At The Rancher's Bidding. Charlotte Maclay

to the dressing room, she took his breath away. Like a fashion model, she pirouetted in a full circle so he could get a good look. She’d picked out a tank top that bared her arms and dipped low toward her delicate breasts, then tucked in at her narrow waist. Her jeans were as snug as tights, molding to her attractive rear end like a man’s hand. The expensive leather boots made her legs look like they went on forever.

      He cleared his throat. “Great. You look like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.”

      “This cheerleader business is good?”

      “Very good.” For her. Or the football team. Very bad for Cord, if he had any hope of keeping his hands to himself and his head on straight. “So, you’re ready to go, huh?”

      “Oh, no. I have many more outfits to try on.”

      He rolled his eyes. Thank goodness his men were more than capable of separating the calves from their mothers in order to wean them. At the rate Leila was going, they wouldn’t get back to the ranch until past dinnertime.

      Allie made her selections, and with her arms full of clothes, stepped out of the dressing room. Cord ushered her to the cash register with ill-disguised impatience. He really needed to develop more regard for a woman’s need to dress appropriately, whatever her role in life. Even a servant wanted to look nice.

      She placed the clothing and boots on the counter, topping the pile with her bright new Western hat.

      “Will that be cash or credit card?” the young woman asked.

      Allie stared at her blankly for a moment. Dear heaven! She’d left her Visa card at the ranch, but even if she’d brought it along she wouldn’t have been able to use it, not if she had to sign her real name—Aliah Bahram. And she certainly didn’t carry enough cash with her to pay for all of this. In Munir, she purchased whatever caught her eye. Either a servant paid for it or the merchant sent the bill to the palace—for Rafe to grumble over and eventually pay.

      Sensing her dilemma, Cord stepped up to the cash register. “Charge it to the Flying Ace account. They’re sort of her work clothes.” He gestured vaguely to the mountain of clothes on the counter. If nothing else, it seemed as if the only way he’d get back to the Flying Ace in this century would be to pay for the goods himself.

      Leila wasn’t a woman who could be easily denied anything she wanted. He didn’t have the time or inclination to argue with her.

      A few minutes later, feeling like a pack mule, he carried a half-dozen sacks out to the truck, squeezing them behind the seat.

      “Do you want to get the forms from the post office now?” he ask.

      “I think I am too weary to deal with so many details right now. Perhaps another day.”

      Right. He was happy to put off that ordeal, too. “How ’bout lunch before we head home?”

      She brightened. “Yes, that would be nice. If I don’t have to prepare the meal,” she qualified.

      “My treat.” His finances had already taken a big whack. A few more bucks at the local diner wouldn’t hurt him, and maybe the delighted smile she gave him was worth it.

      Man, he was losing it. Big time.

      By the time he’d consumed half of his burger and fries—and Leila had daintily eaten about a quarter of a Cobb salad—Cord asked, “How is it your accent sounds British?”

      “It does?” Looking surprised, she stabbed a bite of ham with her fork and chewed thoughtfully. “I suppose it is because my tutor was from England.”

      Taking another bite of burger, he studied her a minute. “You mean your sheikh boss hires tutors for his servants?”

      Her head snapped up. “Oh, no, not that. I meant, my mistress’s tutor was from England. I was permitted to sit in on her lessons.”

      “Ah, I see.” Something about the flare of color on her cheeks suggested she wasn’t telling the entire truth, though he couldn’t figure out why she’d lie. “Guess we Texans sound different to you.”

      “Not unpleasantly so.” She smiled again, and he lost track of what he’d been puzzling over a minute ago.

      Not that it mattered. According to Brianna, with only a tourist visa Leila would have to go home soon. That was fine by Cord. He wasn’t sure how much more strain the fly of his jeans could take.

      ALLIE STEPPED BACK from her closet to admire her newly purchased wardrobe, which she’d hung with great delight. Studying the array of jeans and tank tops, cotton blouses and denim skirts, she gnawed on her lower lip. She’d spent extravagantly for clothing her betrothed husband would never approve of her wearing. Her throat tightened at that reality. She had so little time to enjoy her liberty before being forced back into the role demanded of a princess.

      The kitten wove her way between Allie’s feet, meowing.

      Allie scooped her up. “What is it, my precious Mittens? Are you hungry?” Fortunately, she had thought to have Cord stop at the grocery store in Bridle to buy cat food on their way home. He’d also wisely purchased a precooked roasted chicken for their evening meal.

      She carried Mittens into the kitchen, found a dish and opened the box of cat food.

      Coming through the open window, the racket of ranch operations seemed inordinately loud. Cows were bawling and carrying on as though they were in great distress.

      Allie looked up from pouring the cat food when Cord walked into the room, hooking his Stetson on a peg near the doorway.

      “Why are the cows so upset?” she asked.

      “It’s weaning time. It takes a couple of days for the heifers’ milk to dry up, and they miss their calves. Same thing for the calves.”

      “You have separated the mothers and their babies?” she gasped.

      “Have to. Most of the heifers are pregnant again and they need their strength for their next calf.”

      “But that is so cruel.” Allie remembered the night following her mother’s death. She had thought her own heart would break. While visiting some of the poorer villages in Munir, hoping to improve the conditions in which her people lived, Allie’s mother had contracted a dreadful disease. Day by day she had wasted away, the doctors unable to help. And then she had simply stopped breathing. Allie had wanted to die, too.

      “Leila.” He shoved his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “This is a working ranch, not a zoo or a pet farm. We raise animals that are turned into steaks and short ribs and rump roasts, and we do it as efficiently as we can. The calves are old enough to graze on their own and their mothers do better this way.”

      He left her standing in the kitchen puzzling over his words. From the sound the cows were making, Allie did not believe Cord that all was as it should be. And when she stepped outside, she knew she was right. From the porch she could see the first pasture where calves were lined up on one side of the fence, cows on the other, desperately trying to get to each other.

      Tears blurred her vision as memories of her mother swept over her, memories of loss. “Poor babies. I wish I could help you.”

      BY EVENING, the racket had increased in volume. Neither Cord nor Brianna seemed disturbed by the noise. But it set Allie’s teeth on edge and gave her a dreadful headache.

      In bed, she covered her ears with a pillow. Nothing blocked out the noise—or the image of herself as a five-year-old child, sobbing uncontrollably with no one to hold her, to tell her all would be well.

      At her mother’s funeral, Allie’s father and brother had been clear-eyed and strong. They’d told her she must be, too. But she could not help herself. She’d failed, shaming her family, and was sent to the women’s quarters alone.

      So alone…

      Gasping for air, she sat up. Sweat edged down her neck and between her breasts. She could not endure the racket, the