Convince My Heart: A Harbor Falls Romance, #16

Chapter One

A woman knows when a man is staring at her. It’s a sixth sense sort of thing. And Samantha Jamieson knew that the man behind her in the grocery checkout line at the Ralph’s Grocery Store was staring a hole through her back.

Gulp.

Stifling a sideways glance, she carefully placed her selected items on the counter: a half-gallon of milk, a soft drink, a square pack of American cheese slices, three cans of cat food, a box of tampons. A disconnected collection, to be sure, and she still had no clue what was for dinner. She nudged the tampons behind the milk, semi-hiding the box. Only then did her gaze drift to the left, toward his groceries.

Interesting.

A large hand placed a divider in front of his order. Whipping cream, butter, linguini, Parmesan cheese, fresh mushrooms, a small chicken, and a few items more her brain didn’t register, were set one after another onto the moving counter. Much more exciting than her choices. His hands worked back and forth—large, callused hands with long fingers. The items piled up. Her gaze traveled to his arms, to his chest, throat, face….

Eye contact!

She jerked back to stare at her own purchases. Sadly, they nicely summed up her life. Common. Plain. Boring.

That will be sixteen-ninety-seven, Sammi. Cammy Hart, the checkout girl announced. Sammi snapped back to look at the bubble-gum smacking teenager and fumbled in her purse for the money. Handing over a twenty-dollar bill, she kept her eyes riveted straight ahead. Her thoughts, though, were definitely still stuck on the man creating a considerable amount of heated energy beside her.

Stop it, Sammi. You don’t lust after men….

Cammy thrust her change and receipt forward, popped her gum, and then bagged Sammi’s purchases. Risking one more peek to her left, Sammi watched the man take a step toward her. She observed him full-on as he concentrated on his items. His dark brown hair was shaggy, but not quite long enough to reach his collar. His blue jeans were dusty on his tall, lean body. His laced work boots needed a good swipe with a damp rag. She inspected him closer—he was tan, must work outdoors. Dirt showed under his fingernails—farmer? And perspiration stains on his shirt—hmm, maybe construction. He didn’t seem the kind of man to buy the ingredients for Chicken Alfredo.

And what kind of man would that be, Sammi? Given your oh-so-limited experience with men? Hmmmm?

But he was handsome. Dirty and sweaty, yes—and likely tired, if the bags under his eyes were any sign—but he was about the best-looking specimen she’d seen around Harbor Falls in quite some time. Must be new in town.

List! Does he have a list?

If so, then there was possible proof of a wife. One who had sent him to the grocery store for dinner ingredients on his way home from work.

Drat.

Sammi sneaked a closer look and noticed his hands were bare. No list, no ring, not even a thin circle of white where one would have been on that dark, tanned finger. And then she sensed, more than knew, that he was alone.

Just like her.

Quickly, and a bit startled where her thoughts were taking her, she took the bag of groceries from the clerk and left the checkout area. If she ambled along, the man would likely follow her out of the store in a few minutes, and perhaps she could sneak another peek….

No, Sammi.

Only after depositing her bag in the back seat of her Chevrolet sedan did she glance toward the store entrance. On cue, he stepped out. Their gazes clashed again. Sammi’s skittered off. Within seconds, she slipped into the driver’s seat.

Fumbling in her purse, she groped for her keys, and then adjusted her rearview mirror as he stepped in front of her car. Again, their gazes collided, and his skipped off this time. She slipped her key in the ignition of the Chevy.

He kept walking—past the Dodge minivan, an old Jeep Wrangler, the extended-cab pickup truck. He walked until he stopped almost two-thirds of the way down the row to an old flatbed truck.

Sammi twisted the key in her ignition.

Her brain spun. Farmer, landscaper, construction worker. One of those.

He put his bag of groceries inside the cab and, in almost the same motion, entered the truck and gunned the engine. The old vehicle rumbled to life—rusty red and peeling, dented fenders, a few old feed sacks tossed on the bed anchored down with a stack of two-by-fours. He pulled out and drove toward her.

Sammi fiddled with her purse again as he passed, then pulled her car out of gear and into drive. Turning the steering wheel and tramping on the accelerator, she fell into place behind him as they both headed out of Ralph’s parking lot.

What am I doing? Following a perfect stranger? Why?

Because I want to know more about a man who looks like that, drives a flatbed pickup, and cooks Chicken Alfredo for Friday night dinner, she mumbled. Besides, what else do I have to do tonight?

They approached the intersection, and both turned left. At the next light, Sammi’s mystery man sped up and entered the right-hand turn lane. The left lane was the one Sammi needed to go home. A part of her wanted to follow. A part of her wanted to pull up beside him and say something cute like, Need help with dinner?

But she settled for the part that made her slow her car, flip on her left blinker, and veer toward the lane that would take her home—home to her quiet little cottage on the edge of town that was perfect for a single, thirty-something spinster. It was the part that went right along with her mousy dishwater-brown hair, her plain but comfortable sneakers, her baggy sweatpants and T-shirt, and her fingernails chewed to the quick.

He hit the accelerator again. Her mystery man turned right on red and headed toward the country.

Sammi followed the line of traffic left and headed for home, thankful for the one bit of excitement at the end of her mundane day. Fully realizing that nothing exciting was ever going to happen to her here in small town Harbor Falls, unless she took a risk.

Not tonight, Sammi.

The damn phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

Caleb Wyatt grimaced and rolled face-first into his pillow. Couldn’t a guy get at least one uninterrupted night’s sleep around here? Something had disturbed his sleep every night for the past week.

