Her Outback Protector

Dear Reader,

It is with much pleasure that I welcome you to my four-book miniseries, MEN OF THE OUTBACK. The setting moves from my usual stamping ground, my own state of Queensland, to the Northern Territory, which is arguably the most colorful and exciting part of the continent. It comprises what we call the Top End and the Red Center—two extreme climatic and geographical divisions, which is what makes the Territory so fascinating. It has the tropical, World Heritage–listed Kakadu National Park, with crocodiles and water buffalo to the Top, and in the Center the desert, the “Dead Heart”—not actually dead at all, only lying dormant until the rains transform it into the greatest garden on earth.

The pervading theme of the series is family. Family offers endless opportunities for its members to hurt and be hurt, to love and support, or bitterly condemn. What sort of family we grew up in reverberates for the rest of our lives. One thing is certain: at the end of the day, blood binds.

I invite you, dear reader, to explore the lives of my families. My warmest best wishes to you all.

Men of the Outback

THE CATTLEMAN, Superromance #1328

THE CATTLE BARON’S BRIDE, Harlequin Romance #3891

HER OUTBACK PROTECTOR, Harlequin Romance #3895

Look out for Cecile’s story, coming soon from

Harlequin Superromance: THE HORSEMAN #1363

She was full of surprises, Daniel thought in some amazement.

So much for the immature girl without a scrap of make-up! What he saw in front of him was a dead-sexy little buttercup blonde. She was wearing a swishy blue dress that doubled the impact of her violet eyes. He hadn’t expected this transformation. He was so astounded he had trouble hiding it.

“Have a problem with the way I look, Daniel?” she asked sweetly, pleased at his readable reaction.

“No, ma’am.” He half shrugged. “You look different, that’s all.” Daniel studied her face. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m sick with nerves, if you must know.”

“I promise I’ll lay down my life for you.” He said it lightly. Then it struck him. He had just said something that he actually meant.

Her Outback Protector
Margaret Way

Margaret Way takes great pleasure in her work and works hard at her pleasure. She enjoys tearing off to the beach with her family on weekends, loves haunting galleries and auctions, and is completely given over to French champagne “for every possible joyous occasion.” She was born and educated in the river city of Brisbane, Australia, and now lives within sight and sound of beautiful Moreton Bay.

Praise for Margaret Way

The Australian Tycoon’s Proposal

“Margaret Way delivers the latest in a long series of vividly written, dramatic stories.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Outback Surrender

“The characters are so real and compelling that you can’t help but be drawn into their lives…”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Outback Bridegroom

“…compelling…overflows with emotion and passion and pain.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Darwin Airport

The Northern Territory

Australia

INSIDE the domestic terminal Daniel surveyed the swirling crowd. A full head and shoulders over most people he had an excellent view over the sea of bobbing heads. He was confident he’d spot the girl, technically his boss. There were tourists galore. Most were probably headed for the World Heritage listed great national park, Kakadu, but many of the faces in the crowd were familiar; Territorians returning from a stint in the big coastal cities of the eastern seaboard; business, pleasure, maybe both. Striding along to the check-in counter, where his charge had agreed to be, a booklet on the Northern Territory in hand, he constantly exchanged waves and friendly calls. He was a familiar figure himself after nearly six years of working for Rigby Kingston, a pioneer cattleman recently deceased. His allotted chore for the day was picking up Kingston’s long estranged granddaughter, Alexandra, and ferrying her back to the station.

She could have flown to Alice Springs. That would have been a lot closer to Moondai. It was a bit of a haul from Darwin in the tropical Top End of the Territory to Moondai in the Red Centre but he’d managed to kill two birds with the one stone, dropping his leading hand off at RDH, the Royal Darwin Hospital, for a deferred minor op and picking up the girl who had made the long trip from Brisbane. But surely even a city girl would appreciate the magnificent spectacle of great stretches of the Top End under water? That was what she was going to see. Vast swathes of floodplains teeming with nomadic water birds; chains of billabongs floating armadas of exquisite multicoloured waterlilies; the western fringe of Kakadu, the North, East and West Alligator Rivers snaking through the jungle. That stupendous panorama, especially the endless vistas of waterlilies and the thundering waterfalls of the Wet were to him as much an enduring image of the Top End as were the crocodiles.

