Page 59 of The Way to a Cowboy's Heart

Liam stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of them. “Is that… who I think it is?”

She swallowed thickly. “If you think it’s my father and brother, you would be sadly correct.”

He glanced back at her. “What’s this about?”

“Me. What else?”

The pair was walking toward them. Her father stopped a few feet away. He was the picture of British aristocracy. Tall and thin, white hair, and a prominent nose he could handily look down. “Emily?” His address to her was at least as cold as this rain.

“Father? Montana is a bit out of your wheelhouse, isn’t it then?”

“It’s a bit off the beaten track.” His gaze slid down Liam’s and her muddy clothes. If looks were lethal, Liam would already be bleeding.

Still, he extended a hand to her father. “Mr. Quinn? I’m Liam Hardesty.”

Her father hesitated at the muddy look of Liam’s hand before taking it. “Ah. Mr. Hardesty. You must be the cowboy.”

“Father—” Emily warned.

“And it’sLordQuinn,” her brother corrected. “I’m Malcolm Quinn. Emily’s older brother.” He didn’t offer his hand.

Malcolm was everything Liam had imagined. Tall, unathletic-looking, and condescending, due to the very long stick up his ass.

“He knows who you are,” she told them. “What is it you want?”

Her father’s gaze took in the ranch in the pouring rain. “Oh, I think you know.”

“Maybe they just happened to be in the neighborhood,” Liam suggested.

A snort of laughter escaped Emily but the flash of lightning that streaked across the sky seemed a reflection of the anger in her eyes.

Malcolm gestured at their muddy clothes. “No, but it’s quite worse than even we imagined.”

Lord Quinn shot a silencing look at his son.

“Oh, you mean the mud?” Emily asked. “It’s a ranching thing. Would you like to see the newborn calf Liam just saved from the river? Oh, but Malcolm, maybe you would have preferred tothinkthe calf out of that situation.”

“Funny, Em.” Malcolm looked longingly back at the shelter of the town car.

“This has gone far enough, don’t you think?” her father said.

“What has?”

“This little… fling. We both know you’re better than this, Emily.”

The hairs on the back of Liam’s neck stood up, but she stayed his anger with a squeeze on his arm.

“Better than what, Father? Montana? Muddy clothes? A man who cares about me? Who doesn’t treat me like an afterthought?”

Under his breath, Malcolm muttered, “Acowhand.”

“It wouldn’t matter to me if he was simply a cowhand. Which he certainly is not—” she began, but Liam leaned in.

“No, no, that’s… in the ballpark,” Liam countered. “But since we’re assuming here—we are, aren’t we?—I assume you know how amazing your daughter is, Lord Quinn. How talented she is. How kind. And that she’s a woman with a mind of her own. But maybe you don’t know, since it’s been a while since you noticed her. But I noticed.”

Her father’s expression didn’t warm. “Forgive me… Mr.… Hardesty. This is between myself and my daughter. If you wouldn’t mind?”

“I kind of do, but, again, that’s up to her.”

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