7

Logan leaned an elbow on his knee as he bent forward to place the eight of clubs he’d just drawn atop the nine of diamonds lying among the rest of his solitaire stacks. He chanced a glance at the sun dipping ever lower in the afternoon sky, then drew another card from the shrinking pile in his hand.

Queen of hearts. Useless. She didn’t play anywhere. No black kings were hanging out, waiting for her. Unlike the foolish knave sitting on his bedroll with a deck of cards, twitching at every leaf rustle or twig snap.

Logan tossed the feckless queen atop his solitaire offerings with enough force to scatter the center stacks.

She wasn’t coming. Of course she wasn’t. Why would she? He’d all but run her off with his abrupt manner and dark conjectures. Stupid conscience. Why had he felt the need to warn her away? Evangeline Hamilton was the perfect pawn. Naïve. Soft-hearted. Trusted by the enemy.

Fate dealt him an ace, and like an idiot, he’d discarded it.

Maybe he should be glad that she’d failed to follow through on her impulsive promise to return. She might make a great pawn, but she was certain to be a distraction. One he couldn’t afford. He had to stay focused on the end game, on enacting justice. He didn’t need a spunky wood sprite showering him with happy-sappy fairy dust at every turn. Spouting ridiculous adages about joy and hope and telling him to peddle his pessimism elsewhere.

Logan’s mouth quirked into a reluctant smile at the memory. She might be a romantic idealist, but she had the gumption of a military general when it came to standing her ground and advancing her position. No wonder his horse had taken to her.

A quiet nicker sounded behind him.

Speaking of his horse. . . .

Logan pushed to his feet, his eyes scanning the wooded area in front of him. His heart pounded in moronic anticipation as his neck craned in an effort to peer deeper into the trees. Having maintained a grasp on at least a few of his faculties, he kept a hand on the butt of his revolver as his ears finally picked up the soft treads that had alerted Shamgar to their approaching company.

A flash of red caught his eye. Dark red, like wine. His gut tightened. His chest throbbed. Then she cleared the trees. Her red skirt snapped in time to her purposeful strides. An ivory blouse with thin, matching red stripes outlined subtle curves he couldn’t seem to look away from. The high collar and upswept hairstyle accentuated a graceful neck that he’d failed to notice yesterday during their tackling and sparring session.

Good gravy, but she was a beauty. Not that he hadn’t figured that out during their first encounter, but today she wasn’t covered in dirt and debris from an unneeded rescue. Today she looked . . . fresh. Bright. Like she’d purposely taken care with her appearance. For him.

A touch of male swagger loosened his limbs as he strutted forward to meet her.

Dropping his hand from his weapon, he reached forward to relieve her of the basket she carried. “No pig today?”

Evangeline shook her head, her mysterious eyes twinkling. “I didn’t think it wise with food involved.”

He lifted the towel covering the basket, and the aroma hit him. Bread. Fresh bread. Fresh, still warm bread.

Logan’s mouth watered and his stomach rumbled with embarrassing volume. He hadn’t eaten fresh bread since . . . he couldn’t remember when. The last time he’d visited his mother at his aunt’s house, he supposed. How long had that been? Five months? Six?

The cook at the logging camp in east Texas where he’d worked for the past three years tended to serve dry, crumbly biscuits that were only palatable under gravy. And the saloons he’d frequented to keep his card skills honed focused more on catering to the male appetite for whiskey, women, and winnings than food. Suddenly coming nose-to-basket with what he’d been missing stirred a surprising hunger inside him.

His companion giggled. “I can hear you salivating from here. Don’t worry, I won’t make you wait. There are few pleasures more delightful than warm bread with butter.”

Logan jerked his gaze up to her face. “You brought butter, too?”

The little minx grinned. “Of course. A small crock you can keep cool in the stream that runs past your corral.”

Logan held a hand out to her when they reached a rough patch of terrain. Pink tinged her cheeks, but she laid her fingers in his palm and allowed him to help her over a tiny ravine breaking apart the ground in their path. Not that she needed his help—her adroitness yesterday proved her surefootedness—but he’d not completely forgotten the manners his ma had taught him.

