Cattleman's Heart. Lois Dyer Faye

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      Her reaction set alarm bells jangling inside her head.

      And the way he was looking at her, his golden eyes hooded, hot with more than the afternoon heat, only made the alarms ring louder.

      Other men had looked at her and she’d known they wanted her. She’d never felt the slightest physical reaction. Her heart hadn’t pounded harder. Her skin hadn’t heated. That this man could arouse a reaction with only a look was irritating beyond words.

      “I hope I’m not lost. I’m looking for Jackson Rand, owner of the Rand Ranch.”

      His gaze sharpened, a faint frown creasing his forehead.

      “I’m Jackson Rand.”

      Oh no. Rebecca stiffened. Her day had swiftly gone from bad to worse.

      “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rand.” She forced herself to step forward and extend her hand, steeling herself. His much bigger hand engulfed hers, his fingers and palm callused and hard against hers for a brief moment before he released her. “I’m Rebecca Wallingford with Bay Area Investments—I believe you’re expecting me.”

      If Rebecca had stiffened, Jackson Rand went rigid. His gaze narrowed, swiftly flicking over Rebecca from head to toe in a swift searing assessment.

      “No, I’m expecting a man named Walter Andersen.”

      “Walter had a minor heart attack yesterday and I’ve been assigned to take his place. I trust I haven’t arrived at an inconvenient time?”

      He stared at her for a long moment without speaking, his gaze unreadable.

      “No,” he said finally. “The timing isn’t inconvenient, but I wasn’t expecting a woman.” He gestured toward the shed and barns. “We’re updating the outbuildings but the house hasn’t been touched and there’s no room for a woman.”

      “I’m sure the accommodations you planned for Mr. Andersen will be perfectly fine for me, Mr. Rand. As long as I have a bed, somewhere to shower, brew a pot of tea and plug in my laptop, I’ll be perfectly comfortable.”

      “I doubt that, lady. The house has four bedrooms and, at the moment, three of them are occupied by me and my crew. You’ll be the only woman in a house full of men.”

      Rebecca schooled her face not to reflect her instant dismay. She’d been told that the owner of Rand Ranch would provide housing, but sharing that housing with a crew of men wasn’t a possibility she’d considered. Her mind raced, considering the problem.

      “Did you assign a room to Mr. Andersen or was he going to share?”

      “He would have had a room to himself,” Jackson said shortly.

      “Then I’m afraid I don’t see the problem, Mr. Rand.”

      “You don’t? Then let me lay it out for you. Moving a woman into a house with four men for several months is asking for trouble. Lots of trouble. And I’m too damn busy to deal with it.”

      Rebecca struggled to ignore the quick rise of anger at his blunt comment. “I’m a professional, Mr. Rand. I often have to work with men. I’ve never had a problem before and I don’t expect to have one here.”

      “Expect to.” His frown deepened. “Hank is too old to chase you, but he flat doesn’t like women and he’s not going to want you around. Mick and Gib are more likely to hit on you and fight over whoever wins.”

      “I’m an engaged woman, Mr. Rand,” Rebecca said evenly, wondering just what she was getting into. I can always drive into Colson and look for a room if this situation becomes impossible. But Colson was a thirty-mile drive each way, which was the reason Jackson Rand had agreed to house Walter Andersen in the first place. “And, therefore, off-limits. But if your employees don’t respect my position, then I can deal with the problem.”

      His expression didn’t change, but Rebecca didn’t miss the irritation that gleamed in Jackson Rand’s eyes.

      “I doubt it, but I’ll put a lock on your door.”

      She met his barely concealed frustration with a cool glance and lift of an eyebrow. “I appreciate that. Now, if you would show me where I’ll be staying, Mr. Rand. I’ve been traveling since 5:00 a.m. It’s been a long day.”

      For the space of a heartbeat, Jackson didn’t move, his gaze unreadable. Then he seemed to reach a decision, tugged his hat lower over his forehead and nodded toward her car.

      “Is your luggage in the trunk?”

      “Yes.”

      He held out his hand. Rebecca dropped the car keys into his palm, and he strode past her to the back of the car.

      Rebecca drew a deep breath and bent, stretching across the interior of the car to reach for her purse and laptop on the passenger seat. Leather bags in hand, she closed the car door and turned, halting in midmovement when she nearly bumped into Jackson.

      Startled, she took a quick step back, brought up short when her back met the warm metal of the car.

      Jackson didn’t comment. He merely nodded toward the house, a suitcase in each hand and one tucked beneath his arm.

      “After you.”

      Vividly aware of the man walking behind her and the ease with which he carried her heavy bags, Rebecca moved past him. A split-rail fence enclosed the expanse of cropped grass surrounding the house and a weathered gate was set into the rails to access the stone path leading to the porch steps.

      The metal latch on the old gate was shiny and new, opening easily beneath her hand. She stepped through onto the stone path and paused, thinking to close the gate behind Jackson, but he gave it a nudge with his boot and the old gate swung silently closed on new, well-oiled hinges.

      Rebecca moved up the path ahead of him. Accustomed to the micromaintained, upscale homes in her native San Francisco, Rebecca was fascinated by the old house. Upon closer inspection, she realized that one of the three wide, shallow porch steps was new wood, obviously recently installed. The older boards on the porch floor creaked softly beneath her feet, Jackson’s boots ringing hollowly as he followed, then reached around her to pull open the screen door.

      The room beyond was a square entry hallway with scarred wooden floors that gave onto a stairway to the right, an open doorway to a living room on the left, and a hallway ahead that clearly led to the back of the first floor.

      What she could see of the old house reminded Rebecca of a friend’s house undergoing restoration in Daly City, one of the older suburbs of San Francisco.

      “The bedrooms are upstairs.”

      Jackson’s deep drawl startled Rebecca, and she turned to follow him upstairs, trailing her hand over the newel post and the oak banister, worn smooth and satiny.

      Five doors stood open along the hallway, a worn runner patterned in faded pink cabbage roses filling its length.

      Jackson strode down the hall ahead of her.

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