A Groom For Gwen. Jeanne Allan

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