Picnic basket, pretty gal in nicer-than-usual clothes, fella with an empty belly and an appreciation for rosy blushes and teasing conversation—this outing had all the markers of a legitimate social engagement. Well, maybe not legitimate. His intentions were not entirely honorable, after all. He’d never harm the lady or her reputation, but he fully intended to seduce information from her—learning how Hamilton’s thought processes worked, what he valued, what secrets might be hanging about that could be exploited. Logan planned to mine Evangeline for every nugget of insight he could extract.

All while trying not to hurt her in the process.

Probably not completely possible, but he’d give it his best effort. If his luck held, her soft heart would bleed enough over his own sad tale that he’d win her to his side. Then she’d actually help him take her brother down.

Allying himself with the cheerful little sprite proved a rather attractive prospect when he thought about it. Too bad the odds of a troll beguiling a fairy were slimmer than a playing card’s edge. But slim odds were better than no odds, and he’d never throw in a hand before all the cards were dealt. He had time to maneuver, to cultivate advantages, and bluff his way into her good graces. He knew how to win and wasn’t afraid to raise the stakes.

“I wasn’t sure your brothers would let you come,” he ventured. “Meeting a strange man out in the woods and all.” He chanced a glance at her profile. “The way you described them yesterday made them seem like the protective sort.”

“Oh, they are,” she assured him, her eyes twinkling. “But after I told them about your gallant attempt to save me from a rampaging boar, they relented when I proposed I bring you a basket to welcome you to Pecan Gap.” She grinned at him, a sideways, mischievous twist of the lips that made him think they were sharing a secret. “They’re not terribly fond of my keeping a hog as a pet, so the fact that you tried to shoot Hezzy actually raised you in their estimation.”

This woman defined delightful. With her dancing eyes and teasing smile numbing his brain, it took Logan several seconds to remember why he’d started this line of questioning in the first place. Oh, yes. Find out what she’d told her brothers about him. They knew of his presence. What else?

“I’m still surprised one of them didn’t escort you out here.”

Her chin came up a fraction. “Women pay neighborly calls in town all the time without a male escort. Why should this be any different?” She slowed her step and eyed him with sudden suspicion. “Unless you’re not the gentleman you led me to believe yesterday.” She leaned away from him, her smile vanishing. “Just so you know, I never travel this country unarmed. I carry a knife in my boot, and Zach made sure I knew how to use it.”

Great. Now he was scaring her off. Way to go, Logan. He backed off and tried for charm instead of answers. He placed his right hand over his heart and thickened his southern accent. “I swear, ma’am, that you are safe in my company. My mama raised me to guard a woman’s person and her virtue with equal vigor. I only wondered at your brothers’ faith in a man they had not yet met. If you were in my keeping, I’d not be so trusting.”

Some of the sparkle came back into her eyes. “If I were in your keeping, I’d escape your smothering vigilance just as often as I escape theirs.”

He chuckled. “I don’t doubt it.”

Evangeline Hamilton craved freedom and had a mild rebellious streak. He could use that.

“Besides,” she said, her shoulders lifting in a shrug, “I told them precisely where I’d be, so if I’m not home in an hour, Zach will come looking and probably shoot you for causing him worry. He does tend to fret where I’m concerned. It’s sweet but a tad constricting.”

She worded the threat in such a matter-of-fact fashion, Logan couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. Hamilton had already proven himself capable of hurting others without conscience. Cards, pistols—simply a different choice of weapon. But now Logan knew the man had a weakness. His sister.

“I guess we better get on with our visit, then, shouldn’t we?” He steered her to his campsite and steadied her while she seated herself atop his bedroll. “So what else is in here? It feels heavier than a loaf of bread.” He lifted the basket cover to peek inside, then placed it between them and settled on the opposite side.

“Go ahead and unpack it,” she said, her voice a teasing lilt. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I brought an assortment.”

An assortment of treasures. Stunned by her generosity, Logan inwardly gaped at each new item he pulled from the basket, though outwardly he kept his expression limited to polite interest. In addition to the bread and crock of butter, she’d also included a pint of red jam. Strawberry? Boy, he hoped so. It was his favorite. A thick slab of smoked ham wrapped in brown paper. A quart of string beans.

One jar remained. He reached for it, then stilled. Reverently, he brought the fruit jar out of the basket. Peaches. Sweet, juicy, yellow peaches.

He glanced sideways at his companion. “You’re giving these to me?” Peaches were a luxury. A treat for special occasions.

