A thin haze of smoke rose from the chimney, meaning he was at home. She would have hated to waste all this momentum and energy for him to not be here, because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to work up the nerve again. Abruptly she realized that he might not be home anyway, despite the presence of his truck and the woodsmoke. He could be out hunting. He could—
The door opened, and he stepped out on the porch.
He was wearing jeans, boots, and an untucked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his muscled forearms, a couple of days’ stubble darkening his jaw. The sight of him twisted her insides in knots, started her heart BOOM-BOOM-BOOMing. The dog darted past him and leaped off the porch to race toward her, barking as it ran around and around her in a paroxysm of joy. Ben watched the dog with an impassive expression, and gave a shake of his head. “Dumb-ass dog.” But there was no irritation in his tone, just an acceptance of the young dog’s exuberance.
Giving herself time to school her expression, Sela bent down to stroke the animal’s head. He twisted against her legs in joy.
At least Ben wasn’t carrying the shotgun with which he’d greeted Mike, so he didn’t intend to shoot her for intruding on his privacy. That was a promising detail, though he didn’t exactly look welcoming. Still, he’d been on her private property twice, he’d drank her tea, so maybe they were past the shoot-on-sight stage. She wished she felt welcome here, but right now she’d settle for “tolerated.” He stood there, big and intimidating, his hard face as unreadable as stone; maybe tolerance was an optimistic expectation.
“What’s wrong?” he asked bluntly.
Because of course something had to be wrong or she wouldn’t be here—and what wasn’t wrong? Pretty much everything was wrong. She was in over her head and overwhelmed. Where to begin?
She took a deep breath and walked up to the steps, which was as close as she dared to get before she lost momentum. Her voice wouldn’t quite work, with her heart pounding so hard and her stomach tied in knots. She stood there staring up at him, wondering if he could see the desperation crawling under her skin.
Then he stepped aside and said, “Come on in.”
She wanted to go in, and she didn’t want to. She wanted to say what she’d come here to say, and leave before she embarrassed herself by breaking down. Yes, she was curious about his house, how he lived, but at the same time that old sense of caution and self-preservation was yelling at her to keep her distance, that distance equaled safety, and safety equaled . . . what? Never living?
She went up the steps. Maybe no one other than her would ever know what an emotional effort that took, but she did. The dog scampered past her, darted inside, and before she reached the door was standing there with a shoe in his mouth, tail wagging.
Despite her attack of nerves, the idea of the dog chewing one of Ben’s shoes made her smile. “You gave him your shoe?”
“It wasn’t exactly giving it to him as much as it was he appropriated it. It was an old pair anyway. Move, dog.”
The dog moved. Ben put his hand on her lower back and ushered her inside, a light touch that nevertheless burned through layers of clothing and left her scorched. She almost faltered to a stop but managed to keep her feet moving—for a few feet, at least, when astonishment brought her to a halt.
The interior wasn’t anything like what she’d expected. For some reason she’d expected at least a little shabbiness. It wasn’t. It was utilitarian, almost Spartan, but there was nothing shabby about it. The big open room was kitchen, dining, and living space all together, wide plank flooring, with a flat-weave rug under the eating table and another defining the living area, which contained a leather couch, two leather recliners, a coffee table, end tables, and a couple of lamps. She had expected pine walls, and instead found drywall painted a no-nonsense beige. No knickknacks, of course; she couldn’t imagine Ben Jernigan owning even one decorative piece, much less several. No art on the walls. If a gun rack filled with multiple weapons could be considered decoration, then that was his effort at it. The room was comfortably warm—warmer than her house, anyway—thanks to the