Romancing the Cowboy

“Be quiet,” a man said, as he neared the window. “I don’t want to wake up anyone in the house.”

“I hate this,” another added.

“We don’t like it, either. Just sit back and enjoy the ride, kid.”

Footsteps sounded at the back porch. It might be the end of spring, but a winter frost crept up Sabrina’s spine. Her heart pounded out an ominous dirge in her brain and perspiration beaded on her forehead.

As quiet as a cornered mouse, she tiptoed toward the kitchen counter, where the butcher block rested. She set down her milk and cookies, then grabbed the biggest weapon she could find—a meat cleaver—and held it with both hands, ready to defend herself.

Maybe it was Lester, the ranch foreman, and some of the hired hands. Maybe they had reason to be awake and milling about at this time of night.

That had to be it, yet her pulse escalated until she could hear it throbbing in her ears. An avid mystery reader with a wild imagination, Sabrina often thought in terms of worst-possible scenarios. And she tried to keep that in mind, tried to remain calm.

She could scream, waking everyone in the house. And what if there was a perfectly good explanation for all of this?

Then the new ranch bookkeeper would look like a fool.

The lock clicked, as though someone had a key. Or perhaps someone was picking it.

Should she scream now?

The door to the mudroom swung open, revealing a group of men outside, their forms barely illuminated by the headlights of a vehicle. The one in front, a tall, thirtysomething hulk of a man with wheat-colored hair, held a key in his hand and gaped at her. “Who the hell are you?”

If she’d witnessed a crime and stood behind a mirrored window, looking at a lineup and listening to each voice, she’d recognize that one.

Jared Clayton.

She didn’t know whether to cry in relief or anger. “Didn’t anyone teach you to knock on doors?”

“Not at this house.”

“Hey,” a voice behind him said, “get a move on. This is heavy.”

Jared stepped aside, and several of the ranch hands carried a dark-haired man and the wheelchair in which he was still seated through the service porch and into the kitchen, where they lowered him to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she said, more in response to the injured man’s plight than anything.

From what she’d heard, the one-time rodeo cowboy had been involved in a tragic car accident a while back, and he’d been recuperating at Jared’s ranch. Yet her gaze and her focus turned to Jared. “You scared me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jared’s features—quite handsome in the light—softened a tad. “And you don’t think seeing a shedevil, wielding a meat cleaver in her hand and dressed like a ghost in flowing white didn’t give me a start, too?”

Sabrina glanced down at her gown, realizing how threadbare the fabric had become, how sheer the material.

Her hair hung down her back, but she freed the side tresses, allowing them to cover the front of her gown the best they could.

As Matthew wheeled himself out of the kitchen and into the living room, the ranch hands backed out the door, closing it and leaving her with Mrs. Clayton’s oldest son. He still hadn’t formally introduced himself, although he really hadn’t needed to.

He crossed his arms across a broad chest and shifted the bulk of his weight to one, denim-clad hip. “Who are you?”

She crossed her own arms, hoping that would help hide what her hair couldn’t. “I’m Sabrina Gonzalez.”

“The bookkeeper who’s taken up residence in my mother’s house.”

It wasn’t a question, yet his tone, his condescension, set her off, provoking a retort that was completely out of character. “And you’re the rude, arrogant man who called earlier.”

Jared had been accused of worse, but he didn’t take any guff off anyone. Never had, never would.

Granny had done her best to teach him and his brothers to be cordial and polite, but it didn’t come easy to Jared. Not when he had reason to believe someone was a liar or a cheat. And he didn’t trust Sabrina Gonzalez any farther than he could throw her—something that wouldn’t be too tough. She was just a slip of a thing, with a slinky veil of black hair that nearly reached her waist.

Jared, who’d always favored long-haired women, found it intriguing. Attractive.

But he didn’t dare give this particular woman more than a passing glance. She was, after all, the one with the easiest access to Granny’s accounts. And it didn’t take much skill to put two and two together. He could do the math on that.

“Are you going to put down your weapon?” he asked.

She glanced at the cleaver, then replaced it into the butcher-block holder. Turning to face him again and recrossing her arms, she gave a little shrug. “The ranch is off the beaten path, and I wasn’t sure if this was a home invasion.”

“My guess is that you watch too much television.”

Her eyes, the color of a field of bluebonnets in the spring, were big and expressive. Her lashes, thick and dark, didn’t need mascara.

She was a beautiful woman, even without makeup and dressed in an old gown. Of course, her bedtime attire and sleep-tousled hair had an appeal in and of itself.

To much of one, he decided.

He knew better than to allow himself to be swayed by lust and did his best to shake off any sexual interest in her.

“So what were you doing awake and prowling around in the house at this hour?” he asked

She paused, as if deciding whether to tell the truth or to lie. “Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep, so I came for a glass of milk.”

“You might try whiskey. It works for me.”

The hands that she’d tucked under her arms loosened, leaving him a glimpse of the gentle swell of her breasts.

Her white cotton gown had seen better days, but her body was damn near perfect. What he could see of it, anyway.

He pulled out a chair from the antique oak table, took a seat and studied her.

Early twenties. Just over five feet tall. High cheekbones, big eyes. Lips that were kissable in spite of the pretty pout she wore.

He wondered what her hard-luck story had been. “So how’d you meet Granny?”

She remained standing. “I was referred by Mr. Whitaker, and I came out to the ranch for an interview.”

Grant referred her? If so, that was interesting. Grant had been the one to pick up on the discrepancies in the account.

“I’d originally applied for work at his office,” she added, “but he’s cutting back on his workload. He knew Mrs. Clayton needed a bookkeeper, so he gave her a call.”