Romancing the Cowboy

More paper shuffled and a drawer slid open.

Was Edna looking for something she’d misplaced again?

As Sabrina approached the open doorway, she spotted Jared seated at the desk, rifling through one of the drawers. Several open files lay across the scarred oak desktop.

“Looking for something?” she asked.

The rugged rancher glanced up. For one fleeting moment, he donned the expression of a boy who’d been caught with his hand in the church offering plate, but he quickly doused it.

Straightening, he leaned back in the seat, the leather and springs creaking from the shift in his weight. “Nope. Nothing in particular.”

In that case, he’d been snooping, which she didn’t appreciate one bit.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “The office was a mess when I came to work, so I’ve organized it. I know exactly where everything is and can put my hands on it instantly. So if you ever decide what it is you need, just let me know. I’d be glad to get it for you.”

His gaze traveled the length of her and back, as though he was trying to assess her—body and soul. A glimmer of masculine interest flashed in his eyes, and it was all she could do to remain ramrod straight. Calm. In control. She was determined to keep her pulse rate steady and her temper on an even keel.

“It’s obvious that you’ve made a lot of changes,” he said. “Granny used to file things in piles and stacks.”

“I can’t work like that.”

“Ah, so you’re a control freak.”

She tensed. Over the years, she’d taken some ribbing because of her need to take charge of her life, but she couldn’t help it. “I prefer to think of myself as organized.”

He rocked back in the chair, causing it to strain and groan. “Where did you meet Grant Whitaker?”

Sabrina didn’t like the idea of being interrogated and had the urge to tell Jared where he could get off. But she’d worked hard in college, choosing to bypass student loans and financial aid for reasons of her own, and didn’t want him or anyone else to think of her as a charity case. Not anymore.

“I was majoring in accounting at the University of Houston and met Mr. Whitaker while applying for a job in his office. He wasn’t hiring, but suggested I call Mrs. Clayton, since she’d recently told him she was looking for a bookkeeper. I needed the job, and she needed me. It’s as simple as that.” She strode toward the desk. “While I don’t usually waste my time speaking to rude, obnoxious people, you’re my employer’s son, so I’m trying to be polite. But I don’t owe you anything, Mr. Clayton. Least of all an explanation.”

A grin tugged at his lips, and a hint of—amusement? Admiration?—lit the gold flecks in his eyes. “I thought accountants were supposed to be mild-mannered. You’ve got a little spunk.”

A part of her felt compelled to thank him, but she kept quiet.

“I suppose I’ve been…snappy,” he admitted, “so I apologize. But there are a lot of people living here, all of them strangers, and I just want to make sure no one is taking advantage of Granny.”

“Your mother strikes me as being a good judge of character.”

“She always used to be.”

Sabrina glanced at the files on the desk and eased closer so she could see what he’d been reading. “For someone who claims he isn’t looking for anything, you sure have dug through quite a few files.”

“Actually,” he said, “I’m the executor of Granny’s estate and I always go over the books when I’m in town.”

“She didn’t say anything to me about that.”

“It probably slipped her mind.”

That was certainly possible, Sabrina supposed. “Then maybe it’s a good idea if we talk to her about it at breakfast. I’d feel much better if she gave me her okay.”

Instead of responding to her comment, he studied her. His hazel eyes, were compelling when they weren’t narrowed or fired-up in anger. Mesmerizing, actually, so she broke eye contact.

About the time she assumed he wasn’t going to respond at all, he said, “Your hair looks better down. Like you wore it last night.”

The compliment, as well as the masculine appreciation in his tone, knocked her off balance, and she lifted her hand to feel along the side of her hair. Making sure the strands were in place, she supposed.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry. I’ll put everything back where I found it.”

“That’s all right.” Sabrina reached for a file, intending to gather them all together and make sure they ended up in the right place. “I’ll do it.”

Jared’s hand clamped on to her wrist, and a jolt of heat shot straight through her chest, nearly taking her breath away. Time stood still, as sexual awareness hovered over her, unbalancing her.

She yanked free of his grip, a knee-jerk response that was more from the shocking zing of his touch than from being restrained.

Her parents had allowed themselves to be ruled by hormones instead of good sense. And look where that had gotten them.

Sabrina was determined not to make the same mistake, especially when she could clearly see that Jared Clayton wasn’t the man for her.

“I’m not finished looking at those.” As he withdrew his hand, his gaze softened ever so slightly.

“I have no problem allowing you to have the run of the office. But only if Mrs. Clayton gives her okay.”

He leaned back in the chair, the leather and springs protesting again. Another grin eased across his lips, causing the warrior in him to relax some. “I value honesty, integrity and a good work ethic, Sabrina. So I hope that’s what’s going on here.”

That’s exactly what was going on. But the way he studied her made her wonder if he thought she had some kind of ulterior motive.

“Maybe we’ve started out on the wrong foot,” he said, his eyes gentling even more.

He was right, but it wasn’t Sabrina who’d set the ground rules. “I’m sure your mother would prefer that we be allies rather than adversaries.”

“Is it too late to start over?”

She wanted to tell him it was. To insist the two of them might never see eye to eye.

Yet as her their gazes locked, as her heart rate slipped into overdrive, she wasn’t so sure.

Jared hadn’t been able to find anything suspicious in the office, so just before seven, he stopped by the kitchen to share a cup of coffee with the men who were downing the last bit of their breakfast—overcooked strips of bacon and misshapen, unevenly browned pancakes. Since Connie, the so-called cook, was nowhere to be seen, Jared suspected that she’d had been too embarrassed to stick around and witness the consumption of the meal.

But rather than hang out with the men any longer, Jared made small talk while he finished his coffee, then excused himself to check on his brother.

It was rare that Jared ever felt as though he was in over his head, but in this case, with three women to question, as well as some of the ranch hands—if he could ever get them alone—he could use Matt’s help.

His brother’s bedroom door was closed, so he knocked lightly.

“Who is it?” Matt asked.

“It’s me.”