The Cowboy's Reluctant Bride. Debra Cowan

had the first time she’d seen him in her brother’s barn three months ago. That meeting had been at gunpoint, too.

      The man towered over her, water dribbling from the brim of his hat onto the porch. The clouds moved, and she peered through the shadows. “Gideon Black?”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He slowly lowered his hands.

      “What are you doing here?”

      “Smith sent me.” He had done prison time with Ivy’s brother. And after his release, he had accepted Smith’s offer of work and arrived at the Diamond J just before Christmas. Ivy had met him when she returned home after learning her presumed-dead brother was alive and back in Mimosa Springs.

      Gideon Black had sparked an unwelcome response in her back then. He still did.

      The rain ebbed to a steady shower, though the wind still tangled her skirts around her legs. He had to be soaked to the bone. Releasing the hammer, she stepped back so he could enter. “Come inside.”

      “Miz Powell, I’ve been riding for two days and I ain’t—” He stopped, then started again. “I haven’t washed up.”

      “I’d say you just had a pretty good washing,” she said wryly, pushing some loose strands of hair out of her face. “I’ll get some toweling.”

      She was halfway across the front room before she realized Gideon Black hadn’t followed her inside. She turned, noticing that his frame took up the entire doorway. Hat in hand, he frowned down at his mud-caked boots with a helpless look on his face. Was he worried about making a mess?

      “Mr. Black, it’s all right.”

      His gaze flicked over her. For a brief moment, his expression was...hungry. Then his features were unreadable.

      She gave an encouraging smile. “Come in. The mud will dry, and when it does, I’ll sweep it up.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He finally stepped inside.

      She went to the spare room reserved for stage passengers to rest or wash up. Why hadn’t Smith come? Or their father? At Christmas, her brother had demanded that Ivy notify him if the anonymous poems and drawings she’d been receiving became suspicious or more frequent. They had. They had also turned threatening. At least to her way of thinking. Other things had happened, too. One of the horses had been killed, and her dog was missing.

      From the wardrobe, she grabbed several towels, returning to find that Gideon had removed his poncho. He leaned against the door frame, taking off his boots. He put them upside down on the boot tree, just inside the door.

      Something about this big man in his stocking feet put a funny ache in her chest.

      He shook the rain off his hat then backed inside and shut the door. His shoulders were as wide as a wagon brace. He hung his hat on a peg near the door.

      Ivy’s gaze trailed over him. Short dark hair sleeked against his head, a few strands curling against his bronzed nape. His shirt was damp and the fabric clung to his muscular back and arms, revealing clearly defined shoulders and biceps. Buff-colored trousers molded a tight backside and powerful thighs. The pants were mostly dry, probably coated with tallow for weather like this.

      He turned to face her, and her gaze snapped to his and held. There was a heat in his blue eyes that burned right through her.

      Then his attention shifted, moving down her body.

      She tensed. What was he looking at?

      “Miz Powell, do you think you could put that Colt down?”

      “Oh. Yes.” She wished he wouldn’t call her by her married name. She slid the gun into her skirt pocket.

      She handed over two towels because of his size. He stayed near the door, rubbing his hair and face with the cloth. Biceps knotted at the motion, hinting at a raw, leashed power. She’d forgotten just how big he was.

      With her own towel, she patted at her damp hair. She’d forgotten about his scars, too. The whisker stubble couldn’t hide the long, thin mark that ran along his left jawline or the thicker one that appeared to completely circle his strong, corded neck. She wondered if he had others.

      When they had first met, she had noticed the scars right off, but they weren’t what held her attention. It was his eyes. A clear piercing blue. And hard. He had a hard mouth, too. The man appeared to be hard all over. A flush warmed her cheeks.

      The storm settled into a steady rain, pinging against the side windows. The damp heat of their bodies filled the room. She caught a heady draft of man and leather. Gideon’s broad chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm, but Ivy’s pulse was still haywire.

      Through his near-transparent shirt, she could see the dark hair on his chest, the way it veed down the center of his abdomen. Suddenly, she was aware of her breathing. And his. It was unnerving. Unwelcome.

      She frowned as he reached into his back pocket and took out a square of leather.

      He opened the pouch and withdrew a piece of paper, holding it out to her. “From your brother.”

      She took it, trying to ignore the jolt that traveled up her arm when their fingers brushed. A muscle flexed hard in his jaw.

      The paper was dry, and she realized the pouch was deer hide. She quickly scanned the note. “This is the wire I sent to Smith after finding my horse dead.”

      “Yes. I brought it so you’d know he really sent me.”

      The thought that he would lie had never crossed her mind, but it should have. Ivy knew better than anyone that people lied.

      Her heart rate finally leveled out. “So my brother isn’t coming.”

      “No, ma’am.” Gideon frowned. “Didn’t he say so when he wired you back?”

      “I haven’t gotten anything from him.”

      “He sent you a telegram. I was there when he did.”

      The missing telegram was just the latest in a sequence of odd happenings. In the past three months, a telegraph office, a hotel and a lumber mill had opened in her growing town. “I’ll check with the telegraph office the next time I’m in Paladin or ask the stage driver when he returns. He might know what happened to it.”

      Refolding the paper, she handed it back to Gideon, mindful not to touch him this time.

      He seemed to move just as carefully. “When Smith found out about the horse, he wanted to come, but he couldn’t.”

      “Because of spring calving?”

      “Partly.” Gideon returned the message to his leather pouch and slid it into his back pocket. “And he just had surgery on his leg. He isn’t getting around too well yet.”

      “Surgery?”

      “Doc Miller reset his leg. He straightened it out some.”

      While in prison, Smith’s leg had been badly broken in several places. Ivy was glad to hear her brother might be getting some relief from the pain he endured daily. She understood about her brother, but it wasn’t like Emmett Jennings to stay behind. “What about my father?”

      “He wanted to come.”

      Alarm flickered. “He’s not ill?”

      “No, ma’am, but he is getting up in years. Smith feels your pa’s reflexes aren’t what they used to be. His hearing is going, too.”

      From her trip home at Christmas, Ivy knew that to be true.

      The large man in front of her shifted from one foot to the other. “Smith doesn’t feel either of them are able-bodied enough to protect you.”

      Judging by the deepness of Gideon’s chest and the ridges of muscle that corded his abdomen, her visitor looked able-bodied enough for all kinds of things. She wondered if his arms were as steely and strong as they looked.