She wondered what Chance would think if he discovered that one of the ideas she’d considered was working at White Pines, the very ranch he intended to seize as his own. Maybe she’d tell her father this very afternoon that she wanted to learn everything there was to know about ranching. Then she could flaunt her own claim to White Pines in this man’s face. She hadn’t had a decent mental and verbal skirmish since she gave up leadership of a Native American rights organization to move back to Los Piños. Something told her that Chance Adams would prove to be a fascinating challenge.
She sighed. Her father, of course, would see straight through her. From the day he’d made her one of his heirs he’d known that what she really wanted to do with her share of White Pines acreage was put a Bloomingdale’s on it. Not that she’d ever make good on the threat, but it had been a running joke between them for too many years now for him to believe she’d suddenly developed a taste for ranching.
Her future wasn’t the immediate problem, though. Petey’s was. She regarded Chance Adams evenly. “It’s entirely up to you what you do about your son’s behavior,” she said. “But I will tell you now that I will not tolerate a repeat of this in my classroom. The next incident will result in a suspension. Have I made myself clear?”
His blue eyes, the exact same shade possessed by every single one of her stepbrothers, sparkled with amusement. That hint of laughter was enough to make her want to spit. Yes, indeed, Chance Adams would be a challenge and then some.
Fortunately for her, Luke, Jordan and Cody had the same kind of arrogance, the identical streak of stubbornness. She’d learned long ago to give as good as she got with the three of them. She’d even learned to do it with words, instead of fists, since not one of them would ever have dared to brawl with their much younger stepsister as they did among themselves.
Chance was once again eyeing her speculatively. “Darlin’, you are the cutest little thing when you’re mad,” he said in a tone clearly calculated to infuriate her. “You sound all prim and fussy. I had an old-maid schoolteacher once who sounded just like that.”
Acid churned in her stomach as she fought yet another urge to retaliate with the kind of response that would have been instantaneous only a few years earlier. She was an adult now. A teacher. She was supposed to be setting an example, for goodness’ sake, not rolling around in the dirt pummeling a man who’d just insulted her.
Unfortunately Chance Adams was the sort of man who would test the self-control of a saint. She hoped there wouldn’t be many more encounters like this one to provoke her, at least not in front of an impressionable boy.
Maybe her desire to belt the man was plain on her face. Or maybe he knew just what the limits of her patience were likely to be, because suddenly out of the blue he sent Petey into the house. The boy scurried off so fast he left dust whirling in his wake.
It was exactly the circumstance Jenny had been hoping for. She could take an unobserved shot right at the man’s chin, she thought wistfully, then gave a little sigh of resignation. She wasn’t going to do it, of course.
Still regarding her with amusement, Chance Adams rocked back on his heels and looked her over again. Her skin burned every single place his glance skimmed over.
Well, two could play at that game, she thought with defiance of her own. And he was showing a whole lot more skin.
She fixed her gaze squarely on his bare chest and ogled. She let her gaze drift slowly up to that sexy stubbled jaw, then down to the golden hair arrowing below the waistband of his jeans, then up again to broad shoulders. Looking him over, no matter what her purpose, turned out to be more fascinating than she’d anticipated. Her pulse fluttered, then ran wild. He was quite a specimen.
The technique worked, though. She had a suspicion that not all the perspiration on Chance’s gleaming muscular chest was the result of the hot sun and chopping wood. The muscles in his throat worked as if he might just be having the teensiest bit of trouble swallowing. If she’d had some water with her, she would have offered him a cool drink for his parched throat.
Or doused him with it.
When she’d concluded her survey to her satisfaction and his discomfort, she forced herself to look smack-dab into his eyes. “As you can see, I give as good as I get Shall we declare a truce, Mr. Adams?”
If she’d thought her little challenge was going to end it, she could tell at once from the amusement again sparkling in his eyes that she’d made a terrible mistake. He shook his head very slowly, his gaze locked with hers.
“Not on your life, darlin’,” he said slowly. “I’d say the fireworks are just getting started.”
Chance kept a tight rein on his desire to laugh as he watched Ms. Jenny Adams sashay off, her back ramrod straight, her chin tilted at a defiant angle. Darn, but that confrontation had felt good. He hadn’t had so much fun in a long time. He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had stared at him so boldly and made his blood run quite so hot in the process.
Too bad she was an Adams. Okay, an adopted Adams, technically speaking, but that still made her the enemy. He figured she was tied to his Uncle Harlan by loyalty if not by blood. Sometimes those ties were even stronger than the genetic ones a person didn’t have any say over.
The squeaking of the screen-door hinges snapped his attention back to the matter that had brought the woman here in the first place. He pivoted just in time to see Petey trying to slip off in the direction of the barn to escape Chance’s likely wrath.
“Oh, no, you don’t, young man. Get back here,” Chance commanded.
Petey took his sweet time about complying with the command. When he finally stood in front of Chance, he scuffed the toe of his sneaker in the dirt and refused to look up. He didn’t look guilty, though, merely defiant. Chance figured that was an attitude that needed correcting in a hurry.
“Son?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s ‘Yes, sir.’”
Petey sighed heavily. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s better. Now look at me.”
Another heavy sigh greeted that order. Chance would have smiled, but he figured it would take the edge off the stem displeasure he was trying to convey. “Now,” he repeated emphatically.
His son finally darted a glance up at him. The defiance had begun to slip ever so slightly. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Chance fought the urge to gather the boy in his arms. It was moments like this that were the hardest tests for a father. He was torn between the discipline he knew needed delivering and the comfort and promise of unshakable love that were also required.
“I’d like an explanation,” Chance told him, pleased with his calm neutral tone when minutes ago he’d wanted to shake the kid for doing something so crazy. Jenny Adams had painted an all-too-vivid picture of that distraught child with a severed braid in her hand, tears spilling down her cheeks. He winced every time he thought about it. He’d been so sure he’d taught Petey girls were to be protected, not taunted or hit. Maybe he’d been remiss in not mentioning that their hair was off-limits, too.
“An
