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biding his time. By midafternoon he decided she looked rested. Taking up his sketch pad and a piece of charcoal, he began to work while she sat across from him peeling apples.
    â€œWhy Denver?”
    The only sign of her surprise was a quick jerk of the paring knife. She didn’t look up or stop peeling. “Because I’ve never been there.”
    â€œUnder the circumstances, wouldn’t you be better off in some place that’s familiar?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy did you leave Dallas?”
    She set the apple down and picked up another. “Because it was time.”
    â€œWhere’s the baby’s father, Laura?”
    â€œDead.” There wasn’t even a shadow of emotion in her voice.
    â€œLook at me.”
    Her hands stilled as she lifted her gaze, and he saw that that much, at least, was true.
    â€œYou don’t have any family who could help you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDidn’t he?”
    Her hand jerked again. This time the blade nicked her finger. The blood welled up as Gabe dropped his pad to take her hand. Once again she saw her face in the sweeping charcoal lines.
    â€œI’ll get you a bandage.”
    â€œIt’s only a scratch,” she began, but he was already up and gone. When he returned he dabbed at the wound with antiseptic. Again Laura was baffled by the care he displayed. The sting came and went; his touch remained gentle.
    He was kneeling in front of her, his brows drawn together as he studied the thin slice in her finger. “Keep this up and I’ll think you’re accident-prone.”
    â€œAnd I’ll think you’re the original Good Samaritan.” She smiled when he looked up. “We’d both be wrong.”
    Gabe merely slipped a bandage over the cut and took his seat again. “Turn your head a little, to the left.” When she complied, he picked up his pad and turned over a fresh sheet. “Why do they want the baby?”
    Her head jerked around, but he continued to sketch.
    â€œI’d like the profile, Laura.” His voice was mild, but the demand in it was very clear. “Turn your head again, and try to keep your chin up. Yes, like that.” He was silent as he formed her mouth with the charcoal. “The father’s family wants the baby. I want to know why.”
    â€œI never said that.”
    â€œYes, you did.” He had to hurry if he was going to capture that flare of anger in her eyes. “Let’s not beat that point into the ground. Just tell me why.”
    Her hands were gripped tightly together, but there was as much fear as fury in her voice. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
    â€œNo.” He felt a thrill of excitement—and, incredibly, one of desire—as he stroked the charcoal over the pad. The desire puzzled him. More, it worried him. Pushing it aside, he concentrated on prying answers from her. “But since I’m not going to let it drop, you may as well.”
    Because he knew how to look, and to see, he caught the subtle play of emotions over her face. Fear, fury, frustration. It was the fear that continued to pull him over the line.
    â€œDo you think I’d bundle you and your baby off to them, whoever the hell they are? Use your head. I haven’t got any reason to.”
    He’d thought he would shout at her. He’d have sworn he was on the verge of doing so. Then, in a move that surprised them both, he reached out to take her hand. He was more surprised than she to feel her fingers curl instinctively into his. When she looked at him, emotions he’d thought unavailable to him turned over in his chest.
    â€œYou asked me to help you last night.”
    Her eyes softened with gratitude, but her voice was firm. “You can’t.”
    â€œMaybe I can’t, and maybe I won’t.” But as much as it went against the grain of what he considered his character, he wanted to. “I’m not a Samaritan,