"No. At the funeral all we talked about was setting up a meeting."

He made a snuffling sound. "Why'd you wait so long to contact me?"

The pounding in Randi's temple expanded to her left eye. If she didn't fear going to hell, she would curse her mother up one side of her coffin and down the other.

"Are you serious? Did you already forget how I had to haul your sorry hide out of that gambling cave today?"

Red mottled the area near his receding hairline, and his gaze dropped to the tabletop. "Dammit, Miranda. I don't even know if I have the paperwork here. More than likely it's at my office."

"Then we'll take a ride to your office." Randi poked her head into Virgil's refrigerator to find him something to eat. A half-eaten sandwich partially wrapped in Big Abe's Deli paper, three dill pickles in a jar, a full bottle of ketchup, a slice of cheddar cheese, and five large eggs. She'd worked with worse. "After you eat."

Drawing what she needed from the fridge, she piled everything onto the counter.

"What are you doing?"

"Making an omelet."

Randi pulled thin slices of ham from the leftover sandwich and tore them into pieces before dropping the tortured mess into a bowl of egg whites and yolks. Then she speared a pickle and chopped it into cubes. They joined the ham and eggs, along with the cheese.

"That's not like any omelet I've ever seen."

"That's because you pollute your body with junk food. This is gourmet."

"Putting pickles in my omelet is considered gourmet?"

"Don't forget the ham."

"I'll pass, thank you."

"We're not leaving until you put something into your stomach. And this little delicacy is all we've got."

"No wonder you're not married yet," he grumbled. "Bossy as all get-out."

"Virgil, my dear. You have yet to see my bossy side."

"What do you call shoving that gourmet crap down my throat?"

"Friendly fire. If I were being bossy, you would be making your own meal."

Virgil attacked the meal with the gusto of a man who'd lived off pretzels and hard liquor for several days. The omelet barely made one circle in his mouth before he swallowed. Just as well. Who knew if the concoction was even palatable? She sure as heck hadn't sampled the dish before serving it.

As it turned out, Virgil had her mom's will buried on the desk in his home office. The moment he put his glasses on, the disheveled drunkard transformed into a polished attorney. He read the document, word for word, pausing at moments to explain a difficult clause or answer an unasked question.

For thirty minutes, Randi sat in surreal disbelief, brought on by both Virgil's transformation and her mother's wishes. She walked away, numb and unsure of her next move.

The next morning, armed with a leaded, Grande vanilla latte, Randi idled in front of Britt's cabin. She hated visiting him on Sunday, but she wanted to get this business over with so they could both move on. She hoped he was a morning person.

A scattering of large, thick-branched trees encircled Britt's one-story, no-frills cabin. The large logs appeared hand-hewn, old, imperfect. Not so with many of the new log homes popping up all over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Many looked like replicas of their neighbors, assembled out of a box like a paint-by-number portrait, replete with a butt-ugly green metal roof and natural stained wood from corner to corner to corner to corner.

Few had character like this cabin. This cabin had seen decades of harsh winds, brutal sun, and driving rain. It had character and had obviously been looked after by caring owners over the years. Not one broken window or termite-infested log. Not one overgrown weed in the yard. The rustic cabin suited Britt. Both were rugged, sturdy, pleasing to the eye.

She strode up the two steps to knock on his screen door. Nothing. Opening the door, she rapped her knuckles on the wood panel. Still nothing.

Her gaze dropped to the doorknob. She hesitated only a moment before curling her fingers around the iron knob and twisting. Locked. A stream of relieved breath slipped between her lips. What would she have done if it had opened? Walked inside his home, nosing into each room until she found him? What if he'd been in bed? Or worse, the shower?

An image of Britt's big naked body standing beneath a shower spray misted her vision. Steam billowing all around him. His dark blond hair almost black when wet. Droplets sliding down his broad chest, his hard stomach, his long, thick...Randi shook her head, blasting away the moment. She couldn't be distracted by hot images of Britt during their talk. She'd never be able to get an intelligible word out.

Before she thought the worst of his silence, Randi decided to check around back. Maybe he was working on something and didn't hear her drive up. Like chopping wood for the winter. Shirtless. Sweaty. Gah! She hopped off the porch and quick-walked around the side of the house.

What on earth was happening to her? She had admired his good looks before-what woman in her bar hadn't? But never had she been plagued by sensual fantasies of the man. Maybe she needed more coffee. She took a big swig, pulling at the sippy hole like a babe at her mama's teat.

