Cattleman's Heart. Lois Dyer Faye

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СКАЧАТЬ When he was told that the accountant would be a fifty-three-year-old man named Walter Andersen, he’d resigned himself to squeezing one more boarder into the house for a few months. He’d hoped that Walter could at least play a decent game of poker.

      Then Rebecca arrived. One look at her green eyes and curvy body had his temperature rising.

      “Hell,” he muttered. Two or three long months. Maybe it was a good thing he had enough work to keep him busy twenty-four hours a day, if needed. Because there was no way he was acting on his instinct to ignore the engagement ring on her finger and pursue her. He had a hard-and-fast rule—never date anyone you work with—and he never broke it. Never. He’d been down that road and lived to regret it. He wasn’t going there again.

      Rebecca had difficulty falling asleep. Accustomed as she was to the sounds of traffic and the occasional siren from the street below her sixth-story apartment windows in downtown San Francisco, the complete silence surrounding the ranch house was unsettling. But if it was strangely quiet outside, inside, Rebecca’s thoughts were uncharacteristically chaotic.

      What was she going to do about the impact Jackson Rand had on her senses? Despite her earlier confidence that she could control her body’s reaction to the rancher, she hadn’t been able to shut down her response to him in the office. Would she become more adept at ignoring him with time? Or less so?

      Thank goodness I never have to worry about any of this with Steven, she thought. Life with Steven would be comfortable and placid, with no disturbing wakes and whitecaps, no turbulent waters to threaten the calm comfort of their life together.

      She woke the next morning to the sound of water running in the bathroom next door and the muted sounds of men’s voices, followed by the thud of boots on stair treads. Disoriented, she lay still, staring at the ceiling for a moment before she remembered where she was.

      She turned her head and squinted at her small alarm clock on the night table.

      Five o’clock? Her body was still on San Francisco Pacific time, where it was only 3:00 a.m. She groaned aloud and rolled over, pulling the sheet and blanket over her head.

      The maneuver didn’t help. Fifteen minutes later, she shoved the covers back and glared at the clock. The luminous dial glowed silently back at her.

      It’s no use. She admitted finally and tossed back the covers. Groping for her ankle-length robe at the end of the bed, she pulled it on over her pajamas, shoved her feet into matching white terry-cloth mules and took her toiletry bag from the top of the dresser. If she couldn’t sleep, she thought, she may as well get up, get dressed and get to work.

      The hall was silent when she stepped out of her bedroom. In the vacant bathroom, damp towels hung over the racks, droplets of water dotted the sink and the faint scent of mint toothpaste hung in the warm air.

      She splashed her face, brushed her teeth, ran a brush through her hair and caught it up into a high ponytail, then left the bathroom.

      She moved quietly down the stairs, drawn by the irresistible smell of brewed coffee, and paused to listen intently at the bottom of the steps. The house was quiet. Breathing a sigh of relief that she had the house to herself, she walked down the hall and was two steps into the kitchen before she halted abruptly. Jackson was seated at the table, a coffee mug cradled in his hand.

      “Good morning,” she managed, her voice husky with sleep.

      “Good morning.”

      His deep drawl curled her toes inside her slippers and made her feel much too vulnerable in her half-awake state.

      Caffeine. I need caffeine.

      She crossed the room to the counter, took down a mug and filled it, grimacing at the first strong, black sip.

      “Something wrong with the coffee?”

      She looked up. Jackson’s eyes held amusement.

      “Not at all. It’s just that I usually drink tea in the morning and coffee later. Tea isn’t quite as strong as coffee.”

      “The only kind of tea I ever drink is iced and loaded with sugar,” he commented.

      Rebecca wondered if all Montana men felt this way about tea, since this was exactly what Hank had told her yesterday.

      The growl of powerful truck engines sounded outside.

      “The lumber delivery must be here.” He stood and pulled out a chair. “Have a seat.”

      He walked toward the counter, passing Rebecca as she headed for the table.

      “Make yourself at home. If you need anything today or have any questions about the books, I’ll be down at the barn. Or if it can wait, we usually break for lunch around noon.”

      He filled a thermal mug with coffee, snapped the lid on and headed for the back door, pausing to look down at her as he passed the table. “You all right?”

      “What? Oh, yes.” She yawned. “Really. I’m just not awake yet.” She added when he looked unconvinced.

      “If you say so.” He shot her one last look and left the kitchen, the screen door slapping softly shut behind him.

      Rebecca groaned and dropped her face into her hands.

      I can barely think early in the morning, let alone deal with him.

      All that sex appeal should come with a warning label, she thought, getting up to put the kettle on. Coffee just wasn’t a substitute for a strong cup of tea first thing in the morning.

      Revived by hot tea and toast, Rebecca headed back up the stairs to shower and dress for the day in a lightweight white skirt, matching top and sandals. By seven o’clock, she was opening the office door, laptop and briefcase in hand.

      Much to her surprise, she found the computer unpacked, the heavy monitor, CPU and keyboard sitting on the desktop, while the printer stood on a table placed at a right angle on the far side of the desk.

      “Jackson must have unpacked it last night after I went to bed,” she mused.

      Touched by his consideration, she took time to plug in her laptop to check her e-mail, then pulled out her cell phone. The phone didn’t respond with a dial tone, however, and she switched to the desktop phone. It took only a few moments to check her phone messages at her apartment, but much longer when she connected to her office voice mail. Her pen flew across the paper as she jotted down names, phone numbers and noted priorities, making a mental note to check her electronic daytimer before e-mailing her secretary with instructions.

      Satisfied that her responsibilities in San Francisco were taken care of, she connected the cables and plugged in Jackson’s new desktop computer. Green, red and amber lights blinked and the CPU hummed with a satisfactory, familiar sound. She installed her favorite software and loaded the programs Jackson had bought to address specific ranching issues, including a spreadsheet to track the breeding program. She found the programs surprisingly fascinating.

      At ten o’clock, she glanced at her watch and reached for the phone. It was eight o’clock in San Francisco and her mother’s secretary promptly put her through to Kathleen.

      “Hi, Mom.”

      “Good СКАЧАТЬ