Page 30 of Wyoming Heart

She smiled. “Me, too. Napoleon. Scipio Africanus. Hannibal. Alexander.”

He frowned. “Conquerors,” he said. “Military history.”

“Oh yes. I take courses online. Those are my favorites. They were innovators as well as warriors. They used brilliant strategy and tactics to win battles.”

Cort chuckled. “Of all the coincidences,” he murmured.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He couldn’t tell her that and maintain his masquerade. His minor was military history. “I like Patton and Rommel,” he said instead.

“World War II, African theater of war,” she said, nodding.

“You know about that, too?”

“It was a gentleman’s war, in North Africa,” she said. “One of my great-great-uncles died there, fighting with Patton’s Third Army.”

“One of mine as well,” Cort said.

They were staring at each other without realizing it. Mina’s heart rate shot up and her breath caught in her throat. Cort was feeling something similar and fighting it tooth and nail. This sweet little country kid would never fit into his lifestyle, even if he let himself care about her. He had to remember that. Yes, he wanted to get married. But he was realistic enough to know that he had to have a partner with a similar background. In his case, it would have to be a wealthy background.

So he dragged his eyes away from Mina’s face and turned to his cousin. “I’m going to ride over and help your men fix that broken fence near the highway, if that’s okay with you?” he added, living up to his cowboy image.

“Sure. I’ve got a few calls to make, then I’ll ride over and help.”

Cort chuckled. “We’ll be done by then.”

“Son of a gun,” Bart mused. “I’ll miss all that fun work. I do love digging postholes and stretching fencing wire.”

“Liar,” Mina said in a loud whisper.

He just laughed. Cort smiled, but not at Mina, and rode off without another look in her direction. She pretended not to notice, of course.

BARTHADMEANTto tell Cort that Mina was his novelist friend. But the longer he waited to do it, the less he wanted to. Cort was a rounder. He loved women, plural, and he was still seeing Ida Merridan, the divorcée he’d met at the Simpsons’ party. Mina was naive and it was obvious to Bart that she was attracted to Cort.

Right now, Cort thought Mina was just a country girl with a small ranch. He’d mentioned to Bart that she’d never be able to hold her own in high social circles. He wasn’t sure she’d even know which utensils to use in a fancy restaurant. Obviously, he’d added, she wasn’t the sort of woman he could consider settling down with. He did want to get married and have a family, he murmured. He was just less certain now that he was ready for that responsibility. He was free to date any woman he liked, he had no restrictions on his travel, he wasn’t tied down to the ranch unless he wanted to be. He had all the advantages and none of the disadvantages. In short, he didn’t want to give up his freedom for a marriage that might not even work.

“I thought you were all gung-ho on getting married and having kids,” Bart teased as they sat around in the living room after supper drinking second cups of coffee.

“I was,” he replied somberly. “Then I started looking for the perfect woman and I discovered that they were all looking for the richest man.” He gave Bart a droll look. “A woman who puts money before anything else isn’t going to want to settle down with a husband and babies who need changing.”

“Good point.”

Cort’s eyes were wistful. “My illusions left jet trails taking off,” he said. “I was sure it would be easy to find a nice woman who wanted a family. The problem was that every woman I dated saw me as a walking checkbook.”

“You’re rich.”

“I noticed,” Cort said, glowering at his cousin.

Bart grinned. “That’s my great advantage. I’m not rich. Any woman who wanted to settle down with me would know she wasn’t looking at diamonds and Ferraris.”

Cort nodded. “Believe me, that’s a real advantage.”

“A week from Friday night, there’s a square dance in town at the civic center. You going?” he asked.

Cort stuck his hands in his pockets. “I might take Ida.”

Bart felt a sense of relief, although it was going to mark his cousin as a man with few morals in a town the size of Catelow. Everybody knew about Ida.

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