by Laura Drewry
Damn that grin of his.
She tried to shrug it off, but a little voice inside her head began whispering warnings. “Never had the need. Or the time to learn.”
“Ever thought about switching places for a couple days?”
She wouldn’t change places with Carrie for all the longhorns in Texas.
“Oh no,” Carrie said, toying with her choker. “I’m a little nervous around all those cows.”
“Cattle,” Jo ground out. Carrie ignored her, and Travers seemed to enjoy that even more.
“And Joanna,” Carrie continued. “Well, she can’t sit still for any longer than it takes to inhale her meal, so she’d be of no use in the house at all.”
As Jo opened her mouth to fire back, Mac’s hand closed around her arm. A simple shake of his head made her slam her mouth shut again. For now.
Carrie pressed her napkin against her mouth, then smoothed back her hair. “I’m more of what you’d call an organizer. I help arrange the annual Isabella McCaine Fundraising Ball.”
“Yeah,” Jo snorted again. “Takes her a whole year to plan one party.”
“Joanna Belle McCaine!” Ginny warned. “You will stop making those noises at my table.”
Carrie flashed Jo a triumphant look, then continued. “It’s an enormous undertaking to bring the event together,” she said, giving her ringlets a small toss. “Exhausting, really, but it’s such a rewarding experience.”
“Ha!” Jo had to cover her mouth with her napkin to keep the food from flying out. “Exhausting? Is that what you call it? I have another word for it –-”
“Now, Joanna,” Ginny began, her voice taking on the ‘poor baby’ tone it always did when she spoke about Carrie. “You know she doesn’t have the strength you do.” She turned to Levi. “She was such a sickly little girl. It’s a wonder she’s survived this long.”
“She hasn’t been sick for more than ten years.” Jo wiped up her plate with a piece of bread and smirked. “But heaven forbid one of Carrie’s precious ringlets gets put out of place – what ever would we do?”
“Why I never!” Carrie pushed back from the table and threw her napkin down with more theatrics than Jo had witnessed in a while.
“No,” Jo agreed. “And you probably never will, either.”
An exaggerated flounce sent layers of silk shimmering around her as Carrie whooshed out of the kitchen and up to her room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
Ginny tucked her napkin under the edge of her plate and hurried after her niece. Jo just shook her head – that girl had been spoiled from the moment she was born, first by Mama and Papa and now by Ginny and Mac. Not that she was jealous, mind you. She didn’t want or need that much attention.
“Well,” Mac sighed. “Welcome to the Crazy McCaine’s supper table, Travers. Don’t know what Joey’s paying you to be here, but I’d wager you’re having second thoughts now.”
Jo didn’t wait to hear his response. She stormed out of the kitchen and headed back to the stable. As long as there was light, there was work to be done and she much preferred the work than listening to anything else about Carrie.
Ankle-deep in horse dung, with a pitchfork in hand and a dusty bandana tied around her mouth and nose, the last thing in the world Jo expected – or wanted - was company. The stable was her sanctuary; the one place no one else, except Mac, dared set foot after supper for fear of being put to work.
The creak of the door didn’t give her a moment’s pause, however. She knew who it was even before she turned around. Travers leaned against the stall door with that damned smile of his making her mind trip over its next thought.
“You were a little hard on her, don’t you think?”
He had to be kidding. Jo didn’t even bother to remove her bandana. “Stay out of it, Travers.”
A low chuckle. “It’s a little hard when you carry on like that at the supper table.”
“The way I carry on?” Jo fought the urge to snort. “And I guess Carrie’s performance had nothing to do with it. I should have known you’d take her side.” She shook her head. “Everyone else does.”
“I didn’t know there were sides to take.” His velvety eyes sparkled in the lantern light. “All I said was. . .”
“I heard what you said.” She threw down the pitchfork and pushed passed him. Where the hell was that wheelbarrow? “So why aren’t you up there with Ginny, comforting poor little Carrie and her ruffled ringlets? I’m sure she’d love that.”
“What are you mad at me for?”
Frustration burned in her belly as Jo whirled around and jabbed a finger at him. “Because you make me sick! You’re such a. . .a man!”
Despite her fury, he had the nerve to laugh at her. “Nice of you to notice.”
She yanked the bandana down a little so it hung around her chin. “You’re all the same – all you see, all you want, is a woman who sits like a china doll and does nothing but bat her eyelashes and swish her skirts.” She did her best imitation of Carrie and ended it with a good loud snort.
