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with life, emotions, and expressive eyes.
    Oblivious to her repulsion, Holt stood from the table. As he retrieved another soda from the refrigerator, Caprice swiftly lifted her napkin and expelled the half-chewed meat into the paper. Surely the day's tension and fatigue were responsible for her sudden loathing to eat meat.
    Pushing her plate aside, she tapped Shawn’s arm. "Holt raises cattle in Florida." With her fists pressed together, knuckles brushing, she shot her right fist away from the other and repeated the sign. "That's far, far away."
    Shawn eyes brightened as he wagged his pointer and middle fingers beside his head.
    "Shawn loves horses," she said.
    "I keep a few," he said as she interpreted for Shawn. "They eat too much hay and grain, but my sister and her two girls live nearby and enjoy them.”
    Caprice translated, speaking for Shawn’s rapid signing. "I want to ride."
    Deep creases, like the spokes on a wheel, fanned away from Holt's good eye. "How old is Shawn?”
    "Five. He started…”
    Holt winced. His lips compressed, and he retreated, shuttered behind his beard. “…kindergarten this year,” she continued but found she was staring, attempting to discern him. What had just happened? Had her words, however unwitting, evoked some painful emotion? Caprice was tempted to ask, but they were strangers. On the other hand, Holt had treated Shawn with gentle consideration, so did he have children? He hadn't mentioned a wife, or a girlfriend.
    After dinner, he snapped a privacy curtain over the cab windows. Caprice straightened the canned foods and pans in the lower cupboards. Right now, her life was chaotic, but she could organize her current environment. Determined to earn her keep, she scrubbed coffee stains from the counter.
    Later, she set a mug in a high cupboard over the stove when her fingers grazed the pistol’s metal barrel. She jumped back and bumped against Holt.
    His hands settled on her arms. "You're trembling."
    "I touched your gun." She stepped away, putting distance between them. "Guns are dangerous."
    “It’s for protection, Caprice."
    "Or intimidation."
    "You're one prickly broad.”
    "Just keep it away from Shawn.” Aware she had spoken sharply, she added, "I need a broom."
    "Contemplating an evening flight?"
    Humor tugged at his lips and softened his voice but she bristled. "Are you implying that I’m a witch?”
    “It must be the green eyes and the pointed nose.”
    “Was that an attempt at a compliment?”
    He shrugged. “You’re divorced, but is your last name Montero too?"
    "No. It’s O'Brien. My family immigrated to West Virginia during the Potato Famine."
    "Ahh. Then you’re an Irish witch. A spell caster of sorts."
    “Are you superstitious?”
    “I never used to be.” He stared as if trying to discern her thoughts. "Montero wants something from you besides a family image, Caprice. What I don’t understand is why you left Charleston in the first place?”
    "Alan had my townhome ransacked.”
    "He’s after something. What about those plans?" he asked but Caprice wanted to avoid his questions.
    "The broom," she said.
    "There’s one in the closet. Just don’t cast any more curses in my direction. I’ve got enough on my plate."
    Later, Holt handed her a set of folded sheets. "These are for the bunk." When their hands brushed in the exchange, she stiffened, drawing away.
    He took her elbow and lowered his voice. "Despite what you may think, I’m not the big, bad wolf. There’s no need to be afraid of me."
    Her gaze dropped to the cotton that stretched over his shoulders and clung to bulging biceps. "You're big like Alan and as motivated too."
    He pointed to her forearm. "Is he responsible for the bruises?"
    She flushed, mortified. Before she could respond, a loud knock sounded at the door. Armor barked and a sudden sweat dampened her back.
    "Mom." His eyes filled with wonder, Shawn pointed to the dog. "I hear."
    "Who is it?" Holt demanded.
    Caprice pressed a finger to