Page 38 of Wyoming Heart

He gave her a long, soulful look and went back to the limousine. She went inside. He was infatuated with her. She could tell. But she couldn’t really feel that way about him. She didn’t understand why. He was pleasant, handsome, brilliant, rich—but there was no spark, no leaping pulse, when he touched her.

Involuntarily her mind went to Cort Grier and how she had felt when he looked up at her as she held the calf in front of her on the pommel. His pale brown eyes were steady and curious. Her heart jumped. She ground her teeth together. She couldn’t afford to get mixed up with a stray cowboy who probably wouldn’t stay at Bart’s ranch more than a few weeks. She wasn’t going to, either.

SHEWASMAKINGa pie Monday morning when she heard someone at the front door. Irritated, because her hands were full of flour from making the crust, she went to answer it, wiping her hands on a kitchen cloth at the same time and muttering.

She opened the door and Cort Grier was standing there, with a basket of apples.

She just stared at him. He’d been with that beautiful divorcée in town Friday. What was he doing here?

“Bart sent these over,” he said curtly. “He said you liked to make fresh apple pies with them.”

“And he was hoping for one, I’ll bet.”

He shrugged. “He says you’re the best cook in two counties.” His practiced eyes went all over her, narrowed and curious. “Can I put these down?” he asked.

“Oh!” She opened the door to let him in with the heavy basket. “Just bring them into the kitchen, if you don’t mind. I’ve been doing piecrusts...”

He put the apples on the floor and looked at the fancy fluting around the edge of the dough in the pie plates. “That’s pretty,” he said involuntarily.

She smiled. “I learned by watching videos on YouTube,” she confessed. “It’s much better than cookbooks because you can see every step of the process and follow along. I don’t remember much of what I read, and I can’t follow directions.” She made a face. “It’s why I mostly make hats and scarves when I knit. I tried to make a pair of socks once from a pattern.” She sighed. “Bart saw them and asked if they were antenna covers.”

He chuckled. “He would.”

“I love to knit and crochet,” she said, “while I’m watching television.”

“I don’t have much time for TV,” he replied.

“I can imagine. Especially during roundup. There’s so much work.”

He nodded. He wasn’t going to tell her that a great deal of his work was administrative. He did help his men during roundup, but it wasn’t really required.

“Bart said you hired a full-time man.”

She smiled. “I did. He’s experienced in working with cattle and he came with great references. I like him. He’s an older man, settled, with no obvious dependents.”

“Do you trust him?” he asked quietly, and seemed really concerned. “When the part-timers go home, you’re here alone with him.”

“He doesn’t sleep in the house,” she protested.

“That’s not what I mean. Did you do a background check?”

She put her hands on her hips and stared up at him. “I’ll get my attorneys right on it, after they settle the claim for damages to my new yacht.”

He thought for a minute and then he chuckled. “You’re unpredictable,” he said. “Just when I think I’ve got you pegged, you do something out of character.”

“It’s part of my deadly charm,” she said without smiling.

He cocked his head and looked down at her. “Speaking of deadly charm,” he said with a bite in his deep voice,” how did the date with McGuire go?”

“How did yours with the widow go?” she shot right back.

He lifted an eyebrow. He smiled, very slowly. “How do you think it went?” he asked in a slow drawl with a world of sensual knowledge in his pale brown eyes.

Mina’s high cheekbones colored, and she dragged her gaze down to his chest. Another mistake, because it was broad and masculine and there was thick, dark hair peeking out of the top of his shirt, where it was unbuttoned down to his collarbone.

He frowned. She was so unlike women he’d known. She kept to herself. Bart had mentioned that she really didn’t date anybody. She stayed home. He recalled what he knew of her childhood, her trauma with her mother’s lovers. Intimacy would be difficult for a woman who’d been through what she had. An indifferent or selfish partner would destroy what little self-esteem she had left.

An innocent, he thought, his mind whirling with odd, unacceptable ideas. She wasn’t beautiful. But that hair, that exquisite hair hanging like a brownish-blond flag at her back, those pert little breasts that were visible under the sweater she wore, her sweetly curving hips. He felt his body responding to those images and he fought to keep it under control.

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