Cowboys And Cradles. Sharon Swan

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      “No,” she admitted bluntly. “Or at least not without someone like him. Do you think he’ll leave?”

      Hank’s expression turned thoughtful. “Maybe. I’ve known him on a casual basis for a long time, ever since Amos hired him on as a lanky ranch hand. He filled out over the years, took on the job of foreman when it opened up, then went to college nights and became a surprisingly shrewd business manager when Amos’s health started to fail. During all that time, he never made any secret of the fact that he’d be interested in buying if Amos ever chose to sell. More than interested, it always seemed to me. I believe Quinn wanted this property very badly. Why, I couldn’t tell you.”

      “Hmm.” Eve absorbed that information. “And Amos Cutter never chose to sell?”

      “I think he was seriously considering it toward the end, before that last stroke took him suddenly. Under the terms of a will he’d made out as a young man, his only living relatives—two daughters back East—got everything. Amos hadn’t seen them since his wife left him and took the kids with her nearly forty years ago. They had no interest in the ranch and didn’t waste any time contacting me to put it up for sale.”

      “And how did Ryder Quinn feel about it being sold to someone else?”

      Hank shrugged a bony shoulder. “He didn’t have much to say. Still, he must have been disappointed. Of course, my friend Amos wouldn’t have said much, either, if he’d been able to see you walk through the front door yesterday.” Hazel eyes took on another gleam, this time of amusement. “He would have been too busy swallowing his tough-as-jerky tongue.”

      It was Eve’s turn to be amused. “I didn’t know I was such a dreadful sight.”

      Thin lips curved in a wry smile. “On the contrary. You’re a mighty fine sight, Eve.” He paused. “But you are a woman.”

      She lifted a brow. “So?”

      “The last female to cross that threshold was Amos’s disgruntled wife, and she was on her way out.”

      After a startled moment Eve said, “Now it’s clear to me why Pete Rawlins’s mouth worked like a guppy’s when I dropped my luggage on the doorstep and introduced myself. Apparently Amos Cutter had no fondness for women, and I wouldn’t be at all amazed if the ranch cook feels exactly the same way.”

      Nodding, Hank straightened a bola tie looped under the collar of a checked shirt worn with a suede vest and corduroy slacks. “Pete’s got about as much regard for the opposite sex as Amos had.” A sudden twinkle in his eyes belied the fact that he was probably close to seventy. “Now, myself, I enjoy every glimpse I can get of a good-looking woman.”

      Eve cocked her head. She liked this man. He was certainly the only one who’d made her feel welcome since her arrival. “Are you by any chance flirting with me, Hank?”

      His smile was wily as a fox. “I’m trying, ma’am.”

      “Sorry to interrupt this party,” a low voice said.

      The swivel chair creaked softly as Eve made a half turn to see a tall figure standing in the doorway. Her eyes widened as recognition hit. It was him—the ticked-off male she’d confronted hours earlier. As she’d concluded, his features were attractive minus a layer of dust. But he wasn’t, as she’d assumed, a ranch hand. No ranch hand could afford this man’s wardrobe.

      Eve knew fabrics. Quality told. So did expert tailoring. While the Western cut of the charcoal-brown suit that she quickly ran her gaze over might be more casual than a Manhattan banker’s three-piece pinstripe, it was every bit as impressive. The clothes didn’t make the man, though. Not this one. He made the outfit.

      No, he wasn’t a ranch hand. But he was a cowboy. And he didn’t need a horse under him to prove it. From polished brown boots emphasizing a solid stance, to glossy dark hair worn just long enough in the back to brush the collar of his ivory shirt, he had a distinct air about him. Rugged. That was the word, she decided. It had taken rugged men—and women—to tame the West and make it theirs.

      Oh, yes. He was a cowboy.

      Suddenly aware that her lips had parted of their own accord, Eve snapped them shut and looked straight into his green eyes, firmly refusing to let her gaze falter. Something told her that was the best way to deal with this man. Head-on. And she’d have to deal with him. He was Ryder Quinn. All at once she was as sure of his identity as she was of her own.

      Hank’s brief introduction confirmed it. “Eve, I’d like you to meet Ryder Quinn. Quinn, this is Eve Terry, the new owner.”

      Deciding not to mention that they’d already run into each other, almost literally, she rose to her full height and issued a polite greeting. “I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Quinn.”

      RYDER TOOK A DEEP BREATH, filling his lungs full, and tried not to look as though he’d just been punched in the gut, which was exactly how he felt. Stubborn horses had thrown him, wild-eyed steers had done their best to trample him into the dirt, a surly bull had even gored him on one memorable occasion. Never in all of his thirty-three years, though, had a woman threatened to bowl him over. Until now.

      Earlier, he hadn’t been able to see much more than her face. Now he had a top-to-toes view. And it was quite a sight. Every bit as shapely as he’d always preferred a woman to be, with plenty of soft flesh to cover strong bones, Eve Terry was a curvy goddess decked out like a cowgirl. An urban cowgirl.

      Not for a minute did he believe the fitted jeans hugging well-rounded hips or the stylishly embroidered denim shirt outlining full breasts had so much as brushed against a dusty corral fence. And if those cream-colored boots with the elaborate carving had ever come within sniffing distance of a mound of cow dung, he’d eat the fancy leather belt circling a nipped-in waist—glittering silver buckle and all.

      Yet, beneath the sophisticated exterior, there was something earthy about the woman that stirred his blood. Quite simply, she made his mouth water.

      She’s also your boss, Quinn, he reminded himself grimly. He was her employee—the hired help—at least temporarily. His boot heels clicked on hard tile as he stepped into the room.

      She’d said she was happy to meet him, but he didn’t say the same. It would be a lie, and he didn’t care much for lies, even social ones. When she extended her right hand, he took it in his own, found its texture to be just as he’d expected: soft as satin, with an underlying strength.

      “Ms. Terry.” He didn’t have to dip his head far to reestablish eye contact. Since he was over six feet, she had to be around five-ten.

      “Call me Eve, please.” Again the tone was soft, with an edge of quiet self-assurance.

      He kept her hand in his a second longer than he’d meant to before releasing it to cross his arms over his chest. “All right…Eve. I’m Ryder.”

      They took each other’s measure before she finally turned to resume her seat. “Hank tells me you’ve been with the ranch for a long time.”

      He considered it a victory that she’d been the one to look away first. A minor one, true. But winning at anything, however small, felt good right now. He had recently lost a great deal. “I’ve been here almost fifteen years, in one capacity or another.”

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