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  Without moving, she opened her eyes to get her bearings. A dim room, with a single lamp burning in one corner, illuminating pine-paneled walls she remembered instantly.

  Faintly she smiled. They had made it to the ranch. Things had been very fuzzy toward the end. She had a vague recollection of taking her quinine pills at the tax assessor’s office, the excruciatingly bright New Mexico sunshine as they drove to El Durazno, and a blip of herself falling into the waiting arms of the hammock—then nothing.

  Or was it nothing? How did she get from the hammock to the couch? A hazy memory of a man’s strong, warm arms—

  The clicking paused again and Winona blinked, shifting her head to look for the source of the sound. An elaborate computer with wires going everywhere occupied Uncle Jericho’s enormous desk. Bathed in the blue light from the monitor was the man she thought she’d dreamed.

  For a single, breathless moment, her heart squeezed. He was real.

  Good Lord.

  He sat in profile to her, utterly absorbed in whatever he was doing at the computer. That was the clicking noise: his fingers on the keys. He typed fast and had good hands, lean and long fingered, with the elegance of bone Winona associated with musicians and artists. She remembered how gentle they’d been when he had helped her earlier.

  Slowly she followed the line of bones and tendons up his arm, exposed by a simple blue tank top that set off the burnished walnut tone of his skin. The arms themselves were nicely rounded without being ridiculously pumped, as if he labored honestly at some physical profession. She hesitated, afraid she really had dreamed the face.

  She raised her gaze and let it settle softly on his profile, and her heart squeezed again. Not a dream. A high, intelligent forehead; prominent cheekbones slanting toward a nose as elegantly carved as an arrowhead; a clean, hard jaw. His mouth was luscious, especially in contrast to the angles above it—a mouth to die for, sensual and mobile, made for a woman’s hungry lips.

  And hair. Oh, yes, that long, long hair she had touched. Winona closed her eyes to test the vision, just in case she was still so feverish she had hallucinated him. It seemed impossible that she should find such a man in the world, and that she should discover him at El Durazno, of all places. If she had special-ordered him from heaven he could not have been more perfectly beautiful.

  Winona opened her eyes. He hadn’t disappeared. His fingers tapped away at the keys, and he nodded to himself, peering earnestly at the screen. As she watched silently, he picked up a bicycle bottle and drank some dark liquid from it, then took a pencil from behind his ear and scribbled a note on a yellow legal pad at his elbow. He was left-handed.

  So was she. It seemed an omen.

  She must have made some sound or movement, for he abruptly turned to look at her. “Hey, there, Sleeping Beauty,” he said.

  The voice, too, was as she remembered. Low and resonant, ever so faintly lyrical, with an accent she didn’t recognize. “Hi,” she said, and heard the hoarseness in her voice.

  He put his pencil down and stood up. Tall, too. Oh, it was too much. Too cruel. No one who looked like this ever gave Winona a second glance.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Winona moved an arm, up, then out. Pointed her toes. “Okay, I think.” Slowly she shifted to a sitting position. Her hair felt wild and she touched it self-consciously.

  Then it hit her. This was no dream. She was at El Durazno, with her fragile little sister, Joleen, and this strange man.

  She frowned thunderously. “Where is my sister, and who are you?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed, but he quickly righted himself.

  “Your sister is downstairs watching movies. And I’m Daniel Lynch.” He paused. “I live here.”

  Winona felt dizzy and put a hand to her head. “You’re the one who paid the back taxes,” she said wearily.

  “Correct.”

  She slumped against the back of the couch. She had no idea what they would do now. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

  “Tell you what—let’s not worry about it just yet. Joleen said the malaria lasts a couple of days. Is that right?”

  “Usually.” Judging by the way she felt, this attack might not take that long.

  “Well, there’s no rush to talk about any of this. Your sister is safe and entertained. You can amble on back to the bedroom at the end of the hall and sleep off the malaria. When you feel better, we’ll talk.”

