The Rebel Rancher. DONNA ALWARD

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      “Miss Ferguson?”

      She was surprised that he persisted in addressing her so formally—to the rest of the family she was just Clara. His sober tone turned her head and she bit down on her lip at the sight of him, his weight on one hip, all well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, the grin no longer in sight. He wore a baseball cap. The curved peak made him seem—for the second time in as many minutes—ridiculously young. She had to stop noticing and simply do her job. It was the most important thing right now, her ticket to a new life. She was saving as much as she could so she could afford her own place. And Ty Diamond wasn’t going to screw that up for her.

      “Did you want to ask me something?”

      He hesitated so long that Clara fought the urge to squirm. The timer on the oven ticked down painfully slowly. Virgil, asleep in his favorite chair in the living room, let out a random snore. It broke the silence, and alleviated a bit of the tension. Clara let out a soft laugh as Virgil snored again and shifted in his chair.

      “Your father always falls asleep during his crossword,” she said quietly. She wasn’t quite sure what to call Virgil in reference to Ty. He was Ty’s adopted dad but also his uncle by blood. And the tension between the two sometimes made her wonder if they even acknowledged each other as relatives at all.

      “He gets tired easily, doesn’t he?”

      She nodded. “The stroke took a lot out of him. He’s made wonderful progress, though. He did great in his physio this morning. Even if it did take a lot of prodding and a fair amount of sass.”

      “From you or from him?” Ty’s eyes seemed to twinkle at her.

      “From him, of course. He’s been irritable lately.” She met his gaze with a look that told him she knew the source of Virgil’s displeasure.

      “That’s probably my fault,” Ty admitted. “He’s changed more than I expected. Sam warned me. About a lot of things.”

      His gaze was steady on her again and the ridiculous fluttering she’d felt at the wedding came dancing back. What had Sam warned him about? That Virgil was more stubborn than ever? That things weren’t exactly calm and peaceful around Diamondback Ranch? Or had he warned Ty of something else—about someone else? A sudden thought struck. Had Ty asked her to dance because he’d been put up to it?

      Each time she thought of that night she regretted it more.

      “I’m just his nurse,” Clara replied, turning away and taking the rolling pin and empty biscuit bowl to the sink.

      “I didn’t realize nurse duties included baking.” He stepped forward and snuck a small bit of raw biscuit dough from the countertop, popping it in his mouth.

      Clara felt a sharp and sudden pain in her heart, watching him sneak the scrap of dough. How many times had she and her brother done that as kids? Bread dough, cookie dough, it hadn’t mattered. Their mother would scold but never yell, saying that she hoped they had children someday who did the same thing and drove them crazy. The memory sent a bitter pang through Clara’s heart. Life had been so uncomplicated then.

      Clara missed her family terribly. She’d followed Jackson to Alberta when he’d claimed he’d make his money in the oil patch and set them up for life. She’d been blind and stupid to leave all the good things behind to chase empty promises. But it was too late to go back home now. How could she possibly explain the changes over the years that had passed? No, the gulf was too wide. Saskatchewan was only a province away but it might as well have been a continent.

      “I like to cook, and it gives Molly more of a chance to get out now and again,” Clara explained. Besides, if she wasn’t here at Diamondback, she was home at Butterfly House, and lately she’d felt more and more dissatisfied with that arrangement. She wanted her own place. Her own space and her own things. She wanted to buy her own groceries and eat on her own schedule and not worry about a set chore list.

      “Did you make the pumpkin bread yesterday?”

      She wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

      “I did, yes.”

      “It was very good.”

      It felt so stilted and practiced, Clara realized. She lifted her chin. At least Ty was making an effort for the first time since the wedding. Maybe they just needed to clear the air and find some common ground. He’d never answered her first question so she repeated it.

      “Is there something you wanted, Ty?”

      The tiny smile threatened to mar the perfection of his lips. She’d called him Ty deliberately and according to his wishes. Maybe if they could move past the Tyson and Miss Ferguson bit it would be more comfortable.

      “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

      He disappeared up the stairs. Clara ran water into the sink, preparing to wash up her dishes. In seconds he was back, holding her shawl in his hands.

      “You dropped this the other night,” he said quietly. “I thought you might want it back.”

      She’d wondered where she’d misplaced it, but was so embarrassed about her quick exit that she hadn’t had the courage to ask Molly if it had been found. She dried her hands on a dishtowel and took it from him, careful not to touch his hands. “Thank you. I wondered where it went.”

      Silence filled the kitchen once more, a quiet of the awkward variety. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she put her dishcloth back in the water and turned to face him. “Was there something else?”

      “I don’t quite know how to say it,” he admitted, then reached up and took off his ball cap. His sable hair was slightly flattened and the band of the cap created a ring around his head.

      “Just spit it out,” she suggested, her tummy doing weird and wonderful things. Tyson Diamond exuded a carelessness that practically shouted bad boy. But most bad boys she’d known growing up had been overconfident and pushy. Not Ty. He was just … there. With his intense eyes and slow swagger. It wasn’t much wonder the women flocked to him. Ty didn’t have to do anything more than breathe. And here she was, hanging on his every word.

      And she knew what it was like to be pressed up against his lean body.

      And why on earth was she thinking such a thing?

      He frowned, jamming his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry for the other night. I upset you and I didn’t mean to.”

      Her lips dropped open. Ty was apologizing? He thought she was mad at him—and she was, she supposed, but only a little bit. She’d been the one to ask him to dance. She’d been the one who’d quite unexpectedly melted in his arms. Yes, he’d gotten quite close and then he’d suggested they get out of there, but he hadn’t truly done anything so very wrong.

      She couldn’t have asked for someone to be gentler with her as they’d danced. He’d tipped up her chin and put himself into her hands, letting her take the lead. It wasn’t his suggestion that had upset her. It was the fact that she’d wanted to take him up on that offer so badly she’d frightened herself. For a brief, heady moment she’d considered taking his hand and letting him lead her away.

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