Storming Whitehorn

He was muscular, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. His hair was straight and black, with touches of gray at the temples. He wore it long, to the collar of his buttoned-down shirt, and all one length. Lifting his sun glasses from the bridge of his nose, his dark brown eyes glimmered in the sunlight as he fastened a gaze upon her.

Jasmine froze, unable to move as he slowly raked his eyes up and down the length of her body. Never before had she been subjected to such a blatantly assessing stare. She nearly trembled beneath its weight. It felt as though he were undressing her with his gaze.

Despite the differences in their ages—his she guessed to be late thirties, or early forties; hers a mere twenty-three—she felt an instant stirring of awareness deep in the pit of her belly. A sensual heat warmed her blood. She was surprised by her strong reaction to this total stranger, but not intimidated by him. Instead, she returned his stare with a curious gaze of her own.

The stranger was the first to break the spell that seemed to hold them both. His deep voice rumbled in her ears as he asked, “Is this the Big Sky Bed & Break fast?”

“Y-yes, it is,” she said, stumbling over an assent. Rolling her eyes at her clumsiness, she cleared her throat and began again. “I’m Jasmine…Jasmine Monroe. My family owns the B and B. May I help you?”

“My name’s Storm Hunter,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face, as though testing for her reaction. He stepped toward her, closing the distance between them. “And I believe that I’m the one who can help you.”

Hunter? Jasmine’s heart skipped a beat at the name. Storm Hunter, Raven Hunter’s brother. She’d heard he was back in town. Her cousin David Hannon, a special agent for the FBI who’d been on a leave of absence since shortly after the remains of Raven Hunter had been found, had mentioned Storm’s tempestuous arrival in Whitehorn. The two men had nearly come to blows when Storm had refused to accept the lack of progress in the investigation of his brother’s murder. Apparently he bore a personal grudge against anyone with a connection to the Kincaid family.

Goodness only knew why this forceful man was now standing on the driveway of her family’s bed-and-break fast.

“I don’t understand,” she said, unable to hide the skepticism from her voice. “You want to help me?”

A corner of his mouth lifted in a semblance of a polite smile. “Perhaps I should clarify. What I meant was, I believe I have something that belongs to you.” With a sweep of his hand, he gestured toward the front seat of his car.

For the first time Jasmine noticed another person inside. There, slumped against the passenger door, was Celeste Monroe, Jasmine’s mother.

“Mother!” Jasmine gasped in alarm. She turned, calling over her shoulder for her aunt’s support. “Aunt Yvette, come quick. It’s Mother.”

Not bothering to wait for her aunt, she pushed past the disturbing Storm Hunter and hurried to her mother’s side. Wrenching open the car door, she was stunned by her mother’s pallid complexion. Her short, russet hair looked disheveled. A fine layer of perspiration dampened her skin.

Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as Storm joined her. She glanced up at him, her gaze accusing. “What have you done to her?”

He flinched at her bitter words. A reaction that he quickly hid behind a stony mask of in difference. His expression cool, he said, “I haven’t done a thing to your mother. She fainted at the sheriff’s office in Whitehorn. I was there when it happened. I offered to drive her home. She accepted. That’s the extent of my involvement.”

Jasmine’s face grew hot with embarrassment as she realized how unjust her accusation must have sounded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

The skin around his finely sculpted cheek bones grew taut. His jaw stiffened, his strong chin lifting in defiance. “There’s no need to apologize, Ms. Monroe. I assure you, I’m used to the white man thinking the worst of me merely because of the color of my skin.”

Jasmine felt as though she’d been struck by the words. “The color of your skin? Don’t be ridiculous. I never—”

“Jasmine…” Celeste’s fragile voice interrupted.

Forgetting all else, Jasmine leaned forward, reaching for her mother’s hand. “Mother, are you all right?”

“Take me inside,” she whispered.

“Of course,” Jasmine murmured.

“Jasmine?” Yvette’s breathless voice caught her attention. Her aunt’s cheeks were flushed from hurrying. Worry lines creased her careworn face. “What’s happened? What’s wrong with Celeste?”

“She fainted in town,” Jasmine said quickly. She glanced at Storm. “Mr. Hunter brought her home.”

“Mr. Hunter?” Yvette’s troubled gaze traveled to Storm.

“Yes, Storm Hunter. Mr. Hunter, this is my aunt, Yvette Hannon. I believe you’ve already met her son, David?”

The reminder of his and David’s ill-fated meeting, the one that had nearly ended in a fist fight, was uncalled for. But so was his accusation that she would judge another man by the color of his skin. When she saw Storm’s eyes narrow in irritation, she couldn’t help but feel a bitter sweet sense of satisfaction.

Now they were even.

Gracious as always, Yvette extended a hand in greeting. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Hunter. It’s, uh, good to finally meet you.”

If Storm seemed surprised by this show of cordiality, he didn’t show it. Instead he accepted Yvette’s proffered hand with a smooth smile. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Hannon. I hope your sister will soon feel better.”

“Celeste, right.” Yvette gave a quick nod, as though gathering herself to take control of the situation. “Jasmine, help me please. Let’s get your mother inside.”

