Fiance Wanted. Ruth Dale Jean
have to be seen together. Friday’s the only time I can make it. I have to come in anyway for supplies so I can kill two birds with one stone.”
“I’m not particularly fond of being likened to a dead bird,” Katy sniffed. “If you think…” Her indignation wound down and she sighed. “Do I have to?”
“Yeah, you have to.”
“All right.” She gave in ungraciously, punctuating her words with a condemning glance. “What time and where?”
“I’ll pick you up at—”
“I’ll meet you.”
“Noon at the Rawhide Café.”
“That should guarantee an audience, all right. Okay, I’ll be there.”
“Great.”
“You don’t have to get sarcastic.”
“Maybe I do.” For a moment he looked down at her with a slight frown. Then he straightened and walked out of the room without another word or even a glance.
Katy gritted her teeth in annoyance, but she didn’t have time to ponder. She had a story to write, a story questioning expenditures by the Rawhide Chamber of Commerce.
This turned out to be harder to do than she’d expected. Sure, the story was going to tick off chamber officers and members alike but as a reporter, it was Katy’s job to print the truth and raise hell without fear or prejudice. No, something else was on her mind, making it hard to concentrate….
Seeing Dylan so early in the day really messed with her mind. That kiss in the parking lot had proven impossible to forget. Over and over again she reminded herself that it was only Dylan. But she didn’t seem able to talk herself out of the thrill she’d felt when he took her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers….
“Katy!” John stood before her desk, his thick white hair sticking out in all directions and a frown on his round face. “Am I going to get that story or do I have to find something else to fill the hole on the front page?”
“Sorry.” She pulled her thoughts up short and hunched dutifully over her computer screen. “I’m hard at work, see?” And she was—hard at work trying to forget the unthinkable.
Dylan rode the big bay gelding up to the corral behind the Bear Claw ranch house and stepped down out of the saddle. A big black Mercedes was parked in front and he wondered who’d come to visit.
Whoever it was could wait while he took care of his horse. Quickly he stripped off saddle and bridle before reaching for a currycomb. When he heard footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder without pausing in the long, precise strokes, then did a double take.
Brandee Haycox’s father, Edgar. Now what?
“Edgar,” he said in greeting.
“Cole.”
The man’s face was even more florid than usual. Dylan led the horse to the gate of the corral and turned him loose. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?” he inquired, knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.
“This!” Edgar waved a newspaper through the air with angry swipes. “That woman has gone too far!”
Dylan suppressed a groan. “What woman?” Like he didn’t know.
“That Andrews woman, who else? Always out muck-raking and rabble-rousing. She’s got to be stopped!”
Dylan wasn’t too crazy about the way this conversation was shaping up. “I don’t see how you can fault her for raking muck if it’s there for the raking,” he said reasonably. “I also don’t see why you’re telling me all this. Shouldn’t you talk to her, or to her editor?”
“John won’t listen to a word against her,” Edgar grumbled. “And when I try to talk to her, she just starts writing down every word I say and egging me on to say more.”
Dylan stifled a smile. He’d seen Katy do that: deflect angry criticism by offering—some called it threatening—to quote the speaker verbatim. The easiest way to hang a man, she once said, was to do it with his own words exactly as he said them.
But he wanted to sooth Edgar Haycox, not stir him up even more. “That still doesn’t explain why you came here to shout at me,” he said reasonably. “Why don’t we go inside and I’ll make a pot of coffee. Then maybe we can talk.”
“No time,” Edgar said impatiently. “As to why I’m here—well, the whole town knows you’re dating that—that journalist.”
“That hardly makes me her keeper.”
“No, but it implies some influence.” Edgar’s fleshy face set into grim lines. “Tell her to back off, Cole. We know we’ve got…a slight problem with chamber finances, but we’ve got a committee working night and day to set things right.”
“Is that so?” Dylan tried to curb his irritation. “So you’re telling me that she got the story right.”
“I didn’t say that!” the banker blustered.
“You implied it. She got the story right but you and the good old boys at the chamber are working to correct the situation and you’d like to avoid further bad publicity while you do it. Have I got it straight?”
Edgar squirmed. “Just between you and me and the gatepost—yes.”
Dylan mulled over his options. He didn’t need this. He especially didn’t need to offend the man who held the mortgage on the ranch.
But he also didn’t want to have to justify to himself why he’d left Katy dangling in the breeze when she was obviously in the right.
Finally he said, “The lady has a mind of her own and she knows how to take care of herself.” Understatement if ever there was one. “I’m not your messenger boy. Whatever you have to say, say it to her.”
The banker sneered. “You disappoint me. I guess it’s clear who wears the pants in that relationship.”
Dylan counted to ten—then to twenty. “Edgar,” he said, slowly and deliberately, “if you think that’s an insult, think again. Katy Andrews is a match for any man, including me. But I’d advise you not to run around town bad-mouthing her, because if you do, I might just have to take action.”
Edgar took a startled step back. “Are you threatening violence?”
“Hell, no! I’m promising retribution.” Dylan, in control again, winked.
“Drop by any time, but leave the newspaper at home.”
“I—why you—don’t think—” Edgar sputtered a bit longer, threw the newspaper on the ground, turned and stalked away to the big black car.
Dylan called after him. “My best to Brandee.”
That drew no response whatsoever. Before the dust settled in the lane, Dylan snatched up the paper and began to read.
When Katy got home from work that day, Dylan was sitting outside her house in his red truck, obviously waiting. Before she could get the key into the lock, he’d trotted up to the door.
She glanced at him over her shoulder as she opened the front door. “This is a surprise,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you until lunch, Friday.”
“Yeah, me, too.” He followed her inside.
She tossed her shoulder bag and clipboard onto a chair on her way through to the kitchen. Somehow she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling stealing over her. “So what’s up?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“I don’t have the time or interest to play games,” she snapped, opening the refrigerator. “Want a soft drink?”
“Got a beer?”
“Sure.”