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A Groom For Gwen
Jeanne Allan


GUARDIAN ANGELSHe was heaven-sent…Jake Stoner, with his devil-may-care smile and coolly assessing eyes, seemed the answer to Gwen Ashton's prayers. But had she been too impulsive in hiring a complete stranger to help on her ranch?Dreaming of a real home for herself and her young niece, Gwen recognized Jake was unlikely husband material. He was a drifter, a man who needed–wanted–no one. He'd said he would stay for as long as she needed him–could she persuade him that her need was forever?Falling in love sometimes needs a little help from above!"Jeanne Allan displays a real talent for mixing sexual tension and gripping characters with an exciting storyline."–Romantic Times







“All right, Mr. Stoner. I’ll hire you on a trial basis. One month.” (#u9b32111c-6936-5c5a-9d0b-61887f2db703)Letter to Reader (#u7fca3eb9-74ac-58ca-892d-8e30853c52ed)Title Page (#u9cd3c91e-3f5d-556d-84ba-fc4e3827875c)Dedication (#udd762bc3-ad7f-57e6-9649-cd0689550fc3)CHAPTER ONE (#udf94585f-0c4b-501d-ab0d-4f4fc1c9e985)CHAPTER TWO (#ue1b33855-53f7-5f0f-ad99-aa9fe9b351d6)CHAPTER THREE (#ub3840f38-a9ee-5841-b8a6-0bfeb0658e68)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“All right, Mr. Stoner. I’ll hire you on a trial basis. One month.”

“I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

The words were innocuous enough, but somehow he invested them with deeper meaning.

“What does that mean?” Gwen asked.

“I’m a man who has to drift. I’m just passing through.”

“I’m not interested in hiring a transient,” she said sharply.

The man met her eyes, his gaze clear and steady. “I’ll stay as long as you need me. I always do.”

Gwen wanted to believe Jake Stoner. She had no choice but to believe him. “All right,” she said slowly. “When can you start?” Please, she thought, let it be now.

He held out his hand. “Soon as we shake on it, ma’am.”

She didn’t want to shake hands with him. She didn’t want to touch him. The realization disconcerted her. Jake Stoner was more than the hunk her lawyer Prudence had labeled him. He was overwhelmingly male. If she knew one thing, it was that Jake Stoner spelled trouble. And he worked for her.


Dear Reader,

Remember the magic of the film It’s a Wonderful Life? The warmth and tender emotion of Truly, Madly, Deeply? The feel-good humor of Heaven Can Wait?

Well, we can’t promise you Alan Rickman or Warren Beatty, but we know you’ll be delighted with the latest miniseries in Harlequin Romance


: GUARDIAN ANGELS. It brings together all of your favorite ingredients for a perfect novel: great heroes, feisty heroines, breathtaking romance, all with a celestial spin. Written by four of our star authors, this witty and wonderful series features four real-life angels—all of whom are perfect advertisements for heaven!

Already available are The Boss, the Baby and the Bride by Day Leclaire and Heavenly Husband by Carolyn Greene. This month it’s Jeanne Allan’s turn with A Groom for Gwen—a story of such emotional intensity you’ll cry tears of laughter and sadness at its tender humor and heart-wrenching poignancy. Not to be missed in December is Margaret Way’s Gabriel’s Mission.

Have a heavenly read!











Failing in love sometimes needs a little help from above!




A Groom For Gwen

Jeanne Allan







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my father,

who knew how to tell a story


CHAPTER ONE

SLOUCHED against the building, Jake watched the woman come down the street. With her yellow hair, she was pretty as a bald-faced heifer. Somehow Jake knew when he cut the right trail, although Michaels never told him.

Michaels. No first name, just Michaels. The man looked like a greenhorn in his boiled shirt and derby. Jake thought of him as a kind of trail boss for the Almighty, but Michaels was unlike any bible-puncher Jake had known. Those preachers could plumb tucker a man out with their palaver about brimstone and damnation. Michaels, on the other hand, didn’t say much, but his piercing blue eyes told Jake that Michaels had experienced more than most men would know in a dozen lifetimes. Those same eyes saw right though a man’s hide and counted all his sins.

Jake had plenty of sins to count, he thought, idly admiring the long, graceful legs striding toward him. No sashaying for this woman. Women rigged out in pants no longer startled him, and he studied her from head to toe with masculine appreciation. She was on the slender side, but she had enough womanly curves to please. Jake had never been partial to the big-bosomed women his brother Luther had liked hanging on him. He wished he could see the eyes hidden behind them dark cheaters—sunglasses, they called them now—that everyone wore. From the look on her face, the woman was making a powerful sight of thinking about something more than the tyke in her arms.

Michaels said this was the tenth time. The tenth and last. Then Jake could present himself at the Pearly Gates. Jake was tired of evil and war and killing and stupidity and greed. Over a century had passed since Jake’s time, and mankind had learned nothing. Sometimes Jake thought he didn’t even care if he went upstairs or down below. He just wanted out of it. No more anger, sorrow, frustration, worry or caring. He wanted, once and for all time, to simply cease to be.

He’d tried to tell Michaels how he felt, but the other man had already gone. Jake hated that. Michaels came and went like a ghost. Maybe Jake did the same. If this was ten, that meant he’d done nine jobs already, but those jobs, those people, had faded from his memory.

His memories came from his real life.

If people like him had memories.

Funny, what he knew and what he didn’t know. Jake knew he’d been gunned down in 1886 while relieving a bank of the responsibility of storing so many banknotes. He didn’t know why he hadn’t been tossed in the hellfire down below. Michaels never answered questions. He simply sent Jake back to earth to help people.

People like the woman drawing near. Jake straightened and tipped his hat.

The August wind blowing off the high Colorado plains made a mockery of her once neatly combed hair. Gwen blinked the grit from her eyes as a crumpled piece of paper blew across the Trinidad street and bounced off her grimy canvas shoe. Dust coated her face. So much for bucolic fantasies. Someone should have warned her country living meant wind and dirt and grasshoppers. And smells. Not once had she seen a painting of cows which included cow patties. It was dishonest, is what it was. Not that she was so stupid she couldn’t figure out what went in had to come out.

Head bowed against the wind, she muttered, “Insanity, thy name is Gwen Ashton.”

Crissie giggled, and tightened her grip around Gwen’s neck.

Gwen gave her niece a look of mock reproach. “A big girl who’s going to be four years old on her next birthday ought to be walking instead of being carried like a baby.”

“I tired,” Crissie said matter-of-factly.

“What a shame. I thought we could have some ice cream, but if you’re too tired to walk, you must be too tired to eat.”

The little girl wiggled. “I want down.” On the ground, she beamed a beatific smile at her aunt. “Strawberry ice cream?”

Gwen shuddered ostentatiously. “Strawberry. Yuk.” The way the dust swirled around them, they’d be better off ordering chocolate so the dirt, which was bound to stick to the ice cream, didn’t show. Not that a little dirt would be such a great disaster. Compared to the rest of the day, a little dirt on ice cream could almost be considered a blessing. And she could certainly use a blessing or two.

“Howdy, Ma’am.”

At first the slow, deep drawl didn’t register. She didn’t know anyone in Trinidad, Colorado, except Prudence. Gwen reminded herself she wasn’t living in Denver anymore. Here, everyone probably greeted strangers. Not to reply would be rude. Fixing a polite smile on her face, she turned to the man standing in the shadow of the storefront. He was tall, forcing her to look up past a broad chest and wide shoulders. The smile froze on her face.

The man belonged in a picture book about outlaws and desperadoes. He hadn’t shaved in recent history, and dark stubby whiskers accentuated a squared-off jaw which appeared to have been hewn from granite. A devil-may-care smile curved his mouth, but the gray eyes beneath heavy dark brows stayed cool. Gwen managed to say hello.

He removed a battered wide-brimmed black felt hat, revealing shaggy, coal-black hair. “Jakob Stoner, Ma’am. Call me Jake. I guess you need a cowhand.”