  Winona stared at him, trying desperately to pretend she had a functioning brain. But it was no use. She didn’t. “I’m sorry to impose. I thought the place was abandoned.”

  “It was.”

  His tone implied that he’d put a lot of work into the house, too. Her heart sank.

  As if her face had given her away, he said, “We can talk when you feel better. Nothing has to be decided tonight.”

  She nodded. “My sister is downstairs? Will you call her? She’ll feel better if she sees I’ve come out of it a little.”

  “Sure.”

  He moved out of sight, and Winona didn’t have the energy to turn her head. Lynch, she thought, thinking the name rang a bell. She couldn’t place it.

  And while he was safely out of the room, she wanted to go about the embarrassing business of getting up. With a grunt, she pushed herself forward on the couch and put her feet down. Slowly, she eased to a standing position and paused. Dizziness assailed her, but she fought it and stepped forward. Unsteadily.

  “Hey, there. You could ask for help, you know.”

  Daniel was beside her, one firm hand on her elbow, the other around her waist.

  “You don’t appear too steady.”

  Winona turned her head, and she had to look up to his face. It was only a little ways up, but it counted. He was taller than she was by a couple of inches, and his chest was deep and strong. “I’m okay,” she said huskily.

  He smiled. “No, you aren’t. Your sister said you’ve been in the Peace Corps, but you don’t have to be brave around here. Put your arm around my waist.”

  Winona stared, frozen. Put her arm around his waist? Voluntarily put her body in contact with her ultimate sexual fantasy? She’d probably collapse entirely. “I’m fine.”

  The grin broadened. “Then I’ll hang on to you.”

  Joleen came in behind them and gave a little happy cry. “Winona! You’re better.”

  Winona turned too quickly, and the lingering fever bolted through her nerve centers, knocking everything akimbo. Violently she grabbed for the nearest brace, and it was Daniel. She gasped softly as she tried to right herself, and then his arms were loosely laced around her, holding her steady. Their bodies barely brushed, her breasts against his torso, her hips against his. She smelled a sharp, vivid scent of male heat and spice deodorant, mixed with washed skin and salt. His breath warmed her chin and she gripped his arms.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Winona swallowed and moved her body out of contact, hoping he didn’t think she’d staged the dizziness. How embarrassing. “Yes.”

  Joleen walked over. “Come on, I’ll help you to bed, then bring a big bottle of water. By supper tomorrow night, you should feel much better.”

  “Thanks, kiddo,” Winona said, gratefully transferring her hands from Daniel to her sister. She looked at him. “Thank you.”

  She’d surprised an oddly intense expression in his eyes.

  “Rest” was all he said.

  * * *

  Daniel was amazed at the change in the kid. The mousiness disappeared and she took charge like a little mother when Winona was awake. Maybe, he thought to himself as they left the room, she was just shy around strangers. Not uncommon in thirteen-year-olds.

  With a sigh he sat back down at the computer. His specialty was designing individual systems for businesses to streamline their operations and improve communications. This particular project had been a nightmare from the beginning, and it wasn’t getting any easier. He picked up the juice bottle, took a swig and frown
ed at the screen. The blinking cursor waited for his input.

  Winona Snow. A good name for her, with that froth of pale hair and her vividly blue eyes. Her coloring made him think of a winter day in the Southwest. The rest of her made him think of all kinds of things he hadn’t thought about in a long time. Heated things involving mouths and hands and—

  With a frown, he put on the mental brakes. Where the hell had all that come from?

  Absently Daniel lined up the edge of the keyboard with the edge of the desk. It had been a long, long time since he’d had a woman. His unrequited love for Jessie had kept him celibate for years, and since she’d found Luke, no one had even faintly interested him.

  He pursed his lips meditatively, staring at the blue screen without seeing it. It was hard not to respond to a woman like Winona Snow. A man would have to be a eunuch not to notice those siren curves. She’d looked like a celluloid goddess when she sat up, her hair tousled, her curves inviting the same treatment as lemon cream pie—long, slow, savoring.