His smile deepened until both his cheeks dimpled. “That denim just doesn’t swish quite right, does it?”
“Can’t you see what she’s doing? Pretending to be so very lady-like and charming, with that sugary sweet voice. . .ugh – forget it.”
“So I take it you and your sister have different outlooks on most things?”
“Carrie’s only concern is herself.”
Travers shrugged indifferently. He obviously didn’t see the problem with what Jo had just said. Probably because his only concern was himself, too.
With her arms waving madly, she pointed out every stall in the stable. “See these? Someone has to clean them out. Dirty stalls means sick horses. Without horses, we have no transportation, no way to herd the damned cattle that pay our bills.” She pushed into the end stall, yanked the wheelbarrow out and stomped back. “Think darling little Carrie would ever stoop to do it? Not a chance in hell. Mac’s got too much work as it is and poor Newt can barely hold the rake. But with three hands gone. . .”
“Four.” He took a step closer.
“Right. With four hands gone, who does that leave?”
Another step. “I guess that would leave you.” With a slow tug, he pulled the bandana the rest of the way down, so it fell away from her face and hung around her neck.
“You’re damn right it leaves me.” Jo backed up. For some reason it was getting harder and harder to breathe. With every word, her anger subsided another little bit. “When was the last time I got to sit up in the house and read a book or plan a fancy party?”
Hell – she was whining. She hated whiners.
Another step. “I have no idea. When was the last time you wanted to do any of that?” A long dark smudge crossed the front of his shirt and over his left forearm. Why was it so hard to look away from his arm? Sure it was muscled and tanned golden brown, but who cared about stuff like that?
“I don’t know.” She swallowed, her voice a mere cackle. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” He reached for the end of her braid and rubbed it gently between his fingers. “Just listening to you yell.”
Damn, but her throat was dry. “I’m not yelling.”
“You were.” His eyes sparkled in the lantern light and that smile of his was making her knees tremble.
“I-I was mad.”
“I noticed.” His fingers pulled the ratty blue string from her hair and eased the braid apart.
“I’m not mad anymore.” Her heart pounded against her ribs and echoed in her ears. She needed to step away, to slap him, to do something. Anything besides standing there, letting him touch her like that. Where was that damned pitchfork?
“I noticed that, too.” Damn, but he smelled good; like a mixture of leather, soap and sunshine.
“I. . .”
“Jo!” Mac’s voice boomed through the opened door. “You in there?”
Levi stepped away and Jo had to grab the neares
t rail to steady herself.
“Uh, yeah,” she forced out, her throat tight. “In here.”
“What the hell. . .?” Mac stormed into the barn, then stopped when he saw Levi, his glare shifting between them. “Am I interrupting something?”
Jo choked out a dry laugh, her cheeks burning under his heated glare. “No, of course not.”
“No,” Levi agreed. “Not a thing.”
One of the horses nickered softly, almost like he was disagreeing.
“What did you need?” She tucked her hair beneath her hat and steadied her knees. Damn that Travers – he’d tried to charm her! And damn herself – she’d almost let him.
“Carrie just told me you were working on the windmill today. Again.”
Steam began to build in Jo’s head. She should have known Carrie would do whatever she could to get Jo in trouble, but if Mac thought he could waltz into her stable and tell her what she should and shouldn’t be doing on her ranch, he had another think coming.
“So? The sucker rod snapped again, and the blades looked like they were going to spin right off. It had to be fixed.”
“By you.” He crossed his arms over his chest and waited. Travers leaned back against the stall and grinned, though Jo found nothing amusing about this at all.
“Yes by me. Who else? Clay?” She scoffed. “Or maybe darling Carrie would have come to help. Oh, that’s right – she’s too exhausted from writing out invitations.”
“You could have found someone else to do it.” Though the implication was clear, neither of them looked at Travers.
With a sigh even Carrie would have been proud of, Jo elbowed past him and retrieved her pitchfork.
“Yes,” she said. “I probably could have. But in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re running a little thin on help these days. And in the time it would have taken me to go find someone else, I had it done myself.”
“It’s too dangerous.” Mac’s voice lowered to an even warning. “And why the hell would you put yourself through that, anyway – climbing all the--”
“Oh for goodness sake, Mac.” No way would she let Travers in on her fear of heights. “I’ve been fixing that windmill since I was twelve.”
“And how many times have you fallen?”
