A Marriage By Chance. Carolyn Davidson

beside his own, and measured the contrast, hers narrow, tanned, yet feminine, his own broad and scarred from numerous encounters. One slash, from a broken bottle swung in his direction, had merited a line of stitches. Another pale nick told of a knife blade that he’d barely escaped.

      She lifted her hand, and her index finger lightly traced the raised scar, its ragged edges pale against his bronzed skin. “You’ve been pretty battered in your time, haven’t you, cowboy?”

      “Never had anybody like you around to mend my bruises,” he said with a grin. “Old Lowery doesn’t know how lucky he is.” And then his mouth firmed. “I’m not a cowboy. Maybe a sometimes gambler, and I’ve spent my share of time on the range, riding herd when I needed a grubstake. But never a cowboy.” Spoken aloud, he gave the word a distasteful sound.

      “Didn’t mean to insult you,” she said. “I just figured you’ve been riding for someone, somewhere, to come up with the usual assortment of scars a man collects.”

      His look was long, and she glanced aside. “How much do you need?” he repeated.

      “I told you. Enough for a couple loads of hay.” Her hand lifted to rest atop her thigh, and he mourned its absence. He’d enjoyed its presence, basked in the warmth of soft flesh against his callused skin, there for a moment.

      “Seems like a pity to sell off a steer that doesn’t have enough weight on him to bring a good price.”

      “Think I don’t know that?” Her words were sharp-spoken. “We all do what we have to, Flannery.”

      “Well, you don’t have to raise money that way, Chloe. I’ll spring for the hay, and we’ll settle up later. I’ve got a bit of cash on hand.”

      Her lips compressed as she concentrated on the young beef cattle before her. “I’ll set up a page in my record book,” she answered grudgingly. “I won’t cheat you.”

      He nodded. “Another thing, Chloe.” Silently, he waited for her to respond.

      She sighed and turned her head, offering him a patient look from blue eyes. “What now?”

      “I’m not real fond of Willie-boy.”

      “He’s all right,” she said after a moment. “Young and a little arrogant, but his mama needs the money his pay brings in.”

      “He’ll either stop looking you over like you’re on display for his benefit, or he’ll be looking for another place to work.”

      “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

      His laugh was harsh. “Either you’re more innocent than I thought, or—”

      “I’m not a child, Flannery. I can handle Willie.” She eased down from the fence and tugged her pant legs in place over her boots. “If that’s all for now, I’ve got a meal to put together before I hitch the wagon and pick up my hay.”

      “You get the meal together and I’ll hitch the wagon,” he countered smoothly. “If I’m paying for the hay, I want to see it first.” She stalked away and he watched her, admired the rounding of her hips beneath the denim pants, and privately agreed with Willie that she was, indeed, a good-looking female.

      “I’ve been thinking,” Chloe said, watching as J.T. picked up the reins. The horses moved out at his bidding and she half turned to face him. “Maybe we need to hammer out an agreement.”

      “Thought we’d already made some progress at that,” he said, lifting one booted foot to rest against the frame of the wagon. His trousers were snug, outlining his thigh, and Chloe tore her gaze from the sight.

      “Hogan’s a good man. I want you to leave him in charge.”

      He nodded. “All right. Up to a point.”

      “A point?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”

      “He’ll carry out my orders, and see that the men do as they’re told.”

      “What about my orders?” she wanted to know. “I’m in the habit of meeting with Hogan every day, keeping up with things. Lots of days I ride with the men, work alongside them.”

      “Not anymore,” he said shortly. “You’ve branded your last calf, lady. I caught sight of a scar on your hand that shouldn’t be there.”

      She turned her hand over and examined it briefly. “I’ve got several. It comes with the job.” She outlined one that formed a neatly imprinted B on her palm. “I did this when I was sixteen. The first time Pa let me help in spring roundup.”

      “You won’t wear another brand like that,” he said harshly. “You’re a woman, not a cowhand.”

      “I’m a ranch owner,” she reminded him. “I won’t be treated like a fragile flower, Flannery. I can get banged up just as easily in the kitchen.” Her hand lifted to press against her stomach, and his eyes followed the gesture.

      “Did you blister?” he asked quietly. “I didn’t think the coffee had drenched your shirt. Was I wrong?”

      Chloe shook her head. “Just left a red spot. Nothing to talk about.” She rolled her fingers into a fist and rested it on her knee. “When Aunt Tilly comes back, I’ll be free to work outside all day, instead of just piecemeal.”

      His jaw tightened as she watched. “There’s some of the work I’d rather you didn’t tackle,” he said. “I expect you’re good at training horses, and that’s one thing. Now, roping steers is another thing altogether.”

      “I’ll bet you’ve got in mind letting me keep the books, haven’t you?” Her words oozed sarcasm as she thought about being penned up in the big office, adding and subtracting lines of numbers and, more often than not, coming out short. At least, that had been the situation for the past months.

      “Maybe,” he said easily, ignoring her tone. “We’ll go over them together,” he told her. “Then decide from there.”

      “There’s not much to decide on, right now,” she admitted unwillingly. “You might as well know the whole story, partner. There aren’t any funds available. My brother cleaned out the bank account when he left town. We’ll be operating on the cuff until fall roundup.”

      “I figured as much,” he said, lifting the reins to crack them with a sharp sound, sending the team into a quick trot. The harness jangled and the wagon wheels rode roughly over the rutted town road. Chloe grabbed the side of the seat, holding herself in place.

      “Peter’s young,” she said quietly. “Maybe too young for the pressure I put him under, trying to make him into a man.”

      “How old is he?” He turned a harsh look in her direction. “I’d thought you were pretty close in age.”

      “We’re twins,” she said shortly. “Twenty-two our last birthday.”

      “And he’s young, but you’re not?” Skepticism coated the words.

      “He didn’t take well to responsibility,” Chloe said quietly. “Ranching wasn’t his first choice.”

      “What was?”

      She was silent, weighing her words. And then she laughed, a humorless sound. “Let’s just say that anything involving hard work didn’t come easily to Peter. He might have done well if Pa had sent him East to school and he’d been able to learn a profession.”

      “Bankers and lawyers work hard, Chloe,” J.T. reminded her. “There isn’t a job in the world that doesn’t take some elbow grease of one kind or another to accomplish. I think you’ve been protecting Pete long enough. You need to take a long look at him and recognize his faults.”

      “His name is Peter. And I’m aware of his faults, thank you.” She sat upright, forsaking her relaxed stance on the seat.

      “A man his age should have outgrown