Читать книгу This Perfect Stranger - Barbara Ankrum - Страница 10

Four hours and a dozen chores later, Maggie stood in her doorway holding the glass of lemonade she’d poured for Cain, watching him wield an axe over the ancient limb of the oak that had fallen across her yard in the last storm. She hadn’t asked him to do it. He’d insisted. Something about paying her back for the chicken and biscuits she’d fixed him.

She allowed herself a smile, remembering how he’d devoured the meal she’d made him. She suspected that it had been more than a couple of days since his last full meal. It made her wonder about him. A drifter, but not like any drifter she’d ever known. What had brought him to this? Where had he been and what had happened to him?

It was none of her business, of course, and she settled for the fact that she had, in a small way, repaid the debt she owed him for saving her life. How odd, she thought, that it could give her such pleasure, such a simple, old-fashioned thing as watching a man sate his hunger with her cooking. It made her feel useful. Necessary.

But now, as the rhythmic sound of the axe echoed across the shadow-drawn yard, she realized that “necessary” didn’t adequately describe what she was feeling as she watched him. She felt her pulse skitter and told herself she shouldn’t stare. But with his back to her, she indulged herself.

Where Ben had been compact, Cain’s build was lean and powerful. The muscles in his back and arms bunched and flexed as he hefted the axe over his head and brought it down hard against the ancient wood. There was a controlled violence to the way he dismantled that limb. Piece by piece. Stroke by stroke. The only break in his rhythm had come when he’d paused to add the chopped wood into a neat and growing pile that stood now to his left.

He was thinner than he’d been once. She could see that in the way his jeans fit—loose and low on his hips—and in the definition of his ribs. But whatever muscle mass he’d lost to hunger was more than compensated for by the sleek, animal-like grace with which he moved.

It wasn’t so much an economy of motion, she decided, studying him, as it was a deliberateness. She wondered absently where a man like him learned that kind of self-containment. And what in his past that had taught him to always watch his back.

Almost as if he’d heard her thought, he stopped chopping, catching sight of her watching him. Jigger, who’d been lying in the shade watching Cain, too, lifted his big, dark head and thumped his tail happily against the damp soil in greeting.

“You’ve got quite a rapt audience,” she told Cain.

“He’s just keepin’ an eye on me.” Cain wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his wrist and reached for his black T-shirt. “That for me?” he asked, indicating the lemonade.

She pushed away from the door and started toward him. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

He tugged his T-shirt on, then took the glass from her and guzzled down the contents in four serious gulps. Maggie stared, unable to take her eyes off him, or off the stray rivulet of moisture trickling down his chin.

He gave a sigh of satisfaction and dragged a forearm slowly across his mouth, all the while watching her. “Thanks.”

She swallowed hard. Lord, what was wrong with her?

Taking the empty glass, she fixed her gaze on the stack of wood. “You must have been a Boy Scout once.”

“Nope. My old man never believed in team player mentality,” he said, stroking the old oak handle of the axe as though he was prepared to tolerate her interruption politely. “Whacked apart my share of tree limbs, though.”

“I’ll bet. Grow up on a farm?”

He tossed a look in her direction. “Ranch.”

Ah. “That must account for the laconic cowboy conversationalist you’ve become.”

He grinned, staring off at the sun as it settled between the peaks of the Bitterroots. “You wanna talk? Or you want me to chop up this limb?”

She hugged herself against the chill beginning to settle in the air. Maggie glanced at the sinking sun, too, remembering how many sunsets she’d watched alone lately. “It’ll be dark soon.”

His gaze slid to her. If another man had ever made her feel utterly naked with one look before, she couldn’t remember it. “You know,” she began, “I really…appreciate what you’ve done here, but you don’t have to finish.”

“I said I would.”

“I mean, it’s a big limb and when you volunteered you didn’t even know my chain saw was broken and now I really owe you so much more than a chicken dinner for all that you’ve done for—”

“Do you want me to go?”

She blinked up at him. “No, it’s just—”

“If you want me to leave, I’ll leave.” He leaned the axe handle against the wood pile and stepped back.

She did want him to go. Wanted him to stop making her brood about things she couldn’t have anymore. But she found herself shaking her head. “I—I don’t—”

“—know me.” He ran a hand across his stubbled chin as if realizing his appearance might have something to do with the look on her face right now. “I’m afraid I don’t have any references in my back pocket. It’s been a while since I held down a job.”