Evangeline shrugged and turned her attention to her lap. “We have a pair of trees by the house. I put up a half-dozen quarts every summer. We can spare one to welcome our new neighbor.”

Trees by the house? Logan cradled the glass jar in his arm as he struggled to contain the emotion that swelled inside him without warning. His mother had planted a pair of saplings by their front porch. He’d forgotten those little trees. The ones she’d watered with such care to ensure the roots wound deep into the soil. He’d not paid them much attention at the time, more interested in romping about the countryside than pampering baby trees. He didn’t even know what type they had been, since they hadn’t produced any fruit before he and his mother had been forced to leave. But if they were his mother’s trees. . . .

Thickness clogged his throat. He cleared it away and forced himself to set the peaches aside as if they weren’t the most valuable gift he’d received in the last seven years, then pasted a generic smile on his face. “Thanks.”

She smiled in return, but her eyes probed his, and he sensed she’d not been fooled by his manufactured nonchalance.

Logan turned away, using the near-empty basket as his excuse. Keep your guard up, man. It wouldn’t do for her to learn his tells, ferret out his weaknesses. She could turn against him, ally herself with his enemy. He had to maintain control of their interactions. Reveal only what was advantageous to his end game. Nothing more.

He found two utensils in the bottom of the basket. Knives—one for slicing the bread, the other for spreading butter. He drew them out, placed them across his bent leg, then reached for the loaf and gently removed its cloth wrapper.

“Join me?” he asked as he lifted the serrated blade above the golden brown offering. He peered at her. “This bounty is far too great for me to indulge in alone.”

She leaned forward as if to impart a secret. Cupping her hand around the side of her mouth, she whispered, “Why do you think I packed the knives?”

He chuckled. “A conspirator, I see.” He winked. “A woman after my own heart.”

Evangeline grinned at his devilish quip, but she filed the odd word choice away. Conspirator. Was that how Logan saw himself, or was he just being flirtatious?

She dipped her chin. Heavens, but she wanted him to be flirting. She’d never been on the receiving end of such attention before, and her belly fluttered with delightful little spasms at the thought that this heroic rescuer of women from imagined boar attacks might actually find her attractive. Might truly enjoy her company.

As the edge of the knife sawed through the crusty outer layer of bread, Evangeline looked up, greedy for the opportunity to study Logan while he concentrated on his task.

He’d trimmed his beard. Her heart stuttered at the observation. Yesterday it had been a mite unkempt. Scraggly. A tad fluffy, even.

The fluff had disappeared. Cropped close, the beard outlined the squareness of his jaw without the scraggly bits trailing down his neck that had been there yesterday. Had he done that for her? Because he’d wanted to look his best when she brought the supplies? His shirt was clean, too. And while his boots were just as worn as they’d been yesterday, less dust clung to the cracked leather.

Evangeline sat a little straighter and smoothed a hand over the skirt draped across her bent legs.

Of course, his efforts might have absolutely nothing to do with her. Perhaps it was simply his day to clean up. Like laundry day.

But he might have done it for her. To make a favorable impression. She nibbled the inside of her lip. No harm in assuming the best until proven wrong.

Logan glanced up from the loaf as if he’d sensed her attention. Evangeline looked away. Spying the crock of butter, she pounced. “If you’ll hand me a piece, I’ll start buttering it for you.”

“Thanks.” His eyes radiated nothing but warmth as she accepted the first raggedly uneven slice from his hand.

She slathered it with a generous portion of butter, then proffered it to him. “Here. I’ll slice the rest while you eat.”

“Probably a good idea,” he said, shaking his head over the four slices lying on the bread cloth. The heel was half an inch thick at the top, but thin as a toothpick at the bottom. “I seem to be making a hash of it.”

He handed her the knife, handle first, and her fingers rubbed against his in the exchange. Her skin tingled where she’d touched him, and her breath caught slightly. He didn’t seem in any hurry to release his grip. Even with the prize of warm buttered bread in her other hand, right below his nose.

Evangeline tightened her grip on the utensil’s handle and tugged it from his grasp. Logan might make her head spin and her insides dance around like popping corn in a hot skillet, but she knew better than to let a few frilly feelings turn her mind to mush. He was a mystery that needed solving before anything personal could develop between them.