Gwen clutched her purse with one hand, and Crissie’s hand with the other. “Where did you hear that?” Silly question. City folk, jammed one on top of the other in town houses and apartments had privacy. In rural communities news didn’t need wires or microwaves to travel faster than the speed of light or whatever traveled fastest.

He shrugged. “Word gets around.”

It wasn’t much of an answer. “Did Prudence tell you I’m looking for a new ranch hand?”

“Prudence?” Amusement gleamed briefly in his eyes. “Ma’am, I don’t think working for you and your husband has anything to do with prudence.”

“I don’t have a husband.” Gwen immediately cursed herself for saying so. Why didn’t she just tell him she and Crissie lived in the middle of nowhere, her nearest neighbor resided miles away, and her ranch manager was ill and her only other ranch hand had walked out during the night? The lock on the ranch house door didn’t work. the only weapon in the house was an antique buffalo gun which she wouldn’t know how to shoot even if it was loaded, and her idea of self-defense was to call a cop if she saw a suspicious-looking stranger. She had no clue how to handle the tall, dark, dangerous-looking man who stood on the sidewalk in front of her.

“You’re hurting my hand,” Crissie complained.

Gwen released Crissie’s hand, but before she could sweep her niece up into her arms, the man squatted down to Crissie’s level. “Howdy, pardner.”

“I’m Crissie,” the little girl announced. “Not pardner.”

“My name is Jake.” Setting a much-traveled duffel bag on the ground by a beat-up saddle, he solemnly held out his hand. “Howdy, Crissie.”

Gwen wanted to snatch Crissie’s hand away. Common sense stopped her. Desperate criminals didn’t carry luggage and saddles. They didn’t abduct nobodies in broad daylight in the middle of town. All she and Crissie had to do was walk away.

At the sight of Crissie’s small. white hand swallowed up by the large, tanned hand of the stranger, a painful surge of memories swamped Gwen. In her mind’s eye she saw Dan marveling at the tiny perfection of his newborn daughter’s hands and feet. Monica painting tiny fingernails outrageous shades of fuchsia and lavender. “Crissie.” The child’s name caught on the painful lump in Gwen’s throat. “We have to go.”

“Is he gonna get ice cream wid us?” Crissie asked.

“I plan to have the biggest vanilla cone you ever did see.”

“I want vanilla.” Crissie immediately abandoned her prior preference for strawberry.

“Let’s head for the ice cream parlor, pardner.” He released Crissie’s hand, replaced his hat, and reached for his saddle and bag.

“Just a moment, Mr. Stoner.”

He must have heard something in Gwen’s voice because he left his things on the sidewalk and stood tall, facing her. “My pa was Mr. Stoner. Since I’ll be working for you, Ma’am, you call me Jake.”

Gwen ignored the slow, confident smile. “You won’t be working for me, Mr. Stoner. I don’t hire a perfect stranger.”

He shook his head, saying ruefully, “Ma’am, the last thing I’ve ever been is perfect.”

As if that were any recommendation. “Mr. Stoner,” Gwen said evenly, “Prudence Owen, the attorney handling the probate of Bert’s estate, is finding me an employee.”

“I don’t think so, Ma’am. If she was, you wouldn’t need me.”

“I don’t need you,” she snapped.

“You need me. That’s why I’m here. You need a cowboy.” He picked up his gear. “I’m a cowboy.”

Did he think she was a complete idiot just because she’d never lived on a ranch before? A ranch was nothing more than a business operated outdoors, she repeated to herself for about the millionth time since she’d moved down here. A business about which she knew less than nothing, as became more evident with each passing day. Maybe around here ranchers hired help on such a casual basis. She shook her head, saying under her breath, “Oh boy, Toto, I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

He heard the last words. “You come from Kansas?”

“Denver,” she said curtly. And almost wished she were back there. But that thought led to too many wishes which could never be granted.

“City of the Plains.”

“What?” Her sinuses must be so plugged with dust, they were affecting her hearing. Or pressing on her brain.

“Denver. We used to call her the ‘City of the Plains.’”

Gwen took a deep breath and tried to take control of the conversation. She’d hired strangers before. “Why did your former employer let you go?”

“You mean the people I helped before? I left because they didn’t need me anymore.”

Translation: fired. Downsizing, country style. She had a feeling he didn’t have letters of reference. But ranch hands did appear to have their own network. One cowboy in need of a job. One brand-new ranch owner desperately in need of a cowboy. Prudence had howled with mirth when Gwen suggested contacting an employment agency for a ranch hand. When the pretty lawyer finally quit laughing, she said she’d spread the word that the Winthrop ranch needed hands. This cowboy may not have talked with Prudence, but he’d evidently gotten the word.

Gwen scrutinized the man standing easily in front of her. Nothing about his clothing countermanded her impression that a very dangerous man stood before her. No satin shirts or embroidery or sequins for this man. She could only surmise his faded shirt had once been black and the rose-colored scarf tied around his neck had been red. A scarred brown leather belt cinched worn blue jeans around a narrow waist. Leather chaps made his legs look a million miles long. His boots were worn down at the heels and she’d bet they’d never seen a lick of polish.

The squint lines fanning out from the comers of his eyes attested to a life spent working outdoors. Real cowboys didn’t have to be bow-legged and spit chewing tobacco. He could be a down-on-his-luck cowboy whose empty pockets had dictated he sleep out of doors the past few nights. He might look less lethal if he shaved.

He patiently endured her inspection, but she was under no illusion that he awaited her conclusions with any anxiety or doubt. He clearly intended to work for her no matter what she thought. This man had a high opinion of his worth. And he knew who had the greater need. His quiet assurance irritated her. “I’m sorry you lost your last job, Mr. Stoner, but I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for a new one. I need some kind of reference or assurance a person knows one end of a cow from the other end before I would considering hiring him. Goodbye, Mr. Stoner, and good luck.” It startled Gwen that a man so relaxed could get his muscles moving so quickly. One second he was beside the building, the next he stood in front of her barring her way.

He held out his hands, palms up, and pointed to a weal running across one palm. “Rope bum. I was twelve and roped an old mossy back steer who had other ideas. I was just stubborn enough to insist he go along with my plans.”

She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Did he?”

“Eventually.” He stretched out a crooked middle finger. “Broke that when I tried to ride a horse who preferred I walk. This—” he pointed to a scar on the back of his other hand “—is where a Texas cow took exception to me getting between her and her youngun.”

The strong, rugged hands fascinated Gwen. No way could she see those hands operating a computer or elegantly holding the stem of a wineglass. Not that the long fingers, the unbroken ones, that is, didn’t have an elegance about them. She could see those fingers soothing a timid colt or a nervous mare. She could see them stroking naked skin. An image Gwen quickly shook off. “If you think your catalog of injuries serves as an adequate resume, you’re sadly mistaken. You’re clearly unqualified to work on a ranch.”

“I’ll have to respectfully disagree with you there, Ma’am. I’ve had lots of experience. And experience is the best teacher.”

He had an answer for everything. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself hiring this modern version of outlaw Jesse James. The truth was, she needed someone who knew cows and horses better than she did. A classification which covered most of the world’s population. The solution came to her in a flash. Prudence. “As I told you, Mr. Stoner, Ms. Owen is doing my hiring. We’ll go over to her office right now, and see if you can satisfy her as to your qualifications. Not that I’m making any promises about hiring you,” she added hastily.

He gave her an amused look. “You’ll hire me.”

Prudence took in her stride Gwen’s reappearance, this time with a cowboy in tow. “Have you any identification?” she asked briskly after Gwen explained their visit.

The man hesitated, then patted his back pocket before slowly pulling out his billfold. He handed it to the lawyer without a word.

Prudence extracted the plastic-coated license and quickly scanned it. “This seems to be in order.” She handed the billfold and license to Gwen.

