Keegan Page 9

  Keegan completed the task in a matter of minutes, then turned to go. When he did, he caught a glimpse of something disturbing.

  Footprints in the snow. Fresh ones.

  Fear rippled through him, raising the hairs on his arms. He moved closer to investigate.

  The prints were large, made by at least a size-thirteen shoe.

  Connor Heller wears a thirteen and a half. Whoa, slow down, Winslow. Don’t be jumping to irrational conclusions. Still, the fact nagged at him.

  He swiveled his head to the right and saw that the prints tracked across the backyard and down to the living room window.

  They’d had a Peeping Tom.

  Anger shot through him at the thought of someone spying on Wren. But who? And why? He felt oddly jealous at the thought of someone watching her decorating the house while he’d slept.

  Maybe Wren had an admirer. Someone too shy to speak to her. Or worse, someone who knew she was a vulnerable woman, living alone in this remote place.

  It was a possibility.

  Clenching his fists, Keegan pivoted and followed the prints across the frozen ground. He’d find out where they originated. It was the least he could do.

  Eyes down, Keegan dodged mesquite trees and skirted sagebrush as he followed the footprints. At times, the prints were obscured in the mass of fallen leaves, but he kept looking until he picked up the trail again.

  He’d gone maybe a quarter of a mile when his lungs gave out on him. He had to stop to catch his breath and was overcome by a coughing spasm.

  Dang. He hated being sick.

  A few minutes later, he started off again, only this time his legs betrayed him. They quivered like jelly. He had to make a choice. Follow the footsteps or go back and do the milking. He didn’t possess the strength for both.

  You can’t leave Wren alone. The thought floated through his mind. What if the voyeur returned and he was much more than a Peeping Tom?

  He recalled another time he’d left a woman alone when he shouldn’t have. Maggie.

  Keegan didn’t have a choice. He had to go back. Cursing under his breath, he retraced his steps until he reached Wren’s house.

  He’d tell Wren about the heaters being out and let the barn warm up in the meantime. Then he’d come back and start the milking. Keegan debated whether to tell her about the prowler or not. Finally, he decided to keep quiet. At least for now. No point in alarming her unnecessarily.

  Satisfied with that plan, he trekked to the house and knocked lightly on the door but didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped inside. The kitchen was vacant and for a brief second, as he wondered about her whereabouts, anxiety gripped him. Where was she?

  But he heard her singing from the living room. Wren was joyfully mutilating “Jingle Bells.”

  In spite of himself, Keegan smiled. Maggie hadn’t been able to carry a tune in a basket either.

  His smile disappeared. She wasn’t Maggie! He had to remember that. There were similarities, yes. Both women were kind, maternal, sweet, and good-natured.

  But where Maggie had been utterly dependent upon him, Wren blazed her own path, relying on no one despite the obstacles. Running a dairy, living alone, toting a gun to scare off an unexpected intruder. They might have been cut from the same pattern, but Wren was made of sturdier stuff.

  The smile returned as he remembered Wren’s fierce stand when she’d threatened him with that inefficient little .22 rifle. At the thought of a firearm, he reached absently for the shoulder holster and .357 Magnum that wasn’t there.

  Wren had also managed to disarm him. That said a lot about her courage.

  Keegan walked to stand in the archway that connected the kitchen to the living room. Apparently, Wren hadn’t heard him come in over the noise of her own singing. She was perched on top of a stepladder placed strategically close to the Christmas tree, a white and gold angel clutched in her hand.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Keegan watched her.

  She looked like an angel herself, her fluffy, brown hair layered about her face, her quiet smile radiating a pure, untouched glow. She wasn’t the sort of woman men would whistle at on the street corner, but she did possess a forgiving quality that made a man dream of putting his head on those soft breasts and confiding his darkest secrets.

  Stop it, Winslow. Stop this right now!

  He shook his head. He could not, would not, confess anything to this woman. The notion was ridiculous. He must bear his burden in silence. No one deserved to be sullied by his disreputable plans. Especially her.

