Untamed. JoAnn Ross

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      She glanced through the plastic-encased cards and lingered momentarily over one, thinking that it was unfair for any mere mortal to look so sexy in a driver’s license photo. His dark hair, swept back from his forehead, was disgustingly thick, his hooded eyes were so darkly brown as to be almost black and his jaw could have been chiseled from granite. She decided that the cleft in that square chin was definitely overkill.

      “You seem to be who you say you are,” she agreed. “But that still doesn’t mean I can trust you.”

      “Your grandmother entrusted her house to me,” he said pointedly. “And there’s a letter waiting for you on the upstairs dresser that will undoubtedly vouch for me, as well.”

      “She left a letter? For me?”

      “It’s got your name on the envelope.”

      “Why didn’t you send it to me?”

      “Because I had my own letter instructing me to leave it for you to read when you arrived. Besides,” he pointed out, “it’s a good thing I didn’t forward it, since all my other letters appear to have gotten lost.”

      Once again his tone told her that he knew she’d been lying. She would have been uncomfortable about that had her mind not latched on to another thought.

      “Don’t you think that’s strange? Her death was so sudden, but she’d already written letters to both of us to be read after her death?”

      “I did in the beginning. But then I decided she was just one of those people who likes to plan ahead. I’ve heard of people leaving instructions with their lawyers. Or letters in safe-deposit boxes.”

      “I suppose that makes sense,” Tara allowed. “Since you were included, you must have been close to her.”

      He shrugged. “She was lonely.” His tone was edged with a hint of censure she tried to ignore. “She didn’t have any family in Whiskey River, and I was a stranger here, as well. So, I guess you could say we kind of adopted each other.”

      “Did she happen to mention to you what she did for a living?” Tara’s voice held an unmistakable challenge.

      “You’re not talking about her mail-order herbal business.”

      She folded her arms across her chest and met his gaze with a long, level look of her own. “No, I’m not.”

      “She told me she was a witch. Since the fantasy seemed harmless enough, I didn’t let it bother me.”

      “How open-minded of you.” She reached out and took the gray overnight case from his hand. “And for the record, Mr. Thomas,” she said as she headed toward the doorway and the stairs that led to her grandmother’s bedroom, “it wasn’t any crazy old lady’s fantasy. My grandmother was a genuine, card-carrying, crystal-gazing, spell-casting, druidic witch.”

      That said, she swept from the room, leaving Gavin to wonder if lunacy ran through the genes of all the Delaney women. Or just the gorgeous ones.

      Her grandmother’s bedroom was just as she remembered it. Cabbage flowers bloomed on the yellowed ivory wallpaper and the antique sleigh bed was covered by a quilt that had been in the family for generations. Celtic animals and geometric patterns echoed the stone carvings and metalwork of that ancient time.

      She found the letter on the dresser, just as the annoying man downstairs had told her. The handwriting was a bit more spidery than she remembered, but there was no doubt that it was her grandmother’s. And even if she hadn’t recognized the delicate script, the energy emanating from the ivory envelope was unmistakable.

      The paper was handmade, speckled with dried flowers and herbs from the garden, and carried the familiar lavender scent that Tara had always associated with Brigid. She inhaled the evocative fragrance and sighed.

      “I’m sorry, Grandy,” she said softly. “I should have been here for you. In the end.” Instead, she’d continually put off her grandmother’s requests that she visit, leaving a lonely old woman to befriend the man downstairs. A man who was not only a stranger, but an obvious disbeliever, as well.

      Feeling horribly guilty, Tara sat down on the thick feather mattress and began to read.

      Dearest Tara,

      If you’re reading this, it means you’ve overcome your reluctance to return to your roots, at least temporarily. And although I have always understood your need to follow your own spiritual path, it saddens me that past circumstances have caused you to view the gifts you’ve inherited as a curse, rather than a blessing.

      I realize how difficult this journey has been for you, darling Tara. And just as I cannot erase the pain you’ve suffered, neither can I promise instant miracles.

      But what I do promise is this—if you stay beneath this roof for one cycle of the moon, your life will inexorably change. At the end of this time you’ll be able to put the past behind you and move on.

      You’ve already made the first step, Tara. Now I’m asking you to trust in your grandmother, who loves you, one last time. I promise you will not be disappointed. Blessed be.

      The traditional words of farewell blurred through the mist of tears gathering in Tara’s eyes. She had to blink to clear her vision in order to read the PS.

      I know Gavin Thomas is not the type of man you’re accustomed to. But since his arrival in Whiskey River, he’s come to mean a great deal to me. In fact, I consider him almost like family. It would please me very much if you could open your heart to him, if only as a friend. His own road has not been an easy one. I believe you may find you both have much in common.

      “Dammit, Grandy,” Tara muttered, “this really is dirty pool. Even for you.”

      She glared up at a needlepoint-framed photo of her grandmother and was struck by a resemblance she’d never before noticed. Except for the fact that she had a time-saving, no-fuss haircut, she could have been looking in a mirror.

      “I cannot believe that you’re asking me to give up my life in San Francisco to move in here for a month, befriend an obvious nonbeliever, come to grips with my past and, oh, yes—you’re not fooling me for a minute here—in my spare time I’m supposed to fall in love with your precious Mr. Thomas, which isn’t going to happen because I’d rather kiss a toad.”

      As if possessing an energy all its own, the lie reverberated around the room until she could practically feel it bouncing off all the flowered walls. Tara closed her eyes and shook her head. It was impossible. She simply couldn’t do it. Whiskey River held too many painful memories.

      The thing to do was to spend the night here, since the idea of driving back down that twisting mountain road in the dark was less than appealing. By tomorrow morning, the storm would have passed and she could go to Kauai as originally planned, where she would spend the rest of the days she’d allotted for her vacation basking in the sun before returning to her uncomplicated life.

      As impossible as others might find it, Tara could actually hear her grandmother’s voice challenging that last thought.

      “All right. So, in this case, uncomplicated may translate to boring,” she allowed. “But it’s what I like.”

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