Gwen silently read the information on his driver’s license. Jakob Carl Stoner. Six feet, three inches tall. Black hair. Gray eyes. She quickly computed his age. Thirty-one. That surprised her. For some reason, something about his eyes, she’d thought him older. Slotting the license back in his billfold, she glanced up to catch a puzzled look on his face as he stared down at his billfold. A look quickly erased as he noticed her looking at him. Had he expected her to count his money or snoop through his credit cards?

Prudence asked Jake Stoner a number of probing questions. His answers seemed to satisfy the lawyer. Thanking him, she asked the man to wait out in the reception area.

“Well, Gwen,” she said as soon as the office door closed, “I’d say you found yourself a cowboy. How did you happen to stumble across him?”

“Stumble is the right word. He was waiting for me down the street. You must have started calling people right after I left here earlier.”

Prudence frowned. “Actually, I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had a chance to make any phone calls.” Her brow smoothed out and she shook her head. “I’ve lived here most of my life, and I still can’t believe how quickly everyone knows everything that’s going on.”

“You really think it’s okay to hire him? You don’t think he looks kind of dangerous?”

The lawyer laughed. “I think he’s such a hunk I wish I needed a cowhand.” She sobered. “He seems to know ranching, and you’re darned lucky to find anyone on such short notice. Try him for a few weeks, and see how things work out. If you want, I’ll keep looking for another hand for you.”

Gwen could hardly say the man made her nervous, so she agreed to try him and stood up to leave.

Prudence leaned back in her chair and pointed a fountain pen at Gwen. “I think what it is, you’re used to city boys. This, my dear, is a man.”

Gwen didn’t need a lawyer to tell her that.

Closing Prudence’s door a little more sharply than she intended, Gwen carefully slid on her sunglasses. “All right, Mr. Stoner. I’ll hire you on a trial basis. One month. If your work is satisfactory, we’ll discuss a long-term arrangement.”

“I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

The words were innocuous enough, but somehow he invested them with deeper meaning. As if he meant more than the fact she needed an employee. As if he knew something she didn’t know. She narrowed her eyes behind her dark lenses. “What does that mean?”

“I’m a man who has to drift. I’m just passing through. When you don’t need me anymore, I’ll leave.”

“I’m not interested in hiring a transient,” she said sharply. “I’ve already had one employee run out on me. He didn’t even have the courtesy—or nerve—to face me. Slipped a note under my front door last night. I found it this morning. He went to Wyoming. How do I know you won’t do the same?”

The man met her eyes, his gaze clear and steady. “I’ll stay as long as you need me. I always do.”

Rod Heath’s eyes had been shifty, looking everywhere but at her. Gwen wanted to believe Jake Stoner. She had no choice but to believe him. “All right,” she said slowly. “When can you start?” Please, she thought, let it be now.

He held out his hand. “Soon as we shake on it, Ma’am.”

She didn’t want to shake hands with him. She didn’t want to touch him. The realization disconcerted her. She’d shaken hands with thousands of men in the course of business. Shaking hands with Jake Stoner was no different. Slowly she accepted his extended hand. An electric current zipped up her arm as his work-roughened palm closed around hers. Jake Stoner was more than the hunk Prudence had labeled him. He was overwhelmingly male. Gwen retrieved her hand. If she knew one thing, it was that Jake Stoner spelled trouble. And he worked for her.

He gave her an odd look, but said only, “I’ll get my gear.” Then he laughed softly and nodded across the room.

Gwen followed his gaze, and her breath caught in her throat. She’d left Crissie with Prudence’s receptionist while she consulted the lawyer. Now the child lay sprawled on the floor, sound asleep, one arm curved around an enormous yellow dog.

The dog opened his eyes. One blue eye and one brown eye stared at Gwen. She stood very still, not daring to breathe. Crissie sucked contentedly on her thumb, her head resting on the cowboy’s saddle. Gwen prayed her niece wouldn’t accidentally annoy the dog in her sleep. Quietly she asked, “Whose dog is that?”

“Mine.” A burly man turned from his conversation with the receptionist. “Mack won’t hurt her. He loves kids. My wife took off for California with my boys. She isn’t coming back and refused to take the dog. I can’t take care of Mack, so I have to take him to the pound. Too bad, really. He’s a good dog, but almost five years old. People want puppies.”

Gwen gave the huge dog a second look. “What is he?”

The man shrugged. “Near as I can figure, part husky, part golden retriever, and maybe some mastiff or Great Dane. He’d make a good watchdog for your little girl. He’s housebroken,” the man added quickly.

Gwen walked toward Crissie. The dog raised his head, giving her a fixed look. “You’re sure he’s friendly?”

“Oh, sure, he won’t hurt you.”

“Move, Mack. I need to wake up Crissie. Be a good dog, Mack.”

The dog slid out from under Crissie’s arm and rose to his feet. He gently nudged the sleeping girl. She opened her eyes and giggled. “Mack tickles.” She stood up. “Look, Gwen, he likes me. The man said he can come home with me.”

“He’s been fixed. I got his shot records, his bowls and most of a bag of dog food out in the pickup,” the man said hopefully. “I sure hate to think of ol’ Mack getting put down. People want puppies.”

“So you said.” Gwen had no intention of taking the dog.

“Mack’s my new bes’ friend.” Crissie hung on to the dog for dear life.

Gwen eyed the dog dubiously. He seemed to like Crissie, and he might be protection for the young girl. Gwen glanced at Jake Stoner. And for her.

His mouth twitched. “I’ll get Mack’s gear out of the truck.” As he passed Gwen, he said in a voice pitched for her ears alone, “With a dog of that size, you won’t have to worry about me attacking you in your bed.”

So he wasn’t just a cowboy. He was a mind reader, too.

Mack sat in the back seat with Crissie as they headed east out of Trinidad. After eating his ice-cream cone in two gulps, the dog had covetously eyed Crissie’s cone, but to Gwen’s relief he hadn’t snatched it from the little girl. Gwen decided to overlook Mack’s licking the ice cream residue off Crissie’s face. Crissie hadn’t minded. The child had wholeheartedly adopted the dog. Maybe keeping him wouldn’t be a total disaster.

“Kids on a ranch can get lonely.” Jake Stoner read her thoughts again. “The dog’ll make a good playmate and watchdog. You didn’t make a mistake taking him, Ma’am.”

“If the dog doesn’t work out, I’ll take him to the dog pound myself.” Out of the comer of her eye she saw the amused skepticism on his face. “I will. And don’t call me ma’am.”

He laughed. “You’re stuck with the dog and you know it. I don’t recall you ever got around to telling me your name.”

“Gwen Ashton.”

“Ashton. Your family been ranching around here long?”

“No. I inherited the ranch from a client of mine.”

Ah.

Gwen heard a wealth of meaning in the simple response. “There’s no ‘ah’ about it. I don’t care what you’ve heard, Bert and I were friends. Nothing more.”

“I haven’t heard anything. Why don’t you tell me?”

She didn’t need to explain anything to an employee. “I’m a Certified Public Accountant. I worked for a firm up in Denver, and became acquainted with Bert when I started doing his taxes.”

Glancing at the puffy white clouds piling one on top of the other over the dark mesa to the south, Gwen thought again how the stark beauty of this countryside went a long way toward explaining how Bert Winthrop, so conscientious about caring for his livestock, could set new standards in lackadaisical when it came to the paperwork involved with running his ranch. All the tax preparers who’d washed their hands of him probably never left their sterile cubicles to breathe deeply of the country air.

“He left you his place because you showed him how to get out of paying the government what he owed?”

“He left me the ranch because I love it as much as he did.” Beside the road sunflowers turned their faces to the sun. “I love the beauty and I love the history. I loved hearing Bert talk about his family pioneering out here on the high Colorado plains. They homesteaded and survived grasshopper plagues, Indian scares, bank failures and the ‘Dust Bowl’ years when the drought was so severe most of the topsoil blew away. Generations of Bert’s family were born, lived, and died on the ranch.” Gwen smiled reminiscently. “Until I met Bert, I never thought before about history as being someone’s uncle or aunt or grandfather. Some of his family actually came out here by way of the Santa Fe trail. Some fought in a Civil War battle down in New Mexico. Did you know there’d been a Civil War fight out here? I didn’t.”

