Abbie And The Cowboy. Cathie Linz

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      “He used to come into the library a lot. We’d talk about books and artists. Over the years, he became a friend. When I moved up here, I took pity on his neighbors in Great Falls, who were forever calling the authorities on him for using his saw at seven in the morning. I figured there would be enough space here on the ranch for him to be able to work in peace and quiet.”

      “I have a feeling peace and quiet don’t go hand in hand with Ziggy.”

      “How about you? Does peace and quiet go hand in hand with you?”

      “Sometimes.”

      “When you’re sleeping, right?”

      The image of her curled up asleep filled his mind, stealing into his soul. Did she sleep on her side or her back? And what did she wear to bed—a slinky nightgown, a cotton sleep shirt or maybe nothing at all?

      “I usually make it a point to avoid trouble,” Dylan said, as much as a reminder to himself as a reply to her.

      “And how do you manage that?”

      “By moving around a lot.”

      It was the answer she expected but not the one she wanted.

      

      Coming around the corner of the barn and seeing the ranch for the first time never failed to touch Abigail’s heart. Others might notice the weather-beaten smallness of the three-bedroom log house. They might see the work that needed to be done: the sagging gutters, the neglected yard, the slightly off kilter chimney. Even the porch swing hung unevenly and needed a new coat of paint.

      But Abigail saw home. She had always loved the location of her uncle’s ranch, which had an even better view of the surrounding mountains than her parents’ ranch had had. A hillside rose directly behind it, with two tall fir trees standing sentinel atop it. In the evening, she’d climb the path up the hill and sit there, smelling the evergreen mixed with wood smoke from the cabin. Lower down, the aspens’ pale bark glowed in the sunshine. The hill protected the house from the fierce northern winds, while the front porch had a southern exposure.

      She and Dylan had unsaddled their horses without any further comment. Dylan had been as familiar with the layout of the barn as she was. And she’d discovered that his horse, an Appaloosa gelding, was aptly named Traveler.

      Her thoughts of Dylan and his traveling ways were interrupted by the realization that they had company. An oversize man sat on his much besieged horse, glaring at Abigail’s friend, Raj. The young woman was glaring right back.

      “What are you doing here, Mr. Redkins?” Abigail inquired.

      “Like I was telling your servant there—”

      “Raj is my friend, not my servant,” Abigail declared.

      “Whatever. I’m here to see if you’ve decided to accept my offer to take this place off your hands,” Hoss said, shifting in his saddle.

      “And I told you that I’m not interested in selling,” Abigail stated.

      “I thought you might have changed your mind.”

      “Now, why would you think that?” Abigail demanded.

      “Yeah, why would you think that?” Dylan drawled, speaking for the first time.

      Instead of answering, Hoss said, “What are you doing here, boy? I heard you busted your leg in some rodeo down in Oklahoma. Come to loaf the summer off old man Turner, have you? Must have been a surprise to hear he’d kicked the bucket.”

      “Still as charming as ever, I see, Redkins,” Dylan retorted.

      “Is this man bothering you?” Hoss demanded of Abigail, his face florid as he glared at Dylan.

      “No, but you are,” she muttered under her breath.

      “What was that?” Hoss asked.

      “I said that Dylan is not bothering me. He’s…”

      “Come to help her,” Dylan inserted.

      “Hah!” Hoss scoffed. “You’ve come to mooch off a helpless woman, more likely. Dylan here has a reputation where ladies are concerned,” Hoss informed Abigail. “He’s got a string of buckle bunnies from Oklahoma City to Calgary. ‘Course that was before he busted his leg.”

      The feel of Abigail’s hand on Dylan’s arm stopped him from hauling Hoss off his horse and stuffing his head in the nearest pile of horse manure.

      “Dylan is a friend of my uncle’s and he’s welcome here,” Abigail emphatically stated.

      “I’ve just signed on as the ranch foreman,” Dylan added for Hoss’s benefit.

      Hoss frowned at this news. “Why would you want to do that? I’ve never known you to stick around in one place very long. A job like this doesn’t sound like something you’d want to get involved with.”

      It was one thing for Dylan not to want this job, but it was something else entirely for Hoss to try to tell him the job wasn’t for him. No one told Dylan how to live his life, and he didn’t tell others how to live theirs.

      “What do you know about running a ranch?” Hoss was now demanding of Abigail. “Why, I heard you write them trashy romance novels—”

      “You heard wrong,” Abigail angrily interrupted. “I write damn good historical romance novels! There’s nothing trashy about them! Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about my neighbors,” she said with a pointed look in Hoss’s direction.

      Much affronted, Hoss declared, “I don’t write trashy romance novels!”

      Abigail sighed. Her verbal insult had clearly sailed right over the man’s ten-gallon-size head.

      “Why don’t you head on home, Redkins, now that you’ve dazzled Ms. Turner here with your charm and intellect.”

      “Why don’t you mind your own damn business?” Hoss retorted. “What’s it to you how long I chat with the lady here?”

      “The lady here has asked you to leave her property,” Dylan reminded Hoss, his eyes taking on a dangerous glitter.

      “And what you gonna do if I don’t leave?” Hoss taunted him. “You gonna throw me off with that busted leg of yours?”

      “Don’t tempt me,” Dylan replied, his voice all the more dangerous for its softness.

      “You and what army?”

      “That does it…” Dylan growled, shaking off Abigail’s arm and heading straight for Hoss with murder in his eyes.

       Three

      Fearing the worst, Abigail exclaimed, “Dylan, don’t!”

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