They were into March now. The Wet, the Gunemeleng as the aboriginals called it, was all but over. Two cyclones had threatened the tropical North, one extremely dangerous. It had put Darwin, destroyed in Cyclone Tracy in 1974, on high alert. Mercifully cyclone Ingrid had taken herself off into the Timor Sea, but not before dumping torrential rain over the coast and the hinterland. That same deluge, more than they had seen in decades, had brought life-giving water to the Red Centre. The Finke, the oldest river on earth, ninety-nine per cent of the time dry, was now flowing bank to bank. These days it thrilled him to fly over it rejoicing in all the waterfalls that ran off the ochre coloured rock faces into serene green gullies.

Born in tropical North Queensland not far from the mighty Daintree rain forest he had become used to the desert environment. It was very, very special. Maybe the girl would think so, too. After all she had been born on Moondai and spent enough years there to remember it.

“Dan!” A voice boomed.

A passenger off the Brisbane-Darwin flight, a big affable looking man, pushing sixty with keen blue eyes threw out an arm. It was Bill Morrissey, a well respected member of the Northern Territory Administration.

“How are you, sir?” Respect and liking showed in Daniel’s face.

They shook hands. “Hot and tired.” Morrissey wiped his forehead with a spotless white handkerchief. “What brings you into Darwin?”

No harm in telling him. “I’m here to pick up Alexandra Kingston and deliver her to her family.”

“Lordy!” Morrissey put a hand to his fast thinning hair as though to check it was still there. “Wouldn’t like to be that poor child! Not with those relatives. Rigby’s will would have totally alienated his son and grandson and let’s not forget the second wife, Elsa. I have to see it as an angry man’s last response. Rigby cut his family out of the main game even when it’s a fact of life dynasties die out without sons to take over. Daughters tend to walk off with some guy out of the family field.”

“True,” Daniel acknowledged, having witnessed that scenario first-hand. “But in all fairness to Mr. Kingston, Lloyd and Berne aren’t cut out to be cattlemen. Maybe Mr. Kingston made demands on them they simply couldn’t cope with, but they have no taste for the job on their own admission.”

“Well, they could never be carbon copies of him,” Morrissey replied. “A lot of rich families produce at least a couple of offspring who have no head for big business. Now the girl’s father, Trevor, was shaping up to be a chip off the old block. Tragedy he was killed. It happens in our way of life. You’re still going to be around, though, aren’t you, Dan? Can’t see how they could possibly do without you. You might be young, but you’re up there with the best.”

Daniel heard the sincerity in the older man’s voice. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir. I’m committed to one year at least under the terms of Mr. Kingston’s will.”

Morrissey clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Trust Rigby to ensure the transition would be smooth. With you at the helm, or guiding the girl into getting a professional manager they might be able to get by. How old are you now, son? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

“Twenty-eight.” Sometimes it seemed to Daniel he had to be at least double that age, he had seen so much of life.

“Do you have any idea how well regarded you are?”

Daniel gave his very appealing, crooked grin. “If I am I’m very glad. I’ve worked hard.”

“That you have!” Morrissey agreed, knowing the full story.

“Rigby certainly thought so and we all know how demanding he was.”

“He wasn’t loved, that’s for sure!” Daniel agreed wryly, “but I always found him fair enough and willing to listen. One of the things that made him so successful I guess. He never had a closed mind, even for a relative newcomer to the game like me. Besides I’ve learned to love the Territory. It’s my home now.”

“And the Territory needs young men like you,” Morrissey said, comfortable with the mantle of mentor. “Young men of brains and vision. You’ve got both.” He thrust out his hand for a final shake. “Best go now. Can’t keep the chauffeur waiting. When you’re next in Darwin come and see me. When your twelve months are up I guarantee I’ll find you something to suit your talents.”

“Might hold you to that, sir.” Daniel grinned.

Morrissey began to move away, then paused, looking back.

“By the way, Joel Moreland has expressed a desire to meet you. Not for the first time I might add. The Big Man’s heard about you. Now he wants to take a good look at you. You could be in luck, there, my boy. Moreland is a Territory icon. I’ll set it up for lunch. Just the three of us.”