“I…told you I couldn’t afford to—”

“—hire me. I know.” He smiled ironically. “But you already paid me for this. See, it’s been a while since I’ve had more than truck-stop food either. Food, in any case. I figure that’s worth this whole damned tree limb. And I mean to finish it.”

“But it’s…getting dark.”

He glanced around, as if noticing for the first time that daylight had nearly disappeared. He slid his fingers along the smooth wood of the axe handle with a self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry. I’m a little slow on the uptake these days, too. I’ll just get my things together and be outta your hair.” He leaned the axe handle against the woodpile and reached for the jacket he’d left draped there.

It took Maggie a moment to react. “Cain. That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Cortland,” he said, as if he were used to being dismissed.

“But where will you go?”

“That’s not your worry,” he said, shoving his arms into his jacket. “I’ll manage.”

“Do you have somewhere to stay?”

He started toward his bike parked across the yard. “I’ll manage,” he repeated.

“Wait. Cain.” Maggie crossed the distance between them stopping a few feet from him.

He stopped, but didn’t look at her.

“There’s a cot in the tack room. It’s not much, but it’s clean and dry and—”

He pivoted toward her, surprise clearly etched on his face. “You…want me to stay the night?”

Maggie bit the inside of her lip. “I’m…yes. If you want to. For the night. In the barn.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction and he looked at the barn. “Whatever you’re afraid of, you should know I’d never hurt you. You don’t know me, but you should know that.”

A shiver ran through her. A dark inkling that this stranger had the potential to break her heart.

Ridiculous, she thought. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day, he’ll be gone. After everything she’d been through in the last year, her heart was every bit as bullet proof as Cain’s appeared to be.

She brightened and forced herself to smile. “Then it’s settled. I have a stew on the stove. Come in when you’re hungry.”

She could feel his eyes on her back as she turned and headed back to the house. Jigger trotted along beside her.

“Yes, ma’am,” he called to her back.

She turned, walking backward and tossed him another smile. “It’s Maggie. Just Maggie.”

The last of the sun had sunk behind the mountains limning Maggie’s valley by the time Cain finished with the fallen limb. He stacked the last split of wood on the pile beside him, then wiped the sweat off his face with the bandana he kept in his back pocket. The muscles in his arms and his back burned like hot embers and he could feel the blisters rising on his palms, but he walked toward the water spigot near the paddock feeling a sense of satisfaction. The physical labor made him feel alive—useful—something that had become almost foreign to him over the past four years.

He’d missed being able to walk outside when he wanted and feel the sun against his skin. He’d missed seeing the sunset and the sunrise. Four months since his release and he hadn’t missed a single one. He didn’t want to remember the man that place had made him. But neither could he leave him behind. He was the sum of his life and it had made him hard.

He gave the faucet handle a twist. The water spilled out in an icy cold rush, but he splashed it against his face and across the back of his neck, energized by the shock.

He glanced out over the pastures to the west, where the land rose to meet the mountains and Maggie’s herd of mares and foals grazed in the dusky light. The small herd of black Angus she used for training were finishing off the hay she’d laid out for them.

Once he’d dreamed of having a place like this of his own. With a string of horses and cattle and land as far as the eye could see. Not the Concho. That had never belonged to him. That had been Judd’s domain. And always would be. But somewhere, Cain’s dreams had fallen away to make room for plain old survival. For now, it was enough that he’d sleep tonight with a full belly and a roof over his head.

He glanced at the light spilling from the kitchen window and saw Maggie’s silhouette moving around near the stove. It was simple gratitude he should feel toward her for offering him the chance to get back on his feet. But some other, less well-defined feeling complicated the simplicity of that. It wasn’t as easy as sex. Sex was simple. Lust, even simpler. He couldn’t honestly deny feeling either one. But what man could? She was a natural beauty with vulnerability and loneliness written all over her. And he’d been too damned long without a woman to overlook what she had to offer.

He wasn’t, by choice, a curious man. He had no interest in getting to know anyone better than what he could learn from a handshake. But he was curious about her. Who was she? And what the hell was she doing out here all by herself in a country that devoured the strongest of men? What was that jackass of a husband of hers thinking, leaving a woman like her alone?

And, Cain wondered darkly, if he hadn’t ridden out here today in that storm, would she be in her kitchen now, puttering over the hot stove? Or would that damned horse have precluded any speculation on his part at all?

