August 10, Saturday

SAWYER PULLED his truck to a stop in front of the house and climbed out. He was dressed in low-slung jeans, work boots, and a snug T-shirt. "'Morning."

I was sitting on the porch, writing in the notebook. I sat up and felt my guard go up at the same time. "Good morning."

He held up a small sheet of glass with tape around the edges. "Thought I'd replace the window I had to break when I saved you from the goat."

I glanced toward the vertical row of small windows alongside the door. The one he'd broken to reach the doorknob inside still sported a piece of wood he'd nailed in place.

"For the record, you didn't save me from the goat," I said, pointing to where Satan stood nearby chewing on the edge of a porch rug.

He grinned. "Let me be a hero."

Ack, was he reading my mind?

He walked up onto the porch, then nodded toward my notebook. "Working on your novel?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"What's it about?"

I balked. No way was I going to tell him my hero Logan was a hunky stone mason who suddenly inherited a title that made him an ultra-eligible bachelor. "You wouldn't be interested."

"I asked because I am interested." He opened a toolbox and carefully removed the wood panel.

"Okay." I struggled for words to describe the thematic elements. "It's a romance set in Regency England between a woman who doesn't trust anyone and a man who feels out of place."

"That sounds like a contemporary story."

I nodded. "It could be."

"I guess relationships don't change that much over time. Have you always been a writer?"

"I was born into it. My mother is a literary novelist. I was her assistant when I was younger, then I started writing."

"Your mom must be so proud."

"Er, not really." I gave a dismissive wave. "It's a long story."

"Is your dad around?"

"He died when I was fourteen."

"Sorry. I was fifteen when I lost my dad. It never stops hurting, does it?"

I shook my head, staggered by his understanding. "Is your mother still alive?"

"Yes. She's in Atlanta, and I have sisters there, plus nieces and nephews."

"And you live here?"

He nodded. "I just feel connected to this place. And it's only a two-hour drive." He proceeded to mark off the glass, then cut it.

"By the way," I said, "I ran into Tilda Benson in the post office, and she seemed truly surprised about the piece of granite being moved."

"I talked to her, too," he said. "She swears no one in her group did it."

I wet my lips. "So it's just accepted around here that a Wiccan group exists?"

He shrugged. "I think it's a don't ask, don't tell situation. They haven't been too visible… until now."

"Rose's death changed things."

He grunted. "So I hear."

He placed the glass in the opening, then added caulk. I watched, gathering my nerve. Finally I said, "I could hear some of what Tilda was saying the night they were in the cemetery. She said they need to select a new Grand Witch to replace and avenge the murder of Rose."

Sawyer stiffened, then began to clean up and closed his toolbox. "Tilda is just trying to stir up trouble. She's harmless." He stood back, then gestured to the glass. "What do you think?"

"It looks great. Thank you."

"You're welcome." He started walking toward the truck.

"Are you working on a new headstone today?" I called, reluctant to see him go.

"Not today," he called back. "I'm taking a break."

He threw up his hand in a wave, climbed in his truck, turned the vehicle around and drove away.

But since his equipment was loaded in the back of his truck, I had the feeling he'd changed his mind on the fly.

Because of what I'd said about Rose being murdered?