by Kim Law
Translation: You have blinders on when it comes to men predisposed to screw you over.
And yes, she knew that. She hated it, but she knew it. She was the worst judge of character in the history of mankind.
“Trust me.” Her voice dipped to a rasp that shocked her with its unsteadiness, and she had to clear her throat before continuing. “I’m well aware that Waylon Peterson isn’t the man for me, okay? Yes, I met him. Yes, he’s good looking. Yes, he’s totally my type. Physically.”
And yes, she’d wanted to strip naked and race him up the stairs.
Because seriously, it had been three years since she’d done that with a man.
“But I’m fine,” she repeated. “I know better than to think warm fuzzies about a guy like that.”
Trenton studied her with the type of look Heather hated most. The poor-Heather look. “I know you know better,” she said carefully, “but I also know you have difficulty thinking any other way.”
Heather shook her head, repeating “I’m fine” one more time, but as she said it, she began to wonder if she really was. About anything.
Men? Lack of men? Her life in general?
And if she wasn’t, then what exactly was she supposed to do about it?
Chapter Three
“When backed into a corner, always maintain your calm.”
—Blu Johnson, life lesson #65
“He’s a natural on camera.” The cameraman spoke to the producer as they both kept their eyes glued to the small screen set up in front of them. They were reviewing the last segment of the interview they’d just taped with Waylon.
“It’s that laid-back Texas way he has about him,” one of the female crew added in.
Waylon gave the woman a quick wink, and she returned it with a half-lidded I’m-yours-for-the-asking look. And damn, but she had a lot to offer. If Waylon were in the mood for asking.
They were set up just outside the barn as Friday inched its way into late afternoon, the producer having wanted one corner of the building in the backdrop while also capturing a portion of the sweeping views of the ranch, and Waylon had long since grown tired of the process. He’d signed up for it, though, and since the ranch was still a work in progress—meaning no animals needed his attention at that very moment—he wasn’t sure what else he could do but smile, try not to be offended that they’d talked him into tipping his hat back a little too far on his head, and wait for it all to be over.
The cameraman shifted back behind the eyepiece, and the producer once again stepped to his side. “You mentioned wild hogs earlier,” the producer said to Waylon.
“I did mention wild hogs. All ranches in central Texas have them.”
“Tell us about the hogs. What do you do with them?”
Waylon cocked a grin at the question, and he couldn’t help but notice a couple of the other female crew stop what they were doing and watch. He also caught sight of a brown SUV heading up the ranch’s driveway.
“I kill them,” he answered bluntly, and several shocked gasps filled the air.
“Why?” one of the women asked.
“Because if I don’t kill the hogs, then they’ll kill the steer.”
“Ah.” All heads nodded simultaneously. They’d clearly sent a Hollywood team to produce the show.
“And how do you kill them?” the woman with the I’m-all-yours look asked.
Waylon lifted his arms as if holding a rifle, and he mouthed the word “Boom.” Then he gave another cocky grin, this time straight into the lens of the camera. “They’re bloody suckers, too. Nasty creatures.”
The women stood transfixed while the men appeared both disgusted and impressed.
Waylon was playing it up more than was necessary, but since the occasional camera in his face was to be a part of his job, he figured he might as well have fun with it. And wild hogs were a real issue in the Hill Country. “Watching for them is part of our daily routine,” he continued. “We also regularly check fences, make sure the water stations aren’t empty, doctor any animals that need it . . . and we kill hogs when we see them.”
And by we, he meant he. At least for now.
“You make it sound like the Wild West,” another woman said, and Waylon broke into a wide grin.
He tipped his hat at the woman. “What part of Texas isn’t the Wild West, ma’am?”
The brown SUV rolled to a stop at the side of the barn, and Waylon forced himself to have no visible reaction. He’d been watching for that vehicle all week.
“What other areas of ranch management should we know about?” the producer asked. He scribbled notes as he talked. “What other jobs will you be handling in the coming days to help Cal get the place operational?”
“We’ll be heading up to the auction in a couple of weeks, then bringing the stock home.”
Heather got out of her car, but she didn’t look his way as she passed through the open doors of the barn.
“Then . . .” he continued, mentally searching to recapture his train of thought. He turned back to the camera. “There will be branding, finishing the fence in a couple of pastures so we can move the cattle around as needed—”
Heather returned to her car.
“And . . .”
She opened the back of her vehicle and the top half of her disappeared inside. When she stood back up, each arm was curled upward, encircling what appeared to be heavy bundles of spindles balanced on each shoulder.
Waylon gulped. For a small thing, she sure was mighty.
“Mr. Peterson,” someone said off to his right, and Waylon realized he’d quit talking and was not only watching Heather, but he’d turned in her direction as well.
As had several other men in the near vicinity.
He returned to the camera, wondering if he could call a halt to the interview right then and there, then tossed one last glance her way. And he found her eyes on him.
His fingers twitched.
“Mr. Peterson,” the producer said again.
Heather disappeared back into the barn, and Waylon scowled at the man currently ruining his day. He’d been hoping to see Heather all week, and now she was within twenty-five feet of him, and this skinny-jean-wearing hipster wanted to talk to him about cows?
