Wrangling The Rich Rancher. Sheri WhiteFeather
don’t have to walk me to my door.” Now that she knew there weren’t any coyotes out to get her. “You don’t have to play the gentleman.”
“I wasn’t playing at anything. But it’s probably better if I keep my distance. I’d just want to kiss you, and that’ll only make things worse.”
She wasn’t sure if they could get any worse. He was already making her far too weak. If he kissed her at her door, she would probably melt at his feet.
He said, “You should go home for real.”
She refused to concede, to get any weaker than she already was. “Sorry, cowboy, but you’re stuck with me.”
He leaned back against the seat, as if he were weary. Or lonely. Or something along those lines.
He sat forward again. “Maybe I will take you into town tomorrow.”
Her pulse bumped a beat. “Really?”
“Sure. Why not? There’s a bakery where we can get some cookies.”
She laughed even if she shouldn’t have. “You’ve got a hankering, do you?”
“Hell, yes. Don’t you?”
More than he could possibly know. “Will you show me the house where you grew up?” It was at the top of her list of places to see. She had the address, but she hadn’t run a map on it yet.
“I suppose I could take you. It’s better than you poking around out there alone.”
She eagerly asked, “Is this the start of us being friends?”
“I think it’s more like the other thing you said we could become.”
“Frenemies?”
“That’s it. I’ll pick you up tomorrow around two. I have some work to do on the ranch before then. But for now, we both need to get some sleep.”
Yes, they did, she thought, each of them in his or her own bed. “I’ll see you.” Libby bid him a hasty goodbye, opened the passenger’s-side door and darted off, clinging to the shadows, trying to be less visible. She sensed that he was watching every move she made.
Was he still thinking sexy thoughts? Did he wish that he’d kissed her? That he’d pulled her body close to his? That he’d put his mouth all over hers?
She ascended her porch steps without glancing back. Self-conscious, she fumbled putting the key in the lock. She went inside, and as soon as she closed the door, she crept over to the living room window and peered through the blinds.
Matt remained in his truck, a lone figure behind the wheel.
She kept spying on him, holding her breath, anxious to see him walk to his door. He finally got out of the vehicle, taking long determined strides. She watched, absorbed by his rugged movements, breathless for every dizzying moment until he entered his cabin and turned on his lights.
Leaving her alone in the dark.
* * *
The next afternoon, Libby waited on her porch for Matt. She’d dressed down a bit, wearing a plaid shirt, blue jeans and a pair of traditional brown boots. Of course, her belt buckle was shiny and so was her jewelry. She never left the house without a touch of glamour.
She removed her phone from her purse and checked the time. Matt wasn’t late, but he was cutting it close. And now, in the light of day, with nothing between them except last night’s convoluted hunger, she was concerned that he might cancel their outing.
She frowned at her phone. They hadn’t even exchanged numbers. She couldn’t text him to see if he was on his way.
He hadn’t told her what type of work he had to do on the ranch today, and when she’d awakened this morning his truck was already gone. She hadn’t seen him at the lodge during breakfast or lunch, either.
Funny how she missed him already. She’d known him all of three days, and her interactions with him were shaky, at best. There was no logic in missing him.
Missing Becker made sense.
She kept tons of pictures of her late husband on her phone. Her son loved looking at them. He adored chatting about his daddy and asking Libby questions about him. Chance was three when Becker died. He didn’t have many memories to rely on.
She plopped down on a barrel chair to wait for Matt. She hadn’t mentioned her son’s name to him. Maybe she would do that today. Of course, she doubted that Matt was going to like that she’d named her son Chance Mitchell after a fictitious character, a legendary outlaw, in one of Kirby’s most famous songs.
She looked up and saw Matt’s truck. It appeared out of a cloud of dust, and she popped up from her seat. The man certainly knew how to make an entrance.
She glanced at her phone before she put it away. He was right on time. Not a minute late, not a second early. Somehow he managed to get there at 2:00 p.m. on the dot.
He pulled into her driveway and kept the engine running. She raced down the porch steps, her hair flying. She’d washed it this morning with her latest favorite shampoo. She changed her toiletries nearly as often as she changed her clothes. She liked trying new products. She wasn’t nearly as adventurous about trying new men. Yet here she was, getting swept away by Matt.
She climbed into his truck, and he said, “Hey, Libby.”
“Hey, yourself.” She noticed that his hat was sitting in the back seat, as it were along for the ride.
Off they went, with the sun shining in the Texas sky. She gazed out the window, watching the landscape go by. The drive was long and scenic, with roads that wound through the hills.
“This is the back way,” he said.
“I gathered as much.” They weren’t on the main highway that led to and from the ranch.
In the next bout of silence, she studied Matt’s appearance. His hair looked mussed, spiky in spots from where he’d probably dragged his hands through it. He seemed dangerous, forbidden. But why wouldn’t he, with the way he made her feel? Last night she’d slept with her bedroom window open, letting the breeze drift over her half-clothed body. She’d gone to bed wearing the panties he’d wondered about. She’d even touched herself, sliding her fingers past the waistband and down into the fabric, fantasizing that he was doing it.
Matt shot her a quick glance, and her cheeks went horribly hot. He couldn’t know what she’d been thinking, but she reacted as if he did.
“You okay?” he asked.
Not in the least, she thought. “I’m fine.”
“You’re usually more talkative.”
She adjusted the air-conditioning vent on her side, angling it to get a stronger flow. “You don’t know me well enough to say what I usually do.”
“All right, then. Based on my experiences with you, you’re usually more talkative.”
“I’m just enjoying the ride.”
“You don’t seem like you are. What are you thinking about?”
She couldn’t stand the tension that was building inside her. And now she wanted him to suffer, too. He was being too danged casual. “That they were pink.”
“What?”
“My panties. They were pink, low-rise hipsters, silk, with a see-through lace panel in front.”
He nearly lost his grip on the wheel, and she felt a whole lot better. She even managed to toss a “got ya” grin at him.
“Don’t you flash your dimples at me, woman. You could have gotten us killed.”
“Over an itty-bitty pair of panties? You’re a better driver than that.”
He