The Rebel Rancher

All he’d wanted to do was reassure her that Diamondback was a safe place … and then she’d run into him, he’d put his hands on her and everything he’d planned to say evaporated. The shocking thing was for a moment he’d thought she’d felt it, too, when the air hummed between them in the kitchen.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong.

The music changed and a movement caught his eye. Clara, in her sage-colored dress, tugging a shawl closer around her shoulders against the fall chill. She’d be leaving now, then, he thought, and scowled. He’d been an ass, trying to flirt with her. He hadn’t mastered the art of polite chit chat and other social graces. Until tonight, they hadn’t been required. How did a guy talk to a woman who was in a situation like hers, anyway? He did the only thing he knew how—and came off looking like an idiot. What had he been thinking, asking her to dance?

Clara didn’t go around the house to where the cars were parked. Instead she crossed the grass towards the crowd. She looked up and around the throng until she met his eyes and her gaze stopped roaming. His heart gave a sharp kick in response—a surprise. Frightened girls with innocent eyes were so not his type. He was more into confident women who hung around waiting for the bull riders with the big belt buckles. Girls who were only in it for their own eight seconds and no further commitments.

There were at least a dozen reasons why he should stay clear of Clara Ferguson. He could list three off the top without blinking: she had too much baggage, she worked for the family and he’d only cause her trouble.

But she kept coming, her glossy walnut curls twisting over her shoulders like silk ribbons. The cut of her dress was simple and quite conservative, skimming down her figure and showing her curves without revealing much skin. The effect was sexier than it should have been, he realized. She was nothing like the women he dated. Maybe that was why he was noticing her today, but this was as far as it would go. Noticing. And he didn’t even need Sam’s earlier warning to tell him so.

She stopped in front of him and her chest rose as she took a deep breath. He realized he was holding his and slowly let it out. “Clara?”

She gave him a smile so sweet, so fragile, that it frightened the hell out of him.

“Would you like to dance, Tyson?”

A good puff of air could probably have knocked him over. He stared at her for a good five seconds until her smile began to waver and uncertainty clouded her dark blue eyes. He wasn’t sure why, but something had prompted her to change her mind, and he sensed it had taken a lot of courage for her to come out here and ask.

So what was he supposed to do now? She’d been very clear about not wanting to dance—particularly with him. She’d pulled away from him twice now, and if they danced he’d have to touch her. In several places. Odd, but that thought fired his blood more than anything—or anyone—had in weeks.

But he got the feeling that if he declined it would be about more than refusing a simple turn on the floor. “I thought you didn’t want to dance.”

She lifted her chin. “I changed my mind. But if you don’t want to, that’s fine.” She started to turn away.

“I didn’t say that.” Hell, he might have blown it the first time, but she was here now, right? Something had brought her back out here tonight.

She paused, looked over her shoulder at him. Like she wanted him to believe she was in control. He knew better. She had no idea what she was doing. He should walk away right now—it would be better for them both. This whole day had him out of his comfort zone, and Clara was waiting with her sweet, sad eyes for his answer.

He held out his hand and waited. Just because he wasn’t a gentleman ninety percent of the time didn’t mean he couldn’t fake it.

She put her hand in his and he felt the tremor against his palm. Hell. He was not good at this sort of thing. He was used to a not-so-subtle pressing of bodies on the dance floor. An invitation and a promise of things to come. Clara wasn’t like that, was she? She was as flighty as a scared rabbit. Innocent.

Ty led her to the dance “floor”—an expanse of even ground in front of the band. As a waltz began, he put his right hand along the warm curve of her waist and clasped her fingers lightly in his left. He had no idea how close to get or if he should say something or … A cold sweat broke out at the back of his neck. Wasn’t it hysterical that a man like him was suddenly so unsure what to do?

She’d gone quite pale, so he let go of her waist and put a finger beneath her chin.

Her last partner had abused her—Sam had said as much when he’d issued the warning to tread carefully. Now, as she tensed beneath his chaste touch, he felt an immediate, blinding hatred for the man who had damaged such a beautiful creature, followed by something unfamiliar and unsettling as he realized he was feeling unusually protective.

He lifted her chin with his finger and said simply, “You make the rules.”

Emotions flooded her eyes—what he thought was gratitude and relief and maybe even a touch of fear. He was not a particularly good man, and he was certainly not good enough for her, but he wasn’t cruel or oblivious. So he waited for her to clasp his hand in hers again before he made his feet move, taking her with him around the dirt floor, making sure there was lots of space between their bodies.

They made small steps around the dance area, neither speaking, but Ty felt the moment she finally began to relax in his arms. He wanted to pull her closer, to nestle her in the curves of his body, feel her softness against him, but he kept a safe distance, honoring his word to let her take the lead. Clara wasn’t like other women. There were different rules to be followed. Hell, usually there were no rules.

The first song finished and led straight into another. There was only a pause in their steps and then, by some sort of unspoken agreement, they moved as one again, swaying gently to the music. Her breasts brushed against his jacket, an innocent whisper of contact that he normally wouldn’t notice but right now sent his blood racing. Her temple rested lightly against his chin and the floral scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils. There was something inherently sweet about Clara, and he did not normally have a sweet tooth when it came to women. But he couldn’t deny that what he was feeling was attraction. Arousal. As the fiddle scraped in the background, his lips nuzzled against the soft hair at her temple and his eyes closed, drawing in her scent that reminded him of his mother’s lily of the valley. Her skin was warm and soft and tasted like summer.

