LITMIR.BIZ

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cousin Zach had told her not to confront the man on her own. Too late for that now.

      The man stepped forward, his dark blond hair as rich and golden as the glistening dusk. He looked good in his nice-fitting jeans, fancy boots and wool sports coat. But even the worst of criminals could dress with movie-star quality.

      “You’ve got it all wrong,” he said, holding up one hand, a whiff of something spicy and woodsy drifting around him. “I can explain—”

      “You’d better start talking, then,” Arabella said, her hands on her hips. “Beginning with why you’ve been lurking around my girls and me. I saw you a few weeks back and now here you are again. What do you want?”

      He stepped closer, his smoky blue-gray eyes sparkling with interest and intent. “I have a good reason for … following you.”

      “Yeah, and I think I know what it is.”

      “No, honestly, it’s nothing sinister or criminal. It’s a bit complicated. I’m Jonathan, Jonathan Turner.”

      Arabella deciphered that and the bold look in his eyes. “Turner? That’s Jasmine’s last name.”

      “I know,” he said, letting out a soft breath. “Her father, Aaron, was my older brother. I’m Jasmine’s uncle.”

      Arabella grabbed onto the sports car, her breath hitching in her throat. “What?”

      She heard the church door banging shut, then Zach calling out her name. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes off this man. Up close he looked like a younger, better version of Jasmine’s father, Aaron Turner. She’d only seen Aaron a couple of times around town, but the resemblance was right there, staring her in the eyes.

      Taking a quick breath, she asked, “What did you say?”

      He stood in front of her now. “I’m telling you the truth, Mrs. Michaels. I’m Jasmine’s uncle. I’ve been trying to locate her … and last month I asked around to make sure I had the right girl. And now I know I do.”

      “I don’t believe you.” Or maybe she just didn’t want to believe him. Arabella didn’t like change and lately change had been coming her way with all the haste of the falling leaves around her.

      Zach walked up, scowled his deputy sheriff’s frown at the man standing there and then took Arabella by the arm. “It’s true, Arabella. I tried to find you to tell you. I ran a background check on him this afternoon. He’s telling you the truth. Jonathan Turner is Jasmine’s uncle.”

      Then Zach turned to Jonathan. “And all that aside, you’d better have a very good reason for messing with my cousin and her family, Dr. Turner.”

      Arabella looked from Zach to the man he just addressed as Dr. Turner. “A doctor? I can’t believe this. We imagined all kinds of horrid things. When we first saw you, we thought you reminded us of someone, but I never dreamed—” She stopped, her hands fisting at her sides. “That was mighty mean, what you did to us. What you did to that girl, sneaking around like that.”

      Jonathan lowered his head, forcing her to look at him. “I’m not trying to frighten you. Honestly. I only came here to find my niece … and maybe be a part of her life. I live in Denver and I thought Jasmine should at least know me.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “And, to be frank, I wouldn’t mind if she came back to Denver with me.”

      Arabella’s stomach knotted. So this was it, then—that something terrible she’d been dreading. This man had come here to rearrange her carefully constructed life.

      Or so he thought.

      “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

      Jonathan waited a couple of heartbeats, wondering if he’d be arrested for harassment or if Arabella Michaels would show him some sympathy and listen to him. Arabella Clayton Michaels, he reminded himself. From what he’d heard, the Clayton name sure carried a lot of weight around here. And there always seemed to be several Claytons around at any given time.

      She bit at her wide, pouty lip then glanced over at the uniformed deputy sheriff—what was his name … Zach? Jonathan watched her, fascinated with the stubborn slant of her chin and the glint of dare in her catlike gold-brown eyes. When she tossed back piles of silky brown hair then focused those big eyes on him, he couldn’t take his next breath. He waited for her decision, thinking that must be the reason he couldn’t think straight. This woman stood between him and his niece.

      She cut her gaze toward the sheriff. “Zach, thank you for the update. Could you excuse us, please?”

      Zach held up a hand. “Arabella, I don’t think—”

      “I’ve got this, Zach. Just … keep Jasmine occupied until I can figure out what to do.”

      “Is she inside?” Jonathan asked, hoping to meet his niece at last.

      “She is, but you don’t need to bother her right now.” The woman turned to her cousin. “Zach, please?”

      Zach didn’t look convinced. He pivoted toward Jonathan, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re running here, but if you do anything to hurt Arabella or her family, you’ll have me to deal with. Understand?”

      Although Jonathan respected the man for doing his job and trying to protect his cousin, he’d been more intimidated by gang members brought into the E.R. with gunshot wounds. “I read you. I only want to get to know my niece.”

      Zach dropped his hand. “I’ll be inside if you need me, Arabella.”

      She nodded, then waited for Zach to stalk away.

      “Protective, isn’t he?” Jonathan said by way of getting through the icy chill in her eyes.

      She gave him a look that could crumble Pike’s Peak. “Claytons stand together. Well, at least my side of the family does anyway.”

      Hmm. Trouble in Claytonville? Jonathan filed that away for another time. Right now he wanted to discuss why he was here. “I admire that. And I’m sorry I scared you.”

      He motioned to a bench inside the spot marked as a prayer garden. Tall trees and fat shrubs gave the walled-off area a sense of seclusion. Inside, a fountain bubbled in the center, and colorful, fat mums bloomed in shades of red, orange and yellow in the flower beds. A plaque showing praying hands read “He will not leave you comfortless.” Maybe the serenity of the place would calm both of them down.

      She followed him, then sank against the stone bench, putting her elbows on her knees and leaning over, her head in her hands. “I thought you were some sort of private investigator or, worse, a creep.”

      He had to smile at that. “I’m neither, although I’ve been called worse. Lots of times.”

      She sat up straight, adjusting her shoulders into what looked like fight mode. “I can’t imagine why. You sneak around spying on people. I’m a mother with small children. Why didn’t you just come to my front door and tell me the truth?”

      He didn’t have a good answer for that. Shrugging, he said, “I’m not good at confrontations.”

      She shot him a measuring look. “You’re a doctor?” “Yeah. I’m better at telling people what I can and can’t fix. Not so good in the emotional part of the conversations.”

      “So your bedside manner is lacking as much as your social skills?”

      He grinned, glad she had a sense of humor. “Somewhat, or so I’ve been told.”

      Her lips pursed at that comment. “And you live in Denver?”

      “Denver, yes. I have a high-rise condo near the hospital.”

      She stared out at the aspen trees lining the parking lot. “Not so far away.”

      “No, not really. An hour or so.”

      “You

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