“The battle of Glorieta Pass.”

“That’s right. And one of his ancestors hauled freight from a foot in New Mexico to a place up north of here on the railroad.”

“Ft. Union to Granada.”

“You must be interested in history, Mr. Stoner.”

“I’ve picked stuff up.”

“I never realized how fascinating it could be. Some of Bert’s relatives kept journals, and I’ve been reading them. Bert had roots and family which goes back over one hundred years in this area.” She slowed the car to make a turn. “I love the journals and wouldn’t part with them for a million dollars. I offered to make copies for Gordon, but he’s not the least bit interested. Not in them.”

“Who’s Gordon? Your ex-husband?”

“I’ve never been married. Gordon Pease is Bert’s nephew. He’s convinced I manipulated Bert into leaving me the ranch. That I took advantage of a senile old man. If he’d spent ten minutes with Bert in the past year he’d know the last thing Bert was, was senile.”

“What was he?”

“Lonely, I suppose.”

“So you were kind to him.”

“Bert wasn’t a pathetic old man who needed befriending,” Gwen said indignantly. “He enriched my life.”

“He left you a ranch because you listened to him?” Jake Stoner asked, skepticism filling his voice.

“He left it to me because he knew I’d love it. Bert married late, and his wife Sara died early. Bert should have remarried, but he didn’t, and all that’s left of his family is Gordon. Gordon moved to Colorado about five years ago and moved in with Bert for a short time. According to Bert, Gordon hated the ranch and everything about it. Gordon only wants the ranch because he thinks he can sell it and make a bundle.”

“You plan to sell it?”

“Never. All my life I’ve dreamed of my own home. A big house with a white picket fence. My dad was in the Air Force, and my mom would no more than get unpacked and it was time to pack up again. Mom and my brother Dan loved it, but not me. I wanted to settle. Mom says I take after my Grandmother Ashton. Both my grandfathers had itchy feet. They were always quitting their jobs and moving on to where the grass was sure to be greener. Grandmother Ashton hated it. She used to show me pictures and tell me about the home she grew up in back in Missouri.”

“With a white picket fence?”

“The fence is symbolic,” she said impatiently. “Putting down roots, that’s what counts. A place where a person belongs. So that no matter where you go, you know home is waiting for you to come back. I want a home which records our lives. I want marks on the wall showing how tall Crissie is at five and ten and fifteen years of age. I want to know that whatever weather I’m dressing for now, I’ll be dressing for the same weather five and ten Augusts from now. I want Crissie to be able to plant a tree and watch it grow for years and years.” Gwen gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry. My brother used to say I was a little irrational on the subject. It probably sounds stupid to a man like you who doesn’t like to stay long in one place.”

“There was a time when I considered settling down myself. Not too far from here. Even built myself a nice little place and...”

Gwen pulled into the ranch yard and parked the car. Then she turned to see why Jake Stoner hadn’t finished his sentence. He was staring in astonishment at Bert’s house. Her house. “I know it looks a little strange,” she said defensively, “but I like it. The earliest part dates from the early 1880’s, and every generation of Bert’s family added on to it. This is a house with character.”

Jake Stoner stepped out of the car and pivoted slowly on the heel of his boot, scanning the landscape. Squinting into the sun he methodically studied the various ranch buildings one by one. His gaze lit on the small stone house where Lawrence Hingle and Rod Heath, the ranch employees, had lived, then moved on to the earliest section of the main house. “I’ll be double-dog damned,” he said in quiet disbelief. He looked around again, eyed the mesa in the distance, and roared with laughter.


CHAPTER TWO

AFTER nine trips, Jake ought to be accustomed to being sent back equipped with the basic necessities such as a billfold with the proper driver’s license. He should have guessed Michaels would have taken care of the details.

Jake never would have guessed Michaels had a sense of humor. Sending Jake back to his own place. Jake wondered what Gwen would have said if he’d told her he’d built the stone section of the main house and the little stone house he now slept in. He’d chiseled the stone almost square like his pa taught him. The timbers for the porches across the front of both places were freighted in from the mountains. Long hours of backbreaking work. Work he hadn’t minded because he’d thought nothing more important than having his own ranch. Being his own man.

Folding his arms behind his head, Jake stared sightlessly at the ceiling. He’d been sixteen when Charlie Goodnight hired him on after the Civil War. Old enough and strong enough to do a man’s work. You had to be a man to trail cows up the Goodnight Trail from Texas. He’d never told Charlie he’d run away from home so he wouldn’t kill Frank the next time he laid into Jake with the bullwhip. Ma had turned a blind eye to his step-pa’s doings. Jake guessed she was scared of living alone. He tried not to think about her much.

He lay on an old iron bed, a sheet and an old faded quilt pulled up to his waist. The bed pushed up against the rock exterior wall. He’d left open the shutters, and shadows from a nearby scraggly pine flickered across the whitewashed lumber which paneled the other three walls. Someone else had put up the interior walls in what he’d built as the bunkhouse.

The main house he’d been building like the one Pa built near the banks of the Guadalupe River. If Jake shut his eyes he could see the Guadalupe making its way past gnarled and knotted bald cypress trees, their limbs covered with moss. Green, soft moss. Like the pillow on his mother’s best parlor chair.

Or his boss lady’s eyes.

Jake laughed softly. He’d seen the horrified look on her face when Mack’s previous owner talked of Mack being put down and knew instantly the dog had found a new home. Gwen Ashton tried to talk tough, but she was soft.

A soft heart wasn’t necessarily good. Not if it kept a person from making the tough decisions. Women could feel sorry for the damnedest creatures. He wondered about the old man. And where the little girl had come from if Gwen had never had a husband.

Never having a husband didn’t mean she’d never partaken of the pleasures of the marital bed. He’d never married, thanks to Marian, but he’d pleasured his share of women in his time.

Jake wondered if Gwen’s skin was as soft as her hear He moved restlessly in the bed. He shouldn’t be thinking those kinds of thoughts. Michaels didn’t act without a purpose. And one thing Jake was pretty sure about, Michaels hadn’t sent Jake here to sleep with a woman.

Soon enough Jake would figure out exactly why he’d been sent here. Until then, he had no intention of doing anything to annoy Michaels. Jake’s last trip, Michaels had said. Jake punched down his pillow. No mossy green eyes were going to keep him from finding the peace which had eluded him for over a hundred years.

Gwen stood on the porch fronting the oldest section of the main house and surveyed her domain. Home. How she’d envied Bert the steadfast pioneer genes running through his blood. No rootless wandering and always pulling up stakes for the Winthrop family. Bless Bert for giving her his home and his family history. She hugged herself. Her own home. A place to raise Crissie, a place where they could put down roots. Dynamite couldn’t blast her from her home.

From the other side of the screen door behind her she could hear Mrs. Kent, Doris, rattling pans in the kitchen. When Gwen counted her blessings, she put Bert’s housekeeper first. Nothing disturbed the forty-six-year-old widow, and Doris cooked like a dream. Crissie adored her. So did Gwen. Typically, Doris had taken Mack in her stride.

Down the road some horses grazed in the pasture. The cows were pastured further from the house. Gwen knew less than nothing of cows and horses, but she could learn. Like any other business, the most important thing was to hire good employees.

Employees like Jakob Stoner.

Her gaze sharpened as the ranch pickup came into view down the road. Jake. He’d think she was watching for him. She wasn’t. She’d almost forgotten he’d left hours earlier to check fences and stock. She had a lot more on her mind than the cowboy who’d come so fortuitously into her life yesterday.

He’d told her last night over dinner what he’d planned for today. This morning Doris had found his breakfast dishes rinsed and stacked neatly beside the sink. Jake Stoner started the day early.

Gwen squinted into the sun. Two people sat in the pickup. Jake had a passenger. Someone to see her?

