Twilight

And he looked absolutely marvelous. Not the least bit like an outlaw. For one brief moment.

And then he grinned, a flash of startling white that set the sun ablaze in his golden eyes and set Jessica’s anger to boiling.

How dare he stand there and look so god-awful smug, as though he’d enjoyed a restful night of sleep?

She opened her mouth and...

“Good morning, ma’am.”

Jessica sucked in a hissing breath, feeling frustration like a clamp about her chest. “I should say not, Mr. Stark. How dare you allow my son to clamber about on that broken-down—?”

“He fixed it, Mama.”

“I don’t care if he birthed it this very morning. You could have been killed, and that animal—”

“His name is Jack, Mama.”

“A true misnomer if there ever was one. He looks like a Hades to me, entirely untrustworthy, capable of eating you alive and—”

“We’re gonna go to town in the buckboard, aren’t we, Logan? We don’t have to walk ever, ever again.”

There it was, that undeniable reverence in her son’s voice, something so entirely recognizable because Jessica had never heard it before in Christian’s voice. Damn and blast this outlaw, thinking to point out her shortcomings, to outdo her, her, the inept female. His job was simply to help.

She glared up at him. “Mr. Stark—”

“Logan.” How infuriating the smooth mellowness of his voice, just as infuriating as the mocking serenity of this morning. “You’re awfully angry, ma’am, and the sun not yet risen.”

“As if a woman’s emotions are governed by the simple rising of the sun.”

“No, that would be too simple, ma’am.”

Jessica sucked in yet another breath and flung her arm at the buckboard. “How could you allow a small boy to...to—? Have you any notion what harm could have befallen him? Or were you so distracted by your own little whatever it was that you were doing—”

“Oiling the wheels, ma’am.”

“See there? You were far too consumed with your oiling to even take notice of his safety, much less his state of undress. But, of course, that is left to the womenfolk of the world. You men wander aimlessly about, entirely consumed with your—”

“Ma’am.”

“We women, why, we’ve been bred for centuries to be able to do ten things simultaneously, not the least of which is to see to the menfolk’s complete care, divine happiness and—”

“Ma’am.”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Mr. Stark. Trust me, I’ve heard them all before, and—”

“Ma’am.”

“I’m not finished, Mr. Stark.” Ah, but all this letting go of her anger felt so divine, even if a part of her realized a good bit of that anger had nothing to do with Stark. The blood pumped vigorously through her limbs, filling her with a vitality she hadn’t felt in months. Yes, she could remain unmoved by the slight shifting of his brows, the narrowing of his eyes upon her, as though she had given him a window to her very soul. Indeed. A man like him, short on book learning, thinking himself long on cunning. Ha! “I’ll have you know, Mr. Stark, my son never, never attempted such shenanigans before you arrived.” She punctuated this with a jab of her finger into the middle of his rock hard chest.

He quirked a brow. “Really? Funny, but—” He paused, shook his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets in an abominably cavalier manner. “I don’t suppose that matters.”

Jessica stared at him, feeling the blood slowly draining from her face. “What? What doesn’t matter? Are you saying that I would allow my son—”

“I would never even imply that, ma’am, knowing you as I do. No, there are some things even a mother like you won’t ever control in her child, shenanigans being the least of it. Especially a boy.”

“Well, I can. And I will.” Again, she jabbed his chest. And then something in his eyes, a deep and wild darkening of gold to bronze, sent a shaft of warning through her, despite all her exhilaration. She turned away from him, seeking her misplaced son under the buggy. “Christian, come with Mama now. You’ve got to get dressed and eat. I baked some—” She jerked upright and froze. Her mouth sagged in horror. “My bread! Good heavens, my bread has been in the oven for—!”

She spun right, nearly slammed into the buggy, whirled left and almost plowed into Stark’s beast. She spun again and slammed right into Stark’s chest. A solitary wail of despair fled her lips before she could snatch it back in dismay.

“Jess—” Her name flowed around her like warm sunlight, soothing. As though she would ever require or need his comfort. She would have pummeled that chest if he hadn’t caught her arms and held her fast. “It’s okay, Jess. It’s only one loaf of bread.”

“And I burned it!” she yelled up at him, almost stricken when she felt the hated burn of tears at the backs of her eyes. No, she would never, never, allow this man to see any emotional weakness. She might need his physical strength, but never anything more from him. “No, you would never understand that, would you?”

“Yes, I do, Jess.”

“Don’t call me that!” she spat, twisting from his grasp. And then she fled the barn without turning back, because the tears did fall then, and she couldn’t stop them.

* * *

She’d barely looked at Rance, much less her newly restored buckboard, as he handed her up onto the freshly polished seat. Instead, she gave Jack a glare full of dire warnings and then directed all her attention to something far out on the bleak distant horizon for the duration of the ride to Twilight—that is, when she wasn’t fussing over Christian.

A sound ignoring, that was what it was. She sat ramrod-straight, her straw hat angled abruptly away from him, white-gloved hands folded in her lap over a small straw purse, upturned nose poking skyward, full lips stalwart and compressed as if she were sucking very hard upon a lemon.

Rance had a hell of a time keeping his eyes off her.

All that stubborn pride. He’d never encountered so much in a man before, much less a woman, even the gun-toting bandit queens he’d encountered. And yet in her he found it compelling, too damned compelling, and her not a harsh and cynical version of a woman, but innocent still. And young, younger than her years. The sunlight spilling through her hair, the delicate curving length of her neck, the trembling of her chin when she’d yelled up at him. And the feel of all that injured pride against him, rousing a deeply yearning hunger in him.

“Can I hold the reins, Logan?” Christian asked. “You said I could, remember?”

Rance kept his gaze between Jack’s ears on the twin ruts that cleaved through the prairie, but even so he felt the heat of her glare over her son’s head far more than he did the sun slapping at the back of his neck. The leather hung loose in his hands, a sure testament to the trust he’d placed in his animal long ago. His gaze shifted over the desolate horizon. “Maybe your mama would like to try first.”

“Mama?” Christian squawked. “She’s afraid of everything.”

“I am not,” came the hot retort.

“Yes, you are, Mama. Remember that horse Pa had? You said he was a nasty old thing that cost too much money and ate your flowers and bit.”

“Precisely,” Jessica retorted. “He indeed ate every last one of my geraniums, and he bit your pa.”

Christian grinned wickedly at Rance. “In the butt.”

“Christian! Don’t ever say that again.”

“Say what, Mama? That he bit him? He did. Right in the butt.”

“Oh, good grief.”

“Mama had to clean it and bandage it, and my pa howled like a coyote-wolf.”