  He licked his lips without thinking, then caught himself and grinned ruefully. There was no avoiding certain realities—the woman must have the right pheromones or something. He responded to her on an adamantly physical plane.

  With a sigh, Daniel clicked the icons on the screen to save his program. He wasn’t going to get any more work done tonight.

  As the screen flashed its messages, Daniel tried to remember that Winona Snow was the enemy. He was going to have to battle her for this house and this land, for the trees and the ancient pathways his ancestors had carved through the bluffs beyond.

  He’d have to stay aloof to do it, because there were bound to be sentimental attachments for her, or she wouldn’t have bothered to drive here from Wisconsin to claim the ranch.

  From behind him, Joleen spoke. “Is that your little girl?”

  Daniel stalled, clicking the mouse on a second set of icons. “Hmm?”

  “That little girl in the picture. Is she your daughter?”

  Although he had heard her the first time, Daniel looked in the direction she pointed. The photo of Giselle had been taken about two years before. She was holding an eight-inch trout she’d caught, smiling proudly for the camera. Her hair was woven in two long braids that hung over her shoulders, and her skinny little-girl legs poked out of a pair of dusty cotton shorts. When Daniel had taken the picture, Jessie had been standing behind him, laughing in delight at the child’s accomplishment.

  He kept this particular picture on the wall for a reason. It was that golden afternoon that he’d decided he had waited long enough for Jessie Callahan. It was that afternoon he had made up his mind to somehow throw her and Luke Bernali together so their past could be solved once and for all. Then Jessie would be free to perhaps love Daniel in return, or he’d be free to overcome his broken heart.

  She’d chosen Luke.

  The picture reminded him that he’d taken the action to make it happen. He wasn’t a victim of anything but bad timing. “She’s the daughter of some friends of mine,” he said to Joleen.

  “What’s her name?”

  Daniel pushed the button to turn off the computer. “Giselle.”

  “Don’t you like to talk about her?”

  The insight startled him. He looked at her. “There isn’t much to say.” It wasn’t true, of course. Given the right prompts, he’d been known to brag about Giselle for hours. She was a bright, sweet, beautiful child.

  And though he’d managed to more or less put Jessie out of his mind and heart, he still missed Giselle badly. The pain hung with him all the time, like a tooth on the verge of going bad, a dull, almost unnoticeable ache that flared every now and then with a fierce stab, then subsided. She’d been his child—in all but fact—for seven years, from the night of her birth until her real father, Luke, had moved forward to claim her.

  Which had been the whole point, Daniel reminded himself.

  “She’s pretty,” Joleen said.

  He caught a note of wistfulness in her voice.

  “I always wanted to have long, black hair like that. All the way to my waist.”

  He gave her a quick grin. “You have hair?”

  Self-consciously she touched her baseball cap. “Not very good hair.”

  “People always want what they don’t have.” He slipped a disk back into its holder and put it away, then collected the pencils he’d used and put them in their container. “It’s human nature.”

  “That’s what Winona says.” Joleen shifted her weight and fiddled with the bottom of her shirt. “You missed one.”

  “What?”

  “A pencil.” She tapped her ear to illustrate.

  Daniel took the pencil from his hair and put it away. “Thanks.”

  She inclined her head. “How long did it take you to grow your hair that long?”

  He chuckled in spite of himself. “You know something? Girls always ask me that question.”

  “They do?”

  “Yep. And the little ones want to brush it.”

  “Some of the girls I baby-sit for do that.”

  He glanced at the clock and saw with a little jolt of surprise that it was past two in the morning. “Aren’t you tired?”

  She lifted a shoulder, almost visibly retreating. “No. I’m really a night person, even if kids aren’t supposed to be. My sister said that even when I was a baby I had my nights and days mixed up.” She fingered a notebook on the desk. “She says it must have been meant to be, since the stage is—well, was—what I planned to do.”

  “Is that right?” For a moment he measured her, wondering if she wanted a prompt to tell him the rest of that story. He decided she did. “Are you planning on the movies now, instead?”

  Her answer was short, clear, firm. “No.”

