Lone Wolf

The commotion next to him caught his attention. The dog wouldn’t sit still. The feisty little critter paced the bench seat, finally settling on Hawk’s lap with an insecure whine.

“It’s okay.” He scratched the puppy’s head. “You can stay there for now. But sooner or later, you’ll have to toughen up.”

By the time Hawk reached Jackson Stables, the dog was asleep. He chuckled and turned into the driveway that led to his barn.

And then he spotted the truck and horse trailer bearing the Wainwright logo.

What the hell was this?

Hawk parked his rig, exited it and set the puppy on the ground.

Squaring his shoulders, he went around to the back of the trailer where he saw none other than Archy Wainwright—the son of a bitch who’d spawned him—leaning against it.

Two

Primed for battle, Hawk forgot all about being calm and rational. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Archy made a slow turn, meeting Hawk’s gaze. He stood tall and well built, a man fit and trim for his age. “I brought you some business.”

“Really?” Hawk’s voice oozed with sarcasm, his blood running cold. “Now, why would you do that?”

“To see if you’re any good.”

Pride, pure and primitive, gushed through his veins. “Of course I am. I’m an Apache. We’ve always been better horsemen than your kind.”

Archy lifted a bushy brow, his clear blue eyes sparkling with challenge. A custom-made cowboy hat rested casually on his head, and his skin was tanned and weathered. Hawk refused to see himself in the other man, even if their height and the breadth of their shoulders were the same.

“My kind?” Archy asked finally.

“Rich, useless Texans.”

The wealthy rancher gestured to the trailer, his tone tight and tough. “If that’s how you feel, then accept the work I’m offering. Prove how good you are, Apache.”

“I don’t have to prove a damn thing to you.” Nor did he want his father’s tainted money. “You’re nothing to me.” Nothing but the womanizer who’d taken advantage of Hawk’s mother and then refused to acknowledge Hawk as his son. “I’d rather do business with the devil.”

“Well, as it happens, you’re not bearing Lucifer’s name. It’s mine you’re using, and I have the right to know if you can break a horse the Wainwright way.”

“I don’t do anything the Wainwright way,” Hawk said, keeping his voice steady and his fists clenched. “And the only reason I’m using your name is because my mother wanted me to. Now get the hell away from me, old man. And don’t ever come back.”

“You’re a cocky bastard, I’ll say that much for you.” Archy turned his back on Hawk and headed for his truck.

Yeah, I’m a bastard, Hawk thought. But I was once a little boy, an innocent kid who wanted his daddy to care.

The puppy barked at the Wainwright rig, giving Archy a piece of his mind. Of course, the older man was already behind the wheel, his door closed, his windows secure, but the show of loyalty made Hawk feel good just the same. The dog’s youthful voice had lowered an octave, the hairs on his back rising.

Hawk’s hackles were up, too. He’d run into his dad off and on throughout the years, chance meetings neither had orchestrated. But Archy had never come gunning for his son. He’d never looked Hawk straight in the eye and challenged him to prove that he deserved the Wainwright name.

And his doing it today made Hawk hate him even more.

Once Archy’s truck and trailer disappeared down the road, he picked up the pup.

“Let’s go home.” Hawk needed to unwind, to jump in the shower and allow the water to pummel his body. “And then I’m downing a few beers to take the edge off,” he told the dog. “And fixing both of us something good to eat.” He wasn’t about to let Archy twist his stomach into a knot and destroy his appetite.

Twenty minutes later Hawk pulled into his driveway, killed the engine and cursed. He’d just remembered that he hadn’t returned to the market. His fridge was empty.

Damn it. He didn’t have the energy to drive back into town. He couldn’t deal with a public place, all the noise and people.

He wanted to be alone, wanted to shower, drink a few beers, grill a thick, juicy porterhouse and reward the dog with table scraps for barking aggressively at Archy.

But now it seemed Archy had won.

Weary, Hawk leaned against the seat and caught movement through the passenger window.

It was Jenny, he noticed, watering her plants. He sat quietly, just watching her, letting her image soothe his soul. She looked so pretty, so angelic, her floral-printed dress billowing in the breeze.

The puppy stood on his hind legs, determined to check out the view. Hawk smiled. Even the dog wanted to see her.

And then the image spoiled.

Mrs. Pritchett, the snoop from across the street, was heading straight for Jenny.

The older woman glared at Hawk’s truck, telling him all he needed to know. She’d seen him pull up, and now she was going to warn Jenny about him.

He knew exactly what she would say. Watch out for that one, dear. He’s just like his mama. She seduced Archy Wainwright, ruining that poor man’s marriage.

Hawk closed his eyes. His mother had died a long time ago, but her name was still being dragged through the mud.

And Hawk, of course, had created his own scandal, the kissing escapade Jenny was sure to hear about.

Jenny felt someone nearby. She turned and saw a gray-haired woman making determined strides to reach her.

Sensing trouble, she adjusted the hose nozzle, shutting off the water. The lady wore an old-fashioned housecoat and a pair of white sneakers, her face pinched in a superior expression. She wasn’t collecting for a charity or selling door-to-door cosmetics. This busy bee had “nosy neighbor” written all over her.

“I’m Mrs. Pritchett from across the way.” She pointed to a prim yellow house. “And I’ve been worried about you. The way that man watches you.”

Jenny’s heart slammed against her rib cage. Did this have something to do with Roy? Had this lady see him lurking about? “What man?”

“Why, that Indian, of course.”

Jenny’s heartbeat stabilized. Roy wasn’t the man in question. “You mean Hawk?”

“Who else would I mean? I saw what he did last week. He carted you right into his house.”

“I wasn’t feeling well that day,” she explained, defending her neighbor. “I’d spent too much time in the sun, and I fainted. Hawk was kind enough to help me.”

Mrs. Pritchett motioned to his driveway. “He’s sitting in his truck, watching us right now. Or watching you, I should say.” She pointed a bony finger, a gesture not unlike the one the Wicked Witch of the West used on Dorothy. “I’d stay away from him if I were you. He isn’t the type a pretty, young thing like yourself should trust.”

Jenny glanced quickly at Hawk’s truck, catching a glimpse of him behind the wheel. “He was a perfect gentleman,” she countered, even though his rugged good looks and dark, penetrating eyes made her much too aware of being female.