A Ranching Man. Linda Turner

were true. And it was that that Angel hated the most. The speculation about her character, the doubts total strangers had about her before they even had a chance to meet her, let alone get to know her. Had her overnight success gone to her head? Could she possibly be as spoiled and demanding as everyone said? Did she really insist that the studio fly in fresh strawberries from California every morning for her breakfast and Dom Pérignon champagne directly from France whenever the mood struck her?

      No! she wanted to cry, but she never got the chance. There was a sudden bold knocking at the front door, and they both turned to face the visitor who had arrived unnoticed while they talked. Standing on the other side of the screen door and silhouetted by the bright sunlight that streamed onto the front porch behind him, he stood like a dark specter, his face bathed in shadows, his broad shoulders filling the doorway.

      He didn’t say a word, didn’t make a move that was the least bit threatening, but just that quickly, her heart was pounding with the sick fear that had become all too familiar over the course of the last two months. There was no reason to be afraid, she told herself desperately. This wasn’t the man who was the cause of her nightmares in the dead of night. It couldn’t be. She knew he would eventually follow her from L.A., that it was only a matter of time before he hunted her down in spite of the fact that the studio had been careful to keep under wraps exactly where Beloved Stranger was going to be filmed on location. But even he wasn’t clever enough to find her just minutes after her arrival in Liberty Hill. Was he?

      Still unsure and hating herself for it, she was struggling with the need to run when Myrtle broke into a broad smile of recognition and moved forward to push open the unlocked screen door. “Joe! Come in, dear. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

      After working on the sets of two Westerns, Angel had seen her share of wanna-be cowboys, but there was no question that the man who stepped into Myrtle’s entrance hall was the real thing. Six foot two, if he was an inch, he looked as tough as a weathered fence post. His jeans and denim shirt were designed for work, not show, and both his scarred boots and battered black cowboy hat had seen their share of use and abuse.

      But it was the man himself who bore the stamp of hours spent toiling out on the range in all kinds of weather. His square-cut face was hard and chiseled by the wind, his skin baked and tanned from the sun. Fine lines radiated from the corner of his sharp brown eyes, and although Angel guessed he wasn’t much older than his mid-thirties, the temples of his dark brown hair were dusted with gray.

      There was, she thought at first, nothing the least bit soft about him. Then Myrtle said, “What are you doing in town in the middle of the day? Oh, I bet you came for Cassie’s bed, didn’t you? How is the little darlin’?”

      “Wild as a March hare,” he said with a chuckle. “Zeke swears he’s going to be totally white-headed by the time he’s forty. Yesterday, he found her trying to ride one of the calves in the barn. She wants to be a bronc rider when she grows up.”

      A grin broke the stern set of the man’s face, stealing Angel’s breath right out of her lungs. Transfixed, she couldn’t take her eyes off him as Myrtle laughed gaily. “What is she now? Two? Wait ’till she’s ten and wanting to drive that great big Suburban truck of his. The poor boy doesn’t have a clue what he’s in for.”

      Suddenly remembering her guest, she exclaimed, “Oh, lordy, I completely forgot about Angel.” Turning, she motioned her to join them. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to exclude you. It’s just that sometimes I get rattling and I completely forget my manners. Have you met Joe yet? No, of course you haven’t,” she retorted, answering her own question with a wry grimace. “You just got into town, didn’t you? This is Joe McBride, my godson. Your movie’s being filmed on his family’s ranch.”

      “Then you must be the one Garrett’s staying with,” Angel told him. Pitying him that, she smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Angel Wiley. Garrett’s costar.”

      Between one heartbeat and the next, the good humor in his eyes turned to ice. His gaze dropped to her extended hand, he hesitated, and for one stunned moment, Angel thought he wasn’t going to shake her hand! Then he gave a curt nod, closed his fingers over hers for a terse shake, and jerked his hand back as if he couldn’t abide the touch of her. Without bothering to say a single word, he turned back to Myrtle. “I hate to interrupt, but I need to load up the bed and get back to the ranch. I’ve got a mare that’s due to foal any day now, and I don’t want to be away from her too long.”

      Myrtle shot him a reproving look that would have made a lesser man grovel in apology, but Joe McBride just stared back at her woodenly and didn’t so much as blink.

      “Well,” she huffed, scowling in disapproval, “if you want to act as if you were raised in a barn, then I’m sure there’s nothing I can do about it.” And dismissing him as easily as he had Angel, she turned her attention back to her guest. “I’m sorry about this, dear, but it looks like I’m going to have to run next door to my shop and take care of a little business. I hope you don’t mind. It’s only going to take a few minutes. If you’d like, you can go upstairs and check out your suite. You might change your mind about staying here once you see it. It’s the first door on the left at the top of the stairs.”

      Taken aback by Joe McBride’s rude dismissal, Angel nodded stiffly. He’d all but cut her dead, she thought in amazement as the cowboy walked out with Myrtle without sparing her so much as a second glance. Her. Angel Wiley! The winner of last year’s People’s Choice Award who was, according to Variety, one of the brightest new stars to come along in Hollywood in years. Not that she read and believed her own press, she quickly amended. But didn’t the man know who she was, for heaven’s sake?

      Of course he did, her bruised ego snapped in her head. He just wasn’t impressed.

      That wasn’t a reaction she was used to.

      She didn’t consider herself a conceited woman, and she certainly didn’t expect male attention as her due. After all, she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous like Jaclyn Smith, and she didn’t have the pouty, sexy beauty of Marilyn Monroe. She was just average, nothing more, like the girl next door.

      Or so she had always thought. But with the release of Heart’s Desire, her first movie, three years ago, men had been making complete fools of themselves over her. She generally only had to smile at one to knock him out of his shoes. And even the more confident ones tended to stumble over their tongues when they got a chance to talk to her.

      Joe McBride had done neither.

      She should have been relieved. She didn’t want any male attention, fawning or otherwise, and if she had any sense, she’d be thanking her guardian angels for making sure that the oh-so-annoying cowboy wasn’t the least bit interested in her.

      Instead, she wanted to throw something at the darn man’s head.

      So he wasn’t a fan, she thought irritably. So what? She wasn’t one of those insecure actresses who needed everyone to love her. People had different tastes—she accepted that. But was a little common courtesy too much to ask for?

      She told herself to forget him and his rudeness. She had too many other problems to spend her time worrying about a long, tall drink of water like Joe McBride. But instead of going upstairs to check out the suite Myrtle had prepared for her, she stepped into the front parlor and moved to a window that overlooked the antique shop next door.

      Joe strode out of Myrtle’s shop just as Angel pulled aside the lace panel that covered the window, and guiltily, she stepped back out of sight. But she needn’t have worried that he’d catch her watching him. He never even looked her way. With Myrtle scurrying along beside him, trying to help, he carried the solid wood antique twin bed and set it in the bed of his pickup as easily as if it weighed no more than a feather. When Myrtle scolded him, he only grinned and gave her a bear hug that completely lifted her off her feet.

      Seeing them together, their faces alight with affection, Angel couldn’t get over the change in the man. Which one was the real Joe McBride? The cold, arrogant one who had barely been civil to her? Or the charming cowboy with the slashing dimples who