Lone Wolf. Sheri WhiteFeather

have to go,” she said abruptly.

      “Are you sure you can’t stay for a few more minutes?” He held up the puppy, and the floppy-eared little guy yipped happily at her.

      “No,” she responded a bit nervously. “I can’t.”

      Hawk watched Jenny wheel her cart across the parking lot. Why was she so cautious? Why did she run away from him every chance she got?

      At this point, he didn’t think his reputation had preceded him. Whatever plagued Jenny went much deeper than frivolous gossip.

      There were moments she reminded him of a wounded creature—a skittish filly or a bird with a broken wing.

      Of course, Hawk had experience in both those areas. But he’d never gotten close to a woman with a fragile spirit.

      Then again, he’d never gotten close to anyone.

      “Are you gonna keep the dog, mister?”

      He glanced at the kids. “Yeah, I am. Is that okay with you two?”

      “Sure. He needs a home.”

      Well, he’s got one now, Hawk thought, as the puppy continued to wiggle like a furry, wet-nosed worm. Reaching into his pocket, he removed his wallet and handed the boys some cash.

      Dumbfounded, they stared at him. “He doesn’t cost anything. We’re giving him away.”

      “I know, but I don’t mind paying for him.” Hawk wanted the dog to know that he was just as valuable as a pedigreed dog with papers. Animals, like humans, he believed, sensed their worth.

      “Our dad said he was the runt.”

      “Right now maybe. But look at the size of these feet.” He held out one of the pup’s big clumsy paws. “He’s not going to be a runt forever.”

      The boys grinned and accepted the donation just as Hawk’s cell phone rang.

      He walked away for some privacy. “Hello?”

      “Hawk, it’s Tom Jackson. I think you better get back to the barn.”

      “Why? What’s wrong?”

      “You’ve got a client waiting on you. And he’s the impatient sort.”

      Hawk frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone at the barn, not at this hour. “Then put him on the phone.”

      The other man paused. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather not. I think you need to handle this in person.”

      “All right.” Whoever the client was, he certainly had the owner of Jackson Stables jumping through hoops. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

      Hawk loaded the puppy into his truck and decided not to speculate about who was waiting for him. If someone had a professional beef with him, he would find out what the problem was and remedy it. Hawk considered himself an ethical man, a man who didn’t brawl over things a firm handshake and a calm, rational attitude could fix.

      The commotion next to him caught his attention. The dog wouldn’t sit still. The feisty little critter paced the bench seat, finally settling on Hawk’s lap with an insecure whine.

      “It’s okay.” He scratched the puppy’s head. “You can stay there for now. But sooner or later, you’ll have to toughen up.”

      By the time Hawk reached Jackson Stables, the dog was asleep. He chuckled and turned into the driveway that led to his barn.

      And then he spotted the truck and horse trailer bearing the Wainwright logo.

      What the hell was this?

      Hawk parked his rig, exited it and set the puppy on the ground.

      Squaring his shoulders, he went around to the back of the trailer where he saw none other than Archy Wainwright—the son of a bitch who’d spawned him—leaning against it.

      Two

      Primed for battle, Hawk forgot all about being calm and rational. “What the hell are you doing here?”

      Archy made a slow turn, meeting Hawk’s gaze. He stood tall and well built, a man fit and trim for his age. “I brought you some business.”

      “Really?” Hawk’s voice oozed with sarcasm, his blood running cold. “Now, why would you do that?”

      “To see if you’re any good.”

      Pride, pure and primitive, gushed through his veins. “Of course I am. I’m an Apache. We’ve always been better horsemen than your kind.”

      Archy lifted a bushy brow, his clear blue eyes sparkling with challenge. A custom-made cowboy hat rested casually on his head, and his skin was tanned and weathered. Hawk refused to see himself in the other man, even if their height and the breadth of their shoulders were the same.

      “My kind?” Archy asked finally.

      “Rich, useless Texans.”

      The wealthy rancher gestured to the trailer, his tone tight and tough. “If that’s how you feel, then accept the work I’m offering. Prove how good you are, Apache.”

      “I don’t have to prove a damn thing to you.” Nor did he want his father’s tainted money. “You’re nothing to me.” Nothing but the womanizer who’d taken advantage of Hawk’s mother and then refused to acknowledge Hawk as his son. “I’d rather do business with the devil.”

      “Well, as it happens, you’re not bearing Lucifer’s name. It’s mine you’re using, and I have the right to know if you can break a horse the Wainwright way.”

      “I don’t do anything the Wainwright way,” Hawk said, keeping his voice steady and his fists clenched. “And the only reason I’m using your name is because my mother wanted me to. Now get the hell away from me, old man. And don’t ever come back.”

      “You’re a cocky bastard, I’ll say that much for you.” Archy turned his back on Hawk and headed for his truck.

      Yeah, I’m a bastard, Hawk thought. But I was once a little boy, an innocent kid who wanted his daddy to care.

      The puppy barked at the Wainwright rig, giving Archy a piece of his mind. Of course, the older man was already behind the wheel, his door closed, his windows secure, but the show of loyalty made Hawk feel good just the same. The dog’s youthful voice had lowered an octave, the hairs on his back rising.

      Hawk’s hackles were up, too. He’d run into his dad off and on throughout the years, chance meetings neither had orchestrated. But Archy had never come gunning for his son. He’d never looked Hawk straight in the eye and challenged him to prove that he deserved the Wainwright name.

      And his doing it today made Hawk hate him even more.

      Once Archy’s truck and trailer disappeared down the road, he picked up the pup.

      “Let’s go home.” Hawk needed to unwind, to jump in the shower and allow the water to pummel his body. “And then I’m downing a few beers to take the edge off,” he told the dog. “And fixing both of us something good to eat.” He wasn’t about to let Archy twist his stomach into a knot and destroy his appetite.

      Twenty minutes later Hawk pulled into his driveway, killed the engine and cursed. He’d just remembered that he hadn’t returned to the market. His fridge was empty.

      Damn it. He didn’t have the energy to drive back into town. He couldn’t deal with a public place, all the noise and people.

      He wanted to be alone, wanted to shower, drink a few beers, grill a thick, juicy porterhouse and reward the dog with table scraps for barking aggressively at Archy.

      But now it seemed Archy had won.

      Weary, Hawk leaned against the seat and caught movement through the passenger window.

      It