Texas Pride. Barbara McCauley
shifted from her to Hannibal.
“Nice dog.”
The stranger’s voice was deep and rough, and Hannibal responded to the sound with a short bark. Jessica laid a hand on the dog’s head, whether to calm the animal or herself she wasn’t sure.
“Can I help you with something?” she asked, wishing that the man wasn’t blocking the only easy exit from the room. His tall frame practically filled the doorway. Close up, she could see the muscles she’d only guessed at from across the street. There was a rugged strength that emanated from him, a masculinity that frightened her, yet at the same time also pricked at the most basic, primitive female instinct. He was pure sensuality, and her breath caught as she stared at him.
He pushed away from the doorjamb, and the movement caused Hannibal to growl again. “You Jessica Stone?”
It should have comforted her that he knew her name. It didn’t. “Yes.”
“I heard you’re looking for a foreman.”
Jessica frowned. She’d filled out the paperwork, but the advertisement wasn’t scheduled to be in the paper until the next day. “And how did you hear that?”
“In town. Couple of guys at the diner were talking.”
That was certainly possible. If there was one thing people did in a small town, it was talk. There’d been quite a buzz in Cactus Flat that Jessica Stone had received a grant to convert Makeshift into a center for troubled youth. Most of the townspeople supported her, but there were a few who were adamantly opposed to the idea. Her stepmother, Myrna, was at the head of that list. Not because she was so against helping teenagers, but because the annoying woman wanted the land for herself.
“I haven’t interviewed anyone yet,” she said. “The ad comes out tomorrow.”
“Cancel it and hire me.”
He said the words with such confidence Jessica almost agreed. That would go over well with Jared and Jake. They’d certainly understand she hired this biker guy because he told her to. “I hardly think I should hire the first man who shows up.”
“No,” he agreed. “You should hire the best man.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “And that’s you?”
He grinned. Jessica felt her insides twist and turn at the flash of straight white teeth. “You have a name?” she asked.
“Dylan Grant.”
“And your qualifications, Mr. Grant?”
“Sixteen years in the business. You name it, I’ve done it.”
She certainly believed that. Something told Jessica there was much more to that statement than the obvious. There was a hard edge in his eyes and in the way he held himself that spoke volumes about his life experience, though she guessed him to be only in his early thirties. And he certainly appeared capable. It was clear he was a man who made his living with physical work. His T-shirt defined the iron muscles in his upper arms and shoulders, his skin was tan and his big hands looked rough and callused.
Jessica suddenly realized she was staring. She pulled her gaze back to his and saw the amusement in his dark eyes. She cursed the blush slowly working its way over her cheeks.
“What brings you out this way?” she asked, forcing a businesslike tone into her voice. “Cactus Flat is hardly a tourist hot spot.”
Dylan winced. “I’ve been called a lot of things,” he drawled, “but never a tourist. That’s cutting pretty deep.”
Dammit. There was that smile again. Jessica bit the inside of her lip and ignored the flutter in her stomach. “This project is very important to me, Mr. Grant. It’s a relatively small job, a reconstruction of a few of the buildings here. It’s not long-term, but I need a responsible, dependable man to run a crew. Drifters and restless bikers are hardly what I consider reliable.”
“No matter what I am, Miss Stone,” he said flatly, “I keep my word. If nothing else, you can count on that.”
She hadn’t meant to offend him, but when it came to rebuilding Makeshift, Jessica could take no chances.
“I’m acting as my own general contractor,” she said. “Do you have any problem working for a woman?”
“Can’t say. I’ve never worked for a woman before.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “At least you’re honest, Mr. Grant. That’s nearly as important as experience.”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. Her heart skipped when he moved into the room toward her. Hannibal gave another short growl when the stranger knelt and held out his hand.
“If there’s one thing I have, Miss Stone,” Dylan said, reaching his fingers toward Hannibal, “it’s experience.”
Dylan gave an inward sigh of relief that his hand was still intact as he pet the dog. There was no doubt that if he’d attempted a move toward Jessica the animal would have gone for his throat. Good dog, he thought, and scratched behind the animal’s ear.
Hannibal wagged his tail.
The animal’s mistress was a little more apprehensive, Dylan noted, allowing himself a slow upward perusal of Jessica’s long denim-clad legs and curved hips. She’d rolled the sleeves of her white cotton blouse to her elbows, revealing slender smooth-skinned arms, and it was impossible not to notice the press of her rounded breasts against the thin cloth.
He forced his gaze upward still, and she tucked a long strand of dark shiny hair behind her ear, watching him warily with eyes that were a deep rich blue. He’d seen that color before, once, in another place and another time. But there was something about these particular eyes that made his gut tighten and his pulse quicken.
He didn’t like the feeling one bit.
He wrenched his gaze away and stood. “What exactly is it you’re doing out here, Miss Stone? It’s a little off the beaten track for a shopping mall.”
She bristled at his statement. “Shopping has never been a hobby of mine. I’m converting Makeshift into a camp for teenagers.”
“Makeshift?”
She nodded. “My great-great-grandfather, Josiah Stone, founded this town in 1873 after he bought Stone Creek and started ranching. Cattlemen needed a place for supplies and rest when they were driving their herds to New Mexico. The first structure built was the saloon.” She looked out the window and gestured across the street.
“Important things first,” Dylan said with a grin.
“Exactly.” She smiled back. “The town boomed for twenty-five years, until railroads took over. Mining kept it going a few more years, but that dwindled, too. A few diehards stayed on and took care of the place, but they’ve been gone since the forties. When my father, J. T. Stone, died earlier this year, we found out he’d divided Stone Creek into four parcels, one for each of my brothers and half sister, and one—Makeshift—for me.”
Dylan looked around the small hotel room. A patchwork quilt covered a large brass bed, and two antique oak nightstands held matching stained-glass oil lamps. Several framed paintings covered the freshly painted walls, and a large cherry armoire stood open, revealing several gowns of an era long past.
Dylan shook his head in amazement. The room had obviously been restored to its original condition with care. The only thing out of place here was the telephone sitting on the floor beside three cardboard boxes of books and a radio on a nightstand. Otherwise, he might have thought he’d stepped over some invisible time line and been transported into the previous century.
He gestured at the bed. “Are you living out here by yourself?”
She glanced away, but not before he saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “I’m not alone. I have Hannibal, and one of my two brothers is usually close by. They aren’t crazy about