Thankfully, he received her less-than-subtle message and removed the bread from her other hand with barely more than a brush of his little finger. Nothing more than what she’d expect from one of her brothers taking something from her, but the impact of that barely-there touch was magnified a hundred times compared to anything she’d felt from Zach or Seth. She could feel it still, even several heartbeats after Logan moved away.

Determined to focus on something other than the man consuming every thought currently running through her head, Evangeline set to work on the bread, fully intending to prove her womanhood by slicing the remainder of the loaf with geometric precision that would make an architect proud. Unfortunately, two slices in, Logan bit into his bread and started making the most disruptive sounds. Moans, really. Transported, elated moans that no baker with an ounce of pride could ignore. Apparently she had more than an ounce.

She glanced up and was immediately struck by the rapture on his face. Eyes closed, head tilted slightly toward the sky, he chewed and savored as if she’d fed him a fancy French pastry instead of a slice of ordinary bread.

“Oh . . . mmm . . .” he managed to get out when his mouth opened to take a second bite that ended up engulfing the entire remaining portion. “This is so tasty!”

At least that was what she thought he said. It was hard to tell for certain with his overstuffed mouth muffling the words. It could as easily have been “Thick as goo, pasty,” but he seemed to be enjoying what he was eating, so she assumed the first interpretation was correct.

She hurried to butter him a second slice. His enjoyment was such a delight to behold, she probably would have fed him the entire loaf if he hadn’t slowed after three pieces to insist that she take the fourth.

He held up a hand and shook his head, though he had to swallow before he could actually speak the apology his eyes were signaling. “You must think me raised by wolves.” He cupped his palm beneath the hand holding out the next slice and gently steered the offering back toward her. “Please. You take this one.”

“Are you sure?” she teased, even while her insides rioted at the touch of his hand on hers. “I don’t think I could enjoy it half as much as you seem to. It’d be a shame to waste it on such an unappreciative palate.”

“I insist.” He finally drew his hand away from hers in order to thud his fist against his chest in a gesture of fervency. “I swear I’ll not eat another bite unless you join me in the feast.”

“Well, we can’t let that atrocity occur. This was meant to be a gift, after all. I’d hate to have to take it back and feed it to Hezekiah.”

Logan’s stricken gaze darted from her face to the bread as if he actually feared she would do such a thing.

Evangeline laughed. “Here.” She pushed the crock of butter toward him, then lifted the bread to her lips and took a healthy bite off one corner.

“That’s my girl.” Logan grinned and immediately set about buttering a fifth slice, unaware of the impact of his casually spoken words.

My girl.

They tapped into every dream she’d hidden in her heart since childhood. The dream of belonging.

At first it had just been about family, but over the last few years, as she witnessed girls her age and younger pairing off with beaus, then marrying and having children, she’d started dreaming of belonging to someone in particular. A man. A special man. One who would see past her oddities and love the woman inside. Who would accept her patchwork family and rejoice in becoming a part of it. Who would give her the chance to be a mother like the one she barely remembered, to raise children who would know without doubt that they were loved and accepted, that they belonged.

Her whirling thoughts slowed her eating pace so that she barely finished her single slice in the time Logan ate two more. With a joking comment about how he’d eat every slice if he didn’t remove the temptation, Logan wrapped the remaining bread back inside the cloth.

As he tied a knot across the top of the half-loaf by pulling two corners tight, he searched out her eyes. “That was the finest bread I have ever tasted, Evangeline Hamilton.” His sincerity washed over her and seeped into every dry crevice that hungered for approval, for acceptance. “You’ve made me feel welcome in a place that has offered me little kindness in the past.”

“I’m glad.” Whatever he’d suffered, she wanted nothing more than to be the balm that soothed his wounds and helped him heal.

Evangeline made a decision. No, a vow. She’d pray for this man with no last name. This man who carried heavy secrets and mysterious intent. She’d pray every night as she fell asleep and every morning when she awoke. She’d pray for healing of old wounds, for an abundance of new blessings, and for godly direction to guide his steps.

As Logan jumped nimbly to his feet and held out his hand to assist her in rising, she realized she’d better add another prayer to her list. One that involved an extra helping of discernment for her own heart. She was walking a tightrope with this one, and she very much feared there would not be a net to catch her if she fell.