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  Not that it mattered. My hands would not be plumping her breasts, encircling her waist, or grabbing her heart-shaped ass. Not in reality, anyway. Nighttime fantasies and a little DIY did not count.

  So, back to my neighbor. She seemed capable enough, for a woman. Now, don’t get your panties in a bunch and start spewing all kinds of caveman comments my way. I’ve known more than my fair share of kick-ass females, and I was fine with having a good number of them on my six. But Clarissa wasn’t one of them, no matter how much she wanted me (and everyone else) to think otherwise. For as capable as she was, she also gave the impression of being soft-hearted, as evidenced by the way she created a nest of old blankets on the far side of her covered porch and left food out every morning and night for that stray.

  Besides, that tractor was older than my grandparents, with none of the safety features required on today's models. It was little more than a big engine with just a slightly curved metal seat sitting above tires that were as tall as she was, no belts or guards or bars to stop her from getting crushed or mangled should she hit a bump or root the wrong way and topple off. And I’d actually seen her standing on that seat, balanced on the toes of her good leg, reaching for something when she didn’t feel like hauling out the ladder.

  What if she fell? With no one but me around for a couple of miles, who would even know?

  I shook my head, giving myself a lecture on the benefits of minding my own business. I countered that by rationalizing that, as neighbors go, she was a good one. She did her own thing and left me alone to do mine. It was in my own best interests to keep her there. If she left, who knows who might buy the place?

  Most of the mountain was considered state game lands, but there were a few personally owned parcels, too, mine and hers being two of them.

  Yep, as long as I kept my distance and my innate protective male instinct from seeing this as anything more than good ol’ self-interest, it was all good.

  The trip down the mountain was uneventful, but I did spot a couple of hikers and bird-watchers. There would be more of them in the next month or two when the fall foliage hit full force and the migratory birds would soar overhead in droves on their trip south. Which reminded me - I needed to pick up some more No Hunting, No Fishing, No Trespassing signs while I was in town. Most people didn’t know that in Pennsylvania, you had to put up new signs every year and sign them for them to hold up in a court of law. You know, just in case you shot somebody for ignoring your repeated warnings and playing weekend warrior in your backyard.

  Thankfully, it hadn’t yet come to that. A high-powered rifle casually slung over the shoulder and a big Bowie knife on my belt was usually all the deterrent needed. I frowned, remembering last fall when I’d spotted a fair number of people helping themselves to those orchards. I hadn’t really cared because the place had been unoccupied since I moved in.

  But now Clarissa was there.

  I could only hope that any visitors would notice that the orchards no longer had that wild, untended look. Clarissa had done a good job of trimming back the trees, tidying up the area, and mowing the grass. I tacked on a couple dozen more “Private Property” signs to my mental list.

  As small towns go, Harken was one of the smallest, with a total population somewhere less than five hundred. In the 1800s, the valley had been home to a small community of pioneer types, primarily loggers hoping to make a living on the abundance of local hardwoods, like locust and black walnut. In the early twentieth century, a fledgling power company purchased the land from the hundred or so residents with the intent of flooding the valley. The purpose was two-fold: to create a fresh-water lake that would be the focal point of a planned summer vacation spot for the affluent (and an alternative to the not-so-distant Catskills), as well as a self-sufficient reservoir to serve said community.

  The dam was built and the land was flooded, but before anyone could make any money the financial backers went belly-up in the great stock market crash. The plans for the resort community were abandoned and the lake all but forgotten by those few families who’d stuck around. The water was still so clear and so pristine that if you looked down over the side of your boat in some parts, you could still see the houses below. Special warning buoys had even been placed around the steeple of the original town church because the tip of it extended only a dozen or so feet beneath the glassy surface.

  I discovered all this over the course of my monthly forays into town, once the residents were convinced I had settled in for the duration. They didn’t share the town’s history with outsiders; they figured it would draw people back to Harken, maybe rekindle ideas of a lake resort community, and nobody wanted that.

