Come On Over. Debbi Rawlins

Shelby grinned. “That’s what I was thinking.”

      “Wait a minute—” His indignation only lasted a second. But then he got so distracted by her long slender legs, he forgot what he was about to say. “Who are you again?”

      “Shelby Foster.”

      “No. I mean why are you here?”

      “Well...” With a tentative smile she glanced at the porch that needed repairing. “I’m the new owner.”

      He pushed up the brim of his hat as if that would improve his hearing. “Come again?”

      “Okay, not new. Actually it’s been a year. But this is the first time I’ve come to see the place for myself.”

      Trent studied her face, the overly bright smile, the uncertainty in her eyes as her gaze swept toward the barn. It didn’t seem as if she was joking and somehow he didn’t think she was crazy.

      “Who put you up to this?” he asked, closely watching her reaction. “Was it Colby?”

      Her puzzled frown seemed genuine. “Put me up to what?”

      “I know you’re not the owner because I am.”

      Shelby raised her eyebrows. “You can’t be.”

      “Yes, ma’am, I can.” He removed his Stetson and shoved a hand through his hair, damp from sweat and starting to curl at his nape. He jammed the hat back on. “This ranch has been in my family for four generations.”

      “I don’t understand,” she said, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “How is that possible?”

      Trent sure hoped she wasn’t a victim of one of those auction scams. Buy property sight-unseen for cheap, then find out the paperwork is fake. The car, the clothes screamed success. She didn’t look like someone who’d be that foolish. “There are a whole bunch of ranches around Blackfoot Falls. Maybe you got confused?”

      “Any of them named the Eager Beaver?”

      At her insulting tone of voice, any sympathy he’d felt for her dimmed. He liked the name, dammit. “Let’s back up here. What makes you think you own the place?”

      “I have the deed.”

      “The what?”

      “The deed...it’s a legal document—”

      “I know what a deed is,” he said, cutting her off. Hell, did she think he was some hayseed? Which brought to mind... “You don’t look like a rancher or an outdoor kind of gal.” He’d started his inspection with her fine leather boots, probably perfect for a night in the city but not out here. Her designer jeans could go either way, he supposed. But her clingy blue top? And those full pink lips...

      He finally met her eyes. An icy chill darkened them and dared him to say another word. Or take another look.

      Trent just smiled. She was safe from him. He was done with women, but looking was an entirely different matter. From his kitchen window, he loved watching the sun dip behind the Rockies. Didn’t mean he planned on climbing them.

      Lifting her chin, she said, “Now that we’ve established I’m the owner, who are you?”

      “We what?” And here he’d worried she might be the victim of a con. Jesus. She really did think he was a country bumpkin. “You have a deed? I’d like to see it.”

      Her confidence faltered. Or maybe swiping her tongue across her lips was supposed to distract him. It almost worked. “I don’t have it with me,” she said, taking a deep breath that made her chest rise. “It’s with my things, which will be arriving next week.”

      “Your things?” He stared at her, and she nodded. “No. No way. You call whoever’s hauling your stuff and—” From his peripheral vision, he noticed Violet edging closer. He didn’t need her sticking her nose in this. “Let’s go in the house,” he told Shelby in a more reasonable tone. “We can get something cold to drink. Figure this thing out.”

      She moistened her lips again, her expression cautious as she inspected his stained brown T-shirt, worn jeans and dusty boots.

      “I’m not gonna bite,” he said when she didn’t move.

      “Fine.” With a toss of her hair, she picked her way through the gravel to the porch steps, having some trouble with those skinny, impractical boot heels.

      He followed behind, torn between checking out her shapely rear end and keeping an eye on Violet. It would be just like her to stir up trouble, for sheer sport if nothing else. When he saw the old busybody closing the distance between them, he whistled for Mutt to run interference. At best, Trent had a fifty-fifty shot the dog would listen.

      Shelby stopped at the screen door and turned to him.

      “Go on inside. It’s not locked.”

      She glanced past him, then entered the house.

      He caught the screen and smiled when he saw that Mutt was doing his job. Violet stood near the barn, spewing curses and trying to evade the dog’s long eager tongue. She liked the mooch well enough, even slipped him treats, but she couldn’t stand him licking her.

      “Come on, boy.” Trent waited for the dog to bound up the steps and charge inside.

      Yanking off his hat, he walked into the living room. Looking terrified, Shelby stood frozen, against the far wall where Mutt had cornered her. Jesus, he hadn’t considered...

      “Come,” Trent commanded, but Mutt ignored him.

      * * *

      SHELBY FIGURED IF the dog was going to bite her, he’d have already done so. She tucked her purse under her arm, and crouched to pet the big shaggy fur ball that had to be over sixty pounds. She loved dogs but couldn’t for the life of her identify his breed.

      “Well, aren’t you a cutie pie trying to look all ferocious.” She found his sweet spot—a patch low behind his ear—and lightly raked it with her nails until his big eyes rolled back in contentment. “He has mud on his paws,” she said, eyeing the dusty wood floor. “If you care.”

      She immediately regretted being snide. Trent ignored it, but she knew he’d heard. It wasn’t like her to be rude. But she was tired, hungry and not completely enamored of the run-down Eager Beaver ranch. Stupid name, anyway. She’d look into changing it first thing.

      And then there was Trent, whoever he was...besides tall and hot. Though being good-looking didn’t work in his favor. Not with her. She’d had it with men. And their expectations. And...well, just about everything.

      “How many times have I told you to use the doormat?” Trent said to the dog, then ducked out and returned with a faded towel. “He get any mud on you?”

      She shook her head, then looked up. Trent’s eyes were an unusual gray. She hadn’t been able to tell earlier, but she’d noticed the strong jaw shadowed from a couple days’ growth of beard. With his dark wavy hair, tanned skin and long, lean body, he was the perfect image of the untamed cowboy conquering the rugged West. If a woman had a fanciful imagination, which she did not. Anyway, she was from Colorado and knew better. Not all cowboys were equal. But all men were.

      No, that wasn’t fair. She looked at her left hand, where her engagement ring used to be. She was still raw from Donald’s betrayal. From the proof that while he wanted to marry her, he didn’t know her at all. In time the sting would fade. She had to believe that if she wanted to start fresh, prove to herself she could be successful on her own terms.

      “Come here, boy.” Trent crouched beside her and gave the dog’s collar a light tug until his front paws were on the towel.

      Huddling between Trent and a console table felt too intimate so she stood. “What’s his name?”

      “Mutt. Actually, it’s Ugly Mutt. Sometimes I call him Ugly. But mostly