Western Spring Weddings: The City Girl and the Rancher / His Springtime Bride / When a Cowboy Says I Do. Kathryn Albright

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      When they two-stepped in front of the swing, Emily suddenly dropped his hand and darted forward. “Mama, look at me—we’re dancing!” She grabbed Clarissa’s skirt. “Come and dance with us!”

      “Oh, no, honey, I couldn’t do that.”

      But Emily wasn’t about to be put off. She seized Clarissa’s skirt with both fists and yanked on it until her mother gave up and got to her feet. Emily entwined one of her hands with Gray’s and with the other she glommed onto Clarissa’s. Before he knew it, they had all joined hands to form a threesome.

      Clarissa sent him a look that made him chuckle—half apology, half amusement, but her warm hand fit nicely in his, and he had to admit he liked that. The three of them began to circle around the porch in time to “Down in the Valley.” Emily swooped and giggled with such uninhibited verve that Gray laughed out loud, and then he caught Clarissa’s gaze. Suddenly the sounds around him faded until nothing remained but a faint humming in his brain.

      What the hell?

      In the next instant Emily dropped his hand, gave a happy chirp and twirled off by herself, leaving Gray and Clarissa facing each other.

      “Well,” Clarissa said with obvious embarrassment, “I suppose we should—”

      “Dance,” he finished.

      Without another word Gray pulled her into his arms and began to move in a slow, steady pattern.

      Clarissa blinked. Where on earth had he learned to waltz? Certainly not in a silver mine! Perhaps at some place like Serena’s on Willow Street; after all, he was young and virile and...

      She missed a step. He held her gently, his hand at her back pressing just close enough that her breasts brushed the front of his chambray shirt. Heavens, could he feel that? The contact made them tingle in a decidedly pleasant way.

      Emily settled herself near Ramon and Maria and snuggled her head against the woman’s arm. Ramon began singing along with “Clementine,” and Maria was sitting with her head on his shoulder. They looked so happy together her throat ached.

      Gray danced her to the edge of the porch, then to the far end where the honeysuckle twined up to the rooftop. What an odd sensation, being this close him. She hadn’t danced with anyone since she was ten years old, but this was decidedly different. She felt light and floaty inside. Never in her life had she been so intensely aware of another human being, not even when she had first held baby Emily in her arms.

      * * *

      Gray forgot everything but the feel of the woman he held in his arms. Something smelled real sweet, maybe her hair. It was dark and shiny, and she wore it gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Kinda old-maidish, but she sure didn’t seem like one. Clarissa Seaforth might be an overly proper Boston lady, but in his arms she just felt like a woman—soft and alive.

      Surprisingly alive. Surprisingly arousing, if he were honest with himself. He’d never felt such an undercurrent of can’t-ignore-it desire. He decided to ignore it anyway and hope it would go away.

      But it didn’t go away. It just kept building and building like a summer storm. He tried to keep his mind on the fiddle music, the painted boards of the porch under his boots, the look on Ramon’s face as he sat beside his wife. That didn’t help much. Kinda made him feel hungry and lonely at the same time.

      He closed his eyes and tried to think. He didn’t have time for a woman—any woman, and especially not a proper lady. He only had time to brand cattle and mend fences and dig wells and keep his ranch together.

      All he had to do was pay Clarissa the three dollars she earned each week as his cook and pretty soon she would climb on the eastbound train and be gone. Then he could stop tossing and turning half the night thinking about her sleeping just one floor above him.

      The top of Clarissa’s head brushed against his chin. Hot damn, her hair was soft! It took a lot to get his mind off his struggling ranch, but the fleeting touch of any part of her could sure do it in a hurry. Hell and damn, anyway. I don’t need this. He needed to focus on his ranch and forget that Clarissa Seaforth smelled good and felt so good in his arms it made him crazy.

      * * *

      The next night after supper, while Gray lounged in the parlor with Emily, he was surprised to hear Caleb Arness’s voice.

      “Harris?” the man bawled. Sounded as though he was just outside on the porch. Quickly he set Emily on her feet.

      “Go into the kitchen, Squirt. Tell your mama to take you to the pantry and stay there.”

      When the girl scampered off, he puffed out the lantern and retrieved his revolver from over the door. “You’re trespassing, Arness. Whaddya want?”

      “My fiancée, Clarissa Seaforth. Come to take her back to town.”

      “You’re wasting your time, Arness. She’s not your fiancée. She works for me.”

      “Huh! Doin’ what?”

      “She’s my cook.”

      “An’ what else?” Arness boomed. “You got no claim on her. I do.”

      “No, you don’t. Now get off my land.”

      “Oh, yeah? What if I don’t?”

      Gray put a bullet through the screen door that kicked up the dust at Arness’s feet. “Don’t tempt me, Arness.”

      The stocky man jumped back, then shook his fist at Gray. “You ain’t heard the last of this, Harris. That girl belongs to me!”

      Arness shuffled off, and a few moments later Gray heard the sound of receding hoofbeats. He shut the front door, locked it and moved into the kitchen. Halfway across the floor to the pantry he stumbled into Clarissa, with a heavy iron skillet gripped in one hand.

      “Where’s Emily?” he barked.

      “In—in the pantry.”

      “How come you aren’t?”

      “Well, I—I thought...”

      He lifted the skillet out of her hand. “You thought I might need some help, is that it?”

      “I th-thought you might want—”

      He was trying hard to be angry at her, but the truth was he was touched. Darn fool woman. “Get Emily and go upstairs,” he said more brusquely than he intended.

      She snapped to attention. “Yes, sir, Mister Harris, sir. I was only trying to—”

      “Get yourself kidnapped or killed,” he grumbled. She said nothing, but he could hear her ragged breathing in the dark.

      “Sorry, Clarissa. Go on to bed now. You know you’re safe here.”

      “Yes,” she murmured. “I know. Thank you.”

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