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      From where he stood, he could see the chutes, walker wheel and paddocks surrounding the refuge office. This morning’s arrivals, four horses so thin he could count their ribs, huddled together on the far side of the nearest pen. He needed to be out there, sorting them out and getting them settled. Not held up here with her.

      “And the books?” Miss Larkin spoke up. “Where are the—”

      “Right,” he interrupted again, lifting the two paper boxes full of receipts, invoices and check stubs onto the table. “It’s a mess.” He patted the top of the box with his hand.

      She looked at the boxes, then leveled her unflinching gaze at him. “I can take it from here.”

      Her cool dismissal caught him off guard. For the first time, he looked at her. He sighed, seeing a distraction for his employees—and his cousin. She was pretty. Not flashy, overly made-up or attention-grabbing. Naturally pretty. Feminine. Soft. With long blond hair tumbling from the knot on the back of her head.

      Damn it.

      If he had time, he’d call the agency again and ask them to send someone else. But they’d stopped returning his calls. And he didn’t have time to waste.

      Her hazel eyes met his, unflinching. Almost irritated.

      “Do you have any questions, Miss Larkin?”

      “Miss Larkin?” she repeated.

      He sighed. “You are Amber Larkin? Expected to be here three days ago? From Austin Clerical Temps? Or are you her replacement?”

      She nodded, a slight crease forming between her brows.

      “Apparently there’s been some sort of mix-up.” He’d never use Austin Clerical Temps again. “But if they’ve sent you, I’m sure you’re qualified. I’m under a tight deadline, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I need help.” He spoke quickly, rushing through the words. The faster he showed her around, the faster she’d get to work.

      She hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly before she asked, “Would you be so kind as to inform me of the particulars, Dr. Boone?”

      He ran a hand over his face. “The short version? One of the refuge’s largest benefactors sent me a review letter. We’ve never been under review before, so I suspect this is bad. Especially since Mr. Monroe isn’t a fan of my work or my family.” He broke off, shaking his head.

      “You know him? Mr. Monroe?” she asked.

      He shook his head. “No. His wife.” He sighed. Chitchat could wait. “Without her support, I’m concerned we’ll lose funding from the Monroe Foundation. But I’m not giving up.” He glanced out the window, the sights and sounds of the only place he’d ever belonged easing some of the pressure on his chest. “You have one week to straighten out the financials my last bookkeeper neglected for who knows how long.”

      She stared at him for a long time. So long, Archer wondered if she was about to bolt. “When did the bookkeeper leave?” she asked, her face revealing nothing.

      “Nine months ago. The four temps I’ve been through weren’t a good fit. I’m not easy to work with, I’ll tell you now. And I don’t like relying on strangers, but I don’t have a choice. I know this is a job for you. But this is my life’s work and I’m asking for your help.” He leveled her with his most piercing gaze. “Are you able to do that?”

      Her light hazel eyes never wavered from his, as if she was considering her options. The longer she remained silent, the more anxious he became.

      She nodded, her eyes shifting from him to the boxes. “Eden.” She didn’t extend her hand. He didn’t offer his. “Eden...Caraway.”

      “Archer Boone.”

      She didn’t strike him as the temp type. If anything, she was more the uptight CEO type he forced himself to associate with at benefits and fund-raisers. She radiated money. Nice clothing. Perfume. She fiddled with a shiny turquoise-and-silver bracelet on her slim wrist. Everything about her was...elegant. But why would a wealthy woman take a temp job? On a nonprofit horse refuge?

      He didn’t care. At all.

      Whatever her story, whatever her situation, it didn’t matter.

      The letter from Jason Monroe’s office had been an unexpected shock. The last eighteen months, his entire family had succumbed to a frenzy of weddings and babies. He was the only brother left standing. No wife. No kids. No interest. His legacy was Boone Ranch Refuge. He was proud of his work and knew the next generation, nieces and nephews, would carry it on. As long as he had funding.

      He frowned.

      The Monroe Foundation was a big component of that funding. That was what mattered. Making sure he didn’t lose their support. Books and receipts sat boxed and forgotten, needing to be sorted and cataloged, every cent accounted for. He didn’t envy the job Miss Caraway was facing. But it was her job. As long as all the i’s were dotted and t’s were crossed, Miss Caraway could dress and look and smell however she wanted. Convincing Mr. Monroe and his board of trustees that the refuge needed funding was all he cared about.

      “There’s coffee in the cabinet in the break room. Pot’s there.” He nodded in the general vicinity of the small room, anxious to see to the new horses.

      “I’m fine.” She moved around the table, set her briefcase down and opened the paper box, peering inside.

      “Need anything?” He hesitated, feeling the need to smooth things over. She hadn’t run for the hills, always a good sign. He could stay on his best behavior—something that didn’t come easily to him—if it kept her here until things were ready for Monroe. Yes, her being pretty was damn inconvenient, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He’d keep her busy here, poring over paperwork and away from roving eyes. She’d be here a week. Ten days tops.

      She glanced at him, the slightest narrowing in her eyes unnerving. “My car broke down, inside the main entrance. Past the second cattle guard.”

      “You walked?” He glanced at her feet. Heels. She was in heels. And a slim-fitting skirt. Her white shirt was thin, the skin of her upper arms and chest pink from the sun. His gaze returned to her face. She’d walked all that way and she had yet to complain. And surprisingly, she knew what a cattle guard was. Maybe they’d get along fine.

      “I walked. Your big black horse followed me.” Her tone was clipped.

      “Fester?” Damn it. The horse was more trouble than he was worth. “Did he bite you?”

      She shook her head.

      Which was a relief. But unusual. “Fester bites everyone.” Everyone.

      Her expression grew more rigid. “He didn’t bite me.”

      He frowned. “That’s good.” That horse was a riddle Archer couldn’t crack.

      “You don’t seem pleased.” One brow rose.

      He didn’t appreciate her implication. He was relieved. The last thing he needed was a lawsuit over a horse bite. СКАЧАТЬ