A Ranch To Call Home. Carol Arens

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      Pressing her fingers to her mouth did no good. A giggle burst from her lips.

      “I do beg your pardon,” she said with a slight, high-pitched hiccup.

      She stabbed the prongs of the pitchfork into the hay, then climbed down from the wagon. She yanked her skirt from the waistband, smoothing it down so that it covered her legs in a proper manner. He’d already seen more of her than he should have...but not nearly as much as she’d seen of him.

      Why did that have to pop into her mind? Now she was blushing and he would guess why.

      “Your own clothes are wet and this is all I could spare that didn’t require a corset.” No! She could not have possibly blurted that out. “I meant...well, you were wet and shivering. Most of the time, flannel is wonderfully warm. I hope you—”

      “Thank you for bringing my horses in,” he said, saving her from continued babbling.

      Which she did not normally do. It’s just that the events of the last hours had been...unusual, and vastly perplexing. At least she understood now what he was doing on her property. He and his horses needed shelter. He had been naked because—she didn’t know why for sure, but there could be many reasons that did not involve an assault on her person.

      No doubt being soaked, he had removed his clothes out of for respect for the many hours she had spent polishing the floor. A more suspicious part of her brain argued that he would have no idea how much care she had given the floors and that it had been too dark to see the shine.

      “You are welcome. Come, Chisel.” She would rather have the dog standing beside her than Mr. Creed. One could only trust one’s judgment to a certain degree.

      Except where Johnny was concerned. Naturally, she trusted her fiancé completely. But where was he? Two weeks would be enough time for him to do what he needed to. If he really... But no, she trusted him with all her heart.

      Obediently, Chisel trotted forward and licked her hand. Seconds later, he joined Whittle and Bride in their stall. Saffron and the other horses mingled in the large open area between the stalls, munching hay.

      “I’m sorry I hit you, Mr. Creed.” She might as well clear her conscience about that now. Judging by the increasingly bad weather, they might be stranded together for a few hours. “But you did give me a start.”

      “I didn’t expect anyone to be in the house.”

      It was a relief to know she was right about the reason he was here. Any reasonable person would have sought the nearest shelter in this storm. She knew nothing about Mr. Creed other than his name and that he had a scar on his left hip. She also knew that he looked... well, never mind that.

      It was blamed difficult to never mind it, though. Her eyes had seen what they’d seen and there was no changing that. If soaking flannel was not clinging to him, it would be easier. But it was clinging to him, an intimate reminder.

      “Your herd is beautiful,” she said as a distraction.

      “Plenty hungry, too. Again, many thanks for bringing them inside and feeding them.”

      Setting his rifle against the wall beside the door, he crossed the barn and leaped up on the wagon. He picked up the pitchfork and began shoveling out the hay. The smooth pull and draw of his muscles, which she could see because of what he was wearing, made the job look easier than it felt when she did it.

      “It was the neighborly thing to do,” she answered while refocusing her attention on the long black mane of a pretty brown mare.

      “And I reckon we’re neighbors?” His brows knit together, as though something was puzzling him.

      “I suppose we are but I’ve only been in Forget-Me-Not for a short time.”

      “It’s a good place to settle.” In one leap, he hopped off the wagon.

      She watched him while he walked to the wall where the tools were hanging, taking note of the long rip down the back of her nightgown. She would have to repair it before bed.

      It was interesting to note that he knew the exact spot to put the tool even though he had never been in her barn. A barn was a barn, she guessed, pretty much the same anywhere. Tools went where they went with no great mystery involved.

      “Must be getting close to dawn,” Mr. Creed remarked while leading the two stallions in his herd, each to a separate stall.

      It made sense that he would put the stallions away. But it struck her as forward that he had not asked for her permission. It was her barn, for all that he seemed so at home in it.

      “I’ll fix us something to eat.” Since he had unloaded the hay wagon for her, she owed him a meal before she sent him and his livestock on their way.

      “Appreciate it. I’m not much of a hand in the kitchen. I’ll build us up a fire in the parlor. Reckon it’s nearly as cold inside as it is out here.”

      * * *

      Jesse ran toward the house, his saddlebag slung over his shoulder, his rifle in his fist.

      The sooner he peeled out of this blamed sleepwear the better. He’d toss it in the fire he was about to build if he didn’t guess the woman would need to take it with her when she left.

      He had hoped it would happen after breakfast, but during the dash from the barn to the house, the weather took an intense turn for the worse. This was the kind of storm that living things ought not to venture out in.

      The lady dashed a few feet ahead of him, through the mess of rain and sleet. She sure was a shapely little thing. Rude as it was, he couldn’t help staring at how gracefully she bounded up the stairs, how her hips swayed—

      He forced his gaze down, watching his knees bump the lace border of the nightgown. He purely hoped she hadn’t married her unfaithful beau. She seemed far too fine for the likes of someone who’d picked the nickname of Hell Dog.

      Standing on the porch, he opened the front door for her to enter before him. He was as soaked and muddy as when he last came in the house, but this time he thought better of shedding his clothes.

      The dog rushed in first, heedless of the debris sticking to his fur.

      “Hey...Dog, get out of the house!” he called.

      “He belongs to me now and I’ve named him Chisel,” the lady announced, brushing by him. “I do allow him inside.”

      The hell she did! He opened his mouth to say so, then noticed the high gleam reflecting off the floor. Words dried in his mouth like a stream in a three-year drought.

      Curtains in the windows, a shine on the floor... How long had she been squatting in his house? And what was he going to do about it?

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