“That’s great!” Daniel was surprised and deeply flattered. It never hurt to have friends in high places he thought as he strode off. Joel Moreland was known in the Territory as the man with the Midas touch. Not one of his many ventures stretching back forty years and more had failed. Not that the man with the Midas touch hadn’t known his own tragedy. Moreland’s son and heir, Jared, had been killed in a freak accident at an Alice Springs rodeo well over twenty years before. Apparently he had put his own life on the line to save a cavorting teenager from a maddened bullock. The Grim Reaper no more spared the lives of those rolling in money than he did the poor.

Well he knew all about being poor but strangely he’d never developed any lasting complexes about it. He was a fighter. He’d spent much of his childhood fighting for the honour of his pretty little mother and the good name some callous guy had stripped from her without looking back. People didn’t label the illegitimate bastards any more. It was politically incorrect. When he was a kid growing up in a small, redneck Queensland town, they didn’t give a fig about that.

From very humble beginnings he had made something of himself. He’d had help. Everyone needs a little help. Even the strongest couldn’t do it on their own. A Channel Country cattleman called Harry Cunningham had given him and his mother that helping hand when they were so down on their luck he’d been filled with fear his vulnerable mother would resort to taking her own life. Harry Cunningham had been their saviour, the man behind his education.

“You’ve got to have an education, Dan. You’re smart as they come, but education is everything. Get it. Then you can pay me back.”

Well he had paid Harry back, reviving the fortunes of Harry’s run-down station only to have Harry’s daughter, his only child, sell the valuable property within a month. Some sons-in-law proved themselves to be eminently capable as substitute sons but as Bill Morrissey had pointed out this particular daughter had married a city slicker who had shied away violently from the prospect of taking on a cattle station. Far easier to take the money and run.

It was Harry’s glowing recommendations that had come to the ears of his late employer, Rigby Kingston. That’s what had gained him a job on Moondai, rising to the rank of overseer. It was he Rigby Kingston had looked to. Not his remaining son, Lloyd, or Lloyd’s son, Bernard. It wasn’t often a man bypassed the males of his family to leave the bulk of his estate to a granddaughter, moreover one who had been banished. What was his reasoning? Did Kingston secretly want his heirs to fail? Having been robbed of his favourite son, Trevor, the girl’s father, the rest could go to hell? Rigby Kingston had been a very curious man. Yet tyrannical old Kingston had left him, Daniel Carson, a nobody, however dramatically he had risen, a handy little nest egg of $250,000, on top of his salary, on the proviso he remain on Moondai as overseer for a period of twelve months after Kingston’s demise.

It was all so damned bizarre!

It didn’t take him a minute more to spot the Kingston heiress. All five feet two of her. Her slight figure, standing brolga-like on one leg, was a few feet from the check-in counter, booklet on the Territory in hand. He didn’t know what he had been expecting. An ultra smooth city girl in expensive designer gear. There were plenty of them about. It surely wasn’t this! A cute little teenager—okay she was twenty, nearly twenty-one, but what the heck, she didn’t look a day over sixteen and she was showing at least five or six inches of baby smooth skin between the end of her T-shirt and the top of her tight jeans. He took in the delicate coltish limbs, jeans sinking on nonexistent hips, the T-shirt blue with a silver logo on the front of her delicate breasts, gentle little rises beneath the clingy fabric. She shifted one hand in her hip pocket, apparently searching for something but as he closed in on her she raised her cropped head and literally jumped.

What the hell! He wasn’t such a dangerous looking character, was he? Maybe his hair was overly long. It was very thick and it grew at a helluva rate and there weren’t too many hairdressers around Moondai. He had lived with his image so long he couldn’t really tell how he presented. Perhaps seen through those saucer eyes staring at him he looked a touch wild; eyes that were so big and radiant a blue they dwarfed her other small features. Except maybe the mouth. Not a trace of lipstick so far as he could see, but then makeup was a mystery to him, but beautifully shaped. He had a notion he was staring back, but she was such a surprise packet.

Obviously she didn’t agree with the notion that a woman’s hair was her crowning glory, either. Hers was cut to within an inch of its life. Buttercup-yellow, curling in the humid heat into a cap of pretty petals. A few escaped onto her forehead. What was the definition of sexy for God’s sake? Against all the odds Miss Alexandra Kingston, looking like she wasn’t all that long out of school, fell into that category.

