Wrangling The Rich Rancher. Sheri WhiteFeather

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       Two

      Libby stood in front of the mirror, putting the final touches on her outfit. Soon she would be leaving for the dance. She planned to walk to the barn where the soiree was being held. From her cabin, the path was well lit and paved with stones. She could have called ahead and gotten a ride from a lodge attendant. The ranch offered a shuttle service, taking guests to and from activities. But she intended to bask in the night air, enjoying the sights and scents along the way.

      She returned her gaze to the mirror. She was wearing a short, sassy skirt and the same boots and earrings Matt had already seen before.

      What he’d said about her was true. She wasn’t a cowgirl, at least not in the literal sense of the word. She didn’t herd cattle or compete in rodeos. But she loved all things country, especially the music.

      She didn’t mind being a chick from Hermosa Beach who wore fancy Western clothes. She was proud to own that identity. But had she gone too far, baiting Matt to dance with her? At the time it had seemed like a good way to create a friendly rapport between them. Only now, as the opportunity drew near, she was nervous about seeing him.

      Nervous about how he made her feel.

      Granted, Libby kept telling herself that she wasn’t ready for a lover, but the thought of being with him kept crossing her mind, making her warm all over.

      She’d never slept with anyone except Becker, so the idea of seducing Matt seemed almost laughable. But it seemed hot and wild and exciting, too. Too wild? Too exciting? Even if she had the guts to do it, being with Matt would complicate an already complicated situation, jumbling her plans to interview him. Then why did she keep thinking about him in sexual ways? Why did sleeping with him keep invading her thoughts?

      Maybe it would be better if he ditched her tonight, if he didn’t show up. Or maybe she should bail out.

      Oh, right. Like that wouldn’t make her look like an idiot, after the overly confident way she’d presented herself. No. Libby was going to see this through. She was going to march into that place with a big, bright smile on her face.

      She ventured onto her porch and glanced over at Matt’s cabin. She assumed he wasn’t home because his truck wasn’t parked in the gravel driveway. Was he at the hoedown already? Or had he gone somewhere else instead?

      She took a second glance at his cabin. It appeared to be the same two-bedroom model as hers. Was that where he’d always lived, even during his short-lived marriage? Or had he been planning to build a bigger place on his property? It struck her odd that he chose to live in a modest cabin when he could have a mansion if he wanted one. There was no way to know why he did what he did, except to ask him. Kirby certainly wasn’t privy to that information. What he knew about his son could fill a thimble.

      Libby locked her cabin and left for the dance. By the time she arrived, the big wooden building was filled with people—adults and children—eating and drinking and being merry.

      The decor was charmingly Western, with twinkling lights streaming from the rafters, red-and-white tablecloths and folding chairs upholstered in cowhide.

      The band hadn’t taken the stage yet, but they would probably appear soon enough.

      She looked around for Matt. He was nowhere to be seen. Keeping herself busy, she wandered over to the buffet and filled her plate. She took a seat at one of the tables, chatted with other guests and dived into her meal.

      The fried chicken was to die for and the mashed potatoes were even better. She didn’t go back for dessert. She was already getting full.

      An hour passed. By then the band was playing, and people were line dancing, laughing, clapping and missing steps. Of course some of them were right on the money. Libby was a good dancer, too. But at this point she was standing in a corner like a wallflower, watching the festivities.

      Okay, so maybe Matt wasn’t coming. Maybe he didn’t find her, or her spunky personality, as irresistible as she assumed he would.

      Served her right, she supposed. But suddenly something inside her felt far too alone, far too widowed. She didn’t like being here without a partner.

      She toyed with her empty ring finger. She’d removed her wedding band about a year after Becker passed, but now she wished she’d kept it on.

      Still, she knew better than to wallow in sadness. She’d worked hard to overcome her grief.

      Should she get out there and dance? Should she join the party on her own? Or should she give Matt a little more time, in case he decided to materialize?

      “Have you been waiting for me?” a raspy voice whispered in her ear from behind her.

      Matt. It was him. Talk about materializing, and at the perfect moment, too. But she was reluctant to turn around, afraid that he would disappear as mysteriously as he’d arrived.

      “I knew you’d come,” she said, lying through her teeth.

      “Oh, yeah?” Still standing behind her, he gripped her waist. “Then let’s dance.” As quick as could be, he spun her around to face him.

      Making her heart spin, too.

      * * *

      Matt and Libby danced for hours. They did fancy two-steps and three-steps. They country waltzed, line danced and did the push, the Cotton Eye Joe and the schottische.

      The fast dances were easy for Matt. The slow ones, not so much. He had to hold Libby closer for those.

      Like now. The band was doing a cover of Lady Antebellum’s “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,” with lyrics about a woman’s devotion to her partner.

      “I love this song,” Libby said, sounding a little dreamy.

      Matt didn’t comment on the music. He was doing his damnedest not to press his body even closer to hers. This wasn’t a sexy setting, and he couldn’t misbehave, not here, not like this. Not at all, he warned himself.

      Her hair, he noticed, smelled like lemons, and her cheeks were flushed with a healthy glow. Did she surf and swim and do all those California-girl-type things? Did she go to beach parties with her friends or walk barefoot through the sand at night? He was as curious about her as she was about him.

      But he wasn’t writing a book that would damage her. He wasn’t doing anything except getting distracted by her nearness, lowering his guard with a woman who wanted to invade his privacy.

      She looked up at him. “Things are starting to wind down.”

      He slid his hand a bit lower on her back. “The parents СКАЧАТЬ