Or to see Jake? A friend, maybe. A girlfriend. Gwen narrowed her eyes in speculation. Or a wife. Jake hadn’t volunteered much about himself, and for some reason, she’d hesitated to ask. Hesitated to ask questions she wouldn’t have had a second thought about asking up in Denver. Getting-to-know-you questions. Somehow, here, they seemed prying questions. Or maybe, it wasn’t here. Maybe it was Jake. A self-contained aura surrounded him, making him complete within himself. As if he needed no one. Wanted no one.

In any case, she wasn’t interested in his personal life. Only in his ranching skills.

She’d never considered he might have a wife. Or a family. He needed to learn he couldn’t move a wife and a couple of kids onto her place without checking first with her. He seemed to think because he knew more about ranching than she did, he could do whatever he wanted.

That was her fault. She’d been too polite, wording her orders as requests. Not because he made her nervous or she was afraid or reluctant to give him orders. She’d never been the type to boss people around. Issuing curt orders wasn’t her style. He recognized she was the employer and he the employee.

That the situation amused him was only conjecture on her part.

And Lawrence had vouched for him. Well, not exactly for Jake, whom he’d never met. At Gwen’s request Jake had talked to Lawrence on the phone, and later Lawrence had allowed as how Jake seemed to know the cattle business. Lawrence had been Bert’s trusted right-hand man for years, and he ought to know.

The pickup passed between the huge stone pillars at the far edge of the ranch yard and pulled up by the house. Jake acknowledged Gwen’s presence with a slight smile. Unless he was smiling at the house which amused him so much. No matter what anyone else thought, she liked the way the two additions, one rustic log and one Queen Anne Victorian, reflected the eras and tastes of the builders. The house, like the Winthrops, had grown and settled into the land.

Jake stepped from the truck. His boots raised slight clouds of dust. “Hi. Where’s my little pardner?”

“Taking a nap.” He’d shaved. He looked less disreputable, but no less dangerous. Gwen couldn’t rid herself of the notion that Jake Stoner looked exactly as an outlaw from the Old West must have looked. An air of watchfulness about him forcibly reminded her of the way wild animals in documentaries scented the wind for danger. Jake turned, speaking across the pickup to his passenger, and Gwen studied his profile. His jaw was strong, the kind that proclaimed its owner a determined man, a man not to be trifled with.

Not that she wanted to trifle with him. Idly she wondered if any woman had ever caressed his jaw in an attempt to soften it. Now what put that stupid thought in her head? The answer came to her immediately. She’d been reading one of Bert’s family journals. One started in 1911 by a young woman as she’d set out on the train from Chicago to meet her sweetheart in Colorado. The woman’s romantic nonsense had seeped into Gwen’s brain.

“Someone to see you,” Jake said.

The wrinkled old man who climbed down from the truck turned intense brown eyes on her. “You the gal Bert left his place to?”

“Yes. I’m Gwen Ashton.”

The man cackled with laughter. “Bert leaving his place to a purdy little gal he barely knew shure set some people back on their heels. Specially that no-account nephew of Bert’s. Serves him right. Counting his chickens afore they was hatched.”

Gwen had had it with people speculating about Bert’s motives. “I wasn’t his mistress and he wasn’t my sugar daddy,” she snapped.

“Never said ya was. Bert was plenty tickled he found somebody who’d love the place the way he done. He thought about leaving it to Lawrence, but said Lawrence had the look a death on him.” The man spat on the ground. “Don’t know how Bert knew. Heard Lawrence’s up in Denver in the hospital with cancer eating away his guts. He’ll be ridin’ the range with Bert purdy soon.”

Leaning against the front of the pickup, his arms crossed over his chest, Jake gave Gwen a thoughtful look. She knew he’d taken the job on a temporary basis only. Crossing her fingers where Jake couldn’t see them, she said quickly, “Lawrence, Mr. Hingle, is being treated.” His daughter told Gwen the cancer had advanced beyond help. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Miracles happened.

“He won’t be back,” the old man said with finality before spitting again. “Heard ya need help, so I come over. Name’s Tom. Where do I bunk?”

Gwen opened her mouth and closed it again, struck dumb. The man was older than dirt, and if he stood one inch over five feet tall, she’d be amazed. Her eyes swung to Jake. He gazed blandly back. The old man wasn’t his problem.

“Uh, well, Tom, as you can see, I’ve already hired Mr. Stoner. While I appreciate your—”

“I hear tell Rod Heath done gone to Cheyenne.” The big lump in his cheek moved up and down with his words. “Not gonna hire him again when he comes crawling back, are ya?”

“No, that is...” She wanted to bite her tongue. She should have lied.

“Thought not. You look too salty for that.”

Gwen ignored the smothered choke of laughter from the direction of the pickup. She wondered how funny Jake would find it if she hired Tom as his assistant. Of course, she couldn’t hire a man of his age. Not for the kind of physical labor needed on a ranch. “I appreciate you taking the time and trouble to come way out here, but I’m not hiring another hand at present. Mr. Stoner will give you a ride back into town.” That didn’t sound too hospitable. “Would you care for a glass of iced tea before you leave?”

The man moved the lump to the other side of his jaw, giving her close study throughout the operation. “Ain’t you some kind a fancy numbers lady?”

So much for being a Certified Public Accountant. “I’m a CPA, yes.”

“Then ya otter be able to count. You had two ranch hands, now ya got one. You need anuther.”

“Uh, well, it might look that way, but, the thing is, it’s pretty slow around here right now. We don’t need to replace Rod for a while.”

“Slow. In August?” The man snorted. “She don’t know a damn thing about ranching, does she?” He directed the question to Jake who merely smiled.

Gwen gave the tail cowboy a look of entreaty. He could chime in anytime.

“Yeah, boss lady?”

She didn’t believe that artless look for one second. He was reminding her it was her ranch. Fine. She’d handled personnel matters before. She’d deal with this one. Firmly she said, “Thank you for applying for the job, Mr., uh, Tom. If we find we need help, we’ll certainly keep you in mind.”

The man gave her a disgusted look. “Yur jes like that young whippersnapper son of mine. Thinking I’m too old to do anything but set in a rocking chair. I aint dead yet.” He spit again before squinting up at Gwen. “Maybe I caint keep up with this young feller—” he nodded at Jake “—but you aint seen the day I caint outwork that no-account Rod you had. I’m of a mind to sue you for age discrimination.”

The old man had one foot in the grave, and he was threatening to sue her. Pure bravado. They both knew, even if he did sue her, he’d never win. He stared up at her with a proud, pugnacious look which almost hid the resignation in his eyes. He felt discarded before his time. Gwen sighed inwardly. Surely Jake could find something easy for the man to do. “All right,” she said, “I’ll hire you.” She couldn’t let him think she was hiring him out of pity. “I can’t afford to be sued, but I’m not a charity. I’m hiring you under the same conditions I hired Jake. A month’s trial period.”

Tom proudly adjusted a beat-up brown cowboy hat over his few strands of hair. “Ya won’t be sorry, Ma’am. Ya just done got yourself a top hand.” He hesitated, then a crafty expression narrowed his eyes. “Name’s Smith. Tom Smith.” The look on his face dared her to challenge the blatantly obvious lie.

Gwen only hoped he didn’t kill himself before the month was up. “Tom,” she called as he headed back to the pickup for his gear, “can I ask you one thing?”

“You can ask,” the old man said cautiously. “Mebbe I’ll answer and mebbe I won’t.”

“Just how old is your son?”

“Damn fool kid’s still wet behind the ears.” Tom spit at the truck’s front wheel. “Sixty-two last birthday. You let that be,” he snapped at Jake who’d reached into the back of the pickup. “I carry my own rig. Just point me.”

Jake pointed to the small stone house. “Bunk in any bedroom but mine.”

Gwen watched him disappear into the employees’ quarters, then turned on Jake. “I don’t want to hear one word from you about me hiring him. I don’t care if he does slow you down. I don’t care if you do have to invent work for him. I’m the boss around here and I say he stays.”

