Taming Blackhawk

He glanced at the fresh straw, then at the woman.

What a damn shame.

“Why me?” he asked.

“Everyone says you’re the best,” she said. “This is a difficult job. Probably dangerous. I heard that’s your specialty.”

Another time he might have been flattered, and he definitely would have been interested. He’d always enjoyed a challenge, and the danger part made his blood race.

Another time.

He unclipped Maggie Mae’s bridle. “You’re wasting your time, Miss Grace.”

“You’re my last hope,” she said quietly.

Her words, spoken with such intensity, made something catch in his chest. He didn’t want to be anyone’s last hope. Didn’t want anyone to depend on him. He closed Maggie Mae’s stall door.

“That’s too bad.” He tugged his handkerchief from his back pocket and swiped at the sweat on his face. “But my answer is still no.”

“Mr. Sloan,” she said when he started to walk away, then, “Rand, please.”

He stopped when she said his name so softly.

“Could you please just give me a few minutes?” she asked.

“I haven’t got a few minutes, Miss Grace.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to my father’s funeral.”

Two

The sound of a car door slamming startled Grace awake. She hadn’t meant to doze off, but after only five hours sleep the night before, the early-morning board meeting, the flight to San Antonio, then renting a car at the airport and driving one hundred miles, her eyelids had simply grown too heavy to keep open.

She rose from the comfortable easy chair in Mary Sloan’s living room and looked out through the lace curtains. Mary and Rand had already stepped out of an old, dust-covered tan truck. A second truck, newer, deep blue with dual cab, pulled up in front of the house, as well. Two men younger than Rand, also tall, with dark-brown hair climbed out.

Grace glanced at her wristwatch, surprised that the Sloan family was back so soon from the funeral. The service must have been a short one, and the reception, if there had been one, even shorter than that.

Grace hadn’t intended to stay at the Sloan house. As badly as she wanted—needed—Rand’s help, she knew she couldn’t intrude at such a difficult time. But it was a long drive to San Antonio, and after Rand had left her standing in the barn, Grace had knocked on Mary Sloan’s door to ask for a glass of water before heading back to the airport. Next thing Grace knew, Mary had sat her down at the kitchen table and asked point-blank what Grace wanted with Rand. Grace had told Mary about the foundation and the horses, then Mary had insisted that Grace stay and join them for dinner.

Grace had politely turned down Mary’s offer, but the older woman had refused to take no for an answer. It had been a long time since she’d had any company, Mary had said, and she would certainly appreciate another female in the house tonight.

The genuine concern in Mary’s eyes, the sadness, made it impossible for Grace to say no. Since Rand had turned her down, Grace had nowhere to go, no one else to turn to, anyway. So why not stay a few hours if Mary wanted her to? Grace could only imagine how devastated her own mother would be if anything happened to her father. If Mary Sloan wanted female companionship, then it was the least Grace could do for the woman.

She looked up when Rand opened the door and stepped inside. He’d obviously showered and shaved since she’d seen him last. He now wore black dress jeans, a white shirt and shiny black boots. He glanced at her, unsmiling. Obviously, Rand did not approve of his mother’s request that Grace stay.

Well, the hell with him. The man was just going to have to deal with it.

Their eyes locked for one long moment, then he boldly slid that dark, intense gaze of his all the way down her body, then slowly back up again. It annoyed Grace when her breasts tightened and, dammit, her nipples hardened. She pressed her lips firmly together. She decided he was crude and coarse and…just about the sexiest man she’d ever met.

“I heard you’re staying for dinner,” he said at last, bringing his gaze back to hers.

“Your mother—”

“Mind your manners, Rand Sloan.” Mary swept in the house behind her son and moved past him. “I asked Grace to stay. A woman needs a breather with all that testosterone that’ll be filling this house tonight. I need some feminine balance.”

“Matt and Sam will be here,” Rand called after Mary, then turned and looked at his brothers as they strode through the front door. “That should balance the femininity about right.”

Surprised, Grace glanced at Rand. The man had actually made a joke, she realized. A sarcastic one, true, but a joke nonetheless. She wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.

“I’ll give you feminine when I’m picking your teeth out of my knuckles.” One of the brothers walked toward Grace and stuck out his hand. “I’m Matthew Sloan,” he said with a smile. “This is Sam.”

Heavens, but the Sloan men were a handsome lot. Though Rand had darker hair and eyes than his brothers and his face was more sculpted, they were all rugged and tall, with killer smiles. Not that she’d seen Rand smile, she thought dryly.

“Grace Sullivan.” She shook each of their hands. “I’m sorry about your father.”

There was an awkward moment of silence, as there always was with condolences, then Matt said, “Thanks for staying. After looking at Rand’s ugly mug all day, my eyes could use a break.”

Rand frowned at his brother, but there was no malice in the look. If anything, Grace thought, it was the first sign of affection Rand had displayed.

“Matthew and Samuel,” Mary called from the kitchen. “Get your butts in here now. I need help.”

Matt and Sam excused themselves, leaving Grace alone with Rand. “I…I should go help, too,” she said.

He took her arm when she started toward the kitchen. “In all the years I’ve known her, my mother hasn’t asked for help in the kitchen once.”

Confused, she simply looked at him.

“She’s thinking we need a minute alone.”

“Oh, I see,” Grace said, then gave him a weak smile. “I’m sorry. I’m sure the last thing you want is to be alone with me.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Grace felt her throat go dry at the flare of interest in his black eyes. She looked down at the hand he’d laid on her forearm. A working man’s hand. Large, with long fingers and tanned, rough skin. Against her smooth, cream-colored silk jacket, the contrast was amazingly sensual. The heat of his fingers burned all the way through the fabric.

She really needed to get a grip on her hormones.

“Rand,” she said carefully, “your mother asked me to stay, but I have no intention of intruding on your grief. Just forget why I came here and think of me as you would any other guest in your mother’s house.”

It might be hard to explain to the woman that his mother rarely had guests in her house, Rand thought. But it really wasn’t anything that Miss Grace Sullivan needed to know, anyway.

“Samuel Sloan, you get your fingers out of that potato salad right now!”

Rand watched Grace’s head snap toward the kitchen. At the sound of a loud thwap, those deep-green eyes of hers went wide.

“Shoot, Mom, someone’s gotta make sure it tastes right,” Sam told his mother.

“You saying I don’t know how to make potato salad?”

Another loud thwap!