The song ended and Ty stepped back, shaken.

But worse than that was looking down at Clara and seeing her eyes swimming with tears. A quick survey showed him that several people were watching them curiously, and why not? It was no secret that Clara was a resident at the women’s shelter, and Ty knew his reputation—quite intentional when all was said and done. The cocky, confident rebel image was a lot easier to maintain than the truth, after all.

But Clara didn’t deserve gossip or prying eyes. To his dismay a tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and down her cheek.

“Let’s get you away from here,” he murmured, squeezing her hand, feeling instantly sorry he’d let things go as far as they had during the dance. In another time, another place, with another woman, that sort of soft kiss would have been nothing. But here he’d forgotten himself. The best he could do now was get her away from the gossip.

Her eyes widened at his suggestion. “Away … as in?” He watched as she swallowed.

“Away from busybodies,” he said quietly. “I promise you, Clara, you don’t have to be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you.”

She pulled her hand out of his and her face paled. She seemed oblivious to the inquisitive stares of the wedding guests as she stumbled backwards.

“I’ve heard that before.” The words sounded jerked from her throat, harsh and disjointed. “This was a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake.”

She turned on her heel and ran off, dashing out of the garden as she rushed to the house. Her shawl fluttered out of the crook of her arm and settled on the grass. Ty was left standing in the middle of the dance area feeling like a first-class fool.

He walked over to where her shawl lay on the cool grass and picked it up, running the soft fabric through his fingers.

He’d spooked her big-time. It was probably just as well when all was said and done. But now he had an additional reason he wished he hadn’t promised Molly he’d move back into the ranch house. He wasn’t sure what would be worse—the awkwardness with Clara or the antagonism between him and his father.

She was afraid of him.

The next few months were going to be hell.

Clara kneaded the biscuit dough with a bit more force than necessary, flattening it on the countertop before rolling it and pushing the heels of her hands against it again. She’d put Virgil through his physio exercises already and he’d fallen asleep over his crossword puzzle, tired from the exertions and from all the excitement of the previous day. She’d changed his bedding after his bath, given him his meds and made sure he was comfortable in his favorite chair. Molly was out at a church women’s breakfast. And Ty was …

Ty was out in the barns somewhere. Thank goodness.

Just the thought of Tyson made her cheeks grow hot. The few times they’d crossed paths in the days since the wedding, he’d offered a polite greeting and moved on, barely meeting her eyes. And who could blame him? She’d cried, for Pete’s sake, and run off. For someone who wasn’t into drama or making a spectacle, she’d indulged in plenty. No wonder he kept his distance from her now. Her intentions to smooth the way had been a big fat failure.

Then again, he never should have kissed her either. Even if it hadn’t been technically a kiss.

She flipped the dough and kneaded it again, welcoming the rhythmic motion. It was almost therapeutic the way her arm muscles moved and flexed as she pushed the dough around the board. She tended to cook when she needed to empty her mind. And her mind was plenty full.

But so far it wasn’t working. Things around the Diamond place were tense. Ty complicated matters—and not just for her. Virgil had been irritable lately, growling at her during his exercises and wearing a scowl more often than a smile. She had half a mind to sit the both of them down and tell them to talk rather than stomp around beating their chests. There was clearly some sort of power struggle at work and it wasn’t good for Virgil. It wasn’t her place to say anything, though. And sheer embarrassment kept her from offering Ty more than a quiet hello.

She’d fallen quite under his spell while dancing. Their bodies had been touching. Her hands paused over the dough for a minute, remembering. On one hand, it had been a stunning victory over her personal-space phobia. But it had also been a huge mistake. Come on—Ty Diamond? And it had been in front of half of Cadence Creek. She gave her head a shake.

She employed the rolling pin next, rolling the dough out exactly half an inch thick. The more Ty stayed out of her way the better. Virgil needed to stay focused on his rehabilitation, and Ty made Clara feel …

Well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? He made Clara feel, full stop. She’d gotten as caught up as any other woman in the romance of the wedding, wooed by the adoring looks Sam and Angela shared, the soft music, the beautiful flowers and pretty dresses. That was the only explanation that made any sense at all.

Clara applied the cookie cutter to the dough with a vengeance, cutting circles and plopping them on a cookie sheet. In the clear light of day she realized he had felt sorry for her. That stung, but she should have retained a little dignity rather than fleeing. She had no one to blame but herself.

She heard the front door shut. Molly couldn’t be back already, Sam and Angela were going to be in Ottawa on their honeymoon for another week, and no one else would walk in without knocking. That left Ty. Speak of the devil.

“Morning,” he said, coming through to the kitchen in his socked feet. Buster, the family retriever, trotted in on Ty’s heels and rubbed up against Clara’s leg to say hello with a wag of his tail.

“Go lie down, Buster,” Clara said firmly. “Last thing I need is you in my biscuit dough.”