instincts. Admittedly a romantic, Rio had prowled through potential mates, dating frequently. He hadn’t found a woman who excited his nesting urges, who could take his breath away. An adult Blaylock male, he knew the difference between lust and caring, and he needed to cherish and be cherished. He couldn’t settle for less.
He glanced warily at Mrs. Reeves, who was waving to him from the café, and settled into his thoughts: he wasn’t feeling delicate and alone. Oh, hell, maybe he was. He wanted a woman to hold, to wear his ring, to continue what Blaylocks were bred to do—make families and lives and love one woman for eternity. Just looking at Roman and Kallista, now expecting their first child, caused Rio to want his own child...with the right woman. He admitted reluctantly to the nesting urge, a biological need to create a home and a family, to protect them. Else, his sister, had stopped pushing unmarried women at him and Rio understood—Else had spotted that nesting urge in him and had decided to let nature take its course, just as it had with Roman, Dan, Logan and James. The youngest Blaylock, Tyrell, was too busy in New York as a top corporate financial officer to think about a long-term nest; Tyrell liked corporate games, fed upon them.
Rio lifted his face to the cold wind, aching for Wyoming, and hurting for the little boy who plagued his nightmares... he’d been too late to save little Trey Whiteman. He had to find peace—and Paloma Forbes wasn’t it.
Later at the bingo hall, the ladies played, concentrating with deadly intent upon the caller’s numbers and then yelling when they won—or didn’t. Rio settled back to watch Paloma. Obviously enjoying herself, she moved between the players, sometimes sitting to chat and help, but never played herself. A restless woman, Paloma had ignored him. Now, her sleek blue-black hair loose and swaying around her shoulders and back as she moved, she looked relaxed, her laughter almost melodic and gone too quickly as if it had escaped her locked keeping. That odd dimple in her left cheek appeared and deepened as she grinned. She touched the women as if cherishing each one, amusement softening her face. She’d given them a gift—driving the bus and caring for them—and she enjoyed their delight.
Rio frowned slightly. That silky hair was too sensuous, shifting around her body as if needing to be tamed, and treasured by a man’s soothing hand. He pushed the thought away. He wasn’t interested in Paloma as an intriguing woman—a candidate for marriage—but something about her unshielded, gentle expression snared his heart.
“Did you get those new shorts, sonny?” Mrs. Dipper asked as she passed him, her arms filled with a stuffed teddy bear, her bingo prize. When he nodded curtly, she backed up close to him and called, “Mable? Do you have your camera? I want a shot of Sonny and me canoodling. He got those new shorts,” she called loudly to the other women, who nodded in approval.
Rio inhaled slowly. He always kept his word and now he was paying for it. The Blaylock males were trained to be courteous to females by their mother, who used her wooden spoon with unerring precision. Or there was that painful ear-twist thing. He reluctantly placed his arm around Mrs. Dipper as she had directed. She cuddled up to him, her hand looping around his waist as Mable shot the picture. Rio bent to collect the colored markers that Elizabeth had just spilled to the floor. “Did you get our errands done, sonny?” she asked in a hushed voice.
Rio nodded. “I got everything on the lists and put the sacks in the bus. Your change is in the sacks.”
“You’re such a good boy,” she whispered before she cupped his face and kissed him full on the lips. When he managed to pry himself away, he met Paloma’s gaze—and found there undisguised contempt.
Rio stepped up into the darkened, cold bus and quietly closed the door behind him. After an entire day of trying to talk with Paloma and being dismissed, or else distracted by the ladies who really appreciated their “good luck cowboy,” he’d finally cornered his elusive business partner.
He placed the insulated hot food container on a seat and studied her in the shadows. She lay curled on the back seat that stretched across the bus, amid a clutter of tiny floral and silk pillows. Sleeping on her side, snuggled deep in a down camping bag, Paloma had lost her defensive, hard look. Her lashes curled in dark fringes across her pale skin, while those elegant yet strong fingers, now at rest, lay upward, exposing the soft center of her palms. Without her elastic supports, her wrists looked fragile, the inner skin gleaming palely in the shadows. Her hair draped and fell around her like a shimmering black waterfall.
She sighed in her sleep, turning to her back, her hands lying at her side, and the soft line of her breasts flowed beneath the sleeping bag. That exotic scent curled to him and he fought the impulse to draw it into him, to appreciate the womanly fragrance as he might if he wanted to know the woman more intimately. Detennined to wait until she awoke, he settled into the seat in front of her. He drew up his coat, then tucked a floral satin pillow behind his head and a pink afghan over his legs to keep warm. He rested his legs on the seat opposite his, preventing Paloma’s escape, and waited. It was peaceful in the cold bus, with only the slight sound of the woman’s slow, deep breathing.
A hunter, Rio sensed when she awoke, and instinctively his hand shot out to capture her wrist. She jerked it away, leaving him with the silky-soft feel of her skin. Swinging her legs and feet, encased in the sleeping bag, to the floor, Paloma glared at him. In the shadowy interior, her eyes flashed silver. “Get out of my bus.”
“Not a chance. I brought your dinner...you need to eat. And we can talk.” Rio poured a cup of the hot soup and handed it to her. She’d awakened too fiercely; at some time in her life, she’d had to protect herself when she slept.
Distracted and apparently hungry, Paloma sniffed the soup appreciatively, and Rio tossed a spoon onto her lap. “Shrimp bisque.”
“I’m not eating this.” Paloma dipped the spoon into the soup and stirred it before lifting the first spoonful to her lips. She reminded Rio of a wary kitten—hungry, yet ready to scratch and hiss.
“Too bad. It goes with the fettuccine Alfredo.” He almost smiled at Paloma’s light, reluctant groan as he unzipped the hot food bag to show the platter to her, then zipped it again.
The lady has a healthy appetite, he thought as Paloma quickly finished the soup and dived into the hot fettuccine, expertly winding it around her fork. He couldn’t resist a taunting nudge after all she’d put him through; her blue eyes flashed at him as he asked, “This isn’t so bad, is it? Us sharing the same air?”
“You’re persistent,” she said around a mouthful of pasta. “I don’t like that trait And I don’t like being studied. Every time I turn around, you’re there with that dark narrowed expression—as if you’re hunting something and I’m it. That may get you to first base with most women, but I’m not buying. I’m certain you can find a woman more to your liking—you’ve got the experience.”
Rio wanted to wrap his fist in that mass of sleek black hair and—She was baiting him, looking for a reason to block negotiations on the feed store; he wouldn’t give her the chance. Letting her taunt drop into the shadows, he said evenly, “With you as a careless partner, I’m legally tied at every decision. I live in Jasmine. I want that feed store to continue as it has since pioneer days, when it was a trading post” Then he asked the question that had lurked in his mind since he’d met Paloma. “Exactly what do you have against me?”
Dislike shot out of her like a steel-tipped arrow. “Does it matter?”
“I’ll live without your love, lady, but I’m curious.”
“I don’t like being pushed or trapped. It’s that simple. And I don’t like ladies’
