The Texas Rancher's Family. Cathy Gillen Thacker

a stir.

      And now he had his sights on her. Or on what she could do for him.

      Fortunately for both of them, she wasn’t about to sell the ambitious exec anything he didn’t need and would probably never use.

      With as much kindness as she could muster, Erin informed him, “Contrary to what my competitors would likely tell you, Mr. Wheeler, boots do not make the man. Even here in ranch country.”

      Mac Wheeler lounged against the checkout counter and drawled, “Now, that’s an odd thing to say, given the fact you’re one of the premier custom boot makers in Texas.”

      “But in your case it’s true.” Determined to be honest with him, Erin continued, “New footwear, custom or otherwise, is not going to help you close the deal on the proposed wind farm.” There was too much opposition to it. Plus he had nowhere to situate the three hundred forty-two ridiculously huge and intrusive wind turbines he was proposing.

      So there was no reason for him to be spending several thousand dollars on a pair of boots. Even if the sophisticated business clothing he wore now indicated he could well afford it.

      Mac lifted a brow in surprise. Thus far, people had been politely listening to his suggestions. Even as they privately pooh-poohed his venture.

      “This is oil and gas country,” Erin explained. “Ranchers don’t want miles of power-generating windmills scaring their cattle and horses, and cluttering up the landscape.”

      Mac straightened to his full height, thoroughly dwarfing her own five-foot-six-inch frame. “They’ll change their minds once I have a chance to present my proposal to the Laramie County commissioners later this month.” His voice dropped a persuasive notch. “And when I do that, I’ll need to fit in.”

      Erin picked up a stack of new shirts and carried them over to the shelves in the center of the hundred-year-old clothing store, Monroe’s Western Wear. Her skin tingled as he fell into step behind her. She wished Mac didn’t smell so invigoratingly good, so woodsy and male.

      “I understand wanting to connect with the people here, Mr. Wheeler.” It was only natural. No one wanted to feel like an outsider. She turned to look him in the eye, and felt another disturbing jolt of awareness. “But dressing as what would likely be perceived as a ‘drugstore cowboy’ is not going to accomplish that for you.”

      If anything, it would make his discomfort with the locals worse.

      Mac’s brows knitted together in consternation. “I thought Monroe’s sold only authentic Western wear.”

      “That’s true.” Their business sold everything a roper, wrangler or rider needed.

      His curious glance took in the floor-to-ceiling shelves of denim that lined the entire back wall. “Then how could I wear anything you sell and not look like a genuine Texan?”

      Aware that several ladies shopping nearby were listening intently, Erin propped her hands on her hips and looked him up and down. “You really want me to answer that?”

      Sheer male confidence radiated from him as he stepped closer. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” he retorted in the same low, droll tone.

      Erin ignored the heat emanating from his tall, muscular frame. “Look—” she stepped back, until her spine came in contact with the nearby shelving “—I could put you in a pair of Wrangler jeans—”

      Mac’s confused frown deepened. “Don’t you mean Levi’s?”

      What a gringo! Erin shook her head at his ignorance, explaining, “Wranglers have the heavier rolled seam on the outside of the legs. Levi’s puts it on the inside. If you’re a real cowboy and you’re sitting in the saddle, you want the heavier seam where it’s not likely to rub.”

      He seemed momentarily taken aback, apparently realizing that on his own he was likely to end up outfitted like a dude from the city instead of the real thing. “Oh.”

      Erin lifted a staying hand. “Not that I expect you to be in the saddle anytime soon,” she quipped.

      Amusement glimmered in his eyes. “You don’t think I can ride?”

      Could he? Erin tilted her head. He was fit and athletic. Broad-shouldered and powerful-looking, with big, capable hands. In fact, now that she thought about it, if he lost the ultra-sophisticated wool suit, starched shirt and tie, and traded in the wing tips for boots, he would look like he belonged out on the range, instead of behind a desk.

      But he wasn’t wearing jeans now.

      And he hadn’t been—from all reports—on his first two trips to town, either.

      Whether he knew it or not, that sort of sealed his fate.

      The local constituency had decided who—and what—he was. And that meant they wouldn’t trust him to solve their highly problematic shortage of electricity.

      “No,” Erin said finally, aware that he was still waiting for her response. “Although you’re a heck of a determined businessperson, I don’t think you can ride a horse.”

      A slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You might be wrong about that,” he taunted softly.

      Aware that she hadn’t been so captivated by a man in ages, Erin widened her eyes. “Am I, now?” she goaded right back.

      His grin widened. “You’d have to agree to make me a pair of custom boots to find out.”

      “As I told you on the phone earlier, you’re going to need to make an appointment for that.”

      He nodded, repeating dutifully, “And the first appointment is in six months.”

      “Correct. But if you like,” Erin conceded, “my brother, Nicholas, could sell you off-the-rack whatever you think you need, including a pair of ready-made boots.”

      Nicholas waved from behind the counter. Mac acknowledged the sixteen-year-old with a genial nod, then turned back to her. “But you don’t recommend I start dressing like a West Texan, do you?”

      She wouldn’t lie. “If there’s one thing the residents of Laramie County want,” she advised kindly, “it’s a person to be genuine. They won’t see anything honorable in pretending to be something you’re not.”

      Mac rubbed his closely shaved jaw and peered at her. “So you really think I’d be better off talking to people as a misplaced Yankee in a suit?”

      Erin stood her ground. “Don’t you?”

      A contemplative silence fell between them.

      “As I’m sure you’ve heard, that hasn’t been working so far,” Mac said ruefully.

      People had been polite, Erin knew, but not at all on board with what he was trying to sell.

      She squinted. “So your plan is...”

      He shrugged. “To do what I always do and try and ‘speak the language’ of whatever region I find myself in. And right now, experience tells me I won’t ever be successful around here unless I can ‘speak Texan.’”

      One of the eavesdropping customers hurried on over. “Then you’ll be needing one of these.” She placed a Texas dictionary in his hand. The semihumorous tome was filled with Lone Star State vernacular.

      “Thanks.” Mac smiled.

      “Maybe a hat,” another woman said eagerly, joining the conversation.

      Her shopping buddy agreed. “Something dressy that would go with a suit.”

      Erin tried to picture Mac in a Stetson or Resistol, and realized he would be sexy as all get-out in either.

      “You can wear boots with a suit, too,” another shopper pointed out.

      Mac turned back to Erin. Smiled. Suddenly, at least a few of the locals were on his side. Of