He collected himself enough to tip a jaunty forefinger to the brim of his black akubra. It felt like he towered over her all the more so because he was wearing high heeled riding boots. He scrutinised her shoes, soft moccasin kind of thing. “Ms Kingston?” he asked, trying to keep all trace of dryness out of his voice and not succeeding all that well.

“Sandra, please.” She cleared a husky throat. “No one calls me Ms Kingston.” Her hand rose defensively to her neat little skull as though to check on an unfamiliar hair style.

Probably just cut it, he thought. Unceremoniously with a pair of nail scissors like an expression of rebellion.

“I am an employee,” he pointed out.

“Hey.” She shrugged. “I said you can call me Sandra.”

“How very egalitarian. Dan Carson.” He introduced himself. “I’m your overseer on Moondai and your chauffeur for the day. I’m here to transport you to the station.”

“Transport?”

He saw her gulp. “Now why make it sound like you’re going on a road train?” he chided gently. Road trains that transported anything from great numbers of cattle to petrol were an awesome sight on Outback roads.

“I was worried about the word, transport,” she said smartly.

Her voice all of a sudden had an unexpected bite to it, an adultness that had him re-evaluating her. “Set your mind at rest. We go by helicopter,” he told her. Could there be a trace of hostility in those bluer than blue eyes? “I had to drop my leading hand into RDH for a minor op so it was convenient to pick you up and bring you home.”

“How kind.” The expressive voice turned sweetly acid.

“Only Moondai’s no home of mine, Mr. Carson.”

“Please—Daniel.” He dipped his head. “I’m not in my element with Mr. Carson.”

“Great! I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out.”

So it was antagonism.

“Actually I thought Christian names might be beneath you.” She was desperate to cover up the fact she felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. Daniel Carson, her overseer, was a marvellous looking guy with Action and Adventure emblazoned all over him. He’d make the perfect hero in some epic movie, she thought. Dark, swashbuckling good looks, splendid body, commanding height. The aura was mesmerising, but his manner was definitely nonthreatening.

“Nothing so old-fashioned,” he mocked gently, looking towards the luggage carousel. It was ringed by passengers all staring fixedly towards the chute as though willpower alone would cause the luggage to start tumbling through. Every last one appeared to be in a desperate hurry to be somewhere else.

“The baggage hasn’t started to arrive as yet,” he commented, unnecessarily, just making conversation. “How many pieces do you have?’

“Just the one,” she murmured, so overloaded by his presence, she transferred her attention to the milling crowd. Multiracial. Multilingual. English predominated; a variety of accents, Aussie, Pommie, New Zealander, American. Lots of backpackers. A group of handsome Germans, speaking their own language, which she had studied for four years at high school; Italian, Greek, Scandinavian, ethnic groups from all over the South-East Asia region.

As the gateway into Australia, Darwin, named in honour of Charles Darwin, the famous British naturalist, was a real melting pot; a far more cosmopolitan city than her home base, Brisbane. In fact it had the feel and even the smell of Asia. Hot, my God, how hot and such humid air! Almost equatorial but somehow vibrant, the scent of jasmine, joss sticks, spices; beautiful golden skinned Asian girls, dead straight shining hair sliding down their backs, strolling by in little bra tops with tiny shorts, a trio of older Asian women wearing gorgeous silk tunics over trousers.

She saw her overseer, Dan Carson, pause to smile at an attractive flight attendant who came over all giggly and flushing. Who could blame her, Sandra thought, wanting to put an instant stop to it. “Hi, Dan!”

“Hi, Abby!” His eyes eventually moved back to Sandra’s small censorious face. Mentally he began to rearrange his first impressions. Young she might be, but she was as sharp as a tack. “You believe in travelling light?”

“Surely it’s one of the great virtues,” she told him loftily, shocked by that irrational flash of jealousy. Where in the world had that come from?

He digested this by compressing his quirky mouth. “Not especially in women. They generally travel with mountains of luggage.”

“You’d know, would you?” Another haughty look as like a replay, two more attendants smiled and wiggled their fingers at him while he grinned back, saluting them with a forefinger to the broad brim of his hat already tipped rakishly over his eyes. Not only her overseer but a playboy of sorts though there was something almost mischievous in those grins.

“I’d say so.” He turned back to her.

