Carolina Moon

inside her that wanted to careen away, plunge into a bolt-hole at the first snap of a twig. The ghosts of the house circled around her, whispering taunts in her ear.
    She’d run before. More than once. It had never saved her.
    She stood where she was, frozen. Panic swam up sickly from gut to throat as the door creaked open.
    “I’ve frightened you. I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet, the tone a man uses to soothe the injured, or complete a seduction. “I wanted to stop by, see if you needed anything.”
    He stood just inside the door so the sun beamed behind him, blurred his features. In her mind, thoughts tumbled, going soft so they spilled over each other. “How did you know I was here?”
    “Have you been away so long you don’t know how quick the grapevine climbs in Progress?”
    There was a smile in his voice, calculated, she thought, to put her at ease. It meant the fear showed, and made her too easy a target. That, at least that, she could stop. She folded her hands. “No, I haven’t forgotten anything. Who are you?”
    “That sound you hear’s my ego crumbling. Even after all these years, I could’ve picked you out in a crowd. It’s Cade,” he said, and stepped closer. “Kincade Lavelle.”
    He stepped out of the harsh light, until it fell behind him into sun and shadow. The keenest edge of fear ebbed with the glare, and she saw him clearly.
    Kincade Lavelle, Hope’s brother. Would she have recognized him? No, she didn’t think so. The boy she remembered had been thin of body and soft of face. This man’s build was rangy, hinted of tough in the muscles of the forearms showing under the rolled-up sleeves of his work shirt. And though he smiled easily enough, there was nothing soft in the sharp bones and high planes of his face.
    His hair was darker than it had been, the color of walnuts, with the curling tips bleached out by the sun. He’d always been one for the out-of-doors. She remembered that. Remembered she’d sometimes see him walking the fields with his father in a kind of swagger that came from owning the land your feet landed on.
    The eyes, she thought. She might have placed the eyes. That deep summer blue, like Hope’s. The sun had left its mark there as well with faint lines etched into the corners. The kind, she thought, that brought men character and women despair.
    Those eyes watched her now, with a kind of lazy patience that might have embarrassed her if her pulse had been level.
    “It’s been a long time” was the best she could do.
    “About half my life.” He didn’t offer his hand. Instinct told him she’d only jolt and embarrass both of them. She looked ready to jump, or collapse. Neither would suit him. Instead he tucked his thumbs casually in the front pockets of his jeans.
    “Why don’t you come on out on the front porch and sit down? It appears that old rocker’s the only chair we’ve got right now.”
    “I’m fine. I’m all right.”
    White as death was what she was, with those soft gray eyes, which had always fascinated him, still wide and bright. Growing up in a household largely dominated by women had taught him how to get around female pride and sulks with the least fuss and energy. He simply turned back, pushed open the screen.
    “Stuffy in here,” he said, and stepped out, keeping the door wide and banking on manners, nudging her to follow.
    Left with little choice, she crossed the room, walked out onto the porch. He caught the faintest drift of her scent and thought of the jasmine that preferred to bloom at night, almost in secret, in his mother’s garden.
    “Must be an experience.” He touched her now, lightly, to guide her to the chair. “Coming back here.”
    She didn’t jump, but she did edge away in a small but deliberate motion. “I needed a place to live, and wanted to settle in quickly.” Her stomach muscles refused to loosen up again. She didn’t like talking to men this way. You never knew, not for certain, what was under the easy words and easy smiles.
    “You’ve been living in Charleston awhile. Life’s a lot quieter here.”
    “I want quiet.”
    He leaned back against the rail. There was an edge here, he mused. However delicate she looked, there was an edge, like a raw nerve ready to scream. Odd, he realized, it was just what he remembered most about her.
    Her delicacy, like the business end of a scalpel.
    “There’s a lot of talk about your store.”
    “That’s good.” She smiled, just the faintest curve of