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hand to his burning cheek. It flushed a damning red while Byron seethed down at him. Never had father put a harsh hand to either of his boys, and the mood lay raw as an exposed wound between them.
    “Stay or go,” Glendower spat out at last. “I don’t give a damn what you do. I don’t need you to survive.”
    Then Reeve laid the cold truth of it bare. “Yes, you do.”
    For all his unimposing stature, Byron Glendower puffed out like an adder, all bluff and impotent threat. Reeve saw through it, and for the first time, saw his father as someone vulnerable. It shook him, but only for a moment.
    “I’ll stay … because of Jonah, not you.”
    Byron’s hands clenched in the front of Reeve’s faded shirt, twisting, jerking him up with fierce authority even though the younger was now the bigger and more powerful man. And there wasn’t the slightest sign of weakness in his narrowed eyes.
    “Don’t you ever—ever mention his name to me again. You hear me, boy? You don’t deserve to.”
    Reeve never moved. His eyes were flinty, his expression cold and remote. He rocked back against the stall when released. The two men regarded one another over this newly drawn line, both breathing hard, both unwilling to budge. The squire’s jaw worked on words best not said, and with difficulty, he kept it that way. Because he knew, as Reeve knew, that he couldn’t keep the Glade going on his own.
    It wasn’t until the angry squire stormed out of the barn that Reeve sank slowly down onto his haunches, back flush to the wall, fists lashing back to thud loudly against that unyielding wood. Then with bruised knuckles pressed to his mouth, he expelled a heavy breath and, with it, his hostility.
    It wasn’t going to be easy at all.
    She watched him move through the swatches of light, pitching soiled straw with an almost fevered urgency.
    He was wearing the hated uniform trousers with just the tops of his worn long johns above them. Sleeves were pushed up over muscular forearms, buttons undone to display a sheen upon his firm, broad chest. He worked tirelessly, like one of her father’s machines. He moved like nothing she’d ever seen—strength, grace, fury all wrapped together in a sinewy coil.
    With a vengeance.
    He was angry. She could see it in the tight set of his jaw, in the furrows plowed deep where frowning brows drew together. A similar mood surrounded Squire Glendower when he’d returned to the house. She wondered who or what had started the fight. She’d never known Reeve to push a confrontation with the squire before, but now, these were different times, different men.
    The difference was what drew her to the barns. She wanted … no needed—to prove something to herself. That she could be near him and not desire him. That she could look upon temptation and not give in like the impulsive child she’d once been. Reeve Garrett was no longer just the object of forbidden lusting, a dangerous symbol of what was denied her, and therefore all the more appealing. He was a reminder of what they’d lost and why, of what she’d lost. He was an enemy to heart and soul, a demon that must be faced or run from.
    Even now as she watched him covertly, covetously, her pulse raced faster, stirred into a frenzy as never before.
    He looked up suddenly, features registering surprise, as if her motives were completely transparent and her desire plain to see. But then his face settled back to its unreadable mask once more as he leaned indolently upon the pitchfork handle, mocking her tension with his ease.
    “Something you wanted, Miz Sinclair?”
    Once there was, she could have replied. Once, there was something she’d wanted quite desperately.
    Instead, her expression hardened with displeasure. “Mama wanted to know if you were coming up to the house for lunch.”
    “Are you your mama’s errand girl now?”
    She refused to be baited. “Are you coming or not?”
    “Not. At least, not now. I don’t care to be fed at saber point. But