A Weaver Proposal. Allison Leigh

of them looked away first.

      Derek’s pride hoped it wasn’t him. But with the tires crunching over the snow as he turned a wide circle, he had to admit that it might well have been.

       Chapter Two

      Sydney had come to Weaver for lots of reasons. Some were more immediate than others, but none of them were unimportant. Rebuilding a relationship with her brother was one. Or—she thought with brutal honesty—establishing a relationship with her brother was a better way to put it since—aside from the occasional racehorse she found for Forrest’s Crossing, which Jake still ran even though he’d moved to Wyoming—they’d had little to do with one another for years.

      And yes, she had missed his wedding to J. D. Clay. She still felt guilty about it, because she could have made it if she’d really tried. But she truly hadn’t believed that he would care much one way or another, and despite her Aunt Susan’s urging, she’d pulled her usual Sydney act. She’d commissioned a crystal statuette of Latitude—a Thoroughbred her brother was particularly fond of—and had it delivered to him and J.D. before the wedding.

      But she hadn’t left Antoine’s side where they’d been staying in Antibes at the home of a particularly discriminating art collector. Mostly because she was well aware that Antoine was taking his newest assistant with him on the trip, and said assistant was ten years younger than Sydney, particularly pretty and clearly looking to be more than an assistant.

      Despite Sydney’s absence from the nuptials, J.D. had called her, thanking her for the incredibly beautiful gift. Sydney wasn’t surprised by that. She’d met J.D. on a few occasions when she’d been working for Jake at Forrest’s Crossing. The other woman had always been professionally courteous. But after J.D.’s call had come Jake’s, and he’d been rather less courteous when he’d told Sydney that J.D. assumed Sydney didn’t approve of their marriage.

      It couldn’t have been further from the truth.

      Which was why Sydney was now picking her way through the snow behind her cabin to the shed that acted as a garage and storage for a bunch of tractor-size tools.

      Maggie Clay—J.D.’s mother and yet another one of the seemingly endless Clays that Weaver possessed—had called her the evening before to insist that she join the family for dinner out at the family’s ranch. “Sunday” dinner, which Sydney knew from her brother was usually a family affair. Since Sydney had some bridges to build, she knew she might as well start doing it now, even if J.D. and Jake were in California.

      And if nothing else, the place where the meal was being held—the Double-C—was bound to be warm, which was more than could be said of her cabin right now, since the furnace had quit on her again this morning.

      So she climbed into her little red convertible two-seater and prayed the engine would start.

      The import was nearly thirty years old and had belonged to her mother. A gift from Sydney’s father, until he’d taken it back from her during the divorce. He’d later given it to Sydney as a gift—not because he was bestowing some treasured thing upon her—but because it was a manual transmission. After she’d backed one of Forrest’s Crossing’s trucks through a paddock fence, he’d mockingly laughed that, like her mother, she’d never be able to drive it properly, anyway.

      “Just a little paternal adoration,” she murmured now as she coaxed the engine to life.

      Bringing the car with her here to Wyoming had probably been the height of folly. But no more, possibly, than bringing herself had been.

      When it came down to it, she was about as equipped for the practical matters of life here as her red demon was equipped for snow-covered roads and frozen temperatures.

      “But we’ll both do it, won’t we? We have to.” She ignored the faint edge of desperation she felt and patted the steering wheel when the engine finally caught.

      She wasn’t quite sure what she’d have done if it hadn’t started. Did Weaver even possess a cab company?

      Somehow, she doubted it.

      Fortunately, it hadn’t snowed since she’d arrived, so the bumpy drive that led from the highway to the cabin was still clear and she made it out of the shed and down to the main road with no engine stalls. Then it was just a matter of following the instructions Maggie had given her to reach the “big house” on the family’s cattle ranch.

      Sydney realized soon enough that the place was no more “in Weaver” than the cabin was. When she finally pulled to a stop in front of a sprawling stone house, there were already a half-dozen cars parked in the curving drive in front of it. She pulled as close to the snow-plowed edge of the drive as she dared, parking behind an enormous black SUV, and climbed out, smoothing down her cashmere coat as she eyed the vehicles. Everything from economy cars to luxury SUVs. Jake had told her the Clays were a diverse bunch.

      Even their automobiles reflected it.

      She carefully picked her way between the vehicles toward the snowy ground separating the plowed drive from the house, wincing a little as her high, stacked heels sank into the snow. Her boots were suede and not meant for getting wet. She needed to shop. And soon.

      “We were about ready to send out a search crew.”

      The low, masculine voice startled her and she jerked her head up to see Derek Clay standing on the wide porch that stretched across the front of the house. He was wearing jeans again—though this time at least they looked clean. The down coat was gone, but all that did was show off the shoulders stretching the limits of his untucked, navy blue pullover. Evidently the down coat he’d worn the day before hadn’t been solely responsible for the wide shoulders.

      Sydney also noted the arm he had looped possessively over the shoulder of a very pretty young woman. Whether this was another cousin of the “kissing” variety or not, Sydney could see she was considerably younger than Derek. She was guessing he was closer to Sydney’s thirty-one than the girl’s probable twenty-one.

      Men were men, obviously. And for a good many of them, the younger their companions were, the better.

      Not that she cared one whit that Derek seemed no better than Antoine had been in that regard.

      She yanked the lapels of her coat more tightly around her waist as she gingerly picked her way through the snow until she reached the shoveled walkway.

      “As you can see, I made it.” She even managed a smile, though how she did after their encounter the day before was a minor miracle.

      “Small wonder,” he returned and nodded his head toward her car. “We have snowdrifts bigger than that toy.” He might have cleaned up in the clothing department, but the dark blond waves of his hair were still as unkempt as ever. “J.D. and Jake have plenty of suitable vehicles up at their place. Why not use one?”

      His tone made it perfectly clear that he considered her brainless for not having done so, and Sydney’s jaw ached as she locked her insincere smile in place. “I’m surprised Jake didn’t tell you already. I like unsuitable,” she assured him blithely, though nothing could have been further from the truth.

      Yes, she’d frequently indulged in the unsuitable. More often than not. But that was exactly what had led her to this particular point in her life.

      Nausea nudged at her, deep inside, like the low tide getting ready to come in.

      She swallowed hard and took a deep breath of cold, bracing air as she crossed the walkway to the shallow steps leading up to the house.

      “Unsuitable doesn’t fly real well in these parts,” Derek said when she reached the top. “Thinking about safety does.”

      His companion—who looked even more dewy and fresh up close—didn’t bother trying to hide the elbow that she poked into his side. “Be nice,” she said, and stuck out her hand toward Sydney. “I’m Tabby Taggart. And not all of us are quite the sticks in the mud as this guy is.”