unsuspecting old ladies.”
During this exchange of fond insults, his gaze quickly appraised Lyndie. For some reason, Hazel’s comment about his prowess in judging horseflesh just wouldn’t leave Lyndie’s mind.
“Bruce Everett,” Hazel announced, handling the introductions, “this is my grand-niece from New Orleans, Melynda Clay. But everybody calls her Lyndie. She doesn’t know beans about horses, but I expect you to remedy that in the next few weeks.”
“As long as she’s sound of limb and wind,” he assured Hazel, “we can turn her into a cowgirl. Glad to meetcha, Lyndie.”
His strong white teeth flashed in a wolfish smile, and an eerie, unpleasant sense of déjà vu washed over her. There was a confidence—a confidence bordering on arrogance—about this man that was reminiscent of Lyndie’s ex-husband Mitch’s manner. But whereas Mitch was all show and no substance, something told Lyndie to be wary of this cowboy’s confidence. It just might turn out to be the real thing.
His scrutiny trapped her.
Suddenly irritated, she flung him a frozen, perfunctory smile, then let her gaze turn to study a group of horses in a paddock beside the sprawling stone ranch house. As she’d hoped, her dismissal of him was obvious.
“Same here,” she intoned in a pleasant, detached manner, her attention glued to the paddock.
“Well, that gets my money,” she thought she heard him say under his breath.
Hazel raised her voice for Lyndie’s benefit and suggested cheerfully, “Bruce, maybe you two could pick out Lyndie’s horse while she’s here.”
They joined her near the paddock.
“That little bay mare with the white socks is one of my favorites,” he told Lyndie. “’Course, they’re all good animals. They’re not what you’d call well-schooled in dressage, but all of them are honest and fit. They do to take along.”
Lyndie chanced a longer look at him this time.
He had removed his hat, and a shock of jet-black hair curved across his strong brow. The eyes watching her were the shade of morning frost.
He didn’t have Mitch’s features, no. But the handsome smile and the confidence—they were reminiscent of the traits she had fallen for hardest in Mitch. And the very thought of him still soured her blood.
“They’ll do to take along where?” she replied, though she knew full well it was just a westernism he had spoken, not a literal remark.
He gave another interrogative glance at Hazel. “Wherever I take ’em,” he replied, placing slight emphasis on the word I.
Hazel, her expression clearly betraying how much she did not like the trail they were taking, again spoke up.
“You know, hon, I just remembered you must be tired from your trip. You can pick out your horse tomorrow. Why don’t we just take a quick look at your room, then head on to the Lazy M?”
“That’s sound just like the tonic I need,” Lyndie said.
Bruce seemed to want to elaborate on what kind of tonic he’d like to give her, but to his credit, he directed “Right this way,” leading them toward a low building of new milled lumber that stood between the main house and a row of stables.
“This here’s the bunkhouse.” He threw open a door. “The place has been renovated to make private rooms. As you see, they’re basic, but they’re clean as the bottom of a feed bucket. And there’s plenty of hot water.”
Lyndie stepped into the room. Her black Italian pantsuit looked absolutely out of place next to the rough-hewn log bed and the throw rug covering the floor. She already felt like a fish out of water, and only more so when she turned and met the cowboy’s gyrfalcon gaze.
There was no reading his mind. He was like Mitch, a cipher. But she swore she saw the twist of a smirk on his lips as he, too, noticed the contrast between her and the simple room.
Rattled, she ran her hand down the thick, scratchy wool blanket on the bed. “Well, I didn’t expect the Ritz, so I guess this will serve its purpose just fine,” she said dismissively.
His gray eyes lit with an amused sparkle. “It’s always served my purposes damn well—”
Hazel interrupted him with a coughing fit. “Lordy, don’t know what came over me,” she apologized when she was finished.
“I—I guess I’ll get my bag, then,” Lyndie remarked.
“Let me help you,” he offered.
“Thanks, I can manage,” she assured him, walking out the door without turning around.
He stared at her until she turned the corner.
“Well, ain’t she silky satin,” he mumbled under his breath.
Hazel grinned. “Actually, she is.”
He raised one dark eyebrow.
“She’s in the lingerie business, remember?”
He grinned back. “That’s right. Well, either she’s got a mighty high opinion of herself, or a mighty low opinion of everyone else.”
“Neither one,” Hazel insisted. “She’s a wonderful girl. Just give her a little time, that’s all.”
Bruce lifted the corner of his mouth in a smirking smile. The gray of his eyes deepened. “Tell you what, Hazel, her nose may be a little out of joint, but the rest of her sure seems to be in order.”
“Atta boy,” Hazel encouraged him. “You just keep thinking like that, and sooner or later things are going to start humming right along.”
He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Humming along? Hey, I just run a dude ranch here, Hazel, and I try to be civil with all comers. I got no ulterior motives regarding your niece.”
“Well, you’d better get some,” Hazel insisted.
His jaw slackened in surprise.
But before he could respond, Hazel said, “Shush now, here she comes.”
“The hell you up to now, old gal?” he muttered.
“Just the usual tricks,” she muttered right back, quelling her smile before Lyndie saw it. “Just the usual tricks.”
Two
Bumping her wheeled suitcase along the dirt road toward the bunkhouse, Lyndie began to wonder what she’d gotten into.
A couple of weeks at a dude ranch had sounded fine in the steaming French Quarter—but that was then. Now she found herself in her high-heeled designer shoes, having to negotiate a hoof-rutted dirt path—not to mention the treacherous road map of a certain Mr. Everett.
He’d shaken her more than she wanted to admit. The lazy, hooded stare sparked something inside her which she feared was lust.
