Page 6 of Tribulation Pass

But something nagged at the corner of his mind again, and he shook himself back to reality. He listened closely, trying to figure out what was off. And then he heard it again. A steady pounding from his front door.

A growl escaped his throat, but he headed for the door anyway. His family knew not to interrupt him when he was working, which meant there had to be an emergency of some sort. Or someone with a death wish.

ChapterFour

Duncan had forgottenhe’d been working in old sweats, so he swung by his bedroom to grab a shirt. He was pulling it on as he opened the front door and a wet mass of something he was almost positive was human fell into his arms.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, trying to keep them both upright. “This is private property.”

“S-sor-sorry,” she said.

She was in shock. Her eyes were wide and unfocused and she was shivering with cold.Great, Duncan. Why not traumatize her some more?

Her fingers were clasped around his shirt and he tried to loosen them one by one. There’d been too many whackos over the years who’d tried to trespass on the family land and take whatever they could find. That never ended well.

Atticus had lectured and trained them well enough to be paranoid about any strangersaccidentallypopping up. Security was his business, and the O’Haras had vast resources and connections. There’d even been a kidnapping attempt at one time because of their political influence.

The woman was tall, close to six feet, and her skin impossibly pale. He immediately let go of her, and her knees buckled. He caught hold of her elbows to help her stay upright.

Her teeth started to chatter. “I’m s-sorry,” she said again. “My c-car. It’s s-stuck. I’m looking for m-my house.”

She had an intriguing face—more interesting than beautiful—but she was crazy as a loon. Or someone with an agenda. His house wasn’t a placeanyonefound by accident.

“Sell it to someone else, lady,” he said. “Who do you work for? Who put you up to this?”

His harsh tone must’ve struck a nerve because her head snapped back and the color started to come back into her face. Her hair was the white blond that women paid a lot of money for, but he had a feeling she didn’t have to. Her brows were finely arched, her eyes almost black, and her lashes thick and full, clumped together by the rain.

Her lips were wide, full, and unpainted, her nose was just a bit crooked, and she had a sexy little mole at the corner of her mouth. A vision of her decked out in a gold breastplate with a sword and shield in her hands and hair blowing in the wind came so clear he could’ve reached out and touched it.

It made him all the more angry. He wanted to be back upstairs in his studio—neededto be—and whatever her scheme, it just delayed him more.

“Are you normally so chivalrous?” she asked. “I suppose you kick small dogs and run over the elderly as well?”

His brow arched at that, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He wasn’t above seeing the absurdity in his behavior, and he tried to relax a little bit.

“And if you must know, Atticus Cameron sent me here. Feel free to call him if you must, but maybe we could move this conversation inside. Or I’m happy to camp out on your porch, but if you think I’m going back out into that,” she said, waving her hand in an unspecified direction, “then you are going to be very disappointed.”

She was magnificent in her anger. He’d have to paint her, loon or not.

“As exciting as that sounds,” he said, “maybe you could give me a little more information before I let you inside my home. This area is private for a reason. And we’ve had too many close calls.”

She managed to draw herself up to her full height, and dignity cloaked her like a blanket. There was a fierce determination somewhere inside of her, but he’d expect no less from the warrior he envisioned.

“I’ve just moved to Laurel Valley to be the manager at the sporting goods store, and I’ve leased the lake house on Tribulation Pass. The young woman at The Lampstand gave me directions, but my car got stuck some ways back and here I am. I don’t mean to be rude…”

“Sure you do,” Duncan said, enjoying himself now that she was getting her dander up. Women were fascinating. Their emotions and reactions. He wanted to draw her in charcoal like this. Fast lines and sharp, furious edges.

“You might as well come in,” he said, moving aside to let her by. “You’ll be camped out on my doorstep and then I’ll never get you to leave.”

“I appreciate your generosity,” she said.

And she wasn’t being sarcastic. He could tell she was at the end of her rope, and he’d only made it harder on her.

Despite the outward appearance of bravado, there was a fragile vulnerability hidden somewhere inside. Even warriors couldn’t be strong all the time. He had another vision of her, this time in soft pastels and watercolors.

Inviting her inside was a mistake. He knew it as sure as he was breathing. His artist’s eye picked out subtleties that others didn’t pick up on. Her clothes were expensive, her speech refined, and she was running from something.

And when you put two and two together, Atticus had given her a home and a place to work. He’d given her a safe haven. The fact that his warrior needed a safe haven at all made him want to protect her, to shield her from whatever hurts she’d suffered.

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