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threatened.”
    “Hey,” Aaron said, diving into the back of the Jeep. “You can use the Igloo.”
    Kate helped him empty the forty-five-gallon cooler, which had plenty of room for a half-grown raccoon. Together, they pulled the cooler out and dragged it over, easing it over the raccoon. It scrabbled around, but the stranger managed to get the lid under it. Slowly and gently, the three of them tilted the cooler until it was upright, then pressed the lid in place.
    “Will he smother?” asked Aaron.
    Kate opened the drain plug. “He should be all right for a while.”
    The man loaded the cooler into his truck. The back was littered with tools, cans of marine varnish and a chain saw. Behind the driver’s seat was a gun rack, which held fishing poles and a coffee mug instead of guns. When he turned back, she got a good look at his face. Even with those glasses, he had the kind of rough masculinity that made her go weak in the knees—strong features, a chiseled mouth, a five-o’clock shadow. Oh, Kate, she thought, you’re pathetic.
    “Thanks,” he said.
    Aaron’s chest inflated in that unconscious way he hadof puffing up around another male. Kate ruffled his hair. “We’re glad to help.”
    “Do you live around here?” the stranger asked. “Can I bring the cooler to you when I’m done?”
    Kate felt a prickle of hesitation. It was never a good idea to tell a stranger where you lived, especially if you lived in a secluded lakeside cottage where no one could hear you scream.
    “I’m staying at the Schroeder place,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “It’s on Lake Crescent.”
    The Schroeder place. She used to play with Sammy and Sally Schroeder when she was little. Mable Claire Newman had even mentioned this guy, only half teasing: Wait till you see him. And the guy was a rescuer of raccoons, Kate reflected. How bad could he be?
    “We’re a quarter of a mile down the road from you,” she told him. “The driveway is marked with a sign that says The Livingstons. I’m Kate Livingston, and this is Aaron.”
    “Nice to meet you. I’d shake hands, but I’ve been handling wildlife.”
    For some reason, that struck Kate as funny and she giggled. Ridiculously, like a schoolgirl. She stopped herself with an effort. “So, are you one of the Schroeders?” she asked.
    “A friend, actually,” he said. “JD Harris.”
    “JD?” Aaron echoed.
    “Mr. Harris to you,” Kate told him.
    “Everyone calls me JD, Aaron included,” the man insisted.
    Aaron stood even straighter and squared his shoulders. Kate kept staring at JD Harris. There was something…it was crazy, but she was sure that behind the dark glasses, he was checking her out, and maybe even liking whathe saw. And instead of being offended, she felt a flush of mutual interest.
    “I’d better get this thing transported,” he said, turning away. “I’ll bring your cooler over later.”
    So, thought Kate as she put the Jeep in gear and pulled out onto the road, maybe I read him wrong. Still his image lingered in her mind as she headed west. He intrigued her, even with two days’ growth of beard. Even the sunglasses gave him an unexpected sexiness, reminiscent of that guiltiest of pleasures, Johnny Depp.
    Snap out of it, Kate, she told herself. He probably had a wife and kids with him. That would be good, actually. That would be great. Kids for Aaron to play with.
    Her son was turned around in the seat, watching the green truck heading back toward town. “You really think that raccoon will live?”
    “It was acting pretty lively,” she said.
    Around the east end of the lake, the road narrowed. Like Brigadoon, the lake community was locked in the past. Decades ago, President Roosevelt had declared Lake Crescent and its surroundings a national treasure, and designated it a national park. Only those few already in residence were permitted to retain their property. No more tracts could ever be sold or developed, and improvements were restricted.