Her search behind the cabin revealed no half-naked bear of a man, or otherwise. Returning to the front porch, she sat in one of the Adirondack chairs to wait him out. He was either ignoring her, had wandered off into the woods, or someone had picked him up. She would sit here and check her e-mail while enjoying the rest of her latte until he emerged.

She prayed he wouldn't arrive with a girlfriend. Talk about awkward. In all the weeks he'd been visiting her bar, she'd never seen him come in or leave with a woman. Many had made themselves comfortable at his table, especially if he was accompanied by one or more of his brothers or male cousins. Few single women could resist such a tempting buffet of masculinity.

A light breeze tickled the fine hairs on her cheeks. Randi lifted her nose to the wind like a dog tracking a curious scent. Calm rushed over her, burrowing past the stress and heartache to open a path to her senses. The shuffle of a thousand leaves reached her ear as well as the laser gun song of a lone cardinal in the distance. The scent of loamy damp soil hung in the air like an invisible fog. An early June sun warmed her eyelids.

Several minutes filtered by before she broke free of her trancelike state. She sipped her latte while scanning her e-mail. Five messages-two e-newsletters, one e-mail from Aunt Sharon filling her in on the antique clock she found for Randi's coffee shop, one social media notification, and one letter from a Russian gentleman in need of a good, obedient wife.

She deleted all but Aunt Sharon's and debated whether or not to respond. Since her sister's passing, Aunt Sharon had made it her mission to make sure Randi didn't feel lonely. If more than a few days went by without her hearing from Randi, her aunt would send her an e-mail or text or call or stop by.

Randi appreciated the gesture, but her aunt had to know that her sister and niece hadn't been close. Why she thought Randi would feel lonely was a mystery. She'd been on her own for years. Her mother's passing had changed nothing when it came to Randi's day-to-day activities. People surrounded her every day, all day.

Hitting Reply, Randi began composing a response. She and her aunt had a close relationship. More of a friendship these days than anything else. No one could match Sharon's energy or giving nature. Everyone loved and respected her. As they had Randi's mother, but for entirely different reasons.

The cursor on her phone blinked a silent, challenging rhythm. A memory of her and her mother nursing a small litter of orphaned red fox surfaced. The care with which her mother had tended the month-old kits, and how she'd instructed a seven-year-old Randi not to cuddle the babies because they would be released back in the wild, rose in Randi's memory with perfect clarity.

An ache started deep in her throat, growing thicker and taller with each breath. She closed her eyes and fought back the nostalgia. For every precious moment with her mother, Randi had ten instances of neglect and heartache.

When she opened her eyes, she spotted a figure emerging from the tree line. Britt. Dressed in black running shorts and a white T-shirt, he jogged toward her, muscles bunching and stretching. Sweat soaked his shirt and hair, and his face glistened from his exertions.

Randi's breath stopped flowing through her lungs, her windpipe, her nose. The breeze buffeted her unblinking eyes, drying them out. Foreign cravings stirred low in her, seeking the source of their awakening.

The second his gaze connected with hers, his steady gait hitched before slowing to an unhurried stroll. He used the dry end of his T-shirt to mop the moisture from his face. The move revealed the most amazing abs. Britt Steele was ripped. Not a single ounce of fat.

Randi blinked several times to unstick her eyelids and sucked in her middle. She drank far too many lattes and ate way too much pasta for the same to be said about her body. What she wouldn't give to run her fingertips over such perfection, especially the long trail of hair that disappeared beneath his shorts.

The T-shirt dropped back in place, and Randi rose to greet him. "Good morning, Britt. I'm sorry-"

"Have a seat." He climbed the stairs. "I'll be back in ten minutes." Unlocking the door, he strode inside. The screen slammed shut. The interior door stood wide open.

Randi blinked. What the heck? She stared at the screen door, cocking her head to listen. Comprehension dawned, along with irritation. Could he not have postponed his shower until after she'd left? She'd already lost thirty minutes waiting on him. For most people, a half hour was a blip of time. For her, it was a trip to the grocery store or a load of laundry or an oil change. All the things she had to pack into her Sunday that she couldn't do during the week.

She contemplated storming inside after him, but that would mean coming into contact with a nude, wet Britt. She contemplated harder. And harder.

"Arghh!" Randi plopped back in her chair, her normal boldness failing her on an epic level. She'd already mooned the man. She couldn't bring herself to shock him into a heart attack.

By the time she'd tapped out a response to Aunt Sharon and answered a new text from Kris McKay, Britt rejoined her, wearing a gray tee and jeans and carrying a bottle of water, his feet bare.

Taking the seat beside her, he set his water on the wide, flat arm of his chair. "Good morning."

