The Cowboy's Reluctant Bride. Debra Cowan

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      The doorknob rattled, and Ivy’s mouth went dry. Even so, she marched to the locked door and yelled, “Who’s there?”

      A muffled masculine voice answered. With the crashing of the storm, Ivy couldn’t understand a word.

      Thumbing down the hammer on her revolver, she unlatched the door. Before she could swing it open, the wind nearly jerked it out of her hand. She aimed her gun at the visitor, barely aware of the door slamming against the wall.

      A giant of a man stood there, hands in the air. In the wind-whipped shadows, she could see only the impression of a hard jaw and glittering eyes beneath the hat pulled low on his head.

      Lightning slashed across the sky of churning gunmetal clouds, illuminating a scar on the man’s neck.

      “Are you going to pull a gun on me every time we meet up?”

      Ivy tensed. She knew that voice. It was deep and gravelly and put a flutter in her stomach. Just like it had the first time she’d seen him in her brother’s barn three months ago. That meeting had been at gunpoint, too.

      The man towered over her, water dribbling from the brim of his hat onto the porch. The clouds moved, and she peered through the shadows. “Gideon Black?”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He slowly lowered his hands.

      “What are you doing here?”

      “Smith sent me.” He had done prison time with Ivy’s brother. And after his release, he had accepted Smith’s offer of work and arrived at the Diamond J just before Christmas. Ivy had met him when she returned home after learning her presumed-dead brother was alive and back in Mimosa Springs.

      Gideon Black had sparked an unwelcome response in her back then. He still did.

      The rain ebbed to a steady shower, though the wind still tangled her skirts around her legs. He had to be soaked to the bone. Releasing the hammer, she stepped back so he could enter. “Come inside.”

      “Miz Powell, I’ve been riding for two days and I ain’t—” He stopped, then started again. “I haven’t washed up.”

      “I’d say you just had a pretty good washing,” she said wryly, pushing some loose strands of hair out of her face. “I’ll get some toweling.”

      She was halfway across the front room before she realized Gideon Black hadn’t followed her inside. She turned, noticing that his frame took up the entire doorway. Hat in hand, he frowned down at his mud-caked boots with a helpless look on his face. Was he worried about making a mess?

      “Mr. Black, it’s all right.”

      His gaze flicked over her. For a brief moment, his expression was...hungry. Then his features were unreadable.

      She gave an encouraging smile. “Come in. The mud will dry, and when it does, I’ll sweep it up.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He finally stepped inside.

      She went to the spare room reserved for stage passengers to rest or wash up. Why hadn’t Smith come? Or their father? At Christmas, her brother had demanded that Ivy notify him if the anonymous poems and drawings she’d been receiving became suspicious or more frequent. They had. They had also turned threatening. At least to her way of thinking. Other things had happened, too. One of the horses had been killed, and her dog was missing.

      From the wardrobe, she grabbed several towels, returning to find that Gideon had removed his poncho. He leaned against the door frame, taking off his boots. He put them upside down on the boot tree, just inside the door.

      Something about this big man in his stocking feet put a funny ache in her chest.

      He shook the rain off his hat then backed inside and shut the door. His shoulders were as wide as a wagon brace. He hung his hat on a peg near the door.

      Ivy’s gaze trailed over him. Short dark hair sleeked against his head, a few strands curling against his bronzed nape. His shirt was damp and the fabric clung to his muscular back and arms, revealing clearly defined shoulders and biceps. Buff-colored trousers molded a tight backside and powerful thighs. The pants were mostly dry, probably coated with tallow for weather like this.

      He turned to face her, and her gaze snapped to his and held. There was a heat in his blue eyes that burned right through her.

      Then his attention shifted, moving down her body.

      She tensed. What was he looking at?

      “Miz Powell, do you think you could put that Colt down?”

      “Oh. Yes.” She wished he wouldn’t call her by her married name. She slid the gun into her skirt pocket.

      She handed over two towels because of his size. He stayed near the door, rubbing his hair and face with the cloth. Biceps knotted at the motion, hinting at a raw, leashed power. She’d forgotten just how big he was.

      With her own towel, she patted at her damp hair. She’d forgotten about his scars, too. The whisker stubble couldn’t hide the long, thin mark that ran along his left jawline or the thicker one that appeared to completely circle his strong, corded neck. She wondered if he had others.

      When they had first met, she had noticed the scars right off, but they weren’t what held her attention. It was his eyes. A clear piercing blue. And hard. He had a hard mouth, too. The man appeared to be hard all over. A flush warmed her cheeks.

      The storm settled into a steady rain, pinging against the side windows. The damp heat of their bodies filled the room. She caught a heady draft of man and leather. Gideon’s broad chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm, but Ivy’s pulse was still haywire.

      Through his near-transparent shirt, she could see the dark hair on his chest, the way it veed down the center of his abdomen. Suddenly, she was aware of her breathing. And his. It was unnerving. Unwelcome.

      She frowned as he reached into his back pocket and took out a square of leather.

      He opened the pouch and withdrew a piece of paper, holding it out to her. “From your brother.”

      She took it, trying to ignore the jolt that traveled up her arm when their fingers brushed. A muscle flexed hard in his jaw.

      The paper was dry, and she realized the pouch was deer hide. She quickly scanned the note. “This is the wire I sent to Smith after finding my horse dead.”

      “Yes. I brought it so you’d know he really sent me.”

      The thought that he would lie had never crossed her mind, but it should have. Ivy knew better than anyone that people lied.

      Her heart rate finally leveled out. “So my brother isn’t coming.”

      “No, ma’am.” Gideon frowned. “Didn’t he say so when he wired you back?”

      “I haven’t gotten anything from him.”

      “He sent you a telegram. I was there when he did.”

      The missing telegram was just the latest in a sequence of odd happenings. In the СКАЧАТЬ