She managed to half-carry, half-drag Josh inside, give his hands and face a swipe with a washcloth, and settle him in the trundle bed she found in the bedroom.

Nearly doubled over, she wrestled with the trunk, trying to hoist it out of the car.  With her neighbor's help last night, putting it in had not been so difficult.  Now, however, she simply couldn't lift it by herself.  She would have to unpack part of it, she decided unwillingly, making several trips instead of one. 

A deep voice, coming from behind her, startled her. "Let me help you with that."  

Shannon swung around to face a tall--he must be well over six feet--commanding figure.  She let her eyes travel upward.  His eyes held her attention.  In contrast to his hair, they were so dark as to seem black.  Deep set, they were shadowed by a fringe of thick lashes.

He moved closer, and instinctively, she took a few steps back. Tipping her head back to study him more closely, Shannon noticed that he was even taller than she'd first thought.  He was at least six-three, maybe more, with a set of shoulders most weight-lifters would kill for.  Still, it wasn't only his size that caught and held her attention.  It was something in his manner, a quiet strength that didn't depend upon size or muscles.

He squinted against the sun's glare, tiny lines criss-crossing the corners of his eyes, hinting at hours spent in the sun.  The wind lifted his hair, drawing it across his high forehead in unruly blond waves.

Caution of a stranger warred with her need for help.  The latter won. 

"Thanks.  I'd appreciate it."

He hoisted the trunk to his shoulder and carried it without even breaking a sweat.

He placed the trunk inside the door.  Following her back outside, he gently shifted her aside when she tried to lift another box.  "I'll get that."  He hefted it easily, leaving her to bring two small suitcases.

With his help, they emptied the car within a few minutes.

Good manners dictated that she offer him something to drink.  She opened the ice chest and tossed him a can of pop.

He flipped back the pop top lid and took a long swallow. "Thanks."

"Have a seat."

He looked at the sagging sofa and then leaned against the wall.  She couldn't blame him.  The sofa looked older than the house and that was saying something.

"Thanks for the help, Mr. …"  She smiled, wanting to show her appreciation.

"Lambert.  Gabe Lambert.  Loretta Foster asked me to come over and help you move in."

Despite his words, there was no welcome in his voice.  No hint of friendliness in the eyes that raked her up and down. 

Her smile faded into a look of puzzlement. 

Though he held out a hand, it was grudgingly offered. His grasp was light but firm, hinting at far more strength than he'd displayed.

She told herself she had no reason to feel hurt, but his obvious dislike was hard to overlook.  Especially since she had no idea why. 

Her chin angled.  "I don't want to keep you."

"You're not keeping me from anything that won't wait."

"But you don't want to be here."

"No."

"Can I ask why not?"

He gestured around him.  "Look around you.  This place needs work.  A whole lot of work."

She made a production of rolling up her sleeves.  "That's what I'm planning on doing."

"You said you and your nephew were alone."

She nodded.

"His parents?"

"My sister died two months ago, her husband a few years before that."

"I'm sorry."  Two small words, but they said much.

Shannon noticed that the compassion in his expression transformed his features.  He was even more attractive than she'd originally thought, and that was saying something.  He smelled good, she thought irrelevantly, like leather and soap and something she couldn't quite identify. 

The warmth dissolved as he braced a shoulder against the door frame.  "Look, there're things you don't know about living here. The water pressure's unreliable.  When we get a storm, we lose power. The isolation—"

"Why do I think you're trying to discourage me?"

"Maybe because I am."