Nevada Cowboy Dad. Dorsey Kelley

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СКАЧАТЬ her chin-length hair straight and plain, with ebony strands that now blew in the slight breeze.

      She’s awful damn pretty. The errant thought came to Rusty out of nowhere, as did images he hadn’t replayed in years. He remembered big, frightened green eyes that seemed to see everything, and ragged-cut hair, dark and tattered as old black silk. He remembered her forlorn expression.

      He didn’t remember pretty.

      “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” she said, and twisted to face him.

      Her hands clutched the car’s streamlined window frame and he noticed she wore a severe gray suit with heels. Her body was slim, with every curve a man liked to see. Little Lucy had become a woman.

      “Uh,” she said, “it has been a long time. Fifteen years since I’ve been here.”

      “Since the divorce,” Rusty said, dismounting. “Our parents must have had the shortest marriage on record.” Six months, to be exact, Rusty remembered silently, before Lucy’s mother decided she didn’t like country living—and didn’t like the rancher with whom she’d exchanged vows. She’d packed up her car, her annoying little lap dog and Lucy.

      “How is your mother?” he asked. Best to get the formalities over with.

      “Living abroad,” she answered curtly. “Remarried. A shipping magnate this time, I think.”

      “You don’t talk to her much, then?”

      She shrugged, but under her calm, he could feel her emotions. Lucy and her mom weren’t cut from the same cloth; he knew that from way back.

      Not that it mattered to him. None of his business.

      He saw her glance over the sprawling two-story house, the white-painted outbuildings of barns, sheds and bunkhouse. His gaze followed hers, seeing what she saw, and he winced. How evident was the peeling paint? How obvious the overgrown weeds, the half-broken fence posts?

      “It’s the same,” she whispered, though her words drifted to him on the cold breeze. “Nothing’s changed. Nothing.”

      “That bad, huh?” His jaw clenched.

      “No.” For the first time she fixed her gaze fully on his. “It’s wonderful. I feel like...like I’m home.”

      The direct impact of her emerald eyes hit him with far more force than was right. A memory of the tiny urchin she’d been, crouched in the old oak tree in the meadow, came streaming into his consciousness. At fifteen, he’d been more concerned with his horses, his friends and the sassy neighbor girl than the mousy kid his new stepmother had brought to the ranch.

      Up in the oak, Lucy had been crying; Rusty had seen the tear tracks on her pale cheeks. He’d tried to coax her down, but she’d shaken her head.

      So he’d climbed.

      Since he’d already learned she spoke in nothing but monosyllables, he didn’t question her. They merely sat together, a fifteen-year-old boy and a ten-year-old girl, watching the sun cast swaths of amber and gold over the cottonwoods in the meadow. They probably clung to that big branch together for an hour, wordless, until darkness transformed the sun’s golden streaks to cobalt and then to black.

      When the first stars winked into existence she let him help her down. He put her behind his saddle and rode with her to the house. On the ground, she’d looked up at him with those incredible eyes and he’d seen her chin tremble. He’d smiled at her and tousled her hair. She’d given him a shy, tremulous smile in return. It was the first and only expression of happiness he’d ever seen in her, a spark of joy in an otherwise wan countenance.

      Now Rusty shook his head, impatient again, but this time with himself. He had no time for reminiscing.

      “Come to the house,” he said more abruptly than he’d meant to. “Fritzy can make coffee.” Fritzy—the family’s always-smiling housekeeper—had been with the Sheffields for twenty years.

      He called out, and a youth appeared from the barn to take his horse. Down at the branding chutes, men were working cattle, roping them one by one and applying the hot Lazy S brand. Turning back to Lucy, he asked, “You want to stay the night, don’t you? I expect it’s too far to drive back. Got any luggage?”

      Taking careful steps in her heeled shoes, she came out from her hiding place and opened the trunk. “Yes, it’s here.”

      Bending down, she went to grasp her tweed suitcase when he quickly reached out, saying, “I’ll get it,” and bumped her shoulder.

      She gasped—a startled big-eyed doe.

      Rusty frowned, wondering what had gotten into her. Why was she so skittish? After all, he was the one with the right to be nervous, not her. She was going to get what she wanted. He would be the loser.

      Still, he didn’t like the way she flinched from him, as if he’d done something wrong or was contemplating it. The idea offended him; he’d never harmed a woman in his life or even wanted to.

      He must have scowled because she mumbled, “Sorry.”

      “No apology needed.” Shaking his head, he hefted her large suitcase from the trunk.

      “Thank you,” she said in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper. Her slim fingers curled beneath her chin now, her eyes lowered to screen her expression. But the flash of what he’d seen there disturbed him. Rusty didn’t know what turns her life had taken, but one thing was certain. Lucy Donovan hid many secrets.

      

      Lucy trailed Rusty Sheffield into the house, berating herself for jumping like a frightened rabbit when he’d only wanted to help her carry the suitcase.

      But she didn’t like men who took over a situation like they’d been voted boss. She was uncomfortable around aggressive, overtly masculine men.

      Somehow she hadn’t been prepared for the incredibly handsome, overwhelming maleness Rusty exuded. Formerly auburn, his hair had darkened nearly to brown. At least, she thought so from what she could see of it under his hat. No longer a gawky youth, the man had grown to over six feet tall. Beneath his yoked Western shirt his chest was brawny, his arms, revealed by his rolled-up sleeves, were thick with muscle. His thighs were powerful, his waist narrow. He even smelled good, like fresh-turned earth and high-mountain winds.

      Oh, she noticed everything about him, cataloged the changes that maturation had wrought. And it seemed to Lucy that everything about him was too much. He was too big, too observant, too handsome, too... well, manly.

      Rusty Sheffield made her edgy.

      She wished she were completely composed, a woman with confidence and style and sophistication. But miserably she knew she’d never done anything meaningful in her life. The counselor she’d seen had told her that confidence was developed when someone worked hard at a task or skill and became proficient at it. She had recommended Lucy learn a profession, or go to college and earn a degree, perhaps start a business.

      Coward that she was, she’d done nothing of the kind.

      Still, she did have one goal. A goal that for once she intended to reach.

      If СКАЧАТЬ