  I was met with friendly smiles and waves, a sign that I was now officially recognized and accepted. I made a point of stopping at all the local suppliers, lest one accuse me of favoritism, staying long enough at each place to catch up a little and stay in touch. It never hurt to make nice with the natives. They seemed to appreciate my business and most respected my desire for solitude.

  There were a few exceptions, mostly older women. For instance, Mrs. Cavelli didn’t believe any man was capable of functioning beyond a Pavlovian level without a good woman to guide him, and constantly reminded me that her daughter, Constance, was still available. All four hundred pounds of her.

  I heard similar spiels from Mrs. Magners, Mrs. Thomas, and Ida Hemmelschmidt, who wasn’t married and didn’t have a daughter but did have several nieces with wide hips, perfect for child-bearing (or so I was told). In years past, I would have bitten off my own foot to avoid them, but today I found myself willingly entering enemy territory (a.k.a., Mabel’s Diner), just as I had for the last two monthly ventures before.

  I didn’t go in because I was interested in their daughters, but because I knew they would have information about my mysterious little neighbor. God forbid the Taliban ever discovered the true source of American information – small-town women. We’d all be in deep shit.

  My self-sacrifice paid off. The information gleaned was worth some pinched cheeks, not-so-subtle bicep strokes, and frequent reminders of the number of unattached daughters in the town proper.

  It was all worth it, and I barely had to do anything. One indirect reference to my neighbor and you’d swear I’d just thrown a lit match into a puddle of lighter fluid. Apparently, everyone had something to share about the enigmatic newcomer, so I just sat back, stuffed my face with the copious amounts of home-cooked food they kept putting before me, and listened.

  Easiest mission ever.

  I absorbed each new tidbit like a dry sponge while feigning disinterest. This was how I learned that the land had been in Clarissa’s family for a long, long time, and that her great-great-great... grandparents had been among the original settlers of the town. It had been Seamus Sullivan who had led the protest against the power company all those years ago, doing his best to convince the valley dwellers not to sell out. But greed was a powerful motivator to the dirt-poor loggers, and few heeded ol’ Seamus’ prophecies of doom. That prompted him to take his family and retreat into the mountains, proudly baring his backside on the way (or so the legend goes).

  I also learned that until about ten years ago, a Sullivan had occupied that land ever since. When the last one died – Old Eli, they called him - his last will and testament specified that the land go to his only surviving relative, a great-grandniece named Clarissa, last name unknown.

  Apparently, it had taken Mrs. Hemmelschmidt’s brother and elder partner of Hemmelschmidt and Son Law, Eric Sr., several years to locate her. Having tossed back a few with Eric Jr. in the local pub (“beer garden”), I was not at all surprised by this, because both men seemed to have a particular aversion to actually doing anything. What I found far more interesting was that it was only recently that Clarissa Sullivan had appeared, moved in, and made this her new permanent residence.

  Of course, there was a lot of speculation on this. Everyone wanted to know about the newest property owner, and Cla
rissa was not making it easy for them. According to the klatch of ladies in the diner, Clarissa Sullivan had resisted any and all efforts to be properly welcomed.

  Interrogated, more like.

  I’d faced the same thing when I’d first arrived, but I’d had years of military training on how to resist such things. Granted, the government program didn’t exactly include warm apple pie and hand-churned ice cream as potential information extraction techniques, but they probably would if any of them ever found themselves in Harken and in the sights of these formidable ladies.

  I remained quiet as their discussion ensued, biting back a grin as I wondered what my neighbor would think of being the hottest topic of conversation at Mabel’s Diner. She would probably thin those Cupid’s bow lips, place those hands on her lush hips, and set those big blue-green eyes on fuck-off-and-die mode. I shifted slightly at the image now in the forefront of my mind.

  At least until Mabel Magners cleared her throat and dropped her voice in what I’d come to label her “tone of conspiracy”. It meant that she was about to reveal something of great importance. I, like everyone else, waited expectantly.