“Aren’t we about finished?” Waylon asked.
One of the women snickered at his obvious need to hurry, while the one with the I’m-all-yours look pursed her lips sourly.
“Just a couple more questions,” the producer answered.
Waylon forced himself to finish the interview without watching for Heather again, but once he was free to go, he strode toward the barn. Heather’s car remained parked at the side, so he assumed she hadn’t come back out. He headed for the second stall on the right, where others had been storing supplies throughout the week, and he found her there, head bent over a yellow piece of paper, pencil poised, checking items off a list.
“You here to sing for Ollie again?”
She didn’t jump in surprise as he’d expected her to, and when she turned—in a manner he thought was a touch too casual—he narrowed his eyes on her. Had she been sticking around waiting on him?
“I’m too busy to sing today, Mr. Peterson.”
Waylon’s interest ratcheted into a new stratosphere. “Mr. Peterson, huh? You called me that the other night, too. I like it.” He propped his shoulder against the side of the open stall door. “Has a bit of a naughty ring to it, don’t you think?”
She shook her head at his blatant flirting and moved deeper into the stall. “You’re a part of the show, I see,” she said from behind a stack of boxes.
“I am. I signed the contract last week.” He leaned his head to the right, but couldn’t make her out between the lumber and the supplies. “Looks like you and I are going to be working together,” he continued.
“I don’t think so. I’m working on the wedding venue. I doubt any ranching will be needed for that.”
“You never know.” He took a step to his left, but still c
ouldn’t manage a direct line of sight. “Cal might decide to incorporate a couple of steer into the ceremony,” he suggested. He shuffled over another foot. “I could be brought in to fence off a tiny pasture in the middle of your venue.”
She poked her head out from behind the boxes, her gaze quickly relocating to his new position, and she shot him a cool stare. “Or maybe he’ll want to bring in a horse who had his balls cut off.”
Waylon blinked at the cheeky words, but she was gone again before laughter found its way up and out of him. “You’ve got a quick wit about you, don’t you?”
“I’ve been known to be witty.”
He grinned. He liked her.
He slipped quietly into the adjacent stall. “So what is it that’s got you so busy today?”
He could see her now, but just the right half of her. She stood unmoving behind the boxes, the list she was supposedly working on tucked haphazardly in her back pocket, and at his question, she dropped her head and thumped her forehead against a box.
“I’m checking inventory,” she replied. She closed her eyes as she spoke, and her words stretched thin. “Before we get started next week.”
“Is that so?” He inched deeper into the space. Looked to him like she was doing absolutely nothing.
Maybe hanging out just to spend time with him?
The idea pleased him like no other, and he stopped moving once he stood directly across from her. He didn’t say anything to alert her of his presence. He just waited.
“That it is.” She licked her lips and tilted her head back to stare at the loft above her. Her top teeth nibbled on her lip. “Got a lot to do,” she continued. “I don’t mean to disturb you. Go on about your business.”
He decided that his business was to stand right there until she realized that he was onto her. She’d definitely hung around to see him today—and she was now too chicken to own up to it.
Not speaking, so as not to give himself away, he just watched. She didn’t do anything for a few seconds. Just nibbled on her lip some more, her gaze still fastened above her, until finally she stooped and dragged over a box about eighteen inches in height. She climbed on top of it, one hand on the stack of boxes still in front of her and the other outstretched as if to keep her balance, and she managed it all without making a sound. Once straightened to her full height, she carefully eased apart two boxes at eye level and peeked through. Then her mouth turned to a frown.
She leaned back and craned her neck to look toward the front of the barn, and Waylon clamped down on his laughter. She was looking for him.
Also, she was insanely cute.
When her shoulders sagged as if dejected that he’d left without saying anything else to her, he could hold out no longer. He rapped a knuckle against one of the bars between them, and that time, she did jump.
She rotated to face him, still perched a foot and a half off the ground, and her eyes flashed hot with annoyance.
“About finished checking off that list?” he asked.
“You—” She bit off her words and jutted her chin out.
“Me what?” He grinned.
She didn’t finish her thought. She just climbed from the box and marched toward the open stall door.
He moved to join her, standing to the side as she came out, and was thrilled when she didn’t immediately leave. Instead, she headed for Ollie. She pulled a carrot from her front pocket, resolutely paying no attention to Waylon as she moved, while he trailed along behind her.
“Not talking to me now?” Waylon asked. Ollie had let out a few sniffs since Waylon had come in, but at Heather’s approach, the sounds changed to low nickers.
“I’m just giving the horses a treat before I leave.”
He studied the back of her head, her hair loose and the ends curling in, then trailed his gaze down over her stiff posture as she continued making her avoidance clear. So he decided to give her a taste of her own medicine. He didn’t say another word as he headed for the feed room. The horses needed to be fed before he left, anyway. He might as well do it now. And when he returned, he saw that his move had paid off.
Heather remained in the barn, only she now looked at him. Something about the twist to her mouth as she watched him, though, had him slowing his steps on the way to Beau’s stall.