“All right.”

“What does that mean?” she asked suspiciously.

He ambled over to the base of the porch steps, and shoved his hat to the back of his head. “It means you’re the boss.”

“Yes, I am the boss. And don’t you forget it.”

“Ma’am, a man’s not likely to forget anything about you.” One easy step with those long legs of his and he stood on the porch in front of Gwen. He gently touched her cheek with a glove-clad finger. “Tom was right about you.”

“I know, I don’t know anything about ranching.” Or outlaws, she thought nonsensically.

He shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “About you being a ‘purdy little gal.’ You stir a man’s insides.” He backed her up against the stone porch pillar and tipped up her chin, his gaze settling on her mouth.

“I don’t want you to kiss me.”

“No, Ma’am.” He smiled, barely showing white, even teeth.

“You’re my employee,” she said stiffly.

His smile widened. “If you mean your cowhand, yes I am, boss lady.”

“I don’t believe in mixing business and pleasure.”

He laughed, deep in the back of his throat. “You’re right about that, Ma’am. Kissing you will be pure pleasure.”

She’d never been kissed by an outlaw. She didn’t intend to let one kiss her now. “You’re not still planning to kiss me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She ought to fire him. Maybe she should kiss him first. Out of curiosity. Then she’d fire him. Except she needed him. Even with Tom, she couldn’t operate the ranch alone. So she couldn’t kiss him. Because she couldn’t fire him.

She’d deliberated too long. He lowered his head. She expected a hard, forceful kiss to demonstrate his masculine superiority. His mouth settled gently on hers, a whisper of a kiss. He nibbled on her lips, tiny bites as if tasting her. Tingling little bites he slowly bathed with his warm, moist tongue. Which did nothing to calm the tingling. Nearby a grasshopper whirred. Cows mooed in the distance. If he’d panted and grabbed at her clothes, Gwen would have fought him off. His steady breathing gave her the courage to indulge a certain intellectual curiosity. She’d stop in a minute.

The gentle persuasion of his lips told her he wanted her to open her mouth. No wonder all those prim schoolteachers used to run off with outlaws, she thought an instant later. Cowboys, outlaws, knew how to kiss.

Lightly she touched his cheek. He’d shaved his heavy growth of beard, but that had been hours ago and fresh stubble rasped against her fingertips. She slid her hands down his neck, across his shoulders. His strength seemed to flow through his soft, weathered cotton shirt into her fingers. She tightened her grip, enjoying the flexing of his hard muscles.

He took away his mouth and stepped back. Her eyes shot open in protest. He gave her a lazy smile as he lifted his hand, caught a gloved finger between his teeth and yanked off the glove. Dropping it, he ran his fingers over the side of her face and closed the distance between them. A light breeze danced by, carrying a hint of dust and the smell of sage. Gwen pushed off his hat and threaded her fingers through his thick shaggy hair. She’d stop kissing him in a minute.

Sandwiched between his large, hard body and the sun-warmed stone pillar, her body molded itself to his hard thighs, the large belt buckle at his waist, his broad shoulders. Work-roughened fingers ran lightly over her jawline, trailed down her neck, and traced the neckline of her shirt.

The feel of a button slipping free brought Gwen to her senses. She stiffened and drew back, fighting for composure. And the courage to look him in the eye. What could she possibly have been thinking of? The man worked for her. She didn’t want him kissing her. She didn’t want the heat from his body coiling around her. If he made one arrogant, gloating, what-a-big-boy-am-I remark, she’d smack him.

A tanned finger lightly skimmed the tip of a breast straining against the fabric of her shirt. “Maybe I should have expected that.”

Gwen’s head snapped up even as she slapped aside his hand. “Expected what?” she demanded fiercely. “That I’d be an easy touch?”

“I wasn’t thinking about that, but since you ask, Ma’am, you are definitely an easy touch. I knew that even without the old man.”

His slow smile warmed her all the way to her toes. Or would have. If she wasn’t already boiling mad. Jabbing her finger into Jake’s chest, she forced him to retreat, yelling, “I was not Bert’s mistress.” She curled her fingers into a fist and followed Jake down the porch steps, pounding him in time with her angry words. “I did not manipulate him with sex. I did not sleep with Bert and I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Jake abruptly halted, brushing her fist aside as one brushed off a fiy. “Who’s talking about Bert? I’m talking about Tom.”

“Tom!” Gwen screeched. “You think I’m sleeping with Tom?” She hauled back her right arm to slug him.

Effortlessly Jake captured her arm. “What’s wrong with you? I’m talking about you taking in Tom, like you took in Mack.”

Gwen froze, her left arm halted mid-swing. “You’re talking about me hiring Tom?”

“Sure. What the hell were you talking about?”

“Nothing. Never mind. Let go of me.” She concentrated on brushing off her sleeve where he’d gripped her arm. “I’m a little sensitive about inheriting Bert’s property. His nephew Gordon has made a number of unsavory accusations.”

“Tom says he’s a no-account. No one’s going to pay any attention to his sour grapes.”

“About Tom.” She concentrated on the tanned skin in the vee of Jake’s shirt. “I know he’s old, but—” A finger pressed against her mouth stopped her.

“Tom’s going to work out just fine.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, but—”

“Honey, I haven’t been sweet since my ma weaned me.”

She decided to overlook what he’d called her. His drawl hinted of the South. She had the impression down there everyone called everyone “honey.” The issue here was Tom. “I’m glad you have no objection to my hiring him. I’m confident you can find something for him to do that won’t be beyond his capabilities.”

“Tom knows more about cows and horses than I’ll ever know.”

“Tom?”

“He’s a horse doctor, a veterinarian. Took his son and then his grandson into his practice, and they nudged him out. Thinking they were doing him a favor. Didn’t want him dropping dead in the office.”

“How do you know that?”

“Tom’d thumbed a ride with somebody partway here. I picked him up and brought him the rest of the way. We got to talking and he told me all about it.”

“And you believed him? He doesn’t talk like any veterinarian I’ve ever met.”

Jake chuckled. “Tom thought a city lady would be more likely to hire him if she thought he’d add a little local color. I could have told him that wasn’t necessary.”

“You should have told me who he was.”

Jake shrugged. “What difference would it have made? You’d still have hired him.”

Unwilling to argue the point, she switched tactics. “I expect the people who work for me to keep me informed. Is that clear, Mr. Stoner?”

“Sure, boss,” he said easily. “Didn’t I just tell you about Tom? I know you hired him because you felt sorry for him, but forget that. If you’re serious about this ranching business—”

“I’m serious.”

“Tom can teach you about the livestock.”

“That’s what I’m paying you for.”

A grasshopper landed near Jake’s boot. “Knowing about cows and horses and caring for the land takes a heap of studying on. You’ll need Tom when I’m gone.” He ground the insect under his toe. “I’m just passing through.”

“Jake, it’s none of my business, but... A man like you could do anything he put his mind to. Why don’t you settle down?”

He picked his hat up from the ground and carefully brushed the dust from it. “No, Ma’am, it’s not your business,” he finally said. “Besides, there’s no way to explain it. Settling down’s something I can’t do. I have to move on when I’m not needed anymore.”

“Who decides when you’re not needed? You? Like you decided about kissing me?”

He gave her a long look. “You telling me you didn’t want me to kiss you?”

“The question was, are you the one who decides you’re not needed anymore?”

“No.”

“All right, then. As long as we both understand how it is.”

“I understand. I doubt you do.” He settled his hat on his head. “One other thing, boss lady, be mighty careful about laying down the law around here, and saying what you will and won’t do, unless you’re damned sure you can back up your words.”

“That sounds very much like a threat,” Gwen said slowly. “I’m not sure why. I’m not so stupid I’d hire an expert on ranching and then disregard his advice.”