Tension drained from her shoulders, though an anticipatory wariness remained. "Did you have a nice shower?"

"Yes." He lifted the water bottle to his mouth, keeping his gaze on the distant landscape. "What can I do for you, Randi?"

"I've brought news about my mother's will."

"As I recall, you promised that information yesterday."

"I know, and I'm sorry. It took me all day to track down Virgil, then I had to sober him up."

He glanced down at her hand. "Phone broke?"

"No, but I left your card at the office."

"Do you have Carlie Beth programmed into that smart machine of yours?"

Randi's jaw locked. He'd found the gap in her logic in less than ten seconds. She tried to tell herself that she didn't want to further involve Carlie Beth by asking her for Britt's number. But deep down she comprehended that avoidance was her main motivator.

What would it have been like to speak with him on the phone? His deep, calm voice flowing into her ear. Close. Intimate. Tantalizing.

"What reason should I have given Carlie Beth for wanting your number?"

"None at all. If she was unsure, she could have cleared it with me."

"Men might work that way, but there's no way I could have called Carlie Beth and asked for your number without some sort of explanation. If you and I'd had a friendlier association, she might not have thought it strange. But serving you drinks doesn't buy me anything more personal than a drive-by hello."

"What's the worst that could have happened?" His brown eyes held hers. "Carlie Beth might get the wrong idea about your intentions? Maybe think you're infatuated with me?"

Try as she might, Randi could not stop the blush from burning up her face. Again.

Rather than break his visual hold though, she held tight. Let him make of her fiery cheeks what he would. He couldn't have known what direction her imagination had taken her these past few days. Even if he had, he'd shown little interest in her.

Except for that brief caress in her office the other day.

"I attempted to apologize for not stopping by yesterday, but you seemed more interested in running inside."

His full lips curved into the slightest smile before he picked up his water and took a drink. "I think better when I'm not covered in sweat."

The statement landed between them like a jumbo jet taxiing down Main Street. What would it be like to see this calm, controlled, elusive man come unhinged by pleasure? Unable to think, unable to breathe, unable to stop.

Randi cleared her throat. "Good to know. Now, how about we get to what I came here to discuss?"

"I'm all ears."

"In my office, you mentioned that Mom had offered to put a right of first refusal in her will for you if I decide to sell the property."

"That's correct."

"Virgil read Mom's will to me, word for word." She took a fortifying breath. "There's nothing in there memorializing such an agreement. The property is mine to do with as I like."

"Virgil read it wrong." The insane comment was out before Britt had time to think about it. But what other reason could there be? Barbara had been the one to propose the clause. Had even badgered him until he'd agreed.

"For the red wolves," she'd said. "My daughter wants nothing to do with this land. She'll sell it to the highest bidder. You and I both know that won't be an organization who will give a rat's ass about those wolves."

So he'd agreed, knowing that even at twenty-five percent below fair market value the property would put him so deeply into debt that he'd have to put in eighty-hour weeks for the rest of his life in order to make ends meet.

"No, he didn't," she said in an even voice.

"He must have, Randi. There's no other explanation. Barbara was very clear to me about her wishes."

Anger sparked in her green eyes. "Then she either changed her mind, or never got around to amending her will."

"I want to see it."

"See what?"

"Barbara's will."

"You think I'm lying?"

"No. But I don't trust that drunken bastard's reading skills."

"Neither did I. That's why I asked for a copy."

Fear splintered his gut. Barbara's mistake would mean the end of the Steele-Shepherd pack. A land-hungry developer or a group of unscrupulous game hunters would wipe them out. Or scatter them across the countryside, where landowners mistaking them for coyotes would peg them off. All because a two-sentence wish never got added to a fucking document.

He shot out of his chair, unable to sit still any longer. Options thundered through his mind like a nonstop locomotive. He dismissed each one as fast as they arrived. As a general tradesman, he made good money because of his versatility. He refurbished kitchens and bathrooms. Built decks and garages. Tracked down electrical problems and waterline leaks. And even changed a porch lightbulb when old Mrs. Zigfield couldn't reach the outlet. That one he'd done pro bono.

But he didn't make enough to win a bidding war. And there would be one.

He sure as hell wasn't asking his baby brother to spot him the dough.

"Would you consider selling to me anyway?"

Silence.

Facing her, he noted the tension radiating along her brow line and the ridge of her shoulders. Her hands gripped each other in a hold that scattered every ounce of blood from her skin, leaving skeletal white fingers behind. She stared at him, but he didn't think she really saw him. It was as if she looked inward, searching.