Cowboys And Cradles. Sharon Swan

gleam, this time of amusement. “He would have been too busy swallowing his tough-as-jerky tongue.”

      It was Eve’s turn to be amused. “I didn’t know I was such a dreadful sight.”

      Thin lips curved in a wry smile. “On the contrary. You’re a mighty fine sight, Eve.” He paused. “But you are a woman.”

      She lifted a brow. “So?”

      “The last female to cross that threshold was Amos’s disgruntled wife, and she was on her way out.”

      After a startled moment Eve said, “Now it’s clear to me why Pete Rawlins’s mouth worked like a guppy’s when I dropped my luggage on the doorstep and introduced myself. Apparently Amos Cutter had no fondness for women, and I wouldn’t be at all amazed if the ranch cook feels exactly the same way.”

      Nodding, Hank straightened a bola tie looped under the collar of a checked shirt worn with a suede vest and corduroy slacks. “Pete’s got about as much regard for the opposite sex as Amos had.” A sudden twinkle in his eyes belied the fact that he was probably close to seventy. “Now, myself, I enjoy every glimpse I can get of a good-looking woman.”

      Eve cocked her head. She liked this man. He was certainly the only one who’d made her feel welcome since her arrival. “Are you by any chance flirting with me, Hank?”

      His smile was wily as a fox. “I’m trying, ma’am.”

      “Sorry to interrupt this party,” a low voice said.

      The swivel chair creaked softly as Eve made a half turn to see a tall figure standing in the doorway. Her eyes widened as recognition hit. It was him—the ticked-off male she’d confronted hours earlier. As she’d concluded, his features were attractive minus a layer of dust. But he wasn’t, as she’d assumed, a ranch hand. No ranch hand could afford this man’s wardrobe.

      Eve knew fabrics. Quality told. So did expert tailoring. While the Western cut of the charcoal-brown suit that she quickly ran her gaze over might be more casual than a Manhattan banker’s three-piece pinstripe, it was every bit as impressive. The clothes didn’t make the man, though. Not this one. He made the outfit.

      No, he wasn’t a ranch hand. But he was a cowboy. And he didn’t need a horse under him to prove it. From polished brown boots emphasizing a solid stance, to glossy dark hair worn just long enough in the back to brush the collar of his ivory shirt, he had a distinct air about him. Rugged. That was the word, she decided. It had taken rugged men—and women—to tame the West and make it theirs.

      Oh, yes. He was a cowboy.

      Suddenly aware that her lips had parted of their own accord, Eve snapped them shut and looked straight into his green eyes, firmly refusing to let her gaze falter. Something told her that was the best way to deal with this man. Head-on. And she’d have to deal with him. He was Ryder Quinn. All at once she was as sure of his identity as she was of her own.

      Hank’s brief introduction confirmed it. “Eve, I’d like you to meet Ryder Quinn. Quinn, this is Eve Terry, the new owner.”

      Deciding not to mention that they’d already run into each other, almost literally, she rose to her full height and issued a polite greeting. “I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Quinn.”

      RYDER TOOK A DEEP BREATH, filling his lungs full, and tried not to look as though he’d just been punched in the gut, which was exactly how he felt. Stubborn horses had thrown him, wild-eyed steers had done their best to trample him into the dirt, a surly bull had even gored him on one memorable occasion. Never in all of his thirty-three years, though, had a woman threatened to bowl him over. Until now.

      Earlier, he hadn’t been able to see much more than her face. Now he had a top-to-toes view. And it was quite a sight. Every bit as shapely as he’d always preferred a woman to be, with plenty of soft flesh to cover strong bones, Eve Terry was a curvy goddess decked out like a cowgirl. An urban cowgirl.

      Not for a minute did he believe the fitted jeans hugging well-rounded hips or the stylishly embroidered denim shirt outlining full breasts had so much as brushed against a dusty corral fence. And if those cream-colored boots with the elaborate carving had ever come within sniffing distance of a mound of cow dung, he’d eat the fancy leather belt circling a nipped-in waist—glittering silver buckle and all.

      Yet, beneath the sophisticated exterior, there was something earthy about the woman that stirred his blood. Quite simply, she made his mouth water.

      She’s also your boss, Quinn, he reminded himself grimly. He was her employee—the hired help—at least temporarily. His boot heels clicked on hard tile as he stepped into the room.

      She’d said she was happy to meet him, but he didn’t say the same. It would be a lie, and he didn’t care much for lies, even social ones. When she extended her right hand, he took it in his own, found its texture to be just as he’d expected: soft as satin, with an underlying strength.

      “Ms. Terry.” He didn’t have to dip his head far to reestablish eye contact. Since he was over six feet, she had to be around five-ten.

      “Call me Eve, please.” Again the tone was soft, with an edge of quiet self-assurance.

      He kept her hand in his a second longer than he’d meant to before releasing it to cross his arms over his chest. “All right…Eve. I’m Ryder.”

      They took each other’s measure before she finally turned to resume her seat. “Hank tells me you’ve been with the ranch for a long time.”

      He considered it a victory that she’d been the one to look away first. A minor one, true. But winning at anything, however small, felt good right now. He had recently lost a great deal. “I’ve been here almost fifteen years, in one capacity or another.”

      Imitating his body language, she leaned back and folded her arms under her breasts. “You wanted to buy it.”

      He had to admire that blunt statement. Apparently, she didn’t care to beat around the bush any more than he did. “Yes.”

      “And I got it instead.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “Because I paid more for it than it was worth.”

      Her droll frankness almost surprised a laugh out of him. Another study of her gray eyes found intelligence, and more than a hint of good-natured humor.

      He nearly groaned. A smart, curvy goddess with a sense of humor. It was a potent combination, one that appealed on several levels, challenged and seduced at the same time. If she’d been anyone but who she was, his male ego might have been afraid he’d wind up begging. When an all-too-clear image of himself doing exactly that slid into his mind, he swiftly shoved it aside and deliberately made his reply curt.

      “I figured you had more money than you knew what to do with.”

      He didn’t add that he would have done his best to match her offer if there’d been time to seek additional financing. But time had been denied him. Amos Cutter’s daughters had wanted the sale over and done with as quickly as possible.

      Eve’s gaze narrowed. “If you think I was born rich and spoiled rotten, you can think again. What I have, I’ve earned.”

      “The same goes for me,” he shot back.

      Her chin went up. “Want to stay and earn more?”

      “Maybe.”

      “Good. Let’s talk business.”

      Hank cleared his throat, reminding Ryder there was another person in the room. “Well,” the older man said, “I’ll leave you two to…get to it.”

      SHE WAS READY to get to it, Eve reflected as she sat forward and set her forearms on the desktop. More than ready. But it wouldn’t be wise to let her temper rule now. She needed a cool head to deal with this—and him.

      Rather than taking the chair Hank had vacated moments earlier, her companion