Wed To The Montana Cowboy. Carol Arens

you are not—?” Clearly, she was not. He was an idiot to have assumed so in the first place. “In danger of catching some fatal disease?”

      “Not in that way, by the saints.”

      With nothing left to say that did not make him sound a bigger fool than he was, he stood looking down, but not too far down, at her, silent as a stone.

      He had to look like a big lump of stupid. No whore that he had ever treated, regardless of her age, had ever looked luminous. He should have seen the truth from the beginning.

      All at once the seamstress’s lips twitched at the corners. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, then let it drop while she let out a full, joyous-sounding laugh.

      He braced his hands on his knees, bent at the waist and laughed along with her. It felt good to laugh so freely. He couldn’t recall the last time he had done that.

      “So,” he said when he caught his breath, “I well and truly apologize for assuming the worst of you. Please forgive me.”

      “It only makes us even when you think about it.” She dabbed a tear from the corner of one eye. “I assumed that you were a ruffian out to do me and Mike harm. I truly apologize to you, as well.”

      He extended his hand and she took it. The shake of truce was slower and more intimate than it might have been, because her hand met his, dainty, sweet...and not swallowed whole.

      That was something... So different from how Eloise’s hand had ever felt. Eloise had been delicate, like a pretty porcelain cup that he had to be careful not to chip. Even if his fiancée hadn’t walked out, she would never have fit in the life he lived now.

      For all that this woman was tall and, he thought, fit of frame, a woman was a woman and this land was hard.

      Unbidden, thoughts of courting her flitted across his mind. He dashed them out quick.

      Hell, he might fantasize until Kingdom Come and it wouldn’t matter. A wife was someone who would need protecting and that was one big responsibility that he didn’t want.

      But there it came again, a vision of her and him, as irritating as a fly buzzing about the head. Mentally, he swatted at it, but it stuck to him. What might he do if things were different? He couldn’t help but imagine.

      He would spend some time getting to know this lady, work up to giving her a kiss.

      He shook his head. Things were what they were.

      “I can’t help but wonder, knowing what I do now, what you were doing out here with Mike.”

      “Oh, that.” Her expression sobered. “I hired him to take me to my grandfather’s ranch. I’m in a bit of a morass now, I suppose.”

      “Who is your grandfather?” Maybe he knew the man and could be of help.

      “Hershal Moreland, of Moreland Ranch.” She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe you know a guide who would be willing to take me there for four...oh, all right, three dollars.”

      Well, hell if it hadn’t felt like the earth had swallowed him whole.

      Here was the mysterious, and in his mind selfish, granddaughter, come at last. He had long doubted that she would. What was she after, was what he wanted to know.

      The old man’s land, maybe. Or had the mayor of Coulson somehow discovered her existence and convinced her to come and persuade Moreland to sell his trees? Was the money that Mike took perhaps payment from Smothers?

      If so, she would be one sorry young woman. As long as Lantree had a breath in him, she would not cheat her grandfather out of his ranch or sell the trees that Catherine Moreland had so loved.

      Hell and double damn. Why couldn’t Miss Moreland have simply been a whore?

       Chapter Four

      While it was true that Mr. Lantree was not a lunatic, it was equally true that he was sullen, stone-faced and, in spite of his handsome appearance, not enjoyable company.

      While Rebecca could only be grateful for the good fortune that had landed her with Grandfather’s foreman and that he happened to be on the way to Moreland Ranch, it was regrettable that she was spending endless hours sitting on the wagon bench beside a great Viking of a fellow who seemed dedicated to pointing out this and that danger.

      Why, to hear him go on, one would think he didn’t appreciate the majestic beauty all around. The Good Lord’s creative hand was everywhere, from the great snowcapped mountains to the delicate blue flower that Mr. Walker had just rolled the wagon over and crushed.

      “Do you mind if we make a short stop?” she asked when he paused in his description of how boulders rolled down from hillsides without warning and if one were lucky enough to get out of the way one must still be quick-footed enough to escape the nest of poisonous snakes that the dislodged rock had exposed.

      “I mind,” he snapped. “It will be a good long time before we find a suitable place to rest.”

      She suspected he was lying because just to the right was a lovely green meadow with a clear pool created by a waterfall tumbling down the mountainside.

      “I believe, Mr. Walker, that you are trying to scare me away. I can’t imagine why, but I do believe it.”

      “Why would I want to prevent the tender reunion between you and your grandfather?” He glanced at her from under a frown.

      “I can’t imagine.” She squirmed on the wood bench. She really did need a moment of privacy. “Not that it is any of your concern, but it will not be a reunion. I’ve never met my grandfather before.”

      “What makes you want to meet him now?”

      “Also none of your business.” She would have gladly carried on a pleasant conversation, telling him about how she had never fit in at home and did not wish to marry the butcher. And most of all, that she hoped to find the family link she had been missing.

      She would have liked to pass the time becoming acquainted, but ever since he’d discovered who she was he’d been as sour as curdled milk.

      “Anything to do with Moreland is my business.”

      That was a telling statement. Either he was devoted to her grandfather or he dominated him.

      “Are you related to Grandfather? Are we perhaps distant cousins?”

      “We are not.”

      That was a relief. She had no wish to be related to such a scowler.

      “I really do need to stop for a few moments.”

      “Later.”

      “If you aim this wagon at one more bump in the path, Mr. Fount of Joy, things will get messy.”

      It was a forward thing to say but she was desperate.

      He hauled the team up short, leaped off, then stomped to her side of the wagon to help her down.

      His hand under her elbow was firm, its strength and support not unpleasant as he helped her down. She wasn’t used to being in the presence of a man who was bigger than she was. The humbling fact was that she had never allowed a man to help her down from anything for fear that she would topple him.

      As soon as her boot touched the ground he let go of her.

      “Watch out for falling rocks,” he advised.

      What a shame that such a handsome face was wasted on scowls.

      “While I’m at it, I’ll be sure to sidestep snakes.”

      Seeking a private spot, she lifted the hem of her skirt and hurried across the small green meadow. What a shame to step on the tiny flowers dotting the ground, but there were so many