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just pitied her. As he brushed his lips down to the corner of her eye, he lingered on the salty bits there, his hot breath breezing against her skin. All of her bones were melting. She didn’t feel the push of his calming mojo, only his breath, his lips and his hand on the back of her neck, pulling her to him.
    Parting her lips, she sucked in a shuddering gasp as his mouth found hers. She thought she might ignite into a puddle of fire. His kiss was firm and earnest.Torn between wanting to consume him and wanting to run away—
stranger, delicious, dangerous
—she settled somewhere in the middle, and kissed him back.
    Reluctantly, he pulled away, rested his forehead against hers and sighed. She felt like Jell-O.
My first kiss,
she thought. Of course, it wasn’t her
very
first kiss. She was twenty-seven after all. But it was the first one she’d experienced without an ounce of dread.
    Flitting thoughts of Rob Carmichael’s eighth-grade advances in an empty classroom at the Methodist church dance—soggy wet lips, roaming hands and a hot red aura—filled her mind. This kiss was nothing like that one had been.
    This kiss was wonderful. She hoped it wasn’t a pity kiss because, she realized with surprise, she would like a few more of his kisses.
    He stood, leaving her dazed. His face was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.
    “I shouldn’t have done that …” He backed away.
    Great,
she thought.
    “But I’m glad I did.” He smiled. “Now eat your breakfast so that we can go Free Willy,” he said, ruffling her hair.
    Ruth’s father’s name was not Willy. But she ate her bacon with a smile on her face.
    * * *
    Panther Valley Cemetery was an old rural cemetery in York County, Arkansas, that was a couple of hours from Ruth’s home. They’d been delayed because Ruth had needed to follow up on the inquiries regarding her mother’spassing. It was probably a good thing they were heading to the cemetery now, so that she could check on things before her mother’s interment.
    The Scott family had been buried here for centuries. No matter how far from home they roamed during their lives, this was where they were buried. It was a tradition repeated throughout the rural cemeteries. Even if they fought like cats and dogs during their days above ground, all the chicks finally came home to roost in the end. A few surnames dominated the headstones: Bailey, Monroe and Scott. Hundreds of similar cemeteries dotted the state. Since it was a week before Memorial Day, the grounds were neat and clipped, and even in the growing darkness she could tell the headstones had been trimmed to perfection by the caretaker. The grounds were empty as they pulled up and through the gate.
    The entire area was rural and unpopulated, and on the long drive in, they’d been surrounded by rolling green hills, waist deep with the first growth of fescue of the year. A lush green line of trees demarked the borders of Panther Creek.
    The good thing about cemeteries was that only the visitors had auras. Ruth couldn’t see auras around animals or other living things, which she considered a small but welcome blessing. She couldn’t even imagine how distracting
that
would be.
    Deacon followed her into the cemetery to search for her father’s headstone. She shone her key chain light left then right, trying to remember the layout of the family plots. The cemetery was small, and once she got a feel for things, the stone was easy to find. The earth on top was packed down, grass and weeds covering the grave in spotty patches.
    “This is it,” she said, brushing grass clippings from the front of the stone. She wished she had brought some flowers. She wasn’t exactly a frequent visitor. Including her father’s burial, this was her second visit to the site. Ever.
    She would likely never have visited again except to bury her mother if not for this latest development. She didn’t see the point of visiting graves. It wasn’t like the dead kept a register of visitors,