A Home of Her Own (Dundee, Idaho #4)(3)
Author: Brenda Novak

Rusty hinges protested as he poked his head inside, but a rich vanilla scent greeted him immediately. The light came from the kitchen. Heat seemed to emanate from that part of the house, as well. Evidently someone was trying to make things cozy….

“Hello?” Mike banged on the door as he entered. “If you’re undressed, cover up. I’m comin’ in.”

He heard rustling at the back of the house. Then a flashlight snapped on and the beam hit him right in the face, blinding him before he could take another step.

“Stop right there!”

He put up a hand to block the light. “Or?”

“Or…I’ll shoot.”

He could tell by the voice that it was a woman. He had no idea where her boyfriend might be, but she seemed to be alone for the moment. “You have a gun?” he said incredulously.

“What do you think?”

Mike couldn’t remember anyone ever being shot in Dundee—unless it was in some kind of hunting accident. But he supposed anything was possible. “What kind of gun?”

“Does it matter?”

“Just curious.” He was still trying to protect his eyes.

“One that’ll put a hole in you,” she said. “Happy?”

“Not particularly.” The quaver in her voice told him she was probably lying about the gun, which he’d suspected from the beginning. He could understand why she’d feel a bit intimidated with a six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-ten-pound stranger barging in on her. What bothered him was the light—that and the question of why she was there. “Who are you?”

“I could ask the same of you,” she said warily.

“Mike Hill. I own the ranch next door.”

Mike had grown up in these parts. Most everyone knew his family. But if she recognized his name, she didn’t say so.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Hill?”

“Do you mind?” He scowled at the light as she stepped closer.

“You’re the one who walked in uninvited.”

She had to be alone, or he would’ve heard someone else by now. “I came to tell you that you’d better put out those candles and hightail it out of here before I call the police. You’re trespassing on private property.”

“Is it your property?” she asked.

“It should be.”

“But it’s not, is it?”

He didn’t like her tone. The fact that he’d lost the house, of which he had so many fond childhood memories, to a gold digger and her children still bothered him. The fact that he’d been robbed of the time he could’ve spent with his grandfather in the last ten years of Morris Caldwell’s life rankled even more.

“What happens here is none of your business,” she went on briskly. “Please go.”

Mike had no intention of leaving. No one was going to chase him out of his grandfather’s house—especially with nothing more threatening than a flashlight. “Get that damn light out of my eyes.”

“Or?” she said, coming back at him with his own line.

Mike welcomed the challenge. “Or I’ll take it away from you.”

“Then I’ll—”

“Shoot? You don’t even have a gun. If you did, you wouldn’t need to blind me.”

She hesitated, but Mike didn’t give her a chance to decide, just in case he was wrong about the gun. With two quick steps, he caught her around the waist and pressed her up against the closest wall.

The flashlight fell and rolled away as he pinned her hands to the side. But he’d moved her close enough to the light in the kitchen that he could just make out a straining chest covered by an overlarge sweatshirt, a pale oval face and a thick halo of long curly hair that appeared to be blond. She was young, all right, but older than he’d thought. Certainly not a teenager. She looked small, perfect, porcelain—like an angel. But the glint in her luminous eyes had nothing to do with innocence and everything to do with red-hot fury.

She began to raise her knee, but he managed to maintain his hold on her and protect his groin at the same time. “Let go of me you, son of—!”

“Whoa, calm down, little lady!” He used his body weight to press her more firmly against the wall so she wouldn’t try to knee him again.

“Little lady?” She was breathing so hard he could feel every intake of breath. “I suppose you think that kind of condescending bullshit passes for manners out here, huh, cowboy?”

Mike cocked an eyebrow at her. “My manners are a hell of a lot better than anything I’ve seen from you,” he snapped.

“I’m not the one who came barging into your house!”

That took him aback. “What?”

“You heard me. Whether you think this place should belong to you or not, I own it, so let me go.”

Mike didn’t budge. The last time he’d seen Lucky Caldwell she’d been a pudgy eighteen-year-old with more than her share of acne. She’d worn her reddish hair in a tight ponytail and waited for the school bus out front every morning, hugging her books to her chest and glaring daggers at him whenever he drove by. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

“Rumor had it that my mother tried to poison him. Actually, she gave him too much insulin, which she claimed was an accident, but he divorced her and cut her out of his will. Would I know that if I was just some squatter?”

“Pretty much everybody knows that,” he pointed out, trying to see her more clearly. “At least around here.”

“Okay, you bought the land next door from Morris when I was ten and you were about twenty-five. Josh was a couple of years younger. You and he started a stud service with a black stallion that had a white star on his forehead and white socks.”

At his surprised silence she added grudgingly, “That horse was beautiful. I used to bring him sugar cubes and apples.”

Slowly, Mike let go of her and eased away, wondering why his stallion hadn’t keeled over if she’d been feeding it from her evil mother’s pantry. Now that he could see her a little better, he couldn’t help noticing that she wasn’t wearing anything, other than maybe a pair of panties, beneath that baggy sweatshirt. The hem hit her almost at midthigh; bare, shapely legs extended from there.

“It’s cold. Where’re your pants?” he asked.

“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s late. I happened to be in my sleeping bag when you so kindly broke into my house and ruined my night. Forgive me for not dressing more modestly.”