Cool gray eyes rested on her face. “Then take this advice, boss lady. Don’t be issuing any ultimatums about whether or not you’ll sleep with me. If I decide to sleep with you, I will.” A lazy smile crawled over his face. “And, honey, you’ll want me in your bed.” He turned and headed toward the pickup, sweeping his glove from the ground in passing.

He had the truck door open by the time Gwen found her voice. “You’re fired!”

He looked at her through the open window. “You can’t fire me.” The pickup engine roared to life, and Jake backed the truck away from the house.

“And don’t call me honey!”

The truck backfired, then bounced noisily around to the barn.

“I thought there was more in the air last night at the dinner table than the smell of roast beef.”

Gen looked over her shoulder at the housekeeper. “Maybe you smelled the carrots.”

Doris laughed, wiping her hands on her apron as she walked out on the porch. “It appears to me Crissie isn’t the only one with a crush on our handsome cowboy.”

“Have you been at the cooking sherry? You’ve obviously been eavesdropping, so you know he kissed me. It wasn’t my idea, and he won’t be kissing me again.”

“I think he will if he wants to.”

“I don’t care what he wants.” Clasping her hands around a porch pillar, Gwen swayed back. “I don’t want him kissing me.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not my type.”

“That man is any woman’s type. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about having a sexy hunk like him in your bed.”

“I’m not interested in sexy hunks. I want to put down roots for Crissie and me. I want to keep this ranch from going under. If and when I decide to get married, I want a stable, dependable man who’s willing to settle down here and create a home and family with me.”

Doris moved to gently massage Gwen’s spine. “You’ve weathered a lot of changes in the past year. Your brother and his wife being killed in that car accident, you taking in Crissie, Bert dying and leaving you his place. You quit your job, moved down here and barely got settled before Lawrence got ill and Rod quit. You’re reading all hours of the night trying to cram your head full of ranching know-how, sorting Bert’s papers for Prudence, trying to make a home for you and Crissie and make a go of the ranch. You need a little fun, Gwen. Jake claims he’ll be moving on. Nothing says you can’t play around a little with him until he does.”

“Doris Kent. Are you advising me to have an affair?”

“He’s a good-looking male. You’re a single female. Do the math, Gwen. You’re the CPA.”

“You’re a single female. You sleep with him,” Gwen retorted.

“I would. If he looked at me like he looks at you.”

Gwen couldn’t care less how Jake Stoner looked at her. Even if Doris was dying to tell her. Which she must be, or she wouldn’t have brought it up. Gwen certainly couldn’t tell the older woman to shut up. The silence stretched out. “Well?” Gwen finally demanded. “How does he look at me?”

“The same way Mack looked at that roast last night as I carved it for dinner. Like he was starving to death.”


CHAPTER THREE

JAKE tossed and turned in his bed as snores reverberated down the hall. If they were on a trail drive, the cattle would have stampeded halfway back to Texas by now. Jake didn’t know how a man as little as Tom could make that much noise. No wonder a body couldn’t sleep.

All the inventions they’d come up with in this century, you’d think they could stop a man from snoring. Gwen’s car even had buttons to lock the doors and open and shut the windows. The next time Jake came back, he’d remember that. Funny how he couldn’t recall the events and the people who’d brought him back, but knowledge soaked in and lay dormant until the time came when he needed it. He knew how to drive Bert’s thirty-year-old pickup. He knew about television, although the last time he’d seen it, the picture had been in black and white—and they sure didn’t show all those advertisements for things women never used to talk about in front of men. He couldn’t imagine what he’d see the next time he came back.

Except Michaels had promised this was the last time.

Michaels. Damn the man, or whatever he was. Jake could appreciate a good shenanigan as well as the next man, and being returned to his own house sort of tickled his funny bone, but doggone it, then Michaels had gone too far. Taking a man who hadn’t lain with a woman for over one hundred years and plunking him down with a boss lady like Gwen.

Jake stared grimly at the ceiling. For a plugged nickel, he’d pull his freight. Except he couldn’t.

A man like him shouldn’t have calico fever, and he had it in a bad way. He wanted a woman. Not any woman. Gwen. He wanted her under him, those green eyes begging him to bury himself in her. Michaels wasn’t here. He’d never know if Jake took her. Jake snorted. He had a feeling Michaels knew everything.

After Jake finished building his place—this place, he’d planned to marry Marian. Then Ma’s letter had come. He and Marian had argued about whether Jake was obligated. Marian had demanded he choose between her and Luther, then thrown a fit at the guarded look she’d seen in Jake’s eyes. Before he said, she knew he’d be going after his little brother. Luther had appreciated Jake’s doing his duty as little as Marian did. Jake smiled cynically. Marian had changed her mind quick enough after meeting Luther when Jake had brought his brother to the ranch. Later, Marian was the one insisting Jake do his duty and go after Luther.

Jake had a feeling Michaels hadn’t thought much of the way Jake did his duty. When Jake looked into Michael’s eyes, he saw the judgment. And his own sins.

He’d been decent enough to deny himself Marian’s body, telling himself he could wait until they were wed. Someone—fate?—owed Jake a woman. An intriguing thought hit him. Maybe Michaels wasn’t such a bad guy. Maybe he’d sent Jake on this particular job to give Jake his last shot at a woman. Where Jake was headed, maybe men didn’t lay with women.

If Jake was going to have only one more opportunity to sleep with a woman, he didn’t mind one bit if that woman was Gwen. Those eyes of hers switched shades of green with every thought. He wondered how it was a handsome woman like her hadn’t harnessed some man by now. When it came to men she was barely green-broke. Willing to kiss, but skittish.

Jake folded his hands behind his head. Gwen had gotten all riled up after that kiss, but not because he’d kissed her. Because she’d liked him kissing her. And that, she hadn’t liked. He laughed softly. He could kiss Gwen all he wanted, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Jake would go when Michaels decided he’d go. And not before.

Maybe next time Jake wouldn’t stop with just a kiss. She’d like that, too. Just because he’d lived over a hundred years ago, didn’t mean Jake didn’t know a thing or two about pleasing women.

Jake waited until Doris took Crissie to the kitchen to clean up before he sat back in his chair and pushed aside his dinner plate. “Can you ride?”

Despite Doris’s astounding observation this afternoon, Gwen had no intention of crawling into bed with Jake Stoner. She ought to fire him; but unfortunately, she needed him. Tom whatever-his-name-was might be a retired veterinarian, but she doubted very much if he was up to the physical demands of the ranch. She needed Jake’s muscles. But that’s all she needed. A fact she planned to make perfectly clear to Jake Stoner. She employed him. Nothing more.

Accordingly, Gwen had avoided all speech with him at the dinner table. Doris obviously knew Tom and the circumstances of his hiring, and the two of them, along with Crissie, had done the talking. Gwen wished she had the nerve to insist Jake and Tom eat in the kitchen, but she knew Doris wouldn’t take kindly to the idea. Bert had fed his hands in the family dining room. As long as Doris did the cooking, the hands would eat in the dining room.

Jake was waiting for her answer. “I’ve ridden a few times,” she said. “Mostly when I came down to visit Bert. I’ve been meaning to ride more, but Lawrence always took me in the pickup.”

“Which horse?”

“Susie, named for Susan Magoffin. Bert named all his horses after historical sites or people related to this area.” Gwen warmed to her topic. “There’s Willy, after William Bent from Bent’s Fort, and Kearny for Colonel Stephen Kearny who led the Army of the West, and Cimarron for the river, and Vegas for Las Vegas, New Mexico, not Nevada, and—”

“Which one’s Susie?”

“The tan one,” Gwen said coolly. Jake might not share her enthusiasm for local history, but he didn’t need to be rude. “Bert called her a buckskin.”

“So you can’t ride,” Jake said in disgust. “If you could, he wouldn’t have put you on that old nag.”

“She’s not a nag. She’s perfectly sweet.”

“She’s so old if you fired a six-shooter behind her, she’d barely switch her tail.” He sighed heavily. “There’s no help for it. Be at the corral by the barn after breakfast.”

“I plan to spend the morning going over Bert’s books.”

