Storming Whitehorn - By Christine Scott Page 0,3

cut short in a pixie style, she seemed so young and innocent. The cut and color emphasized the paleness of her skin, the smooth perfection of her complexion and the classic lines of her features. Yet, at the same time, he saw the wisdom of an older woman in her eyes, one who’d experienced much of life. She was tall and slender, but with enough womanly curves to make any man stand up and take notice. Her eccentric way of dressing—black cowboy boots, a red pleated skirt and a white eyelet blouse—certainly made him wonder. Yet, the outfit hinted at a personality that was free-spirited and vivacious. Traits that he envied. Traits that he’d lost over the years, somewhere along the way.

Storm blew out an irritated breath. What was wrong with him? He was spending entirely too much time speculating about a young woman who was destined to play nothing more than a fleeting role in his life. She was a Kincaid. He was a Hunter. As history had already proven, the two did not mix. If it hadn’t been for her mother and his misguided sense of chivalry, their paths would never have crossed.

Earlier, when he’d stopped by the sheriff’s office on yet another fruitless call upon the investigator in charge of his brother’s murder case, he’d happened to bump into Celeste Monroe. To say her reaction to his appearance had been strong would be an understatement. One fearful look at his face and the woman had collapsed in a dead faint. She’d looked as though she’d seen a ghost.

It wasn’t until after she’d reluctantly accepted his offer of a ride home that he’d realized who Celeste Monroe really was. Celeste Kincaid Monroe, sister to Blanche and Jeremiah Kincaid, the very people he’d blamed all these years for the loss of his brother. The family who’d been at the very heart of his troubled life.

And now he was being unwise enough to let his hormones blur his judgment. He’d allowed himself to become intrigued by a Kincaid—a family he’d sworn to hate. Jasmine…

Though she’d never invited him inside, curiosity got the better of him. Quietly, Storm crossed the gravel driveway and climbed the steps of the large front porch. The double doors stood wide open, allowing anyone to enter.

Even an unwanted Cheyenne, he told himself, allowing his rancor to fester.

The floors were of polished pine. The rooms were large and spacious. The ceilings were high, measuring at least ten feet; rough-hewn beams graced the dining room ceiling. Natural wood trim stretched as far as the eye could see. The house itself was mostly furnished with the clean lines of the mission-style decor, but there were enough chaise longues and over stuffed club chairs to make a guest comfortable.

Storm stepped through one of the living room’s set of French doors and onto a wide screened-in porch. The porch ran the length of the back of the house. From here, the view of Blue Mirror Lake was spectacular. Its flat, shiny surface, indeed, looked like polished glass. A dense forest of pine trees surrounded the property, and the air was thick with their pungent scent. In the distance, he saw the mountains of the Laughing Horse Reservation.

His breath caught painfully at the sight. Though he’d traveled many miles to escape from his past on the reservation, he could never completely leave behind its harsh memories. He glanced around the bed-and-break fast, at the casual display of Kincaid wealth, and felt a bitter taste rise in his throat. No matter how many college degrees he might acquire, or how much money he made in his law practice in New Mexico, he would never forget his troubled past, his poor, hand-to-mouth up bringing. He would never be able to stand tall in a world that included the Kincaid family.

With the ghosts of the past chasing him, Storm whirled away from the sight of the reservation and strode back into the house. The heels of his shoes pounded against the pine floor as he made his way to the front door. But he didn’t care about the noise. He didn’t care about anything but escaping.

“Mr. Hunter…Storm.” There was a note of desperation in Jasmine’s sweet melodic voice.

Storm clenched his jaw in annoyance and told himself to keep walking. Don’t look back. Don’t stop, no matter how great the temptation might be.

Her boots tapped an urgent beat against the wood floor as she hurried toward him. Guiltily, he heard the breathless quality of her voice