The way he walked, the way he and the mare moved togetherâ¦it was like poetry in motion.
Now Sheryl looked at his face, lit by the glow of the dashboard. It was a hard faceâunforgiving, but also honest. One more step toward him and she knew sheâd be in too deep. This man oozed animal magnetism. What drew her to him? Chemical attraction? Biological need?
Whatever it was, she didnât need it, a voice warned inside her head.
But like it or not, she wasnât ready to turn her back on Hawk Donovan and his mysteries. Yet as she looked at his profile and tried to make sense out of everything sheâd seen of this man, she got the distinct feeling that she didnât want to know all his secretsâ¦.
would rather write than do anything else. Since she cannot cook, gave up ironing many years ago, and finds cleaning the house a complete waste of time, she has plenty of time to devote to her obsession for writing. Occasionally sheâs tried to expand her horizons by taking classes. In the past sheâs taken instruction on yoga, French (a dismal failure), Chinese cooking, cake decorating (food-related classes are always a good choice, even for someone who canât cook), belly dancing (trust me, this was a long time ago) and, of course, creative writing.
She lives in Huntsville, Alabama, with her husband of more years than sheâs willing to admit and the youngest of their three sons.
She can be reached via www.eHarlequin.com or her own Web site www.lindawinsteadjones.com.
Hawk studied the boxes and bottles of remedies that were neatly arranged on the shelf. Greenlaurelâs sole pharmacy, Chapman Drugs, usually had everything a man might possibly need. But since the doctors were stumped about the cause of Cassieâs sudden onset of seizures, Hawk had no idea what to buy to make his sister feel better.
What he really wanted to do was hunt down one Dr. Shane Farhold and break the manâs scrawny neck. Farhold had always seemed like a decent enough guy, not the kind of man who would knock up a woman and then disappear. Hawk knew heâd be angry even if Cassie hadnât been having strange spells.
He grabbed a couple of medications off the shelf. Something for nausea, something else for headaches. At the last minute he snagged a bottle of pink stuff. His mother had always given them that for every little illness. He didnât really think it would do any good, but he had to try something. On the way out of town heâd stop at the grocery store for ginger ale and soda crackers. They were as likely as anything else to work.
Deep down he knew the medicines that might help Cassie with her normal pregnancy ailments would do nothing at all for the mild but disturbing seizures no one could explain. And he didnât dare ask anyone about a treatment for the odd flashes of precognition that followed the episodes.
âYou wonât find what youâre looking for here,â a smoky voice whispered.
Hawk turned sharply to find an older woman, one he did not recognize, standing just a few feet away. He hadnât even known she was present until sheâd spoken. In ordinary circumstances he knew very well what was going on around him; his worry for Cassie had clouded his senses.
The woman who looked up at him with fearless green eyes was not a resident of Greenlaurel, Texas, or the surrounding county. Hawk had grown up on a ranch outside this small town, and with the exception of his four years in the military, heâd spent his entire life here. Besides, except for Harmony Eastwood, a middle-aged, self-professed, die-hard hippie who had been emulating Stevie Nicks for more than twenty years, the ladies of Greenlaurel didnât dress this way. The womanâs silver-streaked dark hair fell well past her shoulders, and the long, loose-fitting black dress she wore could have come straight out of the seventies.
âHow do you know what Iâm looking for?â Hawk asked sharply.
The woman leaned in slightly closer. âYour sister is ill, and you want only to take care of her. What she needs, for herself and for the baby, you wonât find in any pharmacy.â
Great. Apparently word was already out that Cassie was pregnant and sick. Not that Hawk cared, or ever had, what people thought about him or his family. But Cassie deserved better.
âWhatever youâre selling, Iâm not buying.â He headed for the cash register at the front of the store.
âIâm not selling anything, Hawk.â
He wasnât surprised that she knew his name, either. In a small town, information was easy enough to come by. Hawk glanced through the glass front door of the pharmacy and smiled at Baby. The big yellow dogâa mixed breed with a healthy dose of golden retrieverâsat right where Hawk had told her to stay, watching for him through the glass and waiting patiently.