He used that flashing, faintly crooked white smile like a sex aid she thought looking on him sternly. “Well I’m not staying long.”

“How totally unexpected.” He couldn’t keep the mockery out of a baritone that flowed like molasses. “Seeing you’ve inherited the station and all.”

Sandra’s eyes glowed the blue of a gas flame. “So what are you saying, that’s amazing?”

He shrugged. “No more than if you said you’d climbed the Matterhorn on your own. Still, I’m sure your grandfather had his reasons.”

She gave a cracked laugh. “He did. He hated me. Now he’s gone he wants Moondai to go to wrack and ruin. Then again, my grandfather never could miss an opportunity to cheat the family out of their expectations. How did he come to hire you?” She met his eyes squarely, not bothering to conceal the challenge. “Surely there’s Uncle Lloyd and cousin Bernie to take charge?”

“Both of whom prefer a different lifestyle,” he returned blandly. “No, actually the job got dumped on me.”

“You don’t sound as though you expect to lose it any time soon?” she cut in.

Pretty perceptive! “Now this is the tricky bit,” he explained. “Under the terms of your grandfather’s will I can’t check out for at least twelve months.”

“What?” She rammed both hands into her jeans pockets. Her waist was so tiny he knew he could span it with his two hands.

“You didn’t know about it?” The way she tossed her head reminded him of a high stepping filly.

“My mind went blank after the first few minutes of hearing the will read.”

“Pays to listen,” he commented briefly. “Ah, the baggage is starting to come through. Let’s go.” He grabbed hold of her soft leather hold-all and slung it over his shoulder. “You can point out which suitcase is yours when it arrives. Or is it a backpack?”

“It’s a designer case,” she said flatly.

“Sweet Lord!” Try as he might he couldn’t prevent a laugh.

“Envious?”

“Not at all.”

“You’ll be happy to know it’s not mine,” she said waspishly. “A friend of mine lent it to me.”

“That surely means your friend likes you?” he asked, amused by their disproportionate heights. She was a tiny little thing. He could fit her into his back pocket.

“He loves me.” She stared straight ahead, almost trotting to keep up with him and his long, long legs.

“Loves you?” he repeated, as though amazed she was ready for romantic love. “Would this friend be your fiancé?”

“He’s gay,” she said quite patiently, considering how she felt. Outside, all mock toughness and tart banter. Inside, a throbbing bundle of nerves.

Daniel took up a position beside the carousel as the throng miraculously parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses.

“He’s nearly eighty,” she continued, trying to keep her attention on the circling luggage when she felt like flopping in a heap. It had been a long, long trip from Brisbane. Another one faced her. She was terrified of light aircraft and helicopters. With good reason. “He has his Abyssinian cat, Sheba, and he has me. We’re neighbours and good friends.”

“So where do you live?” he asked mock politely, lifting a hand to acknowledge yet another enthusiastic wave from the far side of the luggage carousel.

All these women trying to communicate with her overseer, instead of getting on with their business. Sandra fumed. She didn’t feel in the least good humoured about it. An attractive redhead this time, who seemed to have peeled off most of her clothes in favour of coolness. It was irritating all this outrageous flirtation.

“You don’t need to know,” she told him severely. “But I’m desperately missing my flat already.”

“Like the older man do you?” he asked, rather amused by her huffiness. It was fair to say she didn’t look like a considerable heiress. She didn’t dress like one, either. She was definitely not friendly when he was long used to easy smiles from women.

“The older the better,” she said with emphasis. “You seem awfully young to be overseer of a big station?” She eyed him critically. He radiated such energy it needed to be channelled.

“I grew up fast,” he answered bluntly. “I had a very rough childhood.”

“That’s hard to believe.” He really was absurdly good-looking. Hunk was the word. Stunning if you liked the cocky macho male always ready for the next conquest. “You look like you were born to the sound of hundreds of champagne corks popping…already astride your own pony by the time you were two.”

He smiled grimly. “You’re way off.” He watched the expensive suitcase tumble out onto the conveyor belt, getting exactly the same treatment as the most humble label.

“So there’s a story?” Why wouldn’t there be? He looked anything but dull.

“Isn’t there always? You’ve got one.” He pinned her with a glance and a rather elegantly raised eyebrow.

“Haven’t I just.” There was a forlornness in her eyes before the covers came down.

