A Weaver Proposal

Sydney would be stuck at home with the man for several years yet.

She turned back to look out the windows. The horse barns where her father’s pride and joy was stabled were visible in the distance. “He’s not worth it,” she repeated.

But her chest hurt and tears crept down her cheeks when she finally looked away.

She picked up the crumpled picture of her mother and smoothed it out on the desk.

Black hair. Thin face. Blue eyes.

“You’re not worth it, either,” she whispered to the picture.

The large grandfather clock against the wall ticked softly.

Sydney made a face and slowly picked up the photo.

She folded it carefully in half.

Then she pushed it into her pocket and left the room.

Chapter One

“What on earth are you doing here?” Sydney murmured the question to herself as she yanked a thick sweater over her head. She was wearing two layers of sweaters, on top of a long-sleeved thermal undershirt, and she still couldn’t get warm. January in Wyoming was a long way from January in Georgia.

She shook her head sharply, freeing the ends of her hair from the turtleneck and pulled the cuffs of the sweater even farther down over her hands as she gave the furnace a baleful look.

The offending item was housed behind a door—currently open—off her small kitchen. After failing to get the thing to run for the last forty-eight hours, and considering her dwindling supply of firewood, she’d finally given up and called a repair service.

That had been nearly eight hours ago.

They’d promised to send someone in two.

Clearly, the three impatient calls that she’d made since then hadn’t sped things along.

Not for the first time, she wondered if moving herself—lock, stock and metaphorical barrel—out to this small town in Wyoming was a monumental mistake.

But making monumental mistakes was truly the one thing at which Sydney Forrest excelled.

She rubbed her hands down her flat belly, then picked up the hammer she’d been trying not to pitch at the broken furnace and eyed the cabin wall again. She’d already hung one of her Solieres and had two more to go.

The modern American style of the paintings didn’t match the cabin’s interior—early-American leftover—but she loved the original oils, anyway. They were the first pieces of art she’d ever purchased, and the only ones in her sizeable collection that she’d bothered bringing with her to Weaver, Wyoming. The rest she’d left back in Georgia on loan to various galleries and she could honestly say she didn’t care whether she ever saw any of them again.

But the Solieres…these, she loved.

If she could hang them here, then she’d be home.

She hoped.

She placed the nail and hammered it into the thick log wall. Only when she stopped did she realize that someone was hammering at her door, too.

She dropped the hammer on the hideous green-and-orange-plaid couch that came with the place and headed toward the door, only to stop short.

She eyed the thick, glossy-covered book lying on her couch. The Next Forty Weeks. Maybe it was silly of her, but she shoved it behind a cushion, anyway, before hurrying the few steps to the door.

“You’re late,” she said flatly when she threw open the door.

The tall man standing on the doorstep of the cabin tilted down the dark glasses he was wearing and looked at her over the rims. “I am?”

The fact that there was amusement in the bright green eyes he trained on her face didn’t help her irritation. “I called for you nearly eight hours ago.” Her voice was only a few shades warmer than the cold air that seeped inside around him. “I don’t know what kind of service your employer expects you to provide but he assured me—more than once over those hours—that you would be…right here.” She sounded like a witch and didn’t particularly care. She pointed her index finger at the offending furnace. “It’s over there.”

Still peering over the tops of his sunglasses, he finally shifted away in the direction she was pointing. “I see.” He stepped past her into the cabin, turning slightly sideways as he did so.

To avoid touching her, or to even fit through the door, she wasn’t sure. He was wearing a thick down jacket that, despite the rip in one shoulder seam, nevertheless made his shoulders look a good six inches wider than they probably were.

“Let’s just take a look, then,” he murmured as he passed her.

She shivered and slammed the door shut.

She wasn’t going to remotely entertain the idea that she was reacting to his deep, soft voice.

She was absolutely done with men.

Been there. Done that. With far too many.

She folded her arms around her waist and watched him as he crouched down in front of the furnace. His thighs strained against the faded, dirty jeans he was wearing and she wasn’t going to admit that she, even for one moment, glanced at his rear visible beneath the coat he wasn’t bothering to remove.

Why would he take it off?

The cabin’s interior was freezing.

Her irritation mounted even more. “Didn’t you even bring a toolbox? What kind of a repairman are you, besides a late one?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. He’d pulled off his sunglasses and she got a full-on view of that scruffy face and striking eyes.

He needed a shave, a haircut and, she was betting, a shower.

“Actually, I have a toolbox in my truck.” His drawl seemed to have deepened. “Ma’am,” he added after a moment.

Her lips tightened.

Smart-aleck repairmen she didn’t need. What she did need was heat. Or she was afraid she was going to have to give up the idea of staying in the cabin on her own.

She might as well have a tail that she could tuck between her legs if she had to admit, already, that she couldn’t hack it by herself in Weaver.

The idea tasted bitter. As bitter as the fear that ran deep and strong inside her that she wouldn’t be able to hack it.

And then where would she be?

Back in Georgia? Lolling away her time and inheritance in a place where nobody really cared about her—or heaven forbid—felt sorry for her?