“Change of plans. The corral after breakfast.”

“That sounds like an order, Mr. Stoner,” Gwen said tightly.

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to think you have a choice in the matter.” He smiled lazily across the table.

“Now see here, Mr. Stoner, I will not—”

. “What? Succeed? Learn? Become a rancher?”

“I will not be ordered around by someone who works for me.”

“Do you know when to move the cows?” he asked.

“I’m sure Bert wrote it down somewhere.”

He gave her a pitying look. “You don’t know. Do you know the difference between noxious weeds and good grass? And I don’t mean that stuff that grows in town. Do you know if the stock ponds are filling okay? If the calves are getting enough milk? When to wean them? Which bull to put to which cows?”

“I’m a CPA, not a rancher. I hired you and Tom to tell me those things.”

“Honey, you were a CPA. Now you’re either a rancher or a squatter who doesn’t know a damn thing about livestock or the land and who’ll go belly-up.”

“I don’t see how—”

“You will by the time I get through. Tomorrow morning. At the corral.” Jake pushed back his chair and stood up. “If you’re a good girl and do what you’re told, maybe I’ll let you play boss the rest of the day.” He strolled out of the room.

A slight choking sound broke the silence. Gwen turned on Tom who was hiding the lower half of his face in his napkin. “You think that’s funny? Wait until he tries to run your life.”

“Don’t come across many like him anymore. All rawhide and iron,” Tom said, his voice filled with admiration.

“All bully and blowhard.”

“The man’s right, you know. You need to learn if you’re going to keep this place going. He’ll make a good instructor. I watched him this afternoon. He’s patient, thorough, even-tempered, and careful. Jake’s not one to rush heedlessly into a situation without checking things out, and he’s steady. It’d take a lot to disturb his equilibrium.”

“Equilibrium is a pretty big word for you, isn’t it? What happened to words like purdy and aint?”

“Jake told me he disclosed my little secret.”,

“After the fact.” Another example of him thinking he knew better than anyone else. “And I wouldn’t exactly call Jake Stoner overly cautious.”

“I didn’t say overly cautious. The man knows his worth, I’ll grant him that. Some might even make the mistake of thinking he’s on the arrogant side.”

“Thinking that is no mistake. He’s a cocky, presumptuous, arrogant, overconfident male who suffers from excessive testosterone.”

Tom chuckled. “You’re not talking about his ranching abilities. You’re talking about him kissing you this afternoon.”

Gwen sprang to her feet. “Was the whole world watching? I was not talking about a stupid kiss. I’d forgotten all about it.”

Gwen walked slowly toward the corral by the barn. She wanted to ride a horse. Jake’s order had nothing to do with her decision. She wouldn’t even allow him to ride with her. She’d tell him to saddle up Susie, and then she’d order him to—to do something. Something out of her presence. Something to remind him who was boss.

A mud-colored horse with white down its nose threw up its head and watched Gwen walk toward the corral where the horse was penned. The buckskin mare grazed on the other side of the pasture.

Jake Stoner leaned back against the corral fence, his elbows resting on the top rail, one boot hooked over the bottom rail. “Shouldn’t have slept half the day away. It’s going to be hot.”

“Do you practice being obnoxious, Mr. Stoner, or does it come naturally?”

“Call me Jake, honey.”

“I’m going to call you unemployed, if you don’t quit calling me honey. My name is Gwen.”

“With that honey-colored hair, I think you’d be used to men calling you honey.”

“My hair is ash blond, but men don’t call me ashes,” she snapped. “Now call Susie over so I can ride.”

He nodded over his shoulder. “He’s an eight-year-old gelding. Mostly quarter horse. Some Arabian. Your friend Bert knew what he was doing when he trained horses. You’ve got some good, well-trained ones. I think you and this horse will work well together. He’s not too spooky for a beginning rider, but enough of a horse to challenge you.”

“I’m not riding Vegas. I prefer to ride Susie,” Gwen said firmly.

“Sure, riding her once in a while won’t hurt. Today you’re working with him, Vegas, if that’s his name.”

“It’s his name, and I’m riding Susie today. Right now.”

Still leaning against the corral, Jake shrugged his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay.”

Gwen tapped her foot. “Well? I’m waiting.”

“What for? If you want to ride the mare, go ahead.”

“I would like her saddled.”

He nodded to his right. “There’s a saddle.”

Gwen silently counted to ten. “I want you to call Susie over here and I want you to saddle her for me.”

“Nope.”

“What do you mean, nope? You can’t refuse. I gave you an order.”

“You’re sure a great one for giving orders, aren’t you?”

“You listen to me, Mr. Stoner. This is my ranch, my land, my horses, and my saddles. I own them, and you work for me. When I tell you to saddle me a horse, I expect that horse to be saddled.”

“The Indians used to say a man couldn’t own the land. I’m not sure you can own a horse, either. If a horse trusts you and wants to work with you, he will. If he doesn’t, he won’t.”

“Then, Mr. Stoner, I’ll fire the horse just like I’m firing you.”

“Honey, when are you going to get it through that pretty head of yours, you can’t fire me?”

“Don’t call me honey and I certainly can fire you.”

“Don’t call me Mr. Stoner, and you can’t fire me because you need me, or I wouldn’t be here. And as soon as you quit acting like a spoiled little brat, and admit you’re scared spitless, we might get somewhere.”

“I am not afraid of horses.”

“I didn’t say you were. Most ranchers were born and raised to it. You don’t know a cow from a heifer. You’d be an idiot if you weren’t scared about pulling up stakes and bringing your little girl down here to start a new life. I’d be terrified if I had to walk into some fancy office up in Denver, sit down at a desk, and pretend I knew about taxes. I also know I’d have to learn. Like you have to learn.” He paused before adding in a flat voice, “If you’re going to be stubborn and deny your ignorance and refuse to learn, tell me now. I’m not wasting time or energy on a gutless greenhorn.”

Gwen moved over to the corral fence and grabbed the top bar with her hands, then leaned back the length of her arms. “Why don’t you say what you’re really thinking? What everybody around here thinks. That I’m an idiot for leaving a perfectly good, high-paying job for some fantasy which exists only in Hollywood. You think I have no more business out here on a ranch than that horse would have trying to tap dance on Broadway.” She pulled herself up to the fence and pushed back again. “You think I bought these stupid cowgirl clothes and moved out here in the middle of nowhere and I don’t have a clue what to do.”

Gwen kicked at the dirt with the toe of her boot. “Well, you’re right. I don’t have a clue, but I’m not stupid. I intend to learn. Crissie is going to have what I never had—a stable childhood, roots.”

“A white picket fence,” he said with sarcasm. “I don’t see what’s so stable about leaving a high-paying job for the uncertainties of ranching.”

She owed him no explanation, but she gave one anyway. “I’ve always been good with numbers, so going into accounting was a logical move for me. There will always be taxes, which means stable employment. It’s long hours of computer time and paperwork, but I didn’t mind until I had Crissie. During the height of tax season I worked from seven in the morning until ten or eleven at night. That’s no way to bring up a child. I knew I had to quit the accounting firm, but I didn’t know what I’d do. Then Bert died and left me his ranch. Here, even if I have to keep long hours, I’ll have Crissie at my side. That’s important to me. And best for her.” Gwen dug her fingernails into the wooden railing. “I’m not quitting here. I’m not running back to Denver with my tail between my legs. I’m here, and I’m going to stay here. I’m never leaving.”

“You’ll leave. You’ll get tired of the mud and the dirt and the bugs and the hard work and long hours and the loneliness. Tired of pulling calves and doctoring horses and feeding in winter. You’ll miss your restaurants and stores and movie theaters. You’ll get tired of playing cowgirl and run back to the city where you belong.”

Gwen flung up her head. “I belong here. Since you obviously don’t think so, you’re the one who doesn’t belong. I know I have a lot to learn, but I’ll find someone to help me who doesn’t spend all his time trying to chase me away. Pack up your things and get out.”




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