Winning Over the Wrangler. Linda Ford

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      How mortifying to be pressed so intimately close to a complete stranger. A big, strong, deep-voiced stranger. Sybil had struggled with trying to decide if she should swoon or fight, when in truth she didn’t care to do either. What she’d been tempted to do was so strange, so foreign, she wondered if she’d momentarily taken leave of her senses. She wanted to look into his face and memorize every detail.

      Surely her reactions were confused because of the thudding stampede of horses she felt certain would run over her.

      She and Mercy had joined the cowboys crowded against the heavy rail fence cheering for the man riding the wild horse. She hadn’t felt like cheering. Instead, she’d shuddered as the animal bucked and twisted and snorted in an attempt to dislodge the man on his back. How did he stay glued to the saddle? And didn’t all that jolting hurt every bone in his body? Here was a man who thrived on danger. Yet, as she watched him clinging to the back of the wild horse, something tickled her insides. Excitement? Fear? Admiration? She couldn’t find words to describe it. And she fancied herself a writer!

      The horse had stopped bucking and stood quivering as the big man brushed his hand along its neck and murmured words she couldn’t hear, but that stirred her deep inside.

      Then a crack as loud as a gunshot had jolted through the air.

      A dozen horses had crowded against a split gate. It swayed and then crashed to the ground. The sound of hoofbeats thundered. Frightened horses squealed. The animals were a blur of wild eyes and flying manes.

      Sybil had taken a step back, her mouth dry. The noise boomed inside her chest. Dust clogged her nostrils. Uncertain which way to flee, she’d frozen in fear at the melee.

      And then she’d been swept off her feet. Rescued from the screaming horses.

      No wonder her heart thudded as if she’d run a mile, and she couldn’t look away from his face.

      But she could not avoid the truth about how unusual her reaction had been, nor could she face the others until she had herself under control. As soon as she reached the big ranch house she excused herself to go to the room down the hall from the kitchen.

      Life in the West was certainly different from the one she’d known back in England.

      At the thought of where she’d come from, her tension returned. She sat on the edge of her bed and pressed cool fingers to her hot cheeks. Of course she was upset. Her fear had immobilized her. She would have been trampled to death if the bronc buster hadn’t swept her off her feet and pressed her to his chest.

      A very broad, comforting chest.

      Sybil, stop it. It doesn’t matter if the chest was broad or fat or sweaty or...

      But it wasn’t. He smelled of leather and horses and wild grass. A very pleasing blend of aromas.

      That doesn’t matter. He means nothing to you and will mean nothing to you. Besides, didn’t Eddie say the man would stay only long enough to break some horses? And hadn’t Eddie further said the man gave no last name?

      Quite the sort of fellow any woman would do well to avoid.

      Not that Sybil Bannerman had any intention of doing otherwise. In her twenty years, she’d had her fill of people being snatched from her life or simply leaving of their own will, breaking off pieces of her heart in the process.

      She bent over her knees as painful memories assailed her.

      At only twelve years of age, Suzette, her dearest friend in the whole world, had drowned, leaving Sybil, also twelve at the time, lost, afraid and missing a very large portion of her heart.

      She’d recovered enough at age sixteen to give her heart to Colin, the preacher’s son. They’d spent hours talking of their hopes and plans, and dreaming of a future together. She’d finally found a soul mate to replace Suzette. She had opened her heart to Colin, expecting his attention to grow into a formal courtship. She even dreamed of the frothy white dress she’d wear at their wedding, and considered where they might live. For the first time since Suzette’s death she’d felt whole and eager to share her thoughts and dreams.

      No one had warned her it was temporary. Colin had never hinted that he’d changed his mind about how he felt about her, but a year after they met he left without a word of explanation. He never wrote or made any effort to keep in touch.

      Another slice of her heart was cut off.

      Losing her parents to fever a year and a half ago, within a few weeks of each other, had been the final blow.

      From now on, she vowed, she would guard her heart, though she had very little of it left.

      She sat up. Why was she having this argument with herself? It wasn’t as if being rescued by Brand meant anything. As he said, he was simply in the right place at the right time. It made sense that she would feel some type of bond with a man who saved her life. But that’s all it was.

      Intending to calm herself, she pulled a notebook to her lap, just as Mercy rapped on the door and entered, without waiting for an invitation to do so.

      Mercy nodded at the journal. “I’m guessing you’re writing all about that handsome cowboy.”

      Her friends knew she made short notes about each day in her diary. They would never believe she wrote for publication. She’d never told them. Most people she knew didn’t think a young woman should have her name mentioned in such a public way.

      She didn’t mind that as much as knowing most people didn’t think a young woman would have anything of value or interest to say. That had been the comment of the only editor she’d been brave enough to speak to, a couple years back.

      But surely Mercy would understand. She didn’t share the same sense of outrage at women doing different things.

      Sybil retrieved papers she’d secreted away earlier. “I’m writing a story.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “Do you remember reading that article written by Ellis West? You know. The one that described the ship’s captain from our journey here.”

      Mercy laughed. “He really made us see the pompous man.”

      “I’m Ellis West.”

      Mercy snorted. “Ellis West is a man.”

      “No. It’s a pseudonym I use.”

      Her friend’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Are you sure?”

      Sybil laughed. “Of course I’m sure. Why do you find it so hard to accept?” Was she wrong in thinking Mercy would understand?

      “You?” Mercy shook her head. “It just seems so out of character.”

      “Look at this if you don’t believe me.” She held out her notes for an article about the life of a cowboy.

      Mercy read them through. “You wrote this?”

      Sybil sighed. “What does it take to convince you? Remember Mrs. Page on the boat? She’s secretary to the editor of a newspaper back East. She saw me writing СКАЧАТЬ