  “Not to worry,” she said, triumph shining in her eyes. “I sent Malcolm up there earlier.”

  There was more than one intake of breath. “You sent your Malcolm?”

  Mabel smirked. “Well, yes. I figured it was time to pull out the big guns.”

  The pie churned uncomfortably in my stomach at this latest development. Malcolm Magners was the apple of his mother’s eye and the closest thing to a celebrity the town of Harken had. He kept his golden blonde hair perfectly styled with his standing weekly afternoon appointments at Jenna Bauman’s Beauty Salon, and his teeth blindingly white and perfect, the crowning achievement of Dennis Thomas, DDS. He cared just as meticulously for his body, sculpting his muscles by spending untold hours at the local fitness center, which he owned and operated. He’d built the place using the royalties from the half-dozen commercials he’d been cast in a few years earlier when he’d gone to New York to “make it big”.

  Nathan Trumbauer, Malcolm’s one time best bud, once confided to me in a haze of drunken envy that the only reason Malcolm had gotten those gigs was because he was the boy-toy flavor of the month for the producer’s cougar wife, and his brief career was suddenly cut short when the producer found them in flagrante delicto in the back of the prop room during one of the shoots.

  Needless to say, I didn’t have a very high opinion of Malcolm Magners. But I would be stupid to overlook the fact that those of the fairer sex did.

  I complimented the ladies once again on their exemplary culinary skills and hastily made my exit.

  There was no way in hell Malcolm Magners was going to get his man-whoring, baby-soft hands on my peaches.

  Chapter 2

  Clarissa

  I’d just finished unloading the jars of peaches, brandied pears, and tomatoes onto Travis’s porch and was anxious to get back before he returned from his bi-monthly trip into town. It wasn’t that I was keeping tabs on him or anything, but with only the two of us up here, it was hard not to notice the sound of his big, black truck rumbling past my place or the accompanying pounding beat of heavy metal blasting out into the otherwise peaceful surroundings.

  He did it for my benefit, I knew. It was his way of letting me know that he would not be around for a while, thus giving me the green light to deliver my non-vocal thanks for the extra firewood.

  It was a game we played, he and I. He’d do something nice for me and I’d return the favor. It was done under a veil of silence and by unspoken agreement. I really didn’t want his help, just as I was sure he didn’t want mine. That was exactly why it worked. If he had fawned over my canned goods or suggested a shared meal, I would have balked.

  I think he knew that.

  Travis and I had never been properly introduced. The only reason I knew his name was because the lawyer I’d dealt with (and had yet to actually meet) – Eric Hemmel-something-or-other – had provided me with a map of my inherited property and Travis’ name had been penciled in along the southern border. The rest of the surrounding area was marked off as protected state game lands.

  I’d felt my neighbor’s eyes on me, especially in the beginning when I’d first arrived. He didn’t come over and try to strike up a friendship, and for that I was grateful. Maybe he noticed how I sent away the nosy townsfolk who had ventured out under the guise of the Welcome Wagon. Or perhaps it was the shiny new “Private Property, Violators Will Be Prosecuted” signs I’d liberally placed at the entrance to my branch of our shared drive. Since he had similar signage, I figured he understood.

  The first time I saw him close-up, I was kind of surprised. I was expecting someone right out of Duck Dynasty or Mountain Men, not Captain America. Of course, he’d been wearing Levi’s, flannel, and steel-tipped boots instead of tights, which definitely was a plus in my book. His dark brown hair was neatly trimmed, his strong jaw clean-shaven. It was his eyes – a steely gray, strong, guarded and wary - and the way he carried himself that made me think he was former military.

  I’d been struggling with the ancient Ford Golden Jubilee for hours, trying to get it started. I noticed him standing at the barn door for a good twenty minutes before he actually entered. Without saying a word, he stalked over and fiddled under the hood for about thirty seconds. Then he nodded once, which I took as a silent command to try again.

  Wouldn’t you know, the damn thing started up on the second try.

