Temporary Rancher. Ann Evans

      Behind Palmer, her children were watching, listening to every word. For their sake he fought to keep his face neutral. “You’re not what I was expecting.”

      “I know, and I can explain that,” she said quickly. “Just give me a minute to put on some clothes and get the girls in front of the television.”

      He still had her hand in his, and he used it to pull her forward so that he could reach her ear. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said in a low, crisp voice. “You have an hour to pack your things and go. Take the buffalo head with you as a souvenir if you like.”

      She inhaled sharply, but Quintin had already turned and left the room. “Wait a minute—” He heard her call after him, but he kept going, out of the apartment, out of her sight.

      He took long strides back to the horse trailer. Halfway there, Riley Palmer pulled him up short by catching his arm. He noticed that she’d thrown on a robe, and her feet were tucked into a pair of unlaced sneakers.

      “Mr. Avenaco…” She spoke his name with a raw undertone of clear desperation. “If you’ll just listen for a moment. Let me explain—”

      “There’s no need,” Quintin replied. “We agreed to hold off making this job offer final until we had a chance to meet. We’ve met. You’re not what I’m looking for.”

      “You mean because I’m a woman asking to be considered for a man’s job?” Her voice was flat, reproachful.

      In his entire life, no one had ever accused Quintin of discrimination. Of any kind. Part Native American, he’d grown up with too much of it in Wyoming to ever indulge in the same himself. Her claim nearly tore the breath out of him.

      Deliberately, his eyes riveted to hers, with an intensity he hoped would send her back to the apartment to pack. “No, not because you’re a woman,” he said plainly. “Because you’re a liar.”

      She had the grace to flush. That flawless, creamy-white complexion went beet-red, even if the look in her eyes remained determined and defiant. “I never lied to you, really. I can’t help it if you assumed I was a man.”

      He sighed and shook his head. “Lady, I don’t like being played for a fool. You made every effort to keep your sex a secret. Now I understand why you weren’t answering my phone calls. Whose voice was that on your voice mail?”

      “My sister’s boyfriend. But I didn’t have him record the greeting to fool you. He did it months ago, because I was getting some crank calls.”

      “Convenient. I don’t know how you thought you were going to pull this off once you arrived, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no job for you here.”

      “I didn’t intend… I hoped we could talk this out, that you’d be fair—”

      “Fair seems like an odd word coming from you. But I think you’ve wasted enough of my time. Have a safe trip back.”

      He shook her hand off his arm and unlatched the back door of the trailer. He didn’t trust himself to speak, and hoped that being on the receiving end of the cold shoulder would do the trick and send her off. But while he ignored her and went through the process of removing safety gates and dividers that would allow him to back the first horse out of the trailer, he was aware of Riley Palmer standing there.

      She was in an old-fashioned fury, he could tell, but she could hardly act on it. Not if she thought she could still sway him. Which she couldn’t. She could stand there until hell froze over if she wanted to.

      “So you won’t even consider me for the job?” she asked, unable to keep a touch of belligerence out of her voice.

      “Afraid not,” he replied mildly, in spite of the anger churning inside him.

      He guided the first gelding backward, forcing the woman to move aside. Some horses didn’t trailer well, and he was pleased to see this one step down to the ground without the slightest sign of nervousness. Alert and curious, but definitely not afraid.

      He began to lead the animal to the pasture gate, but Riley Palmer blocked his way. It seemed ridiculous that she was still here, standing with a stranglehold on the neck of her robe, trying to persuade him to change his mind. She looked like a woman controlling herself at some cost. He recognized it because that was pretty much the same way he felt.

      He suddenly didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused by such determination.

      “You read my résumé,” she said. “My experience—”

      “Was any of that résumé even true?”

      Oddly, the color didn’t come up in her cheeks again. They went a little pinker maybe, but mostly she seemed…hurt. In the bright sunshine, her features suddenly looked very young. He almost felt sorry for her.

      Don’t, he cautioned himself.

      She said in a voice that was slightly less antagonistic, “In spite of what I did, what you might think, I’m qualified for this position. I ran a three-hundred-acre spread for nine years while I was married.”

      “If you ran the place, where was your husband?”

      “Managing the Bar Seven, outside of Cooper.” She lifted her hand to stroke the gelding’s neck. “We raised cattle mostly, but I know horses, too.”

      “These aren’t hack ponies I plan to rent out to Sunday riders. They’re going to need specialized attention and a nutritional regimen as stringent as any racehorse in Kentucky.”

      “I understand that. I’m not afraid of hard work. And what I don’t know, I can learn. Very quickly, too.”

      He took her hand from the gelding’s neck, clearly surprising her. Turning it upward, he inspected the fingers, the soft palm, then lifted his eyes to hers. “This isn’t the hand of a woman familiar with manual labor.”

      “I said I did it for nine years. Before that I was a bookkeeper. Since my divorce, I’ve been looking for work in that field, but the job market’s flooded.”

      “So you decided to be a little more creative in your search.”

      Her nostrils flared as though she’d caught an unpleasant scent. He noticed that she had a small nose, snubbed at the end, as though it had been drawn by an illustrator of children’s books. “You spoke to Charlie Bigelow. Would he have referred me to you if he didn’t think I could handle this work?”

      Quintin realized he was still holding her hand, and dropped it immediately. “I’m not sure what Charlie was thinking,” he growled. “Someday I’ll ask him.”

      The woman held his gaze and wouldn’t turn loose. “I can do any job you give me. I swear it.”

      “Mrs. Palmer—”

      “Just listen for a moment,” she said, cutting him off. “What do you hear?”

      He didn’t understand what she meant, but he fell silent. The air between them felt charged with tension, the stillness electric. At last he said, “I don’t hear anything.”

      “That’s right. Nothing but peace and quiet. Want to know why?”

      He thought about it for a moment. Then, in mild surprise, he swung his head in the direction of the water tank. “The windmill.”

      “Exactly. I fixed it yesterday. No big deal. I just thought a good night’s sleep might be nice for everyone.”

      He turned back to her. She looked pleased. His eyes narrowed. “You climbed up there and fixed it.”

      “I did. It was a rusted pump rod, and it cleaned up fine. That’s only one of dozens of things I have on the list I’ve started. I can get this place in shape. All I need is the chance.”

      He had to admit he was impressed and intrigued. He didn’t like that. Admiration. Sympathy. Any of those feelings for this woman could be fatal for