Loving Katherine. Carolyn Davidson

with the man would only be practical if it involved something of greater importance than a bucket of milk. She bowed her head in acquiescence and waved her free hand toward the milk house, a small wooden shed, one of several outbuildings.

      “There. You’ll find a fresh cloth to cover it with. I’ll take care of it after breakfast.”

      “You’re cookin’ breakfast already?” His words were hopeful.

      “I’ll feed you before you leave,” she said flatly, pulling from his grasp and heading for the house.

      Behind her, he halted, the half grin in residence for a fleeting moment. “We haven’t talked about a horse yet, ma’am,” he reminded her.

      Her gait was brisk, and only a man with a quick eye would have noticed the hesitation his words inspired. Roan Devereaux had always prided himself on the accuracy of his eyesight, and he allowed the smile to widen his mouth just a bit. Beneath the brush of his dark mustache, his teeth gleamed for a moment.

      “Ma’am?”

      Her stride lengthened as she left him behind. Her back was rigid, and chestnut-hued hair hung between her shoulder blades, barely moving against the dark fabric of her dress. Tied with a leather thong at her nape, it reached to her waist. It looked like the silky tail of a Thoroughbred, he noted with absurd pleasure.

      Her hand grasped the railing as she stalked up the three steps to the porch. Then, turning to face him, there where he waited, watching her, she spoke, her voice low, her enunciation precise.

      “I already told you, Mr. Devereaux. I don’t have any horses ready for sale right now. I don’t mean to be rude, but after breakfast, I’ll expect you to be on your way. I’m sure you’ll be able to find an animal suitable for your purposes in town. The livery stable has a good selection. Thurston Wellman will be most happy to sell you a horse.”

      She lifted one hand to shield her eyes from the rays of sunlight shining from above the horizon in the east. He watched her silently, with a measuring look that gave little indication of his thoughts, and she responded with a calm appraisal of her own.

      Her eyes swept his form, lingering briefly here and there as she measured his considerable length. His clothing was well-worn but sturdy, she decided, his denim pants clinging to the strength of his thighs like paper on the wall. His shirt was faded to a nondescript color, but intact, neatly tucked into place, hugging the breadth of his wide shoulders, then tapering to the narrow measure of his waist. Long-legged, his stance casual and relaxed as he watched her, he bore her scrutiny well. The mouth that had twice twitched with amusement at her expense was almost hidden now, his lips pressed together beneath the brush of his mustache. His eyes were narrowed and dark. High cheekbones made her think of an Indian brave, and the straight blade that formed his nose was centered in a face too strong and rugged to be considered handsome.

      “You can wash up at the well,” she offered finally. “Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.” Briskly, she turned to open the door, and her skirts swayed as she disappeared into the house.

      He ate four biscuits, smothered with pale gravy and flanked by several eggs. She’d risen twice to fill his mug with coffee and was surprised to see him add a generous dollop of cream to the dark brew. It was a crack in his spare demeanor, this small luxury, she thought, watching his fingers move the spoon about in the heavy white coffee mug. Katherine silenced the admiration that surged within her as she acknowledged the raw, dark beauty of the man across the table. Roan Devereaux, her father’s friend, was not what she had expected.

      She ate sparingly, aware of his presence in her kitchen, of each movement of those lean hands as he ate, only the small sounds of their silverware against the thick china plates marring the quiet of early morning. And then she nodded at the murmur of his appreciation as he finished the meal she’d prepared.

      Pushing his chair back, he lifted his coffee to drink the last of it, savoring it slowly, watching her over the rim of his mug. “Fine food, ma’am. I’m much obliged,” he said, replacing the empty vessel on the checkered tablecloth.

      She rose briskly and was up and about, clearing the dishes and removing herself from his presence. He’d been the soul of good manners, she decided, eating the food she prepared and using his utensils with skill and ease. Sometime in his life, someone had taught him well, she thought, wiping up crumbs from the red-and-white oilcloth. Aware of his gaze upon her, she moved quickly, uneasy beneath the cool, measuring eyes that paced her movements.

      She rinsed the dishrag and hung it to dry over the edge of the sink, then she set the dishes to soak in soapy water. Closing her eyes, just for a moment, she took a breath and, turning toward him, motioned to the door.

      “I’ve got a heap of work to do, Mr. Devereaux. I need to be up and at it.” She’d given him a bed and meals to boot. Roan Devereaux or not, Charlie’s friend notwithstanding, she didn’t need the strangely disturbing presence of this stranger here. Now to move him on his way, out of her house and on down the road.

      “Katherine.” His voice reproved her gently.

      Her mouth tightened at his reluctance. The sense of unease he inspired within her had to do with that husky inflection in his voice as he spoke her name, she thought. As if he knew all there was to know about Katherine Cassidy and found her lacking. As if he sought to peel away the stark surface she wore like a coat of mail, seeking the softness of the woman beneath the brown drabness. The same warmth she’d felt at the touch of his hand on her flesh earlier reappeared as she listened to the sound of her name on his tongue. He’d rolled it within his mouth, making it appear a many-syllabled word. Not like Pa, who’d more often than not called her Kate or sometimes Katie, when his eyes regarded her with tenderness.

      “Katherine,” Roan repeated, rousing her from her wandering thoughts. “Can we talk about a horse now?”

      She pursed her mouth and frowned at him, disturbed by her meanderings. “Like I said before, I don’t have any stock ready to sell.”

      He shrugged and tipped the sturdy chair back to balance on the back legs. “Can I take a look?”

      She shook her head at his persistence. “It wouldn’t do you any good. They’re all halterbroken, of course, but I’ve only put a saddle on two of them. They’ve not been ridden yet.” Her pause was significant before she added her final words on the subject, as if to emphasize their import.

      “And you can’t have my mare.”

      He shrugged off the edict with a casual grin. “Where’s your pa’s stud?” he asked lazily, watching her hands bury themselves in the pockets of her apron.

      She flushed and her eyes shifted from his gaze. “I had to sell him.” The admission was painful, and her mouth tightened.

      “You don’t have any stock breeding now?”

      “Maybe my mare.”

      He frowned, considering. “I didn’t notice.”

      “If she took, she won’t drop her foal till March,” Katherine said shortly. “She was in season when I had to let the stud go, so I let him in with her just before…before I sold him.”

      He drew in a breath, shaking his head. She was really something, this small woman who spoke of the breeding of horses as if it were not fraught with danger. “You’re not big enough to handle a stallion like your pa’s,” he said. “You’re lucky you got it done without getting hurt.”

      She shrugged, dismissing his words with the lifting of her shoulders. “You do what you have to. He was strong and a good size, and he’d carried my pa to war and back. I wanted another colt from him before I let him go.”

      “Could be a filly,” he reminded her.

      Her gaze was fiercely determined and she shook her head, negating the idea. “No, I need a stud. And I’ll have one, give him a couple of years.”

      “How many are you running in your pasture?” he asked. “Thought I saw a yearling or two.”