Rock-A-Bye Rescue. Karen Whiddon

chest. If a cat could startle him, how did he expect to protect her and Eve?

      While she studied him, he said, “I apologize for yelling earlier. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

      “You didn’t.”

      He cut a brief, dubious glance in her direction. “So pale and shaking are your norm?”

      “I—” Lila puffed out a breath through pursed lips. “Okay, so you rattled me. But I was already upset because of the call, and the baby crying and...” She raked her hair back from her face with her fingers and cast a glance toward her front door, double-checking that Dean had relocked it when he came back inside with the shotgun. “Besides, you’re one to talk if Chloe running into the hall frightened you.”

      “I said startled, not frightened. I’m good.”

      She hummed her skepticism, then continued to watch him silently.

      Another few quiet seconds passed, marked by the loud ticking of her mantel clock. “I do have a generator. Out back. It’s old, but I think it still works.”

      He nodded. “I’ll take a look when I finish here.”

      Lila rubbed her arms. The cabin was drafty on a good day, but without the electric heater and with the wind beginning to pick up outside, the temperature in the cabin was rapidly dropping. “I should build a fire,” she said, mostly thinking aloud.

      Dean looked up from the shotgun. “I can do that.”

      “No. I can handle it.” She hurried over to the hearth and kneeled. As she started stacking kindling and split wood on the grate, she added, “Thanks.”

      “Hmm?”

      “I said thank you. For your help. I know I’ve acted anything but grateful so far, but...” She sat back on her heels and dusted her hands. “I am glad you’re here. I appreciate your precautions. This whole horrifying situation—ice storms and escaped murderers wanting to kill innocent children—I don’t know why I’m lucky enough to be caught in the middle of this insanity, but...it would be even more terrifying if I was facing it alone. We may have gotten off on the wrong foot this morning, but thank you for overlooking my judgmental assumptions about you and volunteering to stick around until—”

      Dean grunted loudly and shook his head. “You’re right.”

      She blinked. “What?”

      “You do prattle when you’re nervous.”

      She huffed a sigh. “Oh. Sorry.”

      He stood from the couch and propped the shotgun against the side table. “Whatever. Just an observation. I’ll take a look at the generator now.”

      With a nod, she turned back to the fire she was building, struck a match and held it to the shreds of paper she’d stuffed under the wood. Once the fire caught the logs, she followed Dean outside, taking the shotgun with her.

      He crouched by the generator and tinkered with the motor. Before she even reached him and without turning, he said, “It didn’t crank on my first try, but I think it just needs a little maintenance.”

      “How did you—”

      “You have a light step, but I still heard you coming.”

      “I could have been the killer. The cop, an animal.”

      He sent a you’re-not-funny look over his shoulder.

      “I smelled your perfume, too.”

      “I don’t wear perfume.”

      “Shampoo, then. Or body lotion. Whatever.” He rose to his feet and faced her. Arching one eyebrow, he let his gaze dart to the shotgun and back to her face. “You smell like flowers, and I’ve been trained to be fully aware of my surroundings at all times.”

      “I see.” Knowing he was so keenly alert to her scent and the sound of her approach sent an odd tickle to her belly. Such an intimate awareness was usually reserved for close family...or lovers. She pushed the sensation away and said, “And yet Chloe almost got shot.”

      “Give it a rest. I wouldn’t have really shot at your cat.” He sighed and added, “I was surprised by the cat, yes, but I’m okay. Really. Don’t look at me like that.”

      “Like what?”

      “Like I’m a time bomb. I’m fine. Just...don’t sneak up on me again. Okay?”

      She raised a hand. “Fine.”

      “This should only take a minute. You can wait inside if you want to get out of the cold.”

      She glanced toward the front door and considered going in. It was cold out. A damp, bone-chilling cold. But somehow, as strange as it seemed, she felt safer outside. With Dean. She gave a wry chuckle with that realization, and her exhaled breath made a white cloud.

      As Dean continued tinkering, she alternated between studying him—his chiseled profile, which had only improved as he aged—and glancing nervously to the frosted woods, where the icy branches shimmered as they swayed in the chilly breeze. She tried to appreciate the sparkle of the ice with an artist’s eye, but the notion of a killer lurking in her woods tainted even the fairylike beauty of the wintry scene. The ping of ice pellets created an added tension, like the ticking of a clock.

      While her attention was focused on the wind picking up and the clatter of frozen branches swaying in the increasing gusts, Dean cranked the generator. The engine roared to life.

      For the second time that day, she yelped her surprise. Clapping a hand over her thundering heart, she spun back toward him. “Geez, Dean. A little warning next time?”

      He arched an eyebrow. “Now who’s jumpy?”

      She rolled her shoulders to loosen the tense muscles. “Can you blame me? With a murderer headed up to my cabin?”

      He dusted off his hands and twisted his mouth in a noncommittal moue. “You need to distract yourself somehow. Stop thinking about it.”

      “Really?” She sent him a skeptical eye roll. “How do you propose I do that?”

      He shrugged as he rose from his crouch. “Paint.”

      She shook her head. “No. Too many distractions.”

      “Then you could make us lunch.”

      “How can you even think of food? My stomach is in knots.”

      “So I get nothing in exchange for fixing your generator and providing you with power?” For the first time, she heard a teasing note in his tone that did as much to calm her as any distraction she could think of.

      She tried for a similar lightness, even though her voice remained strained. “I guess you’ve earned some soup. Maybe a sandwich, too, if it means you’ll stop growling at me like a hungry bear.”

      “Grrr!” he replied with a droll smirk, but the low rumble from his throat was far more sexy than it was intimidating. “I’ll stop growling at you if you promise to stop aiming shotguns at me and bringing up my less-than-noble past.”

      She twitched a grin. “Deal.”

      He placed a hand at her back to steer her inside, and while the gesture was minor in the big picture, a warm sense of reassurance flowed through her. Dean was here. He was competent, confident and in control of the situation.

      Wow, I’ve sure done a one-eighty with regard to him in the last hour, she acknowledged as she headed inside with him.

      She led him into her kitchen, where she took out a container of homemade vegetable soup, some cold cuts and condiments. “The bread is over there.” She pointed toward her counter.

      “In the bread box?” he asked, opening the wooden storage. “Imagine that.”

      She chuckled at herself. “Hmm. Yeah.” Then with a playful grin,