He hefted her heavy suitcase like it was a bundle of goose down. “Listen, how are you feeling?” he asked, noticing she had suddenly lost colour.

“Quite awful since you ask!”

Such a tart response but he didn’t hold it against her. “Did you have anything to eat on the plane?”

Dammit if he didn’t have a dimple in one cheek. “A big steak,” she answered in the same sarcastic vein. “Actually I had an orange juice. Plane food lacks subtlety don’t you think? Besides, I hate planes. I thought I might throw up. I didn’t really want to precipitate a crisis.”

He pondered for half a second. “Why don’t we grab something to eat now?” he suggested. “There are a couple of places to grab coffee and a sandwich. Come to think of it I’m hungry, too.”

She didn’t bother to argue. He was used to taking charge as well. He didn’t even consult her about what she wanted but saw her seated then walked over to the counter to order.

Two waitresses, one with a terrible hair day, sped towards him so quickly, the younger one, scowling darkly, was forced to fall back to avoid being muscled aside. No matter where you were good-looking guys managed to get served first, Sandra thought disgustedly.

Macho Man returned a few minutes later with a laden tray. “This might help you feel better,” he said, obviously trying to jolly her up.

“Thank you.” She tried to fix a smile on her face, but she was feeling too grim.

He placed a frothy cappuccino with a good crema in front of her, a plate of sandwiches and a couple of tempting little pastries. “We can share. There’s ham and whole grain mustard or chicken and avocado.”

“I don’t really care.”

He rolled his eyes. “Eat up,” he scolded, exactly like a big brother. “You’re not anorexic are you?” He surveyed her with glinting eyes. “Not as I understand it, anorexics admit to it.”

“I eat plenty,” she said coolly, beginning to tuck away.

“Pleased to hear it.” He pushed the plate of sandwiches closer to her. “What did you do to your hair, if it’s not a rude question? Obviously it’s by your own hand, not a day at the hairdressers?”

To his consternation her huge beautiful eyes turned into overflowing blue lagoons.

It made him feel really bad. “Look, I’m sorry,” he apologised hastily, remorse written all across his strongly hewn features. “You have a right to wear your hair any way you choose. It actually looks kinda cute and it must be cool?”

She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes and took a gulp of air. This big macho guy looked so contrite she had an urge to tell him. A spur of the moment thing when she’d barely been able to speak of it. “A little friend of mine died recently of leukaemia,” she said, her expression a mix of grief and tenderness. “She was only seven. When she lost all her beautiful curly hair, I cut mine off to be supportive. Afterwards the two of us laughed and cried ourselves silly at how we looked.”

He glanced away, his throat tight. “Now that’s the saddest story in the world, Alexandra.”

“You just want to die yourself.”

“I know.”

The sympathy and understanding in his voice soothed her.

“But your little friend wouldn’t want that,” he continued.

“She’d want you to go on and make something of your life. Maybe you even owe it to her. What was her name?”

“Nicole.” She swallowed hard, determined not to break down. She could never ever go through something so heartbreaking again. “Everyone called her Nikki.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded sad and respectful.

She liked him for that. It was oddly comforting considering he was a perfect stranger. “The death of a child has to be one of the worst things in life,” he mused. “The death of a child, a parent, a beloved spouse.”

A sentiment Sandra shared entirely. She nodded, for the first time allowing herself to stare into his eyes. He had the most striking colouring there was. Light eyes, darn near silver, fringed by long, thick, jet-black lashes any woman would die for. Jet-black rather wildly curling hair to match. It kicked up in waves on the nape. Strong arched brows, gleaming dark copper skin, straight nose, beautifully structured chin and jaw. For all the polished gleam of health on his skin she knew his beard would rasp. She could almost feel it, unable to control the little shudder that ran down her spine. He was the sort of guy who looked like he could handle himself anywhere, which she supposed would add to his attractiveness to women. A real plus for her, however, was that he could be kind. Kindness was much more important than drop dead good looks.

“I know what loss is all about,” he said, after a moment of silence, absently stirring three teaspoons of raw sugar into his coffee. “There are stages one after the other. You have to learn to slam down barriers.”

“Is that what you did?” Her voice quickened with interest, even as she removed the sugar. Obviously he had a sweet tooth and too much sugar wasn’t good for his health.