  As I gaped at him, he nodded again, then left as silently as he came.

  It was then I decided that my neighbor was all right. That was the first time I left a basket of fresh-baked bread and a jar of homemade blackberry jam at his doorstep.

  And thus began our strange little game.

  In the months since, he let himself be seen more often. While I pretended to ignore him, I have to admit, I did take comfort in knowing that he was nearby. Yes, I wanted my solitude, but it was nice to know that if I ever did need help, he was only a holler away. Since I made it a point not to speak to him, I think he would know that if I ever did call out, it would be a real emergency.

  Hopefully, he found similar comfort in me, though I was hard-pressed to imagine a situation where he would need my help. I had never seen a man as wholly capable as Travis Maxwell. In my own surreptitious observations, I had seen him working in and around his cabin. I was just as likely to see him sealing his roof as changing the oil or brake pads on his truck. He also appeared to be proficient at hunting, fishing, and trapping, but that might have had something to do with the afternoons he wiled away shooting his impressive collection of firearms or compound bows.

  In a nutshell, I doubted there was anything he couldn’t do.

  Caught up in thoughts of Travis as I was, I failed to notice the sleek, late model sports car parked in front of my house. My first thought was, what kind of idiot would drive a car with a six-inch undercarriage clearance up my road?

  That thought was followed closely by a few softly murmured expletives unfit for print when I realized I had been spotted. I briefly considered making a break for it anyway, but quickly disregarded that idea. It was better I make it absolutely clear that his presence was not welcome.

  The form that unfolded itself from the shiny metal deathtrap was different from those who had bravely ventured forth before. This one was tall and lean, young and male. Golden hair, golden skin, just plain golden.

  “Hello,” he said in a cheesy, radio-announcer kind of voice, flashing me a well-practiced smile that would have been perfect for a toothpaste commercial. I scowled in return.

  He posed, freaking struck a pose, alongside his car. It was accompanied by a discreet hair flip and a quick finger comb, no doubt intended to draw my attention to his gorgeous locks. He probably didn’t realize that right up there with my “guys shouldn’t wear tights” rule was my “guys shouldn’t have nicer hair than me” stipulation.

  “You must be the n
ew owner. Fine piece of property you have here.” His voice was smooth like honey, but not nearly deep enough to rouse my interest – not like someone else whose voice did and who would remain nameless.

  My scowl deepened. “And private,” I added since he apparently missed the half-dozen signs strategically placed near the turnoff into my driveway.

  Undaunted, his grin grew. “Yes, I saw the signs,” he said, blowing that theory. That meant he was either stupid, rude, or narcissistically egotistical. Maybe all three.

  “I’m Malcolm, by the way. Malcolm Magners.”

  The way he said it, it made me think I was supposed to recognize the name. I didn’t. His brilliant smile slipped a little when my unwelcome expression didn’t change.

  “Guess you don’t watch much television, huh?” he hinted. I looked pointedly at the beat-up Timex on my wrist and arched a brow, sending him some very definite go away vibes.

  “Right, well. I wanted to officially welcome you to Harken and invite you to the town gala next week.”

  “Not interested,” I said, tugging on the handle of my now-empty wagon and moving to step around him.

  “Look, I know you’re new here,” he tried again, holding out his arm to stop me. “But trust me when I say you don’t want to miss the Harken Summerfest. Lots of food, games, music, even fireworks over the lake.”

  “No.”

  “Ah, you’re the quiet, shy type. I get it.” He winked and lowered his voice into what I’m sure was supposed to be a sexy tone. “But don’t worry, sweetheart. I won’t leave you hanging. I’ll introduce you around, show you the sights.”

  “Offering personal tours now, Magners?” Travis’ deep, husky baritone sounded behind me, startling me enough to jump a little. Definitely former military. Probably special forces. No man that large should be able to move that silently.

  My unwelcome trespasser shot him an angry look before smoothing over his features. Clearly, there were some unresolved issues between these two.