Just...” He really needed to shut his mouth and get out of there. Instead, he said, “You haven’t changed much, have you? Except you’re coloring your hair now.” He knew it suddenly, and she confirmed it by lifting a hand to her hair, something like guilt flashing across her face.
“What do you mean, I haven’t changed? I’ve changed a lot.”
“No, you haven’t,” he said, knowing he was being rude but unable to help himself for some reason. “You’re still a snob.”
She jerked as if he’d hit her. “I am not a snob.”
“Really? Couldn’t prove it by me.” He might as well still be the ball boy to her athletic highness.
“What do you have to do with it?” she demanded.
“Not a thing,” he told her, thumping his hat onto his head and turning away.
“And what’s wrong with my hair?” she demanded.
He looked back at her. “I like the real you better, that’s all.”
“You don’t know the real me,” she snapped.
He let his gaze sweep over her, liking what he saw, missing what he didn’t see, wishing otherwise on both counts.
“Don’t I?” he asked. “You still look and act like the queen of War Bonnet High to me.”
With that, he finally got out of there, calling himself ten kinds of fool. The queen, after all, couldn’t be expected to do more than barely acknowledge her servants.
* * *
Calling herself the very worst kind of fool, Ann guided her father’s pickup truck off the dusty road and over the rough cattle guard between the pipes supporting the fencing. She didn’t know why she’d come. Rex had told her simply to make sure that Dean could get his equipment in and out of the field without problem. As the weather had remained hot and dry, Dean could have had no issues whatsoever, so she really had no reason to trek out here and inspect the job site. His rudeness the day before should have been reason enough to forgo this particular chore, and yet she’d found herself dressing with ridiculous detail for an encounter she had no desire to make. Why should she care what he thought of her, after all? Yet, here she was in all her feminine glory, including denim leggings, a matching tank top and a formfitting, crocheted cardigan that perfectly matched her white high-heeled sandals.
Dean had obviously taken down a section of the barbed wire in order to get his combine into the field. He was even now using a come-along to draw the post back into position, the wires still attached, so he could temporarily restore the fence. Ann beeped the truck’s horn to stop him then killed the engine and got out.
Watching her pick her way across the ground on her high heels, he let the wire stretcher drop, stripped off his leather gloves and took off his sunglasses, dropping them into his shirt pocket. The hard hat had been replaced by a faded red baseball cap, which he tugged lower over his eyes. Dirt gritted between her toes as she made her way toward him, but she refused to show any discomfort. At least the early-morning temperature wouldn’t melt her carefully applied makeup or frizz her hair, which she’d painstakingly set on heated curlers after her shower and predawn run. Resisting the urge to tug on the hem of her tank top, she plastered on a smile and tucked her muted red hair behind one ear so he could see the dainty pearl earrings she was wearing.
“I meant to tell you yesterday,” she announced. “Rex had the hands move all the cattle to the east range, so you don’t have to worry about replacing the fence until you’re done here.”
He glanced around, his gaze landing on her feet. “Okay. Good to know. Thanks.”
She heard barking a second before Digger shot out of the thigh-high golden oats, a yellow bandanna clenched in his doggy teeth. Giggling wildly, Donovan careened behind him. The dog skidded to a halt, facing Donovan, who snatched at the bandanna. Turning, the dog took off again, making straight for Ann and Dean. Before either could react, the animal bolted between them and came to a taunting halt just beyond. Shrieking with laughter, Donovan gave chase. Right across Ann’s toes.
“Ow!” Yelping in pain, she reeled backward.
Dean lurched forward, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her into his embrace even as he scolded the boy. “Donovan Jessup! Watch what you’re doing.”
The child immediately sobered, turning to face the adults. “I’m sorry.”
Ann staggered against Dean, her elbow digging into his side, his very solid side. His large, heavy hands cupped her other elbow and clamped her waist, steadying her. Those were the hands of a real man, strong, capable, sure. She felt dainty, safe and cherished in that moment.
“You okay?”
Aware that her heartbeat raced, she ignored her throbbing toes to smile and nod. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Good,” he said, dropping his arms and stepping back. “Next time you come out here, maybe you’ll wear boots.”
Ann gasped, her silly illusions abruptly shattered. “And maybe you’ll control that wild thing you call a child,” she snapped, regretting the words the moment they escaped her mouth.
Dean’s expression instantly hardened. “Let me walk you to your truck,” he stated firmly.
Setting her jaw, Ann intended to refuse—until she caught sight of Donovan’s face. The dismay on that small, freckled face smacked her right in the chest. She bit back the caustic reply on the tip of her tongue and allowed Dean to clamp his large, hard hand around her arm just above her elbow. They moved across the ground in silence. She teetered and danced across the uneven terrain while he strode purposefully along beside her.
When they reached the truck, he opened the driver’s door and all but tossed her up behind the wheel before stepping close, looking her straight in the eye and commanding flatly, “Don’t ever speak that way in front of my son again.”
“I won’t,” she capitulated softly. “I’m sorry.”
Dean relaxed a bit and sucked in a calming breath. “He’s five. He makes mistakes, but he’s a good boy. He’d have apologized again if you’d given him a chance.”
She nodded. “I was just...hurt. And I didn’t realize that he’s so young.”
Dean shifted until he was halfway inside the cab, draping his left arm over the top of the steering wheel. “He’s big for his age, I admit.” He rubbed a hand over his face before asking, “Your toes okay?”
For some reason she couldn’t seem to breathe as easily as she ought to, but she managed to squeak, “I think so.”
“Next time,” he said quietly, pointedly, “wear boots.”
“Don’t you like my shoes?” she asked, truly curious about that.
A crease appeared between his brows. “What’s that got to do with anything?” Angling his head, he looked down at the floorboard. “Your shoes are fine. That’s not the point.” He looked her in the eye, adding, “If you’re going to come out here, you need the proper footwear.”
“Unfortunately,