  He watched her, saw the quick shuttering of her face. Well, scratch one up to experience. He’d been wrong before.

  Briefly he considered the situation. He wasn’t the slightest bit tired, and it was strangely pleasant to have someone to talk to in the middle of the night. His life at the ranch had isolated him from his usual web of support, and that was partly what he’d wanted—a fresh start. But it was lonely.

  “A little owl, huh? I’m a night person, too,” he said finally. “How about we go fix something to eat?”

  Her smile was quick and grateful, and went straight to his heart. Damn, why was it always so hard to keep his defenses up? The last thing in the world he wanted was to get mixed up with another fatherless child. He’d have to watch his level of involvement with this one.

  But just for tonight, when she was obviously feeling lonely in this strange new place, it wouldn’t hurt him to be nice.

  She trailed him into the kitchen, a big homey room with a round, adobe fireplace in one corner. The overhead light was plain iridescent, not the fluorescent that he loathed. It cast warm, yellow light against the golden pine walls and over the big, worn table near a window. By day the window showed a vast, unpeopled expanse of land that ended with mountains cutting a jagged line against the horizon.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got.” Daniel tugged open the freezer. Cooking annoyed him, and he lived on frozen food, macaroni and cheese and canned chili, augmented with copious amounts of coffee and Kool-Aid. Perfect for a teenager and a longtime bachelor. “I’ve got the four major food groups here—sugar, fat, cholesterol and salt.”

  She didn’t giggle, as he’d hoped, but when he shot her a glance over his shoulder, there was a crooked semblance of a smile.

  “How about pizza?” He tugged out a flat, red box. “And for dessert, good old Boston cream pie?”

  “Yum.”

  He put the pizza in the oven, poured two fresh glasses of Kool-Aid and sat down. From a basket in the center of the table, he took a deck of cards and started shuffling them. “How long have you lived with your sister?”

  “Almost six months. She came home from Africa to take care of me.”

  “When your parents died?”
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br />   She nodded, but didn’t volunteer any details. The liveliness he’d been enjoying drained from her face. “Hey, there,” he said. “We don’t have to talk about them. Promise.”

  Joleen looked at him, and he saw the misery in the big, owlish eyes. He wondered what she looked like without the cap and why she wore it, but didn’t push that, either. “Let’s play cards. What do you like?”

  “Rummy?”

  “You got it.”

  * * *

  When Winona next awoke, she had no idea how much time had passed. It was late morning, maybe even noon, judging by the light streaming through the uncurtained window. She’d slept deeply and without dreams, and when she moved experimentally, she knew the worst of this attack was over. Weakness and the faint dizziness would linger, but she could function.

  Her body felt sweaty and sticky from the fever, and her clothes were twisted uncomfortably on her body. Tugging at a disagreeable pinch under her arm, she stood up. Nothing like sleeping in a bra and cutoffs to remind her why nightgowns had been invented.

  There were no sounds from the rest of the house. If she knew Joleen, the kid would sleep for hours yet. Without Winona to nag her, Joleen had probably watched movies all night.

  She tried not to think about the man.

  Daniel.

  Moving quietly, Winona went down the hall, listening, but heard nothing. No music. No voices. No movements. Outside, the familiar finches warbled in a juniper that sat beside the porch.

  The door to the master bedroom stood open halfway, and though Winona told herself to mind her own business, her peripheral vision snagged hard on a swath of black braid. She halted. Last night she’d been feverish. Maybe her mind had embroidered a bit on reality.

  The man from the night before sprawled facedown on the bed, covered to the waist by a sheet. His back was bare—bare and brown, smooth as finest leather. The glossy braid lay at an angle over his shoulder blades. She remembered the feel of his hair on her fingers, the wild look of it loose around his shoulders.

  Acute emotion burst in her body, centered low. Impossible to want a man so much on first sight. Impossible and idiotic, especially considering the way men reacted to her. They didn’t like her height, her size, her big hands and feet. Men liked women who were delicate and fragile and needed protection, not Valkyries like her.