  Wren rose up on her tiptoes, struggling to affix the angel to the top of the tree.

  Be careful, he mouthed wordlessly.

  She must have caught a glimpse of him from her peripheral vision because she turned her head, smiled widely, and lifted her hand in greeting. “Keegan!”

  Genuine pleasure at seeing him beamed from her eyes. She leaned forward. Placed all her weight on one corner of the thin, folding stepladder.

  It wobbled.

  Wren’s mouth formed a startled circle. She dropped the angel. It fell to the ground and rolled under the tree. She tried to regain her balance, but her hip twisted.

  Keegan started across the floor, his hands outstretched.

  “Oh!” she squeaked.

  The ladder wavered, then collapsed on its side. Wren’s feet flew out from under her, her arms flailing in the air.

  Keegan snagged her in the nick of time, and she tumbled heavily into his arms.

  He stared down at her.

  Wren peered up at him, her breath coming in quick shallow gasps. She blinked and swallowed.

  He clutched her close to his body, his forearm muscles bunching with the effort. Her scent, a mind-scrambling combination of apples, cinnamon, lavender, and vanilla, invaded Keegan’s senses like cops converging on a crime scene.

  Lips as tempting as rose petals in full bloom lay mere inches from Keegan’s own. Her hair grazed his skin, her breasts nuzzled his chest, and his arms cradled her bottom.

  He hadn’t expected that holding her would affect him so strongly. He searched her face, startled by the sensations racing through his mind, his heart, his groin. She influenced him on every level, mentally, physically, emotionally. Even the first time he’d held his late wife in his arms, Keegan had not experienced anything so intensely overwhelming.

  Wren’s eyes, wide and trusting, drank him in.

  She shouldn’t trust him. Not ever! Maggie had trusted him and look what had happened to her.

  And yet, some part of him longed for things to be different, for him to be free to pursue her—but such a notion was laughable. He was chained. Leashed to the past and a commitment to bringing the killer of his wife and child to justice.

  Even if he could drop his obsession and stop chasing Heller, Keegan simply couldn’t picture the two of them as a couple. Wren was fragile springtime; he was a winter’s hard freeze. She radiated innocence; he reeked of corruption. She personified the belief that people were basically good; Keegan knew the real truth.

  No matter how mismatched they were, no matter how much he battled his growing awareness for her, he could not deny that she had awakened something inside him.

  Something raw, exposed, and vulnerable. Something that scared him more than the thought of spending the rest of his life alone and wretched. He wanted to protect her as much as he had wanted to protect Maggie and Katie.

  That realization, more than anything, corralled Keegan’s desire. How could he possibly safeguard Wren when he hadn’t even been able to save his own family?

  “YOU CAN PUT ME DOWN now,” Wren whispered, her heart thudding faster than hummingbird wings. Her mouth was dry, and her small hands trembled as she pushed her bangs off her forehead.

  Keegan was staring at her as if gazing at a far-off place. Where had he gone in his mind? What was he thinking? Was he fighting an urge like the one swelling in her chest?

  An urge that ached to be sated with a long, slow, deep kiss?


  A heated flush worked its way up her neck. She was foolish, fanciful, fickle. Just because she’d felt a quick, hot surge of desire when she’d landed in Keegan’s masculine arms was no indication that he returned her feelings in kind.

  “You shouldn’t have been standing on that stepladder. It’s too flimsy,” he admonished, dispelling any idea that he had been thinking along the same lines as she.

  Then again, she shouldn’t be surprised. She was crippled, after all, why would he want her?

  Keegan put Wren on her feet and quickly moved away from her. “Why didn’t you ask me to put the angel on the tree for you?”

  “You were busy,” she replied, hanging her head.

  “You could have waited.”

  “I didn’t think you wanted to be involved with the Christmas preparations.”

  He put his hands on his hips and glared at her. “I told you I didn’t care about celebrating Christmas, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t break your neck in the process.”