Together, the two of them half lifted Celeste from the car. Celeste’s white cotton, Gypsy-style shirt had come untucked from the waist band of her long broom stick skirt. The gauzy fabric sagged against her shapely curves. As was her mother’s habit, somewhere along the way, she’d kicked off her sandals and was barefoot. Jasmine plucked the wayward shoes from the floor of the front seat to carry inside.

Flanking her mother on both sides, Yvette and Jasmine each held her by one arm. Slowly the three women headed for the front porch. As they neared the top step, Jasmine turned, glancing over her shoulder at the quiet figure still standing beside the silver car. “Mr. Hunter,” she said, “if you wouldn’t mind waiting, there’s something I’d like to tell you.”

Not bothering to wait for his answer, Jasmine turned away and led her mother inside.

Storm Hunter didn’t like being told what to do. Not by anyone. But most especially not by an outspoken young woman who was nearly half his age.

A part of him wanted to get into his rented car and leave this place, this home of the Kincaid family, and never look back. The other part, the impulsive, illogical part, was curious as to what Jasmine might have to say.

“Jasmine,” he murmured her name out loud, savoring the sound of it as it tripped over his tongue. An exotic name for an exotic beauty, he mused silently as he stood beneath the glaring sun on the white rock-covered driveway of the B and B, with his hands on his hips, staring at the door through which she had disappeared. Her image was as fresh in his mind as though she were still present.

Jasmine the woman, he decided, was a contradiction in terms. A delicate flower, as her name might suggest, though one who’d found roots and strength in the wild, untamed lands of Montana. With her black hair cut short in a pixie style, she seemed so young and innocent. The cut and color emphasized the paleness of her skin, the smooth perfection of her complexion and the classic lines of her features. Yet, at the same time, he saw the wisdom of an older woman in her eyes, one who’d experienced much of life. She was tall and slender, but with enough womanly curves to make any man stand up and take notice. Her eccentric way of dressing—black cowboy boots, a red pleated skirt and a white eyelet blouse—certainly made him wonder. Yet, the outfit hinted at a personality that was free-spirited and vivacious. Traits that he envied. Traits that he’d lost over the years, somewhere along the way.

Storm blew out an irritated breath. What was wrong with him? He was spending entirely too much time speculating about a young woman who was destined to play nothing more than a fleeting role in his life. She was a Kincaid. He was a Hunter. As history had already proven, the two did not mix. If it hadn’t been for her mother and his misguided sense of chivalry, their paths would never have crossed.

Earlier, when he’d stopped by the sheriff’s office on yet another fruitless call upon the investigator in charge of his brother’s murder case, he’d happened to bump into Celeste Monroe. To say her reaction to his appearance had been strong would be an understatement. One fearful look at his face and the woman had collapsed in a dead faint. She’d looked as though she’d seen a ghost.

It wasn’t until after she’d reluctantly accepted his offer of a ride home that he’d realized who Celeste Monroe really was. Celeste Kincaid Monroe, sister to Blanche and Jeremiah Kincaid, the very people he’d blamed all these years for the loss of his brother. The family who’d been at the very heart of his troubled life.

And now he was being unwise enough to let his hormones blur his judgment. He’d allowed himself to become intrigued by a Kincaid—a family he’d sworn to hate. Jasmine…

Though she’d never invited him inside, curiosity got the better of him. Quietly, Storm crossed the gravel driveway and climbed the steps of the large front porch. The double doors stood wide open, allowing anyone to enter.

Even an unwanted Cheyenne, he told himself, allowing his rancor to fester.

The floors were of polished pine. The rooms were large and spacious. The ceilings were high, measuring at least ten feet; rough-hewn beams graced the dining room ceiling. Natural wood trim stretched as far as the eye could see. The house itself was mostly furnished with the clean lines of the mission-style decor, but there were enough chaise longues and over stuffed club chairs to make a guest comfortable.

Storm stepped through one of the living room’s set of French doors and onto a wide screened-in porch. The porch ran the length of the back of the house. From here, the view of Blue Mirror Lake was spectacular. Its flat, shiny surface, indeed, looked like polished glass. A dense forest of pine trees surrounded the property, and the air was thick with their pungent scent. In the distance, he saw the mountains of the Laughing Horse Reservation.

His breath caught painfully at the sight. Though he’d traveled many miles to escape from his past on the reservation, he could never completely leave behind its harsh memories. He glanced around the bed-and-break fast, at the casual display of Kincaid wealth, and felt a bitter taste rise in his throat. No matter how many college degrees he might acquire, or how much money he made in his law practice in New Mexico, he would never forget his troubled past, his poor, hand-to-mouth up bringing. He would never be able to stand tall in a world that included the Kincaid family.

With the ghosts of the past chasing him, Storm whirled away from the sight of the reservation and strode back into the house. The heels of his shoes pounded against the pine floor as he made his way to the front door. But he didn’t care about the noise. He didn’t care about anything but escaping.

“Mr. Hunter…Storm.” There was a note of desperation in Jasmine’s sweet melodic voice.

Storm clenched his jaw in annoyance and told himself to keep walking. Don’t look back. Don’t stop, no matter how great the temptation might be.