A Marriage By Chance. Carolyn Davidson

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СКАЧАТЬ up another mouthful. “My mama used to give me a dose of castor oil when the trees started leafing out.” He chewed a moment, then swallowed the greens dutifully. “But only one dose, mind you.” His fork stirred the green mass on his plate. “Do I get to eat these every day?”

      “I could probably locate a bottle of castor oil, if you’d rather,” Tilly said helpfully, obviously amused at his dislike for Chloe’s chosen vegetable for this meal.

      “Thank you, ma’am,” he said politely. “I’m a big boy now. I’ll do just fine without.”

      “That you are,” she agreed. “Came from south of here, didn’t you?”

      He hesitated. Giving details about his background was something he steered clear of usually. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

      Tilly nodded. “When I arrived on a wagon train from Saint Louis and met my husband for the first time, he said he’d always wanted a Southern belle to grace his table.” Her laughter rang out. “He was looking for a dainty little creature with curls and a sunbonnet to keep her skin all nice and pale. Instead he got me, with my Georgia tan and a body almost six feet tall.”

      “I’ll bet he wasn’t disappointed,” J.T. ventured, enjoying the tale she wove.

      “Not after a week or so,” Tilly admitted with a grin.

      “Bless his heart, he decided I was a lot of woman, just what he needed. And he gave me three handsome boys and a pretty baby girl, about half my size, once she got to be full grown.” She eyed J.T. intently. “If you don’t have specks of y’all hidden under that nice Western drawl of yours, I’ll eat my hat.”

      “You may be right,” he conceded. “My mama was a Southern lady.”

      Chloe perked up at this bit of news. This was the first time she’d heard one word about his background. He’d insidiously wormed detail after detail from her about the running of the ranch, about Peter’s affinity for poker and about the sudden attack that had brought her father to his knees.

      She’d relived that afternoon with barely concealed tears as she spoke of John Biddleton’s death. She’d told of his gasping for air as his skin took on a bluish cast and his breathing became tortured, and J.T. had halted her before she reached the final part of her story. Reaching to place long fingers on her forearm, he’d squeezed gently to get her attention, then shook his head to halt her words, seeming to understand her pain.

      And now, from that silent, closemouthed man, Aunt Tilly had managed, with blunt queries and canny insight, to learn more in two minutes than Chloe had gotten from him in almost two weeks. She leaned toward him. “Where do your parents live?” she asked. “Still in the South?”

      His eyes met hers and she felt his withdrawal even as she finished her question. “They’re buried on the home place,” he said shortly. “The house caught fire and neither of them got out.” He picked up his cup and drank deeply of the hot coffee, seemingly immune to the scalding heat.

      “How old were you?” she asked quietly.

      “Old enough to be on my own,” he answered. “It was a long time ago. No sense in raking up the past, to my way of thinking. I’ve traveled a long way from that life.”

      And that was probably all she’d ever hear about it, Chloe thought, totaling up her scant store of knowledge. The man was a gambler, and he knew horseflesh. Beyond that, and the small addition of facts he’d just offered, he was a puzzle. His dark eyes held secrets, and his long, lean body bore muscled strength. Sharp featured and equally sharp spoken, he was arrogance in its finest form, she thought ruefully.

      And more of a man than she’d ever come across in all her twenty-two years of living. The thought of his hands against her skin, or his mouth touching hers, was enough to bring her to a level of anticipation she refused to consider. Even during the dark hours before midnight, when she tossed restlessly in her bed, reliving the single kiss that burned in her memory, she’d been aware of the insidious attraction of his presence.

      Foolishness on her part. He was her partner. And didn’t seem inclined, as far as she could tell, to press her into a more intimate situation.

      “You ever been married?” Aunt Tilly’s words caught Chloe unaware and she stiffened, certain that J.T. would take umbrage at the bold query.

      Instead he grinned, an expression that totally changed the stern lines of his face. “A man who keeps on the move doesn’t need to tote a woman along with him.”

      “You’re not on the move anymore,” Tilly pointed out. “Seems like a fella who owns half a ranch ought to be thinking about putting down roots and looking to the future.”

      Chloe choked on a half-chewed piece of beef and pushed her chair back from the table. Coughing and gasping, she headed for the back door, aware of J.T.’s chair scraping across the floor. She bent over the porch railing, catching her breath and felt his warm hand against her back.

      “You all right?” he asked, concern mixed with amusement as he bent to peer into her face. “I think your aunt kinda threw you there, didn’t she?”

      “I can’t believe she was so brazen,” Chloe managed to gasp. “The next thing you know, she’ll be arranging a wedding for you.”

      “Nah,” he said, drawling the word in a teasing tone. “When I decide to tie the knot, I’ll do my own arranging, partner.” His hand slid up her back to rest against her shoulder, and he squeezed lightly. “And trust me, Miss Chloe, you’ll be the first to know.”

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