Page 3 of The Cowboy's Close Quarters Claim

He can stay in Texas for all I care.

While he's been growing soft in the corporate sector, the rest of us are still rough as ever, working the land our family settled close to two centuries ago now.

My city slicker brother probably doesn't even remember how to saddle a horse these days-- probably sets his alarm for eight a.m. and gripes about getting up early when the kin he left behind has been in the field since four.

Asshole.

I hope he doesn't think he's sticking around these parts when he shows up for the funeral at the end of the summer. He didn't need the Delta O when he walked off ten years ago, and the Delta O don't need him now.

I'm still grouching under my hat while my horse picks its way up the trail after the woman that's got me feeling a lot more flustered than I have patience for.

At least we won't be bunking down together in that miserable little shack when we get to camp.

2

CLEMENTINE

If I had better company, I'd be in heaven right about now.

Not that Gunner O'Leary is doing anything to spoil the scenery. The man is easy enough to look at.

A few years older than me-- not quite a full ten, I'm guessing-- he's built well, with a sturdy frame and muscles that the bulky jacket can't hide. Underneath that Stetson, his features would be almost boyishly handsome if it weren't for the lines that tell a tale of a life outdoors more than mere age, and the hard set of his stubbled jaw as he stares ahead instead of glancing my way whenever he deigns to speak to me.

When he pulls up alongside of me where the trail widens on the curves as we round another hill, I do my best not to openly stare at his hands. Strong, weathered hands that look like they're capable of doing more than roping a calf, hold his reins loosely, the cuffs of his jacket pushed up to reveal a glimpse of thick forearms that are enough to have me swooning a little bit.

Not that I'm about to let Gunner catch me subtly eye-fucking any part of him. Or let on that I can't help but wonder what hiscalloused palms would feel like running over my skin. Or what kind of things he'd say while he fucked me.

Nope. Not going there.

"Suppose my brother must've interviewed you before he handed over a couple million dollars’ worth of cattle to your care."

Casting a glance in the man's direction and seeing the disapproval in the stern, brown eyes leveled at me, I ignore the shiver that tickles my spine and give him a grunt.

I've been dealing with this from men since I was breaking my back to prove myself to my own father. Not that that worked out any better with my own family than it has with a dozen other men that I've worked for since.

Men like Gunner, who think they're modern for hiring a woman as a seasonal hand, only to make sure she never does any real work; and would certainly never offer her a position that comes with any real responsibility.

The younger O'Leary brothers have been great co-workers, and the oldest one that hired me looked at my resume and saw someone who's qualified for the job.

"Your brother was more concerned with my qualifications than he was with my boobs," I assure him.

I don't miss the way Gunner's eyes drop to the boobs in question any more than I miss the way he bristles at the mention of Ranger's name.

"Too badhe'snot the one I'm stuck with for the next few nights."

The look on Gunner's face is everything, as I kick my heels lightly and my horse pulls ahead of his.

Truth is, none of the other O'Leary brothers have caught my interest the way this one has. Something about Gunner has my mind going to all sorts of inappropriate places. The way his features cloud with irritation and the not-entirely-quiet cursingfollowing me up the trail, bring me a twisted kind of satisfaction that I'm not about to let on to.

"...dead body..."

A few more rough words for his brother make their way to me as Gunner catches up to where the trail ends in a large, circular clearing that contains a small pen for livestock, a wide, stone fire ring, and one incredibly small cabin.

"I'll be pitching my tent out here, you go ahead and take the shack," Gunner grumps as he dismounts and leads his horse to the fenced area.

If he hears me laugh at his choice of words, he doesn't mention it.

Of course, my brain immediately goes to thoughts of the gruff, older cowboy bedding down by the fire ring for the night, and exactly what sort of tent I'd like to see him pitching.

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