Storming Whitehorn - By Christine Scott Page 0,2

and hurried to her mother’s side. Wrenching open the car door, she was stunned by her mother’s pallid complexion. Her short, russet hair looked disheveled. A fine layer of perspiration dampened her skin.

Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as Storm joined her. She glanced up at him, her gaze accusing. “What have you done to her?”

He flinched at her bitter words. A reaction that he quickly hid behind a stony mask of in difference. His expression cool, he said, “I haven’t done a thing to your mother. She fainted at the sheriff’s office in Whitehorn. I was there when it happened. I offered to drive her home. She accepted. That’s the extent of my involvement.”

Jasmine’s face grew hot with embarrassment as she realized how unjust her accusation must have sounded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

The skin around his finely sculpted cheek bones grew taut. His jaw stiffened, his strong chin lifting in defiance. “There’s no need to apologize, Ms. Monroe. I assure you, I’m used to the white man thinking the worst of me merely because of the color of my skin.”

Jasmine felt as though she’d been struck by the words. “The color of your skin? Don’t be ridiculous. I never—”

“Jasmine…” Celeste’s fragile voice interrupted.

Forgetting all else, Jasmine leaned forward, reaching for her mother’s hand. “Mother, are you all right?”

“Take me inside,” she whispered.

“Of course,” Jasmine murmured.

“Jasmine?” Yvette’s breathless voice caught her attention. Her aunt’s cheeks were flushed from hurrying. Worry lines creased her careworn face. “What’s happened? What’s wrong with Celeste?”

“She fainted in town,” Jasmine said quickly. She glanced at Storm. “Mr. Hunter brought her home.”

“Mr. Hunter?” Yvette’s troubled gaze traveled to Storm.

“Yes, Storm Hunter. Mr. Hunter, this is my aunt, Yvette Hannon. I believe you’ve already met her son, David?”

The reminder of his and David’s ill-fated meeting, the one that had nearly ended in a fist fight, was uncalled for. But so was his accusation that she would judge another man by the color of his skin. When she saw Storm’s eyes narrow in irritation, she couldn’t help but feel a bitter sweet sense of satisfaction.

Now they were even.

Gracious as always, Yvette extended a hand in greeting. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Hunter. It’s, uh, good to finally meet you.”

If Storm seemed surprised by this show of cordiality, he didn’t show it. Instead he accepted Yvette’s proffered hand with a smooth smile. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Hannon. I hope your sister will soon feel better.”

“Celeste, right.” Yvette gave a quick nod, as though gathering herself to take control of the situation. “Jasmine, help me please. Let’s get your mother inside.”

Together, the two of them half lifted Celeste from the car. Celeste’s white cotton, Gypsy-style shirt had come untucked from the waist band of her long broom stick skirt. The gauzy fabric sagged against her shapely curves. As was her mother’s habit, somewhere along the way, she’d kicked off her sandals and was barefoot. Jasmine plucked the wayward shoes from the floor of the front seat to carry inside.

Flanking her mother on both sides, Yvette and Jasmine each held her by one arm. Slowly the three women headed for the front porch. As they neared the top step, Jasmine turned, glancing over her shoulder at the quiet figure still standing beside the silver car. “Mr. Hunter,” she said, “if you wouldn’t mind waiting, there’s something I’d like to tell you.”

Not bothering to wait for his answer, Jasmine turned away and led her mother inside.

Storm Hunter didn’t like being told what to do. Not by anyone. But most especially not by an outspoken young woman who was nearly half his age.

A part of him wanted to get into his rented car and leave this place, this home of the Kincaid family, and never look back. The other part, the impulsive, illogical part, was curious as to what Jasmine might have to say.

“Jasmine,” he murmured her name out loud, savoring the sound of it as it tripped over his tongue. An exotic name for an exotic beauty, he mused silently as he stood beneath the glaring sun on the white rock-covered driveway of the B and B, with his hands on his hips, staring at the door through which she had disappeared. Her image was as fresh in his mind as though she were still present.

Jasmine the woman, he decided, was a contradiction in terms. A delicate flower, as her name might suggest, though one who’d found roots and strength in the wild, untamed lands of Montana. With her black hair