cried or whined or begged. Or tried to sweet-talk him. He would have believed, had halfway expected, at least one of those.
She could have tried a little feminine persuasion. Tried to bribe him with a kiss or two. Or an invitation to her bed.
He wouldn’t have accepted. For many reasons, not the least of which, she was a guest in his house.
He certainly wasn’t worried he might enjoy sharing her bed so much that he’d allow her to disrupt his plans. Nothing about Elizabeth Randall worried him. She was nothing more than a skinny, red-haired troublemaker. Worth had handled plenty of trouble in his time. He wasn’t worried.
Even if this time, trouble had come with olive green cat eyes.
Elizabeth watched as a chipmunk darted recklessly across the dirt road and disappeared in a patch of wild roses. Dark blue spikes of larkspur waved in the slight breeze. Worth turned onto another road where water trickled along the roadside ditch and willows displayed their catkins. Overhead, swallows dipped and soared in a blue, cloudless sky.
Some might call the landscape beautiful. Elizabeth knew the darker side of nature lurked below the idyllic surface. If a predator didn’t get the small animal, automobile tires probably would. Roses had thorns, larkspur poisoned cattle, and the swallows were fighting for nesting territory. In Nebraska, the roots of a willow tree in her yard had caused extensive damage to her house’s plumbing.
It wasn’t nice. It wasn’t pretty. It was life.
Elizabeth knew all about life.
She might not know all about smug, arrogant men who thought they could kiss you one minute and blackmail you the next, but she was learning fast.
A prime example of the species currently sat behind the wheel of a beat-up, dark blue, extended-cab pickup, wearing worn jeans and a faded blue work shirt with rolled-up sleeves. If Worth Lassiter expected her to swoon over the muscles in his forearms, he could think again.
She’d had enough of him and his muscles.
Her mistake had been allowing him to kiss her. All right, kissing him back. For a short time, she’d felt desirable, cherished. More proof of what a horrible judge of character she was. Only a weakling and an idiot would think his arms were a refuge. As she’d learned quickly enough when he’d used her weakness against her.
He’d be positively overjoyed if he discovered exactly how weak she was.
For the second night in a row he’d invaded her dreams. Invaded. Dominated. Starred in.
Dreams of a sexual nature. Dreams she didn’t need. Didn’t want. He had no right to ruin her nights.
He should be content with ruining her days.
“I came with you today because Jamie loves riding in a car.” In the backseat, Jamie gurgled happily to himself. “Your silly threats last night had nothing to do with me accepting your invitation.”
No response. As if her claim was so ludicrous, he couldn’t be bothered to refute it.
Which naturally increased her irritation. “And I am not afraid of horses. I’ve been riding horses since I could sit up. I rode my first pony all by myself when I was two.”
“So Russ has repeatedly told us. According to him, you’re a born cowboy.”
“I fell off and broke my arm.” She regretted the words the instant they popped out.
He chuckled heartlessly. “Russ forgot to mention that part.”
“He usually does.”
“Is that why you’re afraid of horses?”
“I’m not, and what difference does it make to you if I am? You’re like all cowboys. Whether I got an A in math or graduated third in my high school class or did well in college doesn’t mean a thing to you. You don’t care if I can run a coffee shop or coordinate a convention for three hundred out-of-towners or find rooms for a busload of tourists whose travel agent messed up their plans. Cowboys judge a person by her riding skills or roping skills or cow-chasing skills. Nothing else matters.” Belatedly she clamped her mouth shut, having revealed too much.
“Why haven’t you ever told Russ you’re afraid of horses?”
“I’m not afraid of them, but speaking hypothetically, when exactly was I supposed to tell him?” she asked tartly. “Every summer when I was shipped off to visit him and he threw me on some huge, wild monster who’d been running free all winter and saw no reason to wear a saddle? Before or after the concussion, the sprained ankle, the bruised hip, the horse bite?”
“Those injuries don’t sound hypothetical to me.”
“Russ has had his share of injuries. You heard him last night. Gotta be tough to be a cowboy.” In spite of her efforts, bitterness coated her last words.
“Are you tough?”
As if she’d admit she wasn’t. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to be a cowboy.”
After a bit Worth said, “Russ can look over a herd of horses or cows and pick up instantly on the least little thing wrong, but I’m guessing he has no clue what makes you tick.”
It didn’t take a genius IQ to figure that out. “My mother says cowboys refuse to understand any creature with less than four legs.”
“I suppose her feelings explain the divorce. I’m surprised she married Russ in the first place.”
A question Elizabeth had considered frequently over the years. “Mother was a city girl who fell in love with the cowboy mystique. Ranch life came as a rude shock to her. When I was about three, she had a miscarriage. She needed comfort from Russ, but he buried himself in ranch work, so she cried a lot and they fought a lot and the marriage disintegrated.”
“And you blame Russ.”
“I don’t blame either of them. Onions and ice cream go together better than my parents did. People should marry people they have something in common with.”
“Is that what you did? Mom said your husband wasn’t a cowboy. What was he?”
“A history professor at the university.” She could have added Lawrence was also a liar, a fraud, and a thief, but she didn’t. She sensed Worth looking at her.
“I’m not going to bad-mouth him because he chose a different career from the one I have,” Worth said.
“Russ does.”
“Seeing you hurting must upset Russ. He wants to make everything better for you, help you cope with your loss, but he has no idea how, so he’s angry and frustrated and the only person he can take his anger out on is your husband. It’s not logical, but it’s human nature.”
“I didn’t come with you to listen to a sermon or homespun counseling,” Elizabeth said tightly. “I’m not hurting and I’m coping just fine with my loss. As you pointed out last night, I have Jamie.”
“And your memories.”
Elizabeth
