Rocky Mountain Maverick. Gayle Wilson

Just like all the others on the ranch.

      Except he wasn’t.

      The image of strange, blue-green eyes that seemed to see through her was suddenly in her head. Hands that moved with a completely masculine grace. Corded forearms, tanned and covered with a fuzz of gold. Far lighter than the hair that curled against the collar of his shirt. Maybe that was just a trick of the sunlight—

      A trick of the sunlight.

      The thought was terrifying. She reached out and grabbed the frayed, graying towel off the bar. She wrapped it around her body, sarong-style, and stepped hurriedly out of the enclosure.

      The mirror over the sink was clouded with age and moisture. Almost afraid of what she might see in it, she fumbled for the hand towel on the rack and after a second’s hesitation, used it to wipe off the surface.

      Then she leaned closer, lifting her bangs with her right hand. Along the scalp was a narrow line of blond. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d put the dye on, but obviously it had been too long ago.

      She dropped the bangs, parting the hair on the top of her head with shaking fingers. Turning to catch the light from the bare bulb above the sink. Even in this dimness, the new growth was clearly visible, several shades lighter than the rest.

      And she must have ducked her head a hundred times today. Hiding her face. Concealing, or so she thought, the one thing that might give her away. The one thing that might make him question. Wonder. Think about her at all.

      And tomorrow she would be alone with him all day. Away from the safety of the pens and the public areas and other people. She could feel that mindless apprehension growing, tightening her chest and making it hard to breathe.

      Drifter. He’s just a drifter. She fought against her panic, repeating the words like a litany. Determined to force their reality into her brain. He isn’t here because of you. You are no more to him than Quarrels or any of the others.

      Long into the night, eyes open and staring in the darkness, she made herself say them over and over, trying desperately to believe that they might be true.

      Chapter Five

      They were halfway back to the ranch when Michael pulled up his gelding. He dismounted and then stooped, despite the protesting muscles in his back and thighs, to run his hands gently over the horse’s left front fetlock. The two border collies that had come with them trotted over, ears pricked, and stood near him.

      “Something wrong?”

      Nate Beaumont had reined in a little farther back on the trail, behind Michael. Eyes narrowed, he watched Michael from under the wide brim of a battered straw hat.

      “Seems a little lame.” As he offered the explanation, Michael lifted the gelding’s foot, pretending to examine the frog. “Got a pick?” he asked without looking up.

      After a slight hesitation, Nate urged the mare forward, bringing her alongside the gelding. Michael put out his hand, palm upward, to receive the equestrian knife he was offered. As he unfolded the hoof pick from the multi-bladed instrument, he slanted a sideways look at the boy.

      “Picked up a stone?” Nate asked.

      “I don’t think it’s been there long enough to do any damage. He’s only been favoring it a minute or two.”

      He bent over the gelding’s foot, his body shielding it from the boy’s view, and pretended to pry out the nonexistent obstruction. After a moment, he dropped the leg then ran a soothing hand over his mount’s neck. He turned to face Nate, folding the pick back into the knife before he held it up to him.

      “I need to get one of these. You never know when a knife might come in handy. Especially out here.”

      For a long moment Beaumont didn’t move. In contrast to their customary avoidance, the sapphire eyes locked on Michael’s face. He would have sworn that what he saw in them was raw fear.

      “Your knife,” he prodded, moving it up and down to draw Nate’s attention. “Thanks for the loan.”

      The boy swallowed, the movement strong enough to be visible down the column of his throat before it disappeared into the high collar of the thermal undershirt he wore. Michael’s eyes had followed the motion, and he felt again that nagging sensation that there was something important about what he’d just seen. Something he was missing and shouldn’t be.

      Before he could figure it out, Nate’s hand closed over the knife, removing it from his grasp. “You probably should at that. They’re useful for all kinds of things.”

      Maybe he thought it was strange Michael didn’t have a knife. After all, most cowboys carried them. He had when he’d worked on the Royal Flush.

      His equipment requirements in the days since then had been very different. He had considered bringing the Glock up here, but the thought of acquiring a folding knife had never crossed his mind.

      “How about a breather?” he suggested. “Give him a chance to figure out he’s not crippled.” Because he could see the resolution to refuse building in the kid’s eyes, he added, “I could stand one, too. Stretch my leg.”

      Nate had never mentioned his limp. No one but Quarrels had commented on it. And although the knee had been stiff and painful this morning from the stooping he’d done yesterday, it hadn’t kept him from climbing on board the gelding. There was no way he would have let it, no matter how sore it had been.

      Today’s assignment, however, hadn’t quite worked out as Michael had hoped. There had been no opportunity to ask Beaumont any questions. And maybe that had been deliberate on Nate’s part.

      Going up to the high pasture, they had ridden on opposite sides of the flock, letting the Half Spur’s collies do the actual herding. During the ride back down, Nate had kept his distance, hanging behind Michael on the trail, letting the dogs run between.

      That’s why Michael had come up with the story about the gelding’s lameness. And now he needed a reason to prolong this brief time alone with the boy. As he’d expected, the veiled reference to his disability worked like a charm.

      Nate eased down off the mare, saddle creaking in the stillness of the mountain air. Once Michael saw he’d succeeded in getting Nate to dismount, he pretended to ignore the kid. He walked the gelding slowly around the small clearing as if assessing the injury, the dogs following behind him. As part of the act, he didn’t bother to try to hide his own aching muscles.

      When he’d completed the circle and was returning to the starting point, he realized Nate had been watching the performance. Watching him, rather than the horse.

      “You smoke?” he asked.

      A lot of kids that age did, and it would provide another reason to prolong the break. Nate shook his head, his gaze now pointedly considering the trail down to the compound.

      “Something bothering you?”

      The kid turned, his eyes widened slightly. “What does that mean?”

      “I’m just curious why you’re so damn skittish.”

      “Skittish?”

      “You keep to yourself. You keep your head down. You don’t talk. In my experience that means a man’s afraid of something or he’s hiding something. I just wondered which it was in your case.”

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “I’m talking about finding a good place to hide and then laying low. Trying to keep yourself off somebody’s radar screen,” Michael said, realizing that he had unconsciously repeated Colleen’s words about him. “I’ve done that a few times in my life.”

      Nate shook his head. “I like working here. I like the country. The isolation.”

      “So your family knows where you are.”

      “I don’t have