  His dark hair flopped across his forehead. Shadows filtering in through the curtains accentuated his high cheekbones.

  A thrill fluttered through Wren, and she placed a hand on her stomach. It was absurd and irrational, her response to this man. But heaven help her, she couldn’t do anything to change her feelings.

  Call it magic, chemistry, or good old-fashioned lust, she could not disavow the fact that this stranger, this odd mystery man, this loner with a chip on his shoulder, stirred her blood with a fierceness she’d never known.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized.

  He bent over to pick up the angel from the floor and dusted bits of tinsel from her skirt. Without using the stepladder, he reached up and settled the cherub on the top of the tree.

  “Is that where you wanted it?” His voice had softened somewhat, but he did not return her smile.

  “Yes.” Wren nodded. “Thank you.”

  He stepped back. “I’ve got to go back and milk the cows. There was a problem.”

  “Problem?” Wren pursed her lips.

  “The heaters were out in the barn. The butane tank was empty, but I switched it over to the second tank.”

  “Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I’ve been meaning to order more butane, but I don’t get my paycheck until after the holidays. It’s tough being a teacher and getting paid just once a month, especially at Christmastime.”

  “You’re a teacher?”

  Wren smiled. “High school English.”

  Keegan made a face. “My worst subject. I preferred math.”

  She realized, happily, this was the first piece of personal information he’d offered her. “I’m pretty miserable at math, I’m afraid. Do you use math in your job?” she asked.

  His jaw clenched, and she wished she hadn’t probed. She hated it when strangers quizzed her. She should have kept her mouth shut and let him reveal himself to her at his own pace. Now she’d ruined the small bond she’d established.

  “I’m unemployed,” he said curtly.

  Wren bit her tongue to keep from asking him why. Did she really want to know? “I’ll help you with the milking,” she said. “Let me get dressed.”

  She donned her coat, and they went outside together. It didn’t seem as cold as it had the day before. The wind had quieted, and they could hear the restless cattle mooing loudly from the barn.

  Keegan had made a rapid recovery. He stayed one step ahead of her, as if reluctant to walk beside her. Could she blame him? With her limp, she slowed him down. He also kept shooting furtive glances around the buildings. She wondered why.

  They entered the barn, and chaos greeted their eyes.

  A water pipe running along the top of the barn had burst. Water spewed over the cows in a powerful stream and ran ankle-deep across the floor. It mixed with straw and cow manure. Bossie angrily butted her head against the stall door, wood splinters flying in her wake. Wren stood openmouthed, not knowing what to do.

  “Where’s the cut-off valve?” Keegan shouted above the deafening din.

  Wren turned. Water caught her full in the face and sent her sprawling to the floor.

  In an instant, Keegan was there, pulling Wren to her feet. “Are you okay?” Awkwardly, he brushed the seat of her pants.

  She nodded, shivering more from his touch than the cold water soaking her skin.

  “The valve?” he repeated.

  “We can reach it from the loft.”

  He took her hand and led her gingerly around the disgorging pipes. Even though they both wore gloves, Wren savored the feeling of her hand in his.

  “Pipe probably broke last night when the heat went off,” he said, making his way over to the stairs. “Once I got the heat turned back on and the barn warmed up, the pipes defrosted.”

  He started up the stairs. Wren couldn’t help but note his confident walk and the way he filled out his jeans.

  Stop thinking like that!

  “What a mess,” she said, shaking her head to clear her mind of erotic thoughts.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll help you clean it up.” He glanced down at her, and Wren’s heart tripped. No matter how she might fight it, she couldn’t seem to stem the riotous emotions he created inside her with a mere glimpse of those smoldering, dark-blue eyes.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “This would be a nightmare without you.”

  He reached the loft, turned, and offered his hand to help her up. “How do you manage alone?”

  “Not very well, I’m afraid. Until six weeks ago, one of my students used to work for me after school, but he broke his leg playing football, and I’ve been in a bit of a pickle ever since.”