Which, he reminded himself, he shouldn’t be doing anyway. Tomorrow, he’d be moving on and Maggie Cortland and whatever problems she was facing would be miles behind him.

She was setting the table with dishes when he knocked quietly on the door. Jigger announced him and Maggie called for him to come on in. The door was open.

The aroma hit him first: savory beef and vegetables simmering on top of the stove. The warmth of the kitchen hit him next, followed immediately by the gut-punching view of Maggie’s backside as she leaned over the table with a handful of silverware. She’d changed out of her work clothes and into a slender pair of black slacks and a sweater the color of the sky in April.

“Hi,” she said brightly, turning toward him. “All finished?”

He cleared his throat. “Just about.” She smiled at him and he felt something stutter inside him. “Smells good.”

“It’s almost ready. I thought…maybe…you might like a hot shower before dinner.”

A hot shower? Cain blinked. He hadn’t even dreamed of that small luxury.

“Down the hall, second door on your right. Towels are in the cupboard. And a fresh razor if you want one.”

Cain swallowed hard and nodded. “That’s…that’s kind of you. I’ll just,” he said, backing out of the kitchen, “get something clean out of my gear.”

Maggie smiled and turned back to the cupboard, fishing out a pair of water goblets for the table.

Cain headed for his bike, praying that he had something clean to replace the clothes he had on his back.

When they’d finished eating the stew and biscuits Maggie had made for supper, she poured Cain a cup of coffee and they walked out onto the porch together. Evening had brought out the blanket of stars overhead and the chill in the air required Maggie to throw on a soft jacket over her sweater. She’d gotten used to being alone. It felt strange to have company, Maggie thought. Their meal had been awkward and full of long silences, and now he stood, staring out over the mountains, his look, a thousand miles away.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.

He looked up, then took a sip from his coffee. “They might be worth almost that.”

“The mountains are beautiful, aren’t they?” she said, taking a sip of her mug.

His gaze scanned the silvery trace of the mountaintops. “Yes.”

“Even in moonlight,” she said. “They never cease to steal my breath.”

“How long you been here?” he asked.

“Six years. Not long enough,” she replied. “Never long enough.”

“It’s an easy thing to fall in love with the land.”

Pulling her gaze from the darkness beyond, she swivelled a look at him. “Have you? I mean, ever fallen in love with a piece of land?”

He took a sip of coffee. “Ancient history.”

Maggie nodded. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else now. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it.”

He filled his lungs with the scent of the snow off the mountaintops and the burgeoning green covering the hills. “It’s worth fighting for.”

She held her mug up to his for a toast to that sentiment. He smiled and returned the favor.

“To the good fight,” she said, and slugged a drink of the bittersweet coffee. He did the same and she had trouble taking her eyes off the way his muscular throat moved as he swallowed. The sight made her skin go suddenly tight.

Jigger nudged between them and Cain dropped his hand on the dog’s furry head for a scratch. The dog’s whole body quivered with pleasure.

“Can I ask you something?” he said as the silence stretched between them.

“Shoot.”

“Who was that guy in the coffee shop this morning?”

She tightened her hand around her cup. She knew instantly who he meant. “Guy?”

“Tall. Blowhard. Bent on ruining your day?”

Maggie smiled in spite of herself. “Oh, that guy.” She didn’t want to talk about Laird. “He was nobody. Just a rancher.”

“Not according to him.”

“True,” she agreed. “He’s under the misguided impression that he owns this valley.”

“Does he?”

“Not everything.” Maggie smoothed her right palm across the wood railing and a splinter slid neatly under her skin with a vicious prick. “Ow! Darn it!”

“Lemme see,” he said, grabbing her palm and inspecting it in the moonlight.

She tried to pull away, but his strong hand held hers firmly. “It’s nothing,” she complained, ignoring the sting. “Just a splinter.” But it felt like a ponderosa pine trunk had found its way under her skin.

“Hold still.” He bent over her hand, and turned it toward the kitchen light spilling through the open door. She didn’t mean to inhale the clean, soapy scent of him, or stare at the worn seams on his dark leather bomber jacket where his shoulders had strained it. And she couldn’t help herself from taking in the deep, dark brown of his hair or the way it curled over the edge of his shirt collar.

Lord, Maggie thought, giving herself a mental shake. You’ve been alone way too long.

