Courting the Enemy

“No silver,” she said. “I think I can trust you with the stainless-steel utensils and the everyday dishes. You don’t strike me as a clumsy man.”

“I try not to be…especially when there’s a beautiful woman watching.”

She flushed at that, but in less than a heartbeat, her eyes flashed sparks. “Don’t try flattering me, Mr. Blackhawk.”

He frowned. “Can we get past the formalities? I’ve been calling you Karen all day long. Can’t you call me Grady?”

He saw her struggle reflected on her face, knew that she considered it one step closer to an intimacy she didn’t want. She was too polite to tell him that, though. She merely nodded curtly.

“Grady, then.”

“Thank you,” he said, keeping his expression and his tone deliberately solemn.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Not mocking,” he said. “Just teasing a little.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” she said sharply.

“Oh, really? When was the last time a man teased you, Karen?”

“I’m sure you know the answer to that.”

“When Caleb was still alive,” he suggested. “Tell me about him.”

She stared at him with surprise written all over her face. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to know how you saw him. I imagine it was quite a bit different from the way I viewed him.”

“Yes, I imagine it was,” she replied wryly. “He was my husband and I loved him.”

“Needless to say, I didn’t. He always struck me as an unreasonable man, one who twisted the facts to suit himself,” Grady said, deliberately baiting her just to see the flash of fire in her eyes, the color blooming in her cheeks. He liked seeing her come alive, instead of wearing the defeated air he’d seen on his arrival the day before.

“Caleb was the fairest men I ever knew,” she retorted, her voice as prickly as a desert cactus. “Which is why I owe it to him to think twice before I believe a word you say. You tell me you weren’t responsible for any of those incidents that almost cost us our herd, but words aren’t evidence. Where’s your proof?”

He leveled a look straight into her soft blue eyes. “Where’s yours?”

She swallowed hard at that and turned away, dishing up mashed potatoes, gravy and meat loaf with quick, impatient gestures that told him his barb had gotten to her.

Silently she slapped a fresh loaf of country sourdough bread on the table, along with home-churned butter, then took a seat opposite him.

“Shall we call a truce, Karen?” he suggested mildly. “Otherwise, we’re going to ruin a perfectly fine meal, and we’ll both end up with indigestion.”

“Calling a truce with you is a risk,” she said candidly. “You tend to take advantage every chance you get.”

“I’m highly motivated. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“I suppose that depends on your motivation and your goal.”

“You know mine. I’ve laid all my cards on the table. What about you? What motivates you?” He noticed that the travel brochures had been gathered up and tossed into a basket on the counter. “Dreams of faraway places?”

“Dreams can be a motivation,” she conceded, though it wasn’t a direct answer to his question. Her gaze met his. “Or merely a fantasy.”

“Which are they for you?”

“Fantasy at the moment, nothing more.”

She was fibbing, he decided, noting that the brochure for London was already dog-eared from handling.

“If you could go anywhere in the world you wanted, where would you choose?”

“London,” she said at once, then seemed to regret it. “Any particular reason?”

“Lots of them, but I’m sure you’d find then all boring.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

She hesitated, then shrugged as if to concede his point. “I studied literature the one year I went away to college. I love Jane Austen and Charles Dickens and Thackery. I love Shakespeare’s sonnets. And for me, London is permeated with the spirit of all the great British authors. Some of them are even buried in Westminster Abbey.”

“You’re a romantic,” Grady concluded.

“You say that as if it’s a crime.”

“No, just a surprise. Romantics don’t always do well in the real world. Ranching can be a hard life. There’s very little romantic about it.”

She gave him a pitying look. “Then you’ve been doing it with the wrong person. I found my share of romance right here.”

“Is that why you don’t want to leave? Nostalgia?”

“You already know why I won’t sell this ranch—at least not to you.”

Rather than heading down that particular dead-end road again right now, Grady concentrated on his meal for a moment. “You’re a fine cook,” he said as he ate the last bite of meat loaf on his plate.

“Thank you.”

“You’ll have to let me return the favor sometime. Not that I’ll cook, but I’d be happy to take you out for supper.”

“I don’t think so, but thank you for offering.”

That stiff, polite tone was back in her voice. Grady couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to see her defenses slip, to hear her laugh.

Whether that ever happened or not wasn’t important, he chided himself. He only needed her to trust him just a little, to persuade her that she wasn’t cut out for the life of a rancher. And then to coax her into selling this land to him and not someone else.

He shoved his chair back and stood up. “Thanks for the meal. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She seemed startled. “No angling for dessert?”

“Not tonight,” he said, then hesitated. “Unless you’ve got an apple pie warming in the oven.”