Winning Over the Wrangler. Linda Ford

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      After a moment’s consideration of the offer, he nodded toward a stump. “Leave it there.”

      Despite his dismissive words, his solitary state called out to Sybil. She stepped past the dog to put the plate on the stump he indicated. “Do you mind if we visit a few minutes?” Would she be able to discover the reason for his loneliness? Or perhaps something about his background?

      “Suit yourself. Have a seat. Lots of grass to choose from, or pull up a log.” A smile flitted across his face so fast she almost missed it.

      Sybil’s curiosity about the man grew. She sank to the ground. Mercy sat a few feet away, her gaze never leaving the dog.

      Sybil smiled. At least her friend wouldn’t be taking an inventory of Brand’s looks and itemizing them for her later.

      He snatched off his hat as if recalling his manners.

      She stared, darted her gaze away. Against her better judgment, she brought it slowly back. Mercy was right. He was a fine-looking man, dark and mysterious. Black curly hair that was over long, deep brown eyes, a slightly crooked nose...

      He met her look for a second. She saw a soul-deep sorrow that sucked at her resolve, diluted it and poured it out on the ground. She sought for reason. Perhaps she was taking her study of him too seriously...imagining how lonely it must be for him. But then, she wasn’t him, so how would she know until she asked?

      Before she could glance away, he shifted his attention to his dog, which was lying at his side, watching Mercy.

      Sybil almost laughed aloud at the way her friend and the canine eyed each other. She’d never before seen this side of Mercy, who was usually adventuresome to the point of recklessness. At least that’s how Sybil saw it, although she’d be the first to admit she was conservative in the extreme by comparison.

      Still unsettled by what she’d seen in Brand’s eyes, she shifted her attention back to him, wondering if she’d imagined it.

      He stared at something on the ground at his feet. She looked toward the same spot. All she saw were blades of grass.

      “They say you never get bucked off a horse. Is that right?” The question had sprung from her mouth unbidden...but not unwelcome.

      He chuckled, cut it off abruptly. Was he not comfortable laughing? “I guess you could say that practice makes perfect.”

      She smiled at how his answer said so much with so few words. “So you took a lot of spills before you got good at it?” Dawg stopped having a staring contest with Mercy and inched toward Sybil, his head between his paws. Poor thing meant no harm. He was likely as lonesome as his owner.

      There you go again. Jumping to conclusions. You have no way of knowing if he’s lonely or just likes to be alone.

      That was part of what she hoped to discover.

      “I got tossed off many times.”

      Remembering how she’d held her breath as he rode a bucking horse, and wondering how he could stand it, Sybil shuddered. Getting tossed off sounded even worse than riding. “Did you ever get hurt?”

      Mercy leaned closer, earning her a growl from Dawg. She edged back. “It must be so exciting. I think I’ll give it a try.”

      Sybil gasped. “Mercy, you can’t be serious.” She fixed a demanding, pleading look on Brand. “Tell her she could get hurt. Tell her it’s foolish to think of riding a wild horse.” Why did Mercy think she must do something crazy and reckless all the time?

      Brand choked slightly, as if keeping back another chuckle. “Ma’am, she’s right. It takes a lot of practice and lots of good fortune to survive some of the wild horses. Sure would hate to see your neck all busted up.”

      Mercy grinned widely. “Still, I just might see how I fare.”

      “Have you ever been hurt?” The words squeaked from Sybil’s throat. A man with a dangerous job. Likely that explained why he was alone. A woman or a friend would face the constant risk of seeing him hurt or killed by one of those angry horses. How many women would accept that kind of life? She certainly wouldn’t. She’d marry at some point, because she wanted a home and family, but she’d want security and safety when she did.

      And she didn’t intend to involve what was left of her heart. Colin had made her see the folly of that.

      Brand answered her question. “Nothing serious, seeing as I’m still here and still riding horses.”

      “But you have been injured?” Sybil, you don’t need to know the particulars to see that this man should wear a big danger sign around his neck.

      Details for her story. That was the only reason she wanted to know.

      “A time or two. Once when I was ten.”

      “Ten! You were hardly out of short pants.”

      “Ma’am. I never wore short pants. And it was my older brother who thought it was a lark to throw me on a horse he was trying to break. I stuck until the ornery critter stopped bucking.”

      Another chuckle that he made no attempt to hide. Interesting observation. It would make a nice addition to her story.

      A loner of a man with a deep-throated laugh that broke out unexpectedly from time to time, surprising the cowboy as much as it did those who heard it.

      “I felt so high and mighty about riding a horse my brother couldn’t that I climbed to the loft and jumped out the open door.”

      Mercy laughed as if it was the funniest thing ever.

      Sybil gasped. “Why on earth would you do that?”

      “I was ten. I didn’t need a reason. But I guess I thought riding a wild horse made me invincible.”

      Sybil laughed softly. “Let me guess. That’s when you were injured.”

      “My brother broke my fall, but I still busted my arm.” He held it out and had a good look at it.

      Mercy leaned back on her hands, her gaze darting frequently to Dawg.

      Sybil’s mind raced with questions. How many could she ask before he refused to answer? “What happens when you get bucked off?”

      “If I did get bucked off—” he made it sound like a far-fetched possibility “—I’d just get right back on and finish the job.”

      His answer pleased her. She liked the idea of a man finishing what he’d begun. Except, she reminded herself firmly, in this case, it meant he would break horses and move on. That’s the job he’d begun.

      Not that she cared one way or the other.

      You’re not telling yourself the truth here, Sybil.

      Oh, hush. Her inner voice could be so annoying at times.

      Annoyingly right, maybe? Because you wish that he’d stay around.

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