It took less than ten seconds for him to get a grip on the splinter and pull it out. He lifted a smile up at her triumphantly, only then seeming to realize how close he was to her. His smile faded as he dropped her hand and stepped back. “Better put something on that.”

She rubbed at the spot gingerly with her thumb. “Thanks. I will.”

His large hand seemed to dwarf the railing as he brushed at the loose paint and splintery wood on the rail. “This could use some sandpaper and a fresh coat of paint.”

“Along with nearly every other surface on my property,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll get right on that. In my spare time.”

“Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“Don’t apologize. I’ve gotten way behind on things here. But painting railings isn’t exactly a priority when I’m barely managing to pay my bills. That’s why I was in town today,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “Getting turned down for a loan.”

He shook his head, “I always did have good timing.”

“Need I remind you that I probably wouldn’t be standing here now if you hadn’t ridden up on your bike when you did?”

He turned to look out over her darkened pastures again. “That was just lucky.”

“I used to believe in luck,” she said. “But now I don’t think there are any coincidences.”

“You mean you think I was supposed to ride up and drag you out from under that horse of yours?”

She laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe you just needed a meal so you could get on to the next thing. Maybe that’s all this is.”

“Pretty deep for a horse rancher,” he said with a smile.

She returned it. “That’s what I get for spending too much time with the animal kingdom. I get philosophical.”

“And lonely?”

She smoothed her hand over her palm. “Sometimes. Mostly I’m too tired to be lonely.”

“That’s my cue,” he said. “I’d better turn in, too.”

For reasons she couldn’t explain, she wasn’t ready to let Cain go yet, but could think of nothing to stop him. “There’s fresh bedding in the trunk beside the cot. Blankets and… It get’s a little cold still at night, even for June.”

He reached a hand out to her and she took it. His fingers curled around her palm with gentle firmness. “Make sure you take care of that hand. I’ll be out of your hair first light. Thanks for everything.” He let her go and smiled. “Goodbye, Mrs. Cortland.”

She watched him head toward the barn. Before he could disappear into the shadows, she said, “It’s Maggie.”

He turned back to her.

“My name,” she explained. “And you don’t have to rush out first thing. I mean, I could probably find one or two other chores around the place if…you aren’t in too much of a hurry to get back on the road.”

He cast a restless look around her dark yard. “Are you askin’ me to stay?”

She pressed her hands together. “Asking? No. That wouldn’t be fair of me. I can’t really pay you. Not what you’re worth. But I still have to cook tomorrow and well…you’ll still be hungry. Right?”

He thought about it for a minute, rubbing a hand absently against his belly. “I’ll move that stack of wood closer to the house in the morning,” he said at last. “Maybe…sand down that railing of yours. Then, we’ll talk.”

Relief washed over her as he turned and melted into the darkness. She shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself against the chill. “Crazy,” she told herself. “You are definitely, unquestionably, nuts, Maggie.” But something told her that Cain MacCallister might just be her one last chance.

Cain lay with his hands propped under his head on the cot in the tack room, staring up at the blackness above him. The cot was comfortable, if a bit too short for his six-three frame, and the room smelled comfortingly of leather, horses and hay. It wasn’t the sound of the animals moving restlessly in their nearby stalls that kept him from finding sleep. Or the songs of coyotes far off yipping to each other.

It was Maggie. She was interfering with his dream.

He closed his eyes and sighed, trying to shove her out of his mind. He’d spent the last hour trying to call up Annie’s image in his memory. He almost had it once: the blond hair that framed that oval-shaped face of hers; her eyes, not quite blue, but not really green either, but always a pool he’d wanted to dive into. He was having trouble with her nose and her mouth. It was the mouth that bothered him most, because he could always remember her mouth. More specifically, her smile.

He kept confusing it with Maggie’s, the way her mouth turned up at the corners and that little dimple dented one cheek near her mouth.

Focus, man. Don’t get distracted.

But the little bruise above Maggie’s eye popped into his mind again…the soft feel of her hand in his…even the smell of her hair.

Damn. He squeezed his eyes shut. What the hell was wrong with him?

Annie’s voice. Remember it. Yeah. There it was. He could hear it now: “Be right back. Save me some popcorn. Be right back, save me some…be right…save me—”

Shoving off the blankets, he sat up, finding the cold floor with his bare feet. He felt dizzy and his chest, dammit, his chest was doing its usual timpani roll.

Seven little words that had changed his life.

