broken nails. Sunburned skin that always looked a little grimy. A few half-healed nicks and scrapes.
There was absolutely nothing feminine about them. Nothing to give her away.
And she had always had a deep voice for a woman. Everyone commented on it. A whiskey voice, her grandmother had called it. That huskiness was one of the things that had made her think she might be able to pull this off. And in the six months she’d lived here, no one had seemed to think twice about its timbre.
Her size, too, was in her favor. She was tall and thin enough to appear boyish, especially in the kind of shapeless garments she wore.
She hadn’t been able to do anything to disguise her features, other than keep her head down. She had done that today, her gaze focused on the task at hand. Last night, however…
Looking at him had been a mistake. She’d known it as soon as their eyes had made contact, but by then it had been too late to do anything about it.
Too late. Too late.
She doubled up her fists and slammed them against the wall of the shower. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward, laying her forehead against her clenched hands.
After several frozen seconds, she opened them, stretching her fingers flat against the stall. Then she pushed away from it, standing straight and tall. Fighting for control.
That kind of thinking was nothing but sheer, mindless paranoia. McAdams was a new hand. That’s all he was. There had been a dozen before him, and when he was gone, a dozen others would follow.
She couldn’t allow herself to become suspicious. That wariness would make her self-conscious. Inclined to say or do something stupid when he was around. She needed to go on acting exactly as she had been before he’d shown up here.
Just another drifter, she told herself, determined not to let that smothering sense of terror that had followed the attack at the Metro station take control of her again. He’s just a man. Just like all the others on the ranch.
Except he wasn’t.
The image of strange, blue-green eyes that seemed to see through her was suddenly in her head. Hands that moved with a completely masculine grace. Corded forearms, tanned and covered with a fuzz of gold. Far lighter than the hair that curled against the collar of his shirt. Maybe that was just a trick of the sunlight—
A trick of the sunlight.
The thought was terrifying. She reached out and grabbed the frayed, graying towel off the bar. She wrapped it around her body, sarong-style, and stepped hurriedly out of the enclosure.
The mirror over the sink was clouded with age and moisture. Almost afraid of what she might see in it, she fumbled for the hand towel on the rack and after a second’s hesitation, used it to wipe off the surface.
Then she leaned closer, lifting her bangs with her right hand. Along the scalp was a narrow line of blond. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d put the dye on, but obviously it had been too long ago.
She dropped the bangs, parting the hair on the top of her head with shaking fingers. Turning to catch the light from the bare bulb above the sink. Even in this dimness, the new growth was clearly visible, several shades lighter than the rest.
And she must have ducked her head a hundred times today. Hiding her face. Concealing, or so she thought, the one thing that might give her away. The one thing that might make him question. Wonder. Think about her at all.
And tomorrow she would be alone with him all day. Away from the safety of the pens and the public areas and other people. She could feel that mindless apprehension growing, tightening her chest and making it hard to breathe.
Drifter. He’s just a drifter. She fought against her panic, repeating the words like a litany. Determined to force their reality into her brain. He isn’t here because of you. You are no more to him than Quarrels or any of the others.
Long into the night, eyes open and staring in the darkness, she made herself say them over and over, trying desperately to believe that they might be true.
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