  Keegan let go of her hand and went over to investigate the layout of the plumbing. Wren watched him move with long, graceful steps. A stab of envy knifed through her. Since the accident, she hadn’t possessed the freedom to walk so unaware of her movements.

  He quickly shut off the valve. “Come on,” he said.

  They returned to the barn below, which had quieted considerably, although the cows were wet, cold, and thoroughly miserable. Wren clicked her tongue. Hours of work lay before them.

  Keegan looked at Wren. Wren looked at Keegan.

  “Merry Christmas Eve.” He grinned.

  His smile was worth it. The burst pipe, the soggy cows, the mucky barn floor. Just seeing his lips curl up at the corners warmed her insides like a bowl of hot stew.

  She started to giggle.

  “You think this is funny?”

  She nodded and slapped a hand over her mouth.

  “You’ve got a warped sense of humor, Ms. Matthews, you know that?” His eyes actually twinkled. Wren caught her breath, mesmerized. He looked like the man she’d seen in that photograph—warm, welcoming, full of love and laughter.

  His gaze caught hers and he hesitated, as if realizing he’d slipped and let down his guard. Immediately, his features sobered. “Where do you keep your tools?” he asked crisply, distantly.

  And just like that, the fun was over.

  Chapter Nine

  Darn! What had she done to break the spell, to chase away the moment? Wren mulled this over while they tracked down the tools and set about repairing the pipe. How could she replicate that smile?

  She ached to see it again. For that brief moment, Keegan Winslow had forgotten about the demons chewing his soul.

  What were those demons? She held the equipment for him as he repaired the damaged plumbing. Those demons must be very powerful to keep him so imprisoned.

  He reached above their heads to remove the piece of split pipe, shoulder muscles bunching. Wren thought of the wound hidden beneath his layers of clothing and pursed her lips. She suppressed a sudden desire to brush her mouth against his scarred skin and kiss away the hurt buried there.

  “Do you have a welding torch?” he asked.

  “Huh?” Wren blinked, her mind still wrapped around the fantasy of kissing him.

  “You need a new piece of pipe, but I’ll see
if I can weld it together long enough to hold until we can get to the plumbing supply store.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “I do have a welding torch somewhere.”

  She found the torch and a mask that had belonged to her father. Keegan stayed outside to weld while Wren began the cleanup. Taking old burlap feed sacks from a shelf, she started wiping the cows dry.

  Keegan returned to patch the pipe, and then helped her complete the chores. He had to stop to rest several times. Wren noticed his breathing became labored with little exertion. That worried her, but she said nothing. It wasn’t her place to tell him what to do, but oh, how she ached to wrap her arms around him and nestle him protectively against her breasts.

  “How big was your grandparents’ dairy?” Wren asked during one of the times he came inside to sit down and catch his breath.

  “They kept a hundred and fifty head. Jerseys mostly.”

  “I like Jerseys,” Wren said. “They’re not as stubborn as Holsteins.” She indicated Bossie with a wave of her hand.

  “I think Holsteins are smarter, though.” Keegan perched on a hay bale. “And then there’s the ongoing argument about milk production.”

  Wren nodded. “Tell me about it.”

  “How often is your milk pickup?” he asked.

  “My dairy’s so small, the truck just comes once a week. On Tuesdays.” Wren smiled. It was nice to have a normal conversation about something they both shared an interest in.

  “May I ask a personal question?” Keegan asked, and looked her in the eyes.

  Wren curled her toes inside her boots at his gaze and told herself to calm down. “Sure.”

  “Why do you bother with the dairy? It’s obvious you’re losing money.”

  “It’s been in my family for three generations.”

  “Oh.”

  “What happened to your grandparents’ place? Does it still belong to your family?”

  Keegan shook his head. “No.” He sounded wistful. “My father was an only child and he hated the dairy. After my grandfather died, he sold the place.”

  “I can’t imagine giving my place up. It’s such a part of me and my roots. It’s hard work, but I can’t imagine not doing it.”