A Cowboy Under Her Tree. Allison Leigh

her face.

      It was both heady and sobering at the same time.

      But she couldn’t back down.

      Which is why she soon found herself standing in the center of the small two-room cabin, facing a man who didn’t like her, much less approve of her.

      An electric hurricane-style lamp was already lit and it cast an intimate glow around the cabin. The interior looked rustic without being rustic and despite the haze clouding her sensibilities, her McFarlane brain still managed to take in the amenities of the cabin.

      Pure luxury.

      Similar to what she hoped to offer her guests.

      She jerked a little when Russ dropped the cabin key on the long pine table surrounded by four chairs in the dining area. Seeming oblivious to her, he shrugged out of his shearling coat and tossed it onto the leather couch that was draped with a red-and-black-plaid woolen throw. There were also two comfortable-looking armchairs and an enormous ottoman that doubled as a coffee table. He brushed past her, entering the small, efficient kitchen area. “Take off your coat.”

      Evidently, his helping her into it had been for the benefit of the people watching them. She set her purse on the table and slid off the mink that her father had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday and draped it carefully over one of the ladder-back chairs.

      She tried to see through the open doorway that led to the bedroom, but it was too dark.

      She heard him rummaging in a cupboard and was surprised when he returned to the table without another drink from what she expected would be a well-stocked bar.

      Instead, he had a ballpoint pen in his hand. He yanked out a chair, sat down, and tossed the somewhat crumpled napkin on the table in front of him. He clicked the end of the pen and added his own scrawl beneath hers.

      When he finished, his dark gaze was brooding as he slid the napkin across the smooth wooden surface toward her. “You gonna stand there all night, or sit yourself down?”

      “Stand.” She picked up the napkin and read his additions, under which he’d confidently signed his name. Russ J. Chilton.

      “It’s not short for Russell?”

      He just watched her.

      What did it matter what his name was? She tossed the ink-riddled napkin back to him. His first term had been that their marriage be performed legally. He’d already made that point perfectly clear. The second was the description of acreage he wanted when it came to getting his division of the Hopping H. But the last condition?

      She gave him a look. “I need you to teach me what I need to know, not agree to do everything you tell me to do.”

      “Where the Hopping H is concerned,” he pointed out the rest of his statement with a shrug. “Someone’s gotta be the boss.”

      “And I suppose where you’re concerned that’ll never be a woman.” She managed not to roll her eyes.

      “It won’t be a woman who doesn’t know the front end of a horse from the back.”

      Then she did roll her eyes. “And women are accused of exaggeration. Believe me, Mr. Chilton, I know which end is which, and currently, you’re acting like the hind end.”

      He shrugged again, obviously unfazed. “You can do all the bossing you want when it comes to your guest enterprise.” His lips twisted at that, telling her yet again what he thought of that particular endeavor. “But when it comes to ranch operations, I call the shots. Or there’s no deal. You can go find yourself some other sucker.”

      “I’m not looking for any kind of sucker. Just someone who’ll give me a fair deal and exercise some discretion at the same time.”

      “And you think that you’ll get that from me.”

      She lifted an eyebrow. “Won’t I?”

      “You don’t know anything about me.”

      She unfolded her arms and closed her hands over the back of the mink-draped chair. It seemed to help the way the room tended to spin around her head. She really shouldn’t have had that last martini. “We don’t have to like one another to acknowledge certain facts. And one is that you’re scupu…scrupulously fair. Everyone in town says so.”

      He made a soft grunt. “Too damn fair. What’s your family got to do with all of this?” He shoved his hand through his hair, leaving it even more rumpled.

      Probably what he looked like when he woke in the morning.

      She swallowed, trying to banish the thought. “Hmm?”

      “You said only your family had to believe we were married. Why?”

      Her fingers sank farther into the fur. “They need to believe I’m competent in all areas of the guest ranch. Being married is a side note to them. Why would you trust getting your share out of a marriage—an uncostumated…consummated marriage—more than you’d trust a contract?”

      His gaze seemed to drop to her lips. “Does it matter?”

      Touché. She leaned over the table and slid the pen from between his fingers. Before she could talk herself out of it, she signed her name with a flourish, right beneath his.

      Then she tossed the pen on the table and straightened. The bravado had a price, though, and it was called head rush. She gripped the back of the chair again, waiting until her vision cleared and the room stopped swaying. “I’ll make arrangements, then, for this legal marriage.”

      “No. I’ll do it.”

      “What’s wrong? Don’t you trust me?”

      He unfolded himself from the chair and smiled humorlessly as he very deliberately picked up the napkin, folded it in half and tucked it in his back pocket. “I shouldn’t have trusted the last woman I married. Why would you be any different?”

      Leaving Melanie blinking at that, he headed through the cozy living area and into the darkened bedroom beyond. A moment later, a soft light came on and she saw the foot of an enormous lodgepole bed.

      One bed.

      Naturally.

      Russ was out of her line of sight, but a familiar-looking ivory sweater was tossed onto the foot of that bed.

      She chewed her lip and looked sideways at the leather couch.

      “If you were any sort of gentleman, you’d offer to take the couch,” she said loudly enough for him to hear.

      “Being fair doesn’t mean being a gentleman.” He appeared in the doorway and Melanie nearly wilted with relief that beneath his sweater he’d worn a white T-shirt.

      A white T-shirt that clung faithfully to every line of his impossibly wide chest.

      She barely had time to brace herself for the bed pillow that he tossed across the room to her.

      “They keep extra blankets in that hassock thing,” he told her. “Lid lifts up and they’re inside. Get some sleep. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

      Then he turned his back on her and closed the door between them.

      Melanie squeezed the downy pillow between her hands.

      She wasn’t sure if she were envisioning his neck or not.

      She turned to the couch and tossed the pillow on it. The ottoman did, indeed, contain storage beneath the heavy leather-topped lid and she pulled out two blankets, which she spread out on the couch.

      Eyeing the closed bedroom door, she nibbled her lip as she stepped out of her high heels. She needed the restroom. And not just to clean her face and her teeth. But she’d rather go out into the cold night and hide behind some bush rather than knock on that door.

      The door that suddenly opened, as if the man behind it had, once again, been