Sarah's Legacy. Brenda Mott

see.” Trent fought a smile. “Do you have any idea how much work that entails?”

      Bailey quirked one corner of her mouth. “I’m beginning to see,” she admitted. She scowled at the posthole digger. “The man who sold this to me didn’t mention that it’s harder to use than it looks. But I’ll get it. Just might take me a while.”

      To say the least. Trent eyed the hole Bailey had dug. It was no more than four inches deep. At this rate, the dog would die of old age before Bailey could fence in the yard.

      “Why don’t you hire someone to do the job for you?”

      “Oh, no.” She waved the thought aside. “I can do it.”

      Why don’t you offer to do it for her? The inner voice that prodded him was perfectly logical, he told himself. After all, the woman was obviously too stubborn to hire someone, though he had to admire her determination. And what could it hurt to be nice? Besides, he didn’t need the dog running his horses through the fence again.

      “I can’t take a chance on him chasing your horses,” Bailey said as though reading his mind. “And you can see he’s terrified of that rope. Poor thing. I’m sure someone has beaten him.”

      “More than likely,” Trent agreed. “I’ll tell you what. Since you’re going to help me restring my fence, why don’t you let me return the favor and help you dig the holes for yours.” He knew she’d be too proud to accept his help if it sounded like charity.

      “Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”

      “I won’t take no for an answer,” he interrupted. “Like you said, you can’t leave him on the rope, and I sure don’t want him going after my horses. The sooner the holes are dug, the sooner you can put the fence up and turn him out in the yard. It would be in his best interest.”

      “Well, I suppose you’ve got a point there.” She shrugged. “All right. I’ll dig one hole—you dig the next.”

      He had his doubts she could finish the one she’d started. “Okay.” Enjoying himself, Trent leaned against the tree the dog was tied to and watched. Bailey gave it a hell of a shot, he’d grant her that. But the ground was hard, and operating a posthole digger took a lot of muscle—more muscle than Bailey had, though there was nothing wrong with the shape she was in. Nothing wrong at all.

      He couldn’t help but let his gaze travel her curves as she worked. Her breasts jiggled beneath the sports bra she wore under her tank top, and he felt the blood stir in his veins—and someplace else. Swallowing, Trent shifted his gaze elsewhere.

      Bailey’s arms were firm, her long legs trim beneath her cutoffs.

      This wasn’t getting him anywhere.

      “Let me see that thing.” He pushed away from the porch and reached for the posthole digger.

      “But I’m not finished,” Bailey protested as he pulled it out of her hands.

      “At the rate you’re going, it’ll be dark out before you get so much as one hole dug.” He realized he sounded rude, but he didn’t care. Irritation filled him: he knew he was attracted to Bailey. He’d help her dig her blessed holes, but that was all.

      “I didn’t ask for your help,” she reminded him.

      He glanced up long enough to wish he hadn’t. Anger rode high on her cheekbones in a soft blush that did everything to complement her complexion and nothing to help his frame of mind. On top of that, the flash of fire he saw in those violet eyes began to give him a picture of the formidable figure she must make at the bank; a glimpse of the woman who turned down farmers’ loans and wreaked havoc on small-town tradition with her big-city ideas. Bailey obviously wasn’t a woman to tangle with.

      The challenge drew him like a bug to a zapper.

      “And I never asked for yours, either, but didn’t you say that’s what neighbors do? Help one another?” He returned his attention to digging but stole a glance at Bailey from the corner of his eye.

      She bristled anew at his words, and he nearly smiled as he scored himself one point.

      “I suppose I did.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But that doesn’t mean you need to dig all the holes for me.”

      Pausing, Trent leaned on the posthole digger. “Do you have any idea how many holes you’ll need to fence in a yard this size?” He gestured at the huge backyard.

      Bailey chewed her bottom lip. “Quite a few.”

      “Exactly. What type of fence are you planning to put up?”

      “Chain-link.”

      “You’ll have to set the posts in cement if you want to make it sturdy.”

      “I realize that,” Bailey said. “I just thought I might as well get the holes dug first.” She let her breath out on a sigh. “Fine. Dig them all, then, but if you’re going to go to so much trouble, I insist on paying you for your time.”

      “Tell you what,” Trent said. “If you want to pay me, do it by fixing me some breakfast. I’ll have to have some fuel to run on if I plan to be out here building fence all morning.”

      Bailey eyed him as though he’d just suggested she put on a hula skirt and dance for him. “Breakfast? You want me to cook for you?”

      “Yeah. You do know how, don’t you?”

      “Of course I do.” The spark was back in her eyes.

      “Good.” He jabbed the posthole digger into the ground and left it there. “I’ll go feed my animals and get my gloves, then be right back.” He turned away, hiding a smile.

      “I have to run to the store first,” Bailey called after him. “To buy a few things.”

      “Fine. See you in a bit.” Without looking back, he waved over his shoulder, then chuckled.

      Bailey Chancellor was obviously a smart woman and a real go-getter, but she was a terrible liar.

      From the look on her face, he’d safely bet his best horse she couldn’t boil water.

      BAILEY DROVE to town mumbling curses all the way. How had she managed to get herself into this? She couldn’t cook. She didn’t have time to bother with it, and the fact that she lived alone made learning seem like a waste of time. Frozen dinners and takeout were her staples, as were cereal, fruit and yogurt. Why she hadn’t just admitted that to Trent, she had no idea, but for some stupid reason she couldn’t bring herself to.

      Not that there was anything wrong with being overly domestic. She had a desire for home and hearth, but she’d centered most of her life on her career. It wasn’t a crime. Men did it all the time. She wondered if Trent could cook a decent meal. Probably not. It was likely the reason he’d turned down money in lieu of food. She’d bet he hadn’t eaten a decent bite of home cooking since his wife left him, and Jenny had said he kept to himself, didn’t date, didn’t seem to care about anything except his horses. Odd that he was suddenly spending time with her.

      Of course, the way things had happened, it wasn’t as if he’d planned it. His being at her house wasn’t anything personal. He was helping with the fence just as he’d said—to be neighborly and to keep the dog in and the horses safe.

      Ignoring the voice that told her he could just as easily have left her to deal with her own problems, Bailey focused on her dilemma. What the hell could she cook that she wouldn’t ruin? She could simply purchase a variety of fruits and arrange them attractively on a platter, but she doubted Trent was the sort of man who’d call that breakfast. He seemed more like a bacon, eggs and hash browns type of guy. Visions of scorched scrambled eggs and bacon blackened beyond crisp tormented her.

      She needed help. If anyone could rescue her from the corner she’d painted herself into, Camille could.

      When she’d first arrived in Ferguson and