Snapping on the lamp parked near the cot on the little wood table, Cain dragged in a few deep breaths. He re-oriented himself as he reached for his backpack. He shoved things aside, then threw them on the floor, one by one, until his hand closed around the thing it sought. Cool, smooth glass. It took shape in his hand.

The whiskey inside the bottle sloshed against the sides with a magical sound, calling to him. He cradled it in his hands, tempted by all reason to break the thin paper seal that stood between him and true destruction.

He craved it right now, something that he hadn’t done in a long time. Even when he’d gotten out, he’d managed to steer clear of bars where he knew he might be tempted. But he’d bought this bottle to remind himself what was back there in that dark place he’d visited in the months after Annie’s death. The ones that had nearly killed him.

He’d spent the last three years building his strength, finding the quiet place inside him that could silence the noise outside. The guilt and the pain. He could call it up when he needed it. Except tonight.

Tonight, he found himself tempted again, not just by the siren of oblivion, but by a woman he hardly knew who had already made him forget the curve of Annie’s lips.

Cain turned the bottle over in his hands, smoothing the cool glass with his fingers. It would be easy, he thought. One twist, one sip or two and the noise would stop.

But he wouldn’t stop at two or three, or even four. Not until he reached the bottom of the bottle and the darkness it promised. And slow suicide, as appealing as it had once been, wasn’t his style anymore. If it was going to end, it wouldn’t be slow and it wouldn’t come in a liquid form.

So with its paper honor code still intact, he slid the bottle back inside the leather knapsack and reached instead for his wallet, resting on the table beneath the lamp.

He pulled out the dog-eared photo, soft from years of handling. Annie smiled up at him from the picture and Cain stared at her hollowly. He rubbed his thumb over the image. How many times had he wished he’d gone that night instead of her? Maggie had said she didn’t believe in luck, good or bad. He figured a man was only born with so much of it and he’d used all his up when he’d met Annie and stolen those few short years with her. Their luck had run out simultaneously that night even though they’d been miles apart. And a man like him didn’t get second chances.

Minutes later, he didn’t know how many, Cain reached for the light switch and flicked it off. For a long time, he just sat there in the dark, counting the seconds ’til morning. If he could just make it to dawn, he’d be all right.

He wouldn’t think about luck, or about the woman sleeping a few hundred yards away, or anyone who reminded him what it was to be alive. Because he owed Annie that much.

Dawn had barely lightened the sky when the phone beside Maggie’s bed rang. Groggily, Maggie looked at the clock. 5:45 a.m. She frowned. Who would be calling her at this hour? And why, after a sleepless night, did they have to pick this particular morning to wake her up?

She dragged the receiver to her ear across the sleep-rumpled bedclothes. “Hello?”

There was only silence on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” she repeated, sitting up on one elbow. “Is anyone there?”

Nothing. Angry, she began to shove the receiver back in its cradle when she heard a voice, the words too indistinct to make out.

Pulling it back to her ear, Maggie listened. “Hello? Is someone there?” Nothing. “Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“Don’t,” said a man’s voice.

A shiver went through her and her hand tightened on the receiver. “Who is this?”

“A friend.” The voice was cigarette hoarse and unfamiliar.

“I know my friends’ voices. And I don’t know yours.”

“Your husband…” the man continued, undeterred. “Ben?”

Her heart started to pound. “What about him?”

There was a long pause. “He didn’t fall on his own. He had help.”

“Wh—what are you talking about?”

“If you want to know more, find Remus Trimark.”

“Who?” Maggie scrambled into the bedside drawer for a pen and a scrap of paper. “Who’s Remus Trimark?”

There was another long pause before the caller said, “It’s not over,” and clicked off.

“Hello?” The dial tone buzzed in her ear. Maggie stared at it, feeling dizzy and off balance. Not over? What’s not over? She hung up the receiver and scribbled the name he’d mentioned down on the back of an old Hallmark anniversary card from Ben.

She remembered to breathe.

Remus Trimark? What kind of a name was that, and what did he have to do with Ben’s death? And why had the man on the phone waited six months to tell her about it?

She eased back down on the pillow, clutching the card between her shaking fingers. Her mind raced over those last days with Ben, trying to remember something, anything he’d said about a Remus Trimark—what an odd name—or anyone he’d mentioned for that matter. She came up blank. Completely blank.

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t already racked her brain for months on end, trying to piece together the how’s and why’s of his death. Trying to deconstruct those last weeks. The only conclusion she’d come to was that she and Ben had been so far apart by then it was as if they were strangers.

