Sutton's Way. Diana Palmer

       Chapter One

      The noise outside the cabin was there again, and Amanda shifted restlessly with the novel in her lap, curled up in a big armchair by the open fireplace in an Indian rug. Until now, the cabin had been paradise. There was three feet of new snow outside, she had all the supplies she needed to get her through the next few wintery weeks of Wyoming weather, and there wasn’t a telephone in the place. Best of all, there wasn’t a neighbor.

      Well, there was, actually. But nobody in their right mind would refer to that man on the mountain as a neighbor. Amanda had only seen him once and once was enough.

      She’d met him, if their head-on encounter could be referred to as a meeting, on a snowy Saturday last week. Quinn Sutton’s majestic ranch house overlooked this cabin nestled against the mountainside. He’d been out in the snow on a horse-drawn sled that contained huge square bales of hay, and he was heaving them like feather pillows to a small herd of red-and-white cattle. The sight had touched Amanda, because it indicated concern. The tall, wiry rancher out in a blizzard feeding his starving cattle. She’d even smiled at the tender picture it made.

      And then she’d stopped her four-wheel-drive vehicle and stuck her blond head out the window to ask directions to the Blalock Durning place, which was the cabin one of her aunt’s friends was loaning her. And the tender picture dissolved into stark hostility.

      The tall rancher turned toward her with the coldest black eyes and the hardest face she’d ever seen in her life. He had a day’s growth of stubble, but the stubble didn’t begin to cover up the frank homeliness of his lean face. He had amazingly high cheekbones, a broad forehead and a jutting chin, and he looked as if someone had taken a straight razor to one side of his face, which had a wide scratch. None of that bothered Amanda because Hank Shoeman and the other three men who made music with her group were even uglier than Quinn Sutton. But at least Hank and the boys could smile. This man looked as if he invented the black scowl.

      “I said,” she’d repeated with growing nervousness, “can you tell me how to get to Blalock Durning’s cabin?”

      Above the sheepskin coat, under the battered gray ranch hat, Quinn Sutton’s tanned face didn’t move a muscle. “Follow the road, turn left at the lodgepoles,” he’d said tersely, his voice as deep as a rumble of thunder.

      “Lodgepoles?” she’d faltered. “You mean Indian lodgepoles? What do they look like?”

      “Lady,” he said with exaggerated patience, “a lodgepole is a pine tree. It’s tall and piney, and there are a stand of them at the next fork in the road.”

      “You don’t need to be rude, Mr…?”

      “Sutton,” he said tersely. “Quinn Sutton.”

      “Nice to meet you,” she murmured politely. “I’m Amanda.” She wondered if anyone might accidentally recognize her here in the back of beyond, and on the off chance, she gave her mother’s maiden name instead of her own last name. “Amanda Corrie,” she added untruthfully. “I’m going to stay in the cabin for a few weeks.”

      “This isn’t the tourist season,” he’d said without the slightest pretense at friendliness. His black eyes cut her like swords.

      “Good, because I’m not a tourist,” she said.

      “Don’t look to me for help if you run out of wood or start hearing things in the dark,” he added coldly. “Somebody will tell you eventually that I have no use whatsoever for women.”

      While she was thinking up a reply to that, a young boy of about twelve had come running up behind the sled.

      “Dad!” he called, amazingly enough to Quinn Sutton. “There’s a cow in calf down in the next pasture. I think it’s a breech!”

      “Okay, son, hop on,” he told the boy, and his voice had become fleetingly soft, almost tender. He looked back at Amanda, though, and the softness left him. “Keep your door locked at night,” he’d said. “Unless you’re expecting Durning to join you,” he added with a mocking smile.

      She’d stared at him from eyes as black as his own and started to tell him that she didn’t even know Mr. Durning, who was her aunt’s friend, not hers. But she bit her tongue. It wouldn’t do to give this man an opening. “I’ll do that little thing,” she agreed. She glanced at the boy, who was eyeing her curiously from his perch on the sled. “And it seems that you do have at least one use for women,” she added with a vacant smile. “My condolences to your wife, Mr. Sutton.”

      She’d rolled up the window before he could speak and she’d whipped the four-wheel-drive down the road with little regard for safety, sliding all over the place on the slick and rutted country road.

      She glared into the flames, consigning Quinn Sutton to them with all