The call couldn’t be about Chuck Marshall’s mare. He’d delivered that foal this afternoon. He’d taken care of the Henrys’ colicky calf the night before that. Tuesday was the night Mrs. Pierson’s poodle got intimate with the husky next door. He’d had to calm Mrs. Pierson more than the poodle. And he believed it was Monday when Ryan Campbell’s iguana turned yellow, and the child went into hysterics. Seemed his older brother told him he had yellow fever and was going to die.

Of course, the older brother had spray-painted the iguana. And the damn thing might have died if Caleb hadn’t gotten the paint off in time.

Was there no peace?

What emergency waited for him tonight?

All this and he hadn’t even hung out his veterinarian shingle yet—of course, word traveled fast in small towns. He’d only put the ad in the paper yesterday.

Hullo? The receiver barely reached his ear. Caleb glanced at his clock radio. Was it only eleven-fifteen? What early nights he was keeping lately….

Dr. Wyatt?

Mmhmmmm.

Sorry to bother you, but I saw your advertisement in the Harbor Falls Sun.

Mmmmm.

It’s an emergency.

He arched a brow. Oh, umhmmmm?

It’s my cat.

Caleb opened an eye. The woman sounded anxious. What, uh… He cleared his throat, then propped himself up on an elbow. What seems to be the problem, ma’am?

She’s… I don’t know. She seems to be choking.

Did she eat something unusual?

I don’t know!

Swallow a coin, a bead, a paper clip?

I don’t think so.

Can she breathe?

Yes.

Describe what she’s doing.

"Well, actually, she’s sort of…gagging, and heaving. Her entire body is trembling. A raspy sound is coming from her throat. And uh, she’s spitting up a bit, and making this horrible sound, and…ooh yuck! There’s this slimy gray thing coming out of her throat!"

Mrs.… Caleb groaned and burrowed deeper into his pillow.

Jamieson. Miss.

Miss Jamieson. Your cat has a hairball.

A what?

A hairball.

What’s that?

It’s perfectly normal. How long have you had the cat, Miss Jamieson?

About a month. She was a stray.

Have you had her checked out?

Uh, no.

Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose. Bring her by tomorrow. She’s in no danger. We’ll run the gamut. Shots and so on, and I’ll give her something to prevent hairballs. Now if you don’t mind, it’s late….

Of course. Sorry to disturb—

Caleb barely heard the click of the phone on the other end. His receiver never made it back to the bedside table. He didn’t care. There sure were some silly people in the world. This was the first time a damn hairball had interrupted a night’s sleep!

Sammi assumed she didn’t need an appointment. She hoped she’d be able to drop Dicey off at the vet early in the morning, leave so she could run some errands, then pick her up again later in the day. She called the cat Dicey because she was snow white all over, except for two large, perfectly round spots on her back. And the cat had grown so fat over the month she’d had her, that she rolled like dice when she tried to lick her belly.

Sammi hated to admit it, but the cat was growing on her. She was smitten.

She’d kept the cat on a whim, and from the urging of her friend, Emma Jo, to give the big girl a furever home, as she’d called it. It was a startling thought at first, being responsible for another living thing, but the idea grew on Sammi.

She had hoped the vet would finish with Dicey by the time she’d finished her errands, so she could go home and relax the rest of the afternoon. After the laundry, of course.

She’d figured wrong.

First, she had a hard time finding the clinic. There was only a small, nondescript ad in the Harbor Falls Sun that had given an address. That’s where she’d originally found his number. Dr. Caleb Wyatt, it read. Small and Large Animal Practice. 2874 Grimes Mill Road. Then the phone number.

There was just one problem.

She was staring at a mailbox that bore the numbers 2874. The mailbox was rusty and in need of a coat of paint, and it looked as if someone had written the numbers there with a black permanent marker. She knew she was on Grimes Mill Road, about a mile out of town. This had to be it, but where was the clinic? No sign, just a small frame farmhouse and a barn against the hilly background of mountains. Nothing fancy, and not at all what she’d expected.

The cat mewed in the seat next to her.

Oh, all right, Dicey. We’re here, so let’s see what we can find. Sammi pulled off the main road onto the narrow gravel driveway that led to an area between the barn and the house and parked her car.

She tried the house first, knocking on the front door. No answer.

She debated whether to check the barn to find Dr. Caleb Wyatt or just run back into town where she could call a vet who actually had an office.

And she probably would have done that, too, if it hadn’t been for the promise she’d made to herself the other day. The day after she’d chickened out, following her dream man out of the grocery store.

Some women wouldn’t consider him a dream man, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d thought of him often the past two nights. She liked his lanky look and his tanned, weathered appearance. And that he worked outdoors.

He was the total opposite of her. She was short, pale, and worked inside.

That’s what made him so interesting.

And well, sexually appealing.

She’d vowed that she was going to spice up her uninteresting life, take some chances and do things a little differently. Take a risk now and then—assert herself.

She would start taking chances.

So, Sammi. Assert yourself.

She looked at the old red barn, swallowed hard, and before she realized it, walked determinedly toward it. She clutched Dicey a little firmer in her arms—she needed to get a carrier—and the plump cat squirmed.

The large wooden door stood ajar. She pushed it more fully open, and its hinges squeaked. She poked her head inside.

A large, red-coated animal leapt across her line of vision. Sammi bumped into the door, which forced it to open wider. A small squeal ripped from her throat. A dog barked in the corner, then lunged. Something flapped overhead. Feathers and straw swirled in the dusty air. Dicey scratched and clawed and it was all Sammi could do to hold on to her, those back claws ripping into her shirt sleeves, until the cat wrenched herself from Sammi’s arms and went sailing into oblivion.

A chicken squawked.

The cat screeched from somewhere.

The red beast bawled in the corner.

Country music blared from… Somewhere.

Sammi breathed in air that smelled like manure.

Standing across the room from her, a man with a dumbfounded expression