A Husband In Wyoming. Lynnette Kent

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СКАЧАТЬ revealed more than he probably realized. “Why?”

      “You called me ‘ma’am.’” Now she felt foolish. “I’m not that old.”

      “Sorry. It’s just a habit—we tend to say it to women of any age out here.” He sent her a smile. “I’ll try to remember you’re sensitive about that.”

      “I’m not sensitive.”

      Dylan gave a snort.

      “Just accurate,” she insisted. “I’m only thirty-five.” Eight years older than he was, in fact, which was another reason to keep their relationship strictly platonic. Except her reactions to him weren’t following that rule.

      Jess decided to change the subject. This was supposed to be an interview, after all. “I understand both your parents passed away when you were all quite young.”

      He nodded without turning his head. “Wyatt was sixteen and I was eight when our dad died.”

      “You didn’t have family to take you in?”

      “Not that we knew of.” He shrugged one shoulder. “We did okay by ourselves.”

      “Have you always lived on the Circle M?”

      “Not in the beginning. Wyatt got a job with the owner, Henry MacPherson. We all eventually came here to live and work.”

      They reached the top of the hill and headed toward the barn. Dylan strode ahead to reach inside the big, open door, and light poured out into the evening.

      Jess stepped through and then stopped in surprise. “I’ve never been in a working barn before. In fact, this is only the second barn I’ve ever entered in my life.” A high-ceilinged aisle stretched along the side of the building, its beams and paneling aged to a rich, deep brown. She took a deep breath. “What is that sweet smell? Kind of grassy, only...more, somehow.”

      “Hay.” Dylan pointed up to a loft filled with stacks of rectangular bundles. “About five hundred bales of grass hay.”

      “Ah. Bales. No wonder horses enjoy eating it. Must be delicious.” Walking forward, she started down a cross-aisle with partially enclosed rooms on each side. The lower halves of the walls were built of boards, but the upper halves consisted of iron bars. The entrance to each room was a sliding door. “These are stalls where the horses stay?”

      Dylan had followed her. “Yes, they’re stalls, though we don’t usually keep the horses in here unless they’re hurt or sick. They prefer being out to roam around.”

      Along the rear of the barn were compartments with full walls and regular doors. “Feed room,” her guide explained, showing her a space that resembled a kitchen, minus the oven and dishwasher. He opened another door. “Tack room—for saddles and bridles, horse equipment in general.”

      “Oh, wow.” Rows of saddles lined one wall, with racks for bridles on another. Jess took a deep breath. “I love the scent of leather. Mixed with hay, it’s a very evocative aroma.” Sensuous, even. But she kept that impression to herself.

      “The essence of a barn, as far as I’m concerned.”

      When they walked around the corner, they arrived at the other end of the aisle from where they’d started. A double half door looked out into a large dirt area ringed by a wooden fence. “That’s the corral,” Dylan said. “The site of your riding lesson.”

      Jess leaned her arms on the top of the door, relaxing into the warm, breezy night. “Where’s my horse?”

      He joined her to gaze out into the darkness. “On the other side of the fence, in the pasture.”

      “And this full moon you talked about?” The indigo sky was dotted with more stars than she’d ever witnessed. “I’m not finding it.”

      Leaning over the top of the door, he pretended to search. “Yeah. That’s a problem.”

      “I guess I’ll settle for a barn tour instead of a riding lesson by moonlight.” Facing into the barn again, she leaned against the door and surveyed the interior of the building. “It’s beautiful. And so neat. No dust or dirt anywhere.”

      “Old Henry MacPherson was a bear about keeping the place tidy. Now it’s second nature to all of us.”

      “He didn’t have a family?”

      “No kids, and his wife died in her fifties. We’re lucky he took us on after our dad died.”

      “That must have been especially tough, since you’d already lost your mom.”

      “Wyatt kept us together. He’s one determined cowboy.” Dylan leaned sideways against the door, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze intent on her face. “But it sounds as if you were on your own. No brothers or sisters?”

      Her whole body tensed. “Is this my interrogation?”

      He frowned at her. “I was thinking of it as getting to know you.”

      Jess blew out a short breath. “No siblings by birth. Some of the families I stayed with had more than one kid.”

      “I guess it would be hard to get close to anyone if you weren’t sure how long you’d be staying.”

      This was not something she ever talked about. “Yes.”

      “Was this in New York?”

      “I grew up in Connecticut. Different towns, depending on who I was living with.”

      “Do you still enjoy snow?”

      She couldn’t help laughing at the question. “I do, as a matter of fact. It makes the world all fresh and clean, at least for a little while.”

      “Me, too.” He was quiet for a moment. “So you went to college, got your degree and now you’re a staff reporter for a glossy, upscale magazine.”

      Jess let herself relax again. “Pretty much, I suppose. If you skip all the unsuccessful rags I wrote for during the first eight years or so.”

      Dylan’s brown gaze focused intently on her face. “Where did you get your drive to succeed? We had Wyatt—he was just born responsible, I guess, and he made sure the rest of us grew up that way. Now we’re trying to give these camp kids a chance to understand how they can succeed in life. Who did that for you?”

      “Nobody did that for me.” The confession broke some kind of dam inside her. She gripped her hands together, trying for control. “Sometimes they made the effort, but I wasn’t ready. Or I’d get kicked back to my mother, have to start taking care of her again. One couple didn’t have time—six kids in a two-bedroom house make for a lot of work. One couple was only in it for the check. And I was never in the same school long enough to get a teacher on my side.”

      When Dylan started to speak, she held up a hand. “I raised myself, reading stories that showed me how kids are supposed to grow up. Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, Ann Martin and Madeleine L’Engle—I guess you could say they raised me. I grew up to be a writer because they showed me how to live. Libraries were my true СКАЧАТЬ