“What?” he asked when she remained silent.
“I’m just thinking about something.”
He opened the swing-out feeder door and tipped the bucket. “And what’s that?”
“About the fact that you’re buying a house.”
His shoulders tensed at her words, causing him to spill half of Beau’s feed at his feet. He sighed. “And where did you hear that?”
“While shopping for Jill’s wedding dress.”
“Is that so?” He downplayed the information as he grabbed a broom and swept up the mess. He supposed he should be surprised that he’d managed to keep the house a secret for as long as he had.
After rehanging the broom, he found Heather leaning against Ollie’s stall. She’d bent one knee, her heel resting on the wood panel making up the lower half of the door behind her, and her eyes followed Waylon until he once again disappeared.
When he eventually resurfaced from the feed room, she continued to watch. Her silent scrutiny gave him the urge to turn the tables on her, again. Not that he’d done such a great job of it the first time. But he let her be for now. He liked knowing she was trying to figure him out.
He finished filling Beau’s feeder in silence, and by the time he reached Ollie’s, she’d apparently done enough thinking.
“Very little gets past people’s notice around here, you know?” She gave him a smug look. “Especially for someone so new in town.”
He dumped the bucket’s contents into Ollie’s feeder, and made sure he ended up shoulder-to-shoulder with Heather. Then he turned his head and locked his gaze on hers. “Yet some things obviously do.”
“Like what?” She didn’t look convinced.
“Like the fact that I signed the contract on the house over four weeks ago.” He offered his own smug look. “Yet it’s just now getting out.”
A faint smile touched her lips and she dipped her head in concession. “Touché, Mr. Peterson.”
His blood pumped harder. “There’s that ‘Mr. Peterson’ again.”
Her features didn’t change as she eyed him. Nor did she acknowledge his comment. But something changed inside him as she watched him so carefully, and he found himself at a loss to explain it. He didn’t simply want her naked anymore. He wanted to talk to her. To get to know her.
And though he wouldn’t stop flirting—because seriously, if he could get her clothes off, he’d do it in a heartbeat—his priorities with this woman seemed to be shifting.
She pushed off the stall door, her designer-booted feet crunching the fine gravel as she moved to the other side of the aisle, and he let out the breath he’d been holding. He forced himself to release it slowly, though. He didn’t want to sound as needy as Ollie. He also didn’t want her thinking she’d gained the upper hand in whatever game it was they were playing.
She offered Beau his own carrot before reversing position and taking up the same stance she’d held at Ollie’s stall, then she lifted her gaze to his apartment. Waylon could see the wheels turning in her head, and the truth was, if she were to look his way, she’d witness the same going on with him.
Why was he so fascinated by her? Why did he want her to be fascinated by him?
It had been a long time since anyone had looked closely enough to decipher the real man inside the packaging, and even then, it hadn’t been enough. Nikki might have seen him, but she’d never truly understood him.
“So why buy a house?” Heather brought her gaze back to his. There hadn’t been enough light to notice the other night, but her eyes were almost a translucent blue. Like the marble he’d once carried in his pocket every day for a year. “Doesn’t the apartment come with the job?”
“The apartm
ent does come with the job.”
“Then why buy?”
He gave an easy shrug. “Why not?”
She glanced at the small living quarters once more. Beau nipped at the back of her head, and she lifted a hand without looking, another carrot between her fingers. “Seems the job would be easier if you stayed on-site,” she pointed out. “Once the livestock is here, I’d think the days would start early. Maybe run late.”
“You worrying about my sleeping habits or about my ability to get the job done?”
“I’m not worrying about anything.” Her eyes flicked back to his. “I’m just curious.”
He moved a couple of feet closer. “Maybe I’m curious about you, too.”
She didn’t take the bait, and shifted away. But as she peered back at him, he noticed that, unlike most of the women he’d spoken with since moving to Red Oak Falls, it seemed to be true curiosity—as opposed to gossip—that fed her questions.
“It’s simple,” he found himself answering her. “I want a house.”
“But why?”
He opened his mouth to tell her. She’d find out soon enough, anyway.
He couldn’t do it, though. He wasn’t ready to share that part of himself yet. “Why were you singing to my horse the other night?” he asked instead, and at the change in subject, she reared back.
“What does my singing to Ollie have to do with your buying a house?”
“You tell me yours; I’ll tell you mine.”
A hint of a smile touched her lips, and Waylon felt something shift inside him once again. He really liked this girl. “I don’t want to tell you mine,” she murmured. They stood face to face, her flat against Beau’s stall and Waylon wanting desperately to close the distance between them.
“If you won’t tell me why you sang to my horse”—his voice took on a teasing quality—“then tell me why you hung around and waited for me today.”
She didn’t look away. “I didn’t hang around and wait for you today. I was working.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was, too. We start work on the backyard on Monday, and—”
Her words cut off when he reached around behind her. He didn’t touch her, just captured the corner of the paper she’d tucked in her back pocket earlier. Tugging it free of her jeans, he smoothed out the creases—never taking his eyes from hers—then turned the paper so she could see the list she’d been working on.