She turned the card over in her hands, running her fingers over the picture on the front of a yellow rose in a slender glass vase. He’d given her this card on their first anniversary. Inside, the sentimental Hallmark greeting had nothing to do with why she’d kept this particular card. It was the handwritten inscription there that had made her tuck the card away here years ago.

Happy Anniversary, sweetheart. When we’re old and gray, sitting around the fire on some cold winter night, remind me to thank you for taking a chance on me.

All my love,

Ben.

It seemed so far away now, those days when he’d loved her so completely. That fire had been banked long before he’d died. He’d gambled that away along with nearly everything else.

He had help.

The stranger’s words echoed in her ears. Help? What did he mean by that? And how was she going to find some man named Remus Trimark? In the phone book?

The sound of thunking came from outside Maggie’s window. Silently, she slid out of bed and padded barefoot to the window. The filmy drapes billowed as the cool night air slid through the one inch crack between window and sill. She wrapped her arms around her waist and searched the dusky yard for the source of the sound.

She spotted him half-hidden beneath the ash tree in her yard, shirtsleeves rolled halfway up his elbows, hacking away at what was left of that old tree limb.

Cain.

What was he doing up so early? Maybe he figured to finish the job and leave before she could get him to change his mind.

Maybe he hadn’t slept any better than she had.

She’d spent most of the night thinking about him, her situation, and the impossible scenarios she’d constructed around how she could save her home—everything from auctioning off the nonessential contents of her house to taking up striptease dancing at the local hangout. But none was as far-fetched as the one that had hit her sometime before she’d drifted into an uneasy sleep. It was too insane to even consider. Really. And Cain would probably call the men in the little white suits to come and take her away for even suggesting it.

Maggie chewed on her thumbnail, watching him bend over to scoop up an armload of wood. The muscles in his thighs bunched like liquid iron. He was strong. And if she didn’t miss her guess, a little reckless and maybe even a little desperate. Exactly the sort of man she needed.

It’s not over, the voice on the phone echoed in her mind.

Neither was she, she decided. Not while she still had a shred of hope.

With a grateful smile, Cain took the glass of lemonade from her hand and guzzled the cold liquid down. The afternoon heat had backed up in the barn where he was shoveling out stalls and he’d taken off his shirt again. He didn’t miss the way her gaze traveled across his bare chest, or the way that little bead of sweat had gathered above her lip.

“Where’s yours?” he asked.

She jerked her gaze upward with a flustered little flush of color. “What?”

“Your lemonade,” he said.

“Oh. Um.” She took the empty glass from him. “I…I’m not thirsty.”

He nodded, not believing her for a second. She’d been working her butt off in the pole corral with that demon seed, Geronimo, for the last two hours, getting nowhere. But she looked like she had more important things on her mind.

She’d been quiet at lunch, but he’d figured those dark circles under her eyes might explain that. She looked like she hadn’t slept any better than he had. But work, for him, was like a tonic. It made him feel useful. She looked plain worn down.

Or maybe she’d decided he’d worn out his welcome.

He braced a hand on his pitchfork and stabbed at the dirty straw near his feet. “I got that gate latch working again. It just needed a little grease, a couple of screws.”

“Gate latch?” she asked, lost.

“By the paddock.” When she still looked blank, he pointed. “By the north pasture?”

“Oh! The gate latch! Of course…the gate…latch. Thank you. Thanks…” She squeezed her palms together, as if she were looking to enhance her bustline. Something, as far as he was concerned, she didn’t need to do.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asked.

“Wrong? No.” She smiled broadly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Her teeth tugged nervously at her lower lip for the second time since she’d come in here, and she turned away from him, pacing to the other side of the barn hallway.

He couldn’t help but notice the way her jeans hugged those long legs of hers, curving against her backside. Nor did he miss the way that little sleeveless cotton blouse of hers outlined the slenderness of her waist and pulled against the fullness of her small breasts. Thoughts he had no business having pulsed through him with little jabs of awareness in regions he’d been ignoring for far too long. But, hell, no matter what his convictions, he was still a man. And she was a—

“I’m just going to say it,” she blurted out, whirling back toward him. “There’s no point beating around the bush. I have a proposition.”

His eyebrows went up. He liked the sound of this already.

“Cain?” she said in a voice usually reserved for pleas to the executioner. “Will you marry me?”