of both his horse and saddle, so she knew he was more than just some drifter. He was wearing frayed jeans, but his Western shirt appeared to have been tailored to fit both his broad shoulders and his lean waist.
But who was he? And where had he come from? She had lived so reclusively at The Castle, he might even be a neighbor from one of the outlying spreads for all she knew. “Are you from around here?” she asked.
“Just passing through.”
That was some comfort. “What brings you here?”
He looked off across the prairie. “Just taking a look around. How about you? You live around here?”
She nodded. “Around.” She wasn’t about to be any more specific than he had been. It was safer that way.
Apparently the Cowboy gave her evasive answer a different meaning because he grinned and said, “So you’re trespassing, too?”
“What?”
“Trespassing. On Wayne Prescott’s land.”
“Oh.” Belinda knew she ought to correct his mistaken impression, but that would mean admitting she was Wayne Prescott’s widow. Which would mean an abrupt end to her afternoon with the Cowboy. She wanted—needed—to forget who she was for a little while. So she said nothing.
Faron took her revealing blush as an admission of equal guilt. He smiled and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t let you get into trouble.” After all, he owned half the place. If that bitch stepmother of his tried to make trouble, well, he would handle her. He pulled off his worn leather gloves and tucked them in his belt. Then he held out his hand to her. “I feel like walking some more. Will you join me?”
His smile made the invitation irresistible. Belinda’s heart was doing a rat-a-tat-tat that made her want to press her hands to her chest to slow it down. She forcibly relaxed the knotted fingers she had clasped in front of her and reached out to take his hand. It was warm and callused like a working man’s ought to be. It gave her a feeling of strength and security as it closed around her fingers.
At the same time, she looked up into the Cowboy’s unusual gray-green eyes. They were the color of a mountain spruce, wide-set, heavily lashed and crowned with arched brows. There were webbed lines at the corners, etched there by the sun. His nose was straight and angled slightly at the tip, and he had a beauty mark—was it called that when a man had one?—high on his right cheekbone.
She had been terrified when he chased her on horseback, but he had done a good job of allaying her fears. He hadn’t touched her in any except the most gentlemanly way. She had noticed his restraint when he lifted her off her horse. On the other hand, he hadn’t exactly given her a choice of whether she was going to join him on the ground. She felt certain he wasn’t the sort of man to be denied something he wanted.
Nevertheless, she was inclined to accept him at face value. He was an open, friendly and—she would not deny it—handsome man…who knew his way around women. She had been charmed by that ridiculous name he had called her, Princess. And it was telling that he had tagged himself Cowboy, after that chivalrous knight of the Old West.
So what did he really want from her? She angled her head and took a long hard look at him.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“You look familiar somehow.”
He grinned. “Maybe I’m the man you’ve been waiting for all your life.”
Her expression sobered. She was waiting for someone, all right, but it wasn’t the man of her dreams. Any day now she expected her stepson from Texas to arrive. For a horrified instant she wondered if this stranger with whom she had been flirting could be Faron Whitelaw.
But this man couldn’t be Wayne’s son. He didn’t look a bit like Wayne. Wayne’s well-trimmed hair had been almost white blond. This man had coal black hair hanging down over his collar. Nor did his gray-green eyes have anything in common with the cold sapphire of Wayne’s. And the Cowboy’s forearms, visible where his shirtsleeves were folded up, revealed a warm bronze tint totally different from Wayne’s light, easily freckled skin.
Did it really matter who he was? Would it be so awful if she stole an afternoon for herself with a perfect stranger? She had seen the admiration in his eyes, and it felt good. She had found him equally attractive.
He was extraordinarily tall, which was a good thing, since she had been as long-legged as a giraffe all her life. He had the rangy build of a cowboy, long, lean and strong. He had lifted her from the saddle as though she weighed nothing. And she had felt the play of muscle and sinew where her hand rested on his forearm.
Why not join in the Cowboy’s fantasy? Just for an afternoon. What could possibly go wrong?
“So what are you running from?” Belinda asked as she strolled with the Cowboy toward the nearby meadow.
Faron left the two horses with their reins dragging. A cow horse wouldn’t wander far ground-tied like that, and there was plenty of grass to keep the animals close.
“I think this is only going to work if we leave our problems behind us,” Faron said. “We can only talk about good things this afternoon.” He stopped and turned to face her. “Agreed?”
“It’s a deal,” Belinda said.
He lifted the hand he held, turned it over and kissed the center of her palm.
Belinda felt a streak of electricity shoot up her arm. She yanked her hand back reflexively, then laughed to cover the awkwardness it had created between them. “That tickled,” she murmured in excuse and explanation.
“Yeah,” he muttered back. Faron wondered if she had felt the same charge on her skin as he had felt on his lips. It had been an amazingly strong jolt to his system.
“Let’s sit down, shall we?” Belinda dropped to her knees near a patch of large, daisylike flowers. Nearby was a bunch of bright blue lupine. The top of the hillside was rimmed with Indian paintbrush. “We couldn’t have picked a more perfect spot for an afternoon idyll if we’d tried,” she said.
Faron’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the countryside. “It is beautiful. It’s a shame…”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Faron wasn’t about to spoil his afternoon by thinking about his father and stepmother. He sat down and realized the ground still held the chill of winter. He pulled off his denim jacket and said, “Why don’t you sit on this? It’ll keep you from getting cold.”
“I don’t think—”
Again, he didn’t give her a choice. He spread his jacket on the ground, then slipped a hand around her waist and resettled her on the denim. “Thanks,” she murmured.
Faron’s gallantry won him a rare smile that made his heart skip a beat. “You’re welcome.”
Belinda immediately began making a chain from the daisylike flowers. Faron stretched out beside her, his head on his hand.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said.
Belinda laughed. “Are you always so forthright?”
