it or not.
He frowned and checked his watch. He’d give it ten minutes, and then he was taking his dented pride and packing it in. Tomorrow the real work began—Sam would be gone on his honeymoon, and the day-to-day running of Diamondback would be left to Ty. He was looking forward to the work.
The butting of heads with his dad would start, too, he imagined. He rolled his shoulders, willing out the tension. Virgil had hardly spoken to him since his return two days ago, other than a few grunts and disparaging comments that Ty had, for the most part, ignored, more out of consideration for his mother, Molly, than anything else. Ty knew very well that their father thought that Sam could do no wrong and it was a big mistake to give Ty equal say in running the ranch. He was a damn sight smarter than his father gave him credit for. He always had been. And he intended to prove it. He had ideas. But first he needed to assess the operation and make a plan. Virgil considered Tyson unreliable, but Tyson knew all about calculating risks. He’d been doing it for years.
The hired band whipped the crowd into a frenzy with a fast-paced polka, and Ty checked his watch again—only a minute had passed.
It had been a mistake to go after Clara. He’d been waylaid by the bouquet and garter catching, but when he’d gone in the house and realized she was locked in the bathroom he’d been alarmed. He knew what Butterfly House was about. He’d felt her fingers tremble in his when they shook hands and had been automatically transported to a day three years ago when he’d interrupted a “situation.”
All he’d wanted to do was reassure her that Diamondback was a safe place … and then she’d run into him, he’d put his hands on her and everything he’d planned to say evaporated. The shocking thing was for a moment he’d thought she’d felt it, too, when the air hummed between them in the kitchen.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong.
The music changed and a movement caught his eye. Clara, in her sage-colored dress, tugging a shawl closer around her shoulders against the fall chill. She’d be leaving now, then, he thought, and scowled. He’d been an ass, trying to flirt with her. He hadn’t mastered the art of polite chit chat and other social graces. Until tonight, they hadn’t been required. How did a guy talk to a woman who was in a situation like hers, anyway? He did the only thing he knew how—and came off looking like an idiot. What had he been thinking, asking her to dance?
Clara didn’t go around the house to where the cars were parked. Instead she crossed the grass towards the crowd. She looked up and around the throng until she met his eyes and her gaze stopped roaming. His heart gave a sharp kick in response—a surprise. Frightened girls with innocent eyes were so not his type. He was more into confident women who hung around waiting for the bull riders with the big belt buckles. Girls who were only in it for their own eight seconds and no further commitments.
There were at least a dozen reasons why he should stay clear of Clara Ferguson. He could list three off the top without blinking: she had too much baggage, she worked for the family and he’d only cause her trouble.
But she kept coming, her glossy walnut curls twisting over her shoulders like silk ribbons. The cut of her dress was simple and quite conservative, skimming down her figure and showing her curves without revealing much skin. The effect was sexier than it should have been, he realized. She was nothing like the women he dated. Maybe that was why he was noticing her today, but this was as far as it would go. Noticing. And he didn’t even need Sam’s earlier warning to tell him so.
She stopped in front of him and her chest rose as she took a deep breath. He realized he was holding his and slowly let it out. “Clara?”
She gave him a smile so sweet, so fragile, that it frightened the hell out of him.
“Would you like to dance, Tyson?”
A good puff of air could probably have knocked him over. He stared at her for a good five seconds until her smile began to waver and uncertainty clouded her dark blue eyes. He wasn’t sure why, but something had prompted her to change her mind, and he sensed it had taken a lot of courage for her to come out here and ask.
So what was he supposed to do now? She’d been very clear about not wanting to dance—particularly with him. She’d pulled away from him twice now, and if they danced he’d have to touch her. In several places. Odd, but that thought fired his blood more than anything—or anyone—had in weeks.
But he got the feeling that if he declined it would be about more than refusing a simple turn on the floor. “I thought you didn’t want to dance.”
She lifted her chin. “I changed my mind. But if you don’t want to, that’s fine.” She started to turn away.
“I didn’t say that.” Hell, he might have blown it the first time, but she was here now, right? Something had brought her back out here tonight.
She paused, looked over her shoulder at him. Like she wanted him to believe she was in control. He knew better. She had no idea what she was doing. He should walk away right now—it would be better for them both. This whole day had him out of his comfort zone, and Clara was waiting with her sweet, sad eyes for his answer.
He held out his hand and waited. Just because he wasn’t a gentleman ninety percent of the time didn’t mean he couldn’t fake it.
She put her hand in his and he felt the tremor against his palm. Hell. He was not good at this sort of thing. He was used to a not-so-subtle pressing of bodies on the dance floor. An invitation and a promise of things to come. Clara wasn’t like that, was she? She was as flighty as a scared rabbit. Innocent.
Ty led her to the dance “floor”—an expanse of even ground in front of the band. As a waltz began, he put his right hand along the warm curve of her waist and clasped her fingers lightly in his left. He had no idea how close to get or if he should say something or … A cold sweat broke out at the back of his neck. Wasn’t it hysterical that a man like him was suddenly so unsure what to do?
She’d gone quite pale, so he let go of her waist and put a finger beneath her chin.
Her last partner had abused her—Sam had said as much when he’d issued the warning to tread carefully. Now, as she tensed beneath his chaste touch, he felt an immediate, blinding hatred for the man who had damaged such a beautiful creature, followed by something unfamiliar and unsettling as he realized he was feeling unusually protective.
He lifted her chin with his finger and said simply, “You make the rules.”
Emotions flooded her eyes—what he thought was gratitude and relief and maybe even a touch of fear. He was not a particularly good man, and he was certainly not good enough for her, but he wasn’t cruel or oblivious. So he waited for her to clasp his hand in hers again before he made his feet move, taking her with him around the dirt floor, making sure there was lots of space between their bodies.
They made small steps around the dance area, neither speaking, but Ty felt the moment she finally began to relax in his arms. He wanted to pull her closer, to nestle her in the curves of his body, feel her softness against him, but he kept a safe distance, honoring his word to let her take the lead. Clara wasn’t like other women. There were different rules to be followed. Hell, usually there were no rules.
The first song finished and led straight into another. There was only a pause in their steps and then, by some sort of unspoken agreement, they moved as one again, swaying gently to the music. Her breasts brushed against his jacket, an innocent whisper of contact that he normally wouldn’t notice but right now sent his blood racing. Her
