their houses.

      “Jennifer?” he said when he reached her.

      She started at the sound of his voice, which told him she had been unaware of his presence.

      Still kneeling on the ground, she looked up at him, shielding her eyes with a gloved hand.

      “Are you Jennifer?” he asked.

      “Jenny,” she said a little too softly. “I’m Jenny.”

      “I think this belongs to you.”

      She removed her gloves and stood. But when she reached out to take the envelope, she teetered.

      “Are you all right?” he asked. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and the sun flushed her skin, making it look hot and pink.

      “Yes,” she said, but her flushed face went pale.

      Too pale, he thought.

      The envelope fell from her hand, fluttering to the ground. And in the next instant, she was going down, too. Passing out, Hawk realized.

      He reacted quickly, even though he had never been in the company of a fainting female before. Reaching forward, he caught her, and she sagged against him like a rag doll.

      Unsure of what else to do, he lifted her into his arms and then stood beneath the blinding sun, like an Apache renegade who’d just scared the wits out of an innocent, young captive.

      Now he knew why he avoided white women, he mused, mocking his penchant for trouble. He only wanted to meet his new neighbor, not create another scandal.

      Hawk adjusted Jenny, cradling her against his chest. She didn’t weigh much, but handling her felt awkward just the same.

      He made his porch steps in record time. Turning the doorknob, he shouldered his way inside. Next he deposited her on his cedar-framed sofa, her clothes twisting a little as he did.

      Hawk stepped back to study her, hoping she would rouse on her own.

      But she didn’t. Jenny remained motionless, her crumpled cotton blouse exposing an intriguing slice of skin just above the waistband of earth-smudged jeans. He couldn’t help but notice her navel. Or the lean, yet feminine curves of her body.

      Hawk frowned. Now he really felt like a renegade, checking out an unconscious woman.

      Then quit looking, he told himself. And figure out a way to revive her.

      Like what? Mouth to mouth?

      Oh, yeah. That’s the gentlemanly thing to do, he thought as he rummaged through his kitchen for the first-aid kit he kept on a cluttered shelf.

      Hawk grabbed the plastic box, opened it and found what he was hoping to—smelling salts.

      Returning to Jenny, he knelt before her, broke the packet and waved it beneath her nose.

      She stirred instantly, jerking as she regained consciousness. When their eyes met, he noticed how blue they were. And how wary.

      Jenny pulled back, trying to put some distance between herself and the man staring at her. He was much too close, his face just inches from hers. She could see the tiny lines around his eyes, the pores in that rich, copper skin, the small scar near his mouth that gave his frown an element of danger.

      His hair fell in an inky-black line, but light spilling in from the window sent a sapphire sheen over each shoulder-length strand.

      Around his neck, a turquoise nugget dangled from a leather thong. Both ears were adorned with small black claws—talons as sharp as his cheekbones.

      She knew he was her neighbor, but she’d done her best to avoid him.

      “You passed out,” he said.

      Jenny merely nodded, unable to find her voice. His, she noticed, was as rough as the Texas terrain.

      Did she fall into his arms? she wondered, mortified at the thought. All she remembered was the world turning a hazy shade of white.

      He sat on the edge of the coffee table. “Has this ever happened before?”

      “No,” she lied. She’d fainted once when she was pregnant, but that wasn’t the reason she’d lost consciousness this time. There was no way she could be pregnant. Jenny hadn’t been with anyone since her divorce.

      “I’m sorry I troubled you,” she said. “But I’m okay now.” She shifted to a sitting position to prove her point, but the movement lacked conviction. She was still a bit dizzy, her mouth as dry as dust.

      He frowned at her, the scar twisting into that menacing shape again. “You don’t look okay to me.” He rose to his full height. He stood tall and powerfully built, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip. His clothes consisted of a white T-shirt, dark jeans and a pair of knee-high moccasins.

      Clearly, no one would mistake him for anything other than what he was—a tough, striking, modern-day warrior.

      “Sit still,” he ordered. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

      Although she wanted to escape, to rush home and recline on her own couch, she did as she was told. In spite of her neighbor’s gruff demeanor, he seemed genuinely concerned. But Jenny still feared upsetting him. Men, she knew, weren’t always what they seemed.

      And this one, with his commanding voice and scarred frown, was probably used to getting his way.

      He returned with a glass of ice water and resumed his seat on the edge of the coffee table.

      Jenny wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to sit so close, but she couldn’t summon the courage to be that bold. Or that rude, she supposed. He was only trying to help.

      “Sip slowly,” he said.

      “Thank you.” The water tasted clean and refreshing. Revitalizing. “I just got over the flu. And I was tired of being cooped up in the house.”

      “So you went outside and worked in the sun?”

      “I enjoy planting flowers,” she responded, hoping it wasn’t a dumb thing to say. Roy used to tell her that she often made dumb, girlish comments.

      She tried not to think about her ex-husband and what he would do if he saw her with this man. But Roy was always on her mind, and she was always worried about him being nearby, stalking her the way he’d done back home in Salt Lake City.

      “Planting flowers is fine, I suppose. But now it appears you’ve got a touch of sunstroke. No wonder you passed out.”

      He shook his head and sent those black talons dancing. Jenny watched them spin, thinking how primitive they made him look.

      They lapsed into silence, so she took another sip of water and glanced around his house. The layout was just like hers, she realized, but the decor, with its sturdy furnishings, was undeniably masculine. An oak gun case filled with lever-action rifles made a strong, noticeable statement.

      She scanned the rifles, recognizing what appeared to be an original Winchester Yellow Boy, the legendary 1866 model. Western relics had