Rodeo Family. Mary Sullivan

minutes!

      Zach wasn’t prone to blushing, but heat traveled up his chest and into his cheeks for the second time that morning. He hadn’t meant to be rude. Well, not this rude. Nor did he like people watching him while he painted.

      The act of painting was a deeply private enterprise for him. He made only the finished product available for public consumption. But he had, in effect, invited her to look for him back here by abandoning her in the yard and expecting her to follow him to the stable.

      Then he’d forgotten himself enough to start to paint. What would she write about it?

       Funny, the guy seemed to go into a trance while he left me waiting to interview him. Rudeness must be Zachary Brandt’s middle name.

      Would Nadine say things like that about him? Maybe. Maybe not. He might think he knew her, but what he knew was an old version of her. That Nadine might well be obsolete by now.

      She didn’t look put out. She looked curious, avidly drinking in the details of the room. She stepped forward and studied the work in progress while Zach held his breath.

      Though his paintings might be so personal that he didn’t care what people thought of them, Nadine’s opinion mattered.

      “It’s magnificent,” she said, and he believed she meant it. She wasn’t just buttering him up to get a better article out of him.

      The warm feelings flooding his veins disconcerted him. He stood abruptly. “Let’s go,” he said and left his studio, judging that she’d follow him this time.

      In the larger room with the horses, he asked, “Do you ride?”

      “Yes. Why?”

      “We could ride out on the land while we talk.”

      “You mean, while you talk and I listen. This is an interview, Zack, not a conversation.”

      He glanced at her dress. “I guess we won’t be riding today unless you want to borrow some of my clothes.”

      “They wouldn’t fit.”

      “Why did you come out to a ranch dressed like that?”

      “Because I’m here as a professional.”

      “Wouldn’t a professional dress appropriately for the situation?”

      By the displeasure on her face, he knew his barb had hit home.

      “You wanted to avoid getting out on the land, didn’t you? Why?”

      * * *

      ZACH SCARED NADINE.

      No, that wasn’t quite right. He intimidated her. He saw too much. His question was fair.

      He had hit the nail on the head, exposing and smashing the arguments she’d used for why she hadn’t worn pants and a simple shirt today. A pro would dress for the situation and the terrain. She had tried to keep control of the interview by not wearing practical clothing.

      She’d thought she could get away with photographing him and interviewing him only in his studio by wearing a dress. The boots she’d thrown into the trunk had been an afterthought.

      That’s not all, Nadine. As much as she knew her readers would love to know more about Zach, she didn’t want to get anywhere near him. She’d worn her professional outfit as a shield.

      The resounding answer to his question was—drumroll, please—that she wanted Zach to see her only one way: as a professional and not as a woman.

      Given what she was about to put him through in the course of writing this article, she didn’t welcome her attraction to him. She wouldn’t welcome his attraction to her. If there was any. She thought there used to be, but that was a long time ago, in a different life.

      In New York City, she’d learned a lot about makeup and good clothing and putting her best foot forward. Plenty of men had found her attractive. The men of New York liked this version of her.

      But Zach...it was like he saw through her and that unsettled her, even as she reasoned that there was nothing to see through. In New York, she had simply learned to be a far, far better version of herself. Her thoughts, her emotions, her justifications for any and all decisions in her life were hers and hers alone. They were none of his business.

      Still, he waited with that unnerving stare.

      Let’s keep things light and on the surface, she thought.

      On the other hand, wasn’t she here to get to know him better? Wasn’t the point of her interview to find out as much as she could about the man?

      Zach had never been the kind of person to give much of himself away. Even in high school, he’d been intensely private. And though they’d grown up in the same town, and they both lived here now, he remained a mystery.

      Who was Zach Brandt?

      Oh, well, what she couldn’t get from him, she would get from others. She would talk to his buddies in town. She would interview his father.

      Nadine always got her story.

      “Okay, we can’t ride today,” Zach said, ignoring the fact that she hadn’t answered his question about going out on the land. “We’ll go for a walk.”

      He obviously assumed she would do anything he wanted.

      “You didn’t dress for riding,” he continued, “but you will the next time you come out.”

      The next time? Yes, of course, there would be a next time. She couldn’t get everything she needed in one visit. If only she could and then never have to face Zach again.

       Detach, Nadine. Detach.

      While maintaining objectivity might be a normal part of journalism, it had never felt more important than today. She built her barriers brick by brick.

      “Do you ride well?” he asked.

      “Not well, but I can ride enough to see some of the land.”

      “Okay, one of the things we’ll do in this whole interview process is to get out there together on horseback.”

      “Do we have to? Why can’t we just talk?”

      A corner of Zach’s mouth kicked up. “Do I seem like much of a talker to you?”

      A laugh burst out of her. “No.”

      “Exactly.”

      She liked this self-aware joking side of the man.

      One by one, Zach led his horses out of the stable and into a corral along the side of the building. Nadine followed him out of the barn to watch them prance in the sun. Thank goodness it wasn’t raining. She felt more comfortable with Zach in the outdoors than in a confined space like the stable, and especially that small studio, even if it was best to do the interview there and concentrate only on his artwork. The man was too big and too warm.

      He stood with the easy, loose-hipped grace of a man comfortable in his own body. And what a body it was—lean but strong, and muscled in all the right places. His dark hair curled over his collar. It had fallen forward across his forehead while he painted.

      She’d caught a rare glimpse of an unguarded moment. He’d been focused and contained and lost somewhere deep inside. Still waters had never run so deeply.

      She opened the bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out her small voice recorder. “I have to warn you that I’m going to record the interview.”

      He frowned at the device, eyes piercing.

      “What’s wrong?” she asked. Did he think she had a perfect memory? All journalists used some kind of recording method.

      He kept staring at it.

      “I can’t remember everything and it’s hard to take