Snowed in at the Ranch. Cara Colter

all in wishes—Ty planted his legs firmly apart, folded his arms over his chest.

      She darted out from behind the tree, dropped the tangle of Christmas tree lights that were in her hand and grabbed a lamp. She yanked it off the side table and stood there holding it like a baseball bat.

      Ty squinted at her. “Now, what are you going to do with that?” he asked mildly.

      “If you touch my baby or me, you’ll find out!”

      The lamp was constructed out of an elk antler. It was big and heavy and it was already costing her to hold it up. It made him very aware of how small she was.

      He had to fight to get beyond the exhaustion and the irritation that came with the weariness, to the same calm energy he tapped into to tame a nervous colt. He thought of the locked car and the locked back door.

      He said, “I’m way more scared of a baby than that lamp. Especially one who calls me Papa.”

      He thought maybe her hold on the lamp relaxed marginally.

      “How did you get into my house?” she demanded. “I locked the door.”

      “I used a key,” he said, his voice deliberately quiet, firm, calm. “I happen to have one. I’m Ty Halliday. And last time I looked, this was my place.”

      The lamp wavered. Doubt played across her features for a second. Then she brought her weapon back up to batting position, glaring at him.

      “Why don’t you put that down?” he suggested. “Your arms are starting to shake. We both know I could take it from you if I had a mind to.”

      “Just try it,” she warned him.

      It was a little bit like an ant challenging an aardvark, but somehow he didn’t think pointing that out to her was going to help the situation, and he reluctantly admired her spunk.

      Something yanked on the hem of his coat. He looked down. The baby had crawled over and had grabbed a fistful of the wet oilskin of Ty’s jacket. He was pulling himself up on it.

      “Papa!” he crowed.

      “Don’t touch him!”

      “Believe me, I’m not going to.”

      In a flash, she had set down the lamp, crossed the room, pried her baby’s fist loose of his jacket and scooped him up into her arms.

      This close he could smell them both. Her scent was subtle. Some flower. Lilac? No. Lavendar. It was mingled with baby powder. He wasn’t sure how he recognized either of those scents, not common to his world, but he did, and it felt as if they were enveloping him.

      She took a step back, eyeing him warily.

      “You’re in the wrong place,” he said. “This really is my house. I’m cold and I’m wet and I’m dead tired, so let’s get this sorted out so you can move on and I can go to bed.”

      Apparently the fact that he wanted to get rid of her rather than steal either her baby or her virtue reassured her in some way.

      She pondered him. “If this is really your house, what’s in the top drawer in the kitchen?”

      “Knives and spoons and forks.”

      “That’s in the top drawer of every kitchen!”

      “You asked the question,” he reminded her.

      “Okay, second drawer.”

      He closed his eyes. “I’m losing patience,” he warned her, but then gave in. The sooner he got that scared look off her face, the sooner she would realize her error and get on her way.

      “Tea towels, once white, now the color of weak tea. One red oven glove with a hole burned right through it. Next drawer—potato masher, soup ladle, rolling pin, hammer for beating the tough out of rough cuts of beef.”

      Her eyes widened. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

      “How long have you been here that you know what’s in my drawers?”

      Her eyes shifted guiltily and made him wonder exactly what other drawers she had been investigating.

      He swore softly. “Have you made it as far as my bedroom?”

      “Oh, God,” she said again.

      The fear drained out of her, leaving her looking pale and shaky. She actually wobbled on her feet.

      “Don’t faint,” he said. “I don’t want to have to catch the kid.”

      “Oh,” she said sharply, drawing herself up, annoyed, “I am not going to faint. What kind of weak ninny do you take me for?”

      “Weak ninny? How about the kind that reads Jane Eyre? How about the kind who is lost in the country, setting up housekeeping in someone else’s house?” he said smoothly.

      The truth was he liked her annoyance better than the pale, shaky look. He decided it would be good, from a tactical standpoint, to encourage annoyance.

      “You don’t look like you would know the first thing about Jane Eyre,” she said.

      “That’s right. Things are primitive out here in the sticks. We don’t read and can barely write. When we do, we use a tablet and a chisel.”

      “I’m sorry,” she said, blinking hard. “Now I’ve insulted you. I’ve moved in to the wrong house and I’ve insulted you. But I’m not going to faint. I promise. I’m not the fainting kind.”

      “Reassuring,” he said drily. “And just for the record, I’m not easily insulted. It would take a lot more than the insinuation that I’m not up on my literary classics.”

      She sucked in a deep, steadying breath. “This isn’t the McFinley residence, is it?”

      Her face was crumpling, all the wariness and defiance seeping out of it. It was worse than pale and shaky.

      He had the most ridiculous notion of wanting to comfort her, to move closer to her, pat her on the shoulder, tell her it would be all right.

      But of course, he had no way of knowing if it would be all right, and he already knew if you moved too fast around a nervous colt, that little tiny bit of trust you had earned went out the window a whole lot faster than it had come in.

      “But you know the McFinleys?” she asked, the desperation deepening in her voice. “I’m housesitting for them. For six months. They’ve left for Australia. They had to leave a few days before I could get away….”

      He shook his head. He had the horrible feeling she was within a hairsbreadth of crying. Nervous colts were one thing. Crying women were a totally different thing. Totally.

      The baby had sensed the change in his mother’s tone. His happy babbling had ceased. He was eyeing his mother, his face scrunched up alarmingly, waiting for his cue.

      One false move, Ty warned himself, and they would both be crying.

      Ty checked the calendar in his mind. It was six days before Christmas. Why did a woman take her baby and find a new place to live six days before Christmas?

      Running.

      From what, or from whom, he told himself firmly, fell strictly into the none-of-his-business category.

      “Mona and Ron?” Her voice faded as she correctly read his expression.

      He was silent.

      “You’ve never heard of them,” she deduced. She sucked in another deep breath, assessing him.

      Ty watched, trying not to let amusement tug at his mouth, as she apparently decided he was not an ax murderer, and made the decision to be brave.

      She moved the baby onto her hip and wiped her hand—she’d been scared enough to sweat?—on slacks that weren’t made for riding horses. Like the shirt, the slacks emphasized the