Storming Whitehorn - By Christine Scott Page 0,7

stiffening her limbs, numbing her mind. Never before had she been rebuffed by a man twice in as many days. The experience was as humiliating as it was crushing to her ego.

Until now she’d thought of herself as a desirable woman. At least, the men in town had certainly made her feel that way. She’d never wanted for a date, not since she’d turned a sweet sixteen. But with all their clumsy attempts to woo her, none of the local men had ever come close to arousing in her the earth-shattering sensations she’d experienced with Storm’s single kiss. What made his rejection even harder to understand was that she could have sworn Storm had felt the same way.

“Jasmine?” Summer’s soft voice interrupted her pensive thoughts. She linked arms, pulling Jasmine close to her side. “You’re trembling. Are you all right?”

Jasmine watched Storm’s departure through the cemetery while trying to focus on her cousin’s words. “It’s just the wind, the cold. I’m fine, really.”

Summer frowned. “You don’t look fine. You look as though you’ve lost your best friend.”

No, just a chance at something wonderful.

Summer followed the direction of her distracted gaze, her frown deepening. “Do you know that man?”

Jasmine bit her lip, hesitating before answering, uncertain what to say. Storm Hunter was Summer’s uncle. Though Storm had left Whitehorn long before her birth, and had never bothered to contact her since, he was still her closest living relative on her father’s side. She wasn’t sure what Summer’s reaction might be to his appearance.

Unable to lie to her cousin, Jasmine said, “That man was Storm Hunter, your uncle.”

Summer flinched at the words. Her gaze startled, she looked across the cemetery grounds to the chapel’s parking lot where Storm was climbing into his car. Pain and confusion filled her eyes. And Jasmine realized she wasn’t the only woman feeling rejected.

Jasmine muttered an oath beneath her breath. Damn the man. Since arriving in Whitehorn, Storm Hunter had caused nothing but trouble for every single person his presence had touched.

Hadn’t he done enough damage?

For her sake, as well as her family’s, perhaps it would be best if he returned to where he’d come.

One hand clenching the steering wheel, Storm put the cemetery far behind him. With his free hand, he loosened his tie and wrenched it from the collar of his shirt. Fumbling blindly with the top button, he breathed a sigh of relief as it popped open. A suit and tie were his daily lawyer’s uniform, but today the outfit felt as though it were choking him.

At least, that was the excuse he allowed himself for his agitated state. He refused to blame his foul mood on his reaction to seeing Jasmine again. He told himself that the white-hot flash of desire he’d felt had nothing to do with his quick departure from the cemetery. Nor did it have anything to do with the lingering conviction that somehow he and Jasmine were fated to be together. No, he wasn’t running away. He’d merely accomplished what he’d set out to do—see for himself the family that had destroyed his life. The Kincaids.

Only, until he saw her standing alone amid the mourners, he’d forgotten that one of the Kincaids included a member of his own family. Summer Kincaid, his brother’s only child.

Storm drove slowly through Whitehorn’s downtown area, passing the police station and the movie theater. Down the street from the court house, he spotted the Hip Hop Café. Though it was too early for lunch, he didn’t think he could face the four silent walls of his hotel room. He needed a place where he could go to unwind and not have to listen to the sound of his own guilty conscience.

He pulled into a space and parked the car. Tossing his suit coat into the back seat, he headed inside the café. A country tune by Garth Brooks greeted him at the door. A handful of patrons were scattered around the café, some at the counter, others in booths. Heads turned at his entrance. Curious glances followed him as he made his way to a booth in the back. Whether they were staring at him because he was a Native American or because he was over-dressed for the lunch time crowd, he wasn’t sure.

Since arriving in Whitehorn, he hadn’t felt an open hostility from any of its residents. Though he couldn’t say he felt welcomed, either. Bigotry was alive and well across the country. Whitehorn was no worse or no better than any other