“I don’t know.” Four. “Doesn’t matter anyway. It needed to be done. And it’s a damn sight more entertaining than dealing with drunk employees or listening to stories about how frail our pretty little Carrie is.” Damn it, why did she have to bring that up again? “Besides, Newt was helping me.”
Jo swallowed hard; why couldn’t everyone just go away and leave her be?
“You could have been hurt. Or killed.”
With a loud snort, she tossed a forkful of muck into the wheelbarrow. “I’m fine, the windmill’s fixed, and no one got hurt.”
“This time.” He stormed toward the door, then turned. “Travers, I could use your help.”
Travers nodded but made no move to follow. “Be right there.”
Joanna shifted her position so her back was to him. God help her if he flashed one of those damned smiles again; she’d run the pitchfork clear through him. She didn’t have time for nonsense like that – there was work to be done.
“Fixing sucker rods is a risky thing to do – especially when there’s cattle’s milling around.” Thank goodness his voice came from a safe distance away. “Were there?”
“There’s always cattle around, Travers. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s a cattle ranch.”
“You should have got me or Mac to do it.”
She laughed again. She’d seen Mac try it once and that had been all she needed to know she could never ask him again. “Mac’s just worried that I’ll get myself killed and then he’ll have to take over the ranch himself.” She tossed another forkful of muck just as the straw behind her crackled under his weight. With the pitchfork at the ready, she turned to face him.
“So why didn’t you get me to do it?” He was close enough to touch, which was exactly why she positioned the fork between them, prongs up.
She shrugged, hoping her voice would carry the lie. “Didn’t think of it.”
There was that damned smile of his again. “Liar.”
His scent surrounded her; muddled her thoughts.
“Next time,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Come and get me. I’ll fix the damned rod. And then you won’t have to pretend.”
“Pretend what?”
“That you’re not scared to death of heights.”
Jo’s spine stiffened. Dammit – he was quicker than she’d thought. “I don’t need to be taken care of, Travers.”
“Levi.”
“Fine. I don’t need to be taken care of, Levi.” She rolled her eyes. She found herself doing that a lot around him.
“You might not need it, Miss Joanna,” he began.
“Jo.”
“Fine.” It was his turn to roll his eyes. “You might not need it, Jo, but it’d sure be a nice change for you, wouldn’t it?”
“Travers!” Mac’s bellow made them both jump.
Jo cocked her brow at him and snickered. “Your mother’s calling.”
Travers tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then tapped the tip of her nose. “We’re not nearly done here, Miss Joanna.”
“It’s Jo.” She forced a mocking smile. “And yes we are. I make the decisions around here, Travers, and if I want to fix the damned windmill, I’ll do it.”
He leaned closer, but she shifted the fork to keep him out of her space. “Nobody wants to fix those damned things.” Another grin. “Besides, it’s not the windmill we’ll be talking about.”
Jo shifted the fork again until the prongs touched his chin. “If you’ll recall, I can’t be charmed, so save your breath.”
His low throaty laugh caressed her ears. “Even snakes can be charmed. Just takes patience, that’s all.”
“I’m a snake?” she tipped her head to the side, opened her eyes wide in the best innocent look she could muster.
He chuckled. “I didn’t say that.”
“Uh, yes, you did.”
He thought on that for a second.
“Okay, I did. But that’s not what I meant.” A wash of color crept up his face, making his grin even more tempting. “Just making the point that I’ve got enough patience for anything.”
“Travers!” Mac bellowed again.
He backed out of the stall slowly, his eyes still focused on Jo’s. “Patience,” he repeated. “Something your uncle appears to lack.”
Jo laughed as he turned and bolted for the door. It was a long time later before she was able to get back to her work, though. She’d never been one to believe any of that fluffy, bone-melting nonsense Carrie spoke of all the time; romance, love, seduction. Who had time?
But apparently time had nothing to do with it. She’d only known Travers for a few hours, yet whenever he came near, her brain turned to fluff and her bones did, in fact, feel as though they were melting. Too many hours in the sun – that had to be the reason.
Sure, he was nice looking. Okay, he was the best looking man she’d seen in a long while, even with that long hair of his. And sure, his smile knocked the starch clear out of her temper tantrum, but that didn’t mean anything. He was a scoundrel of the worst kind.
A scoundrel who, despite his reputation, managed to stay within an inch of the law; a scoundrel who made her laugh just like he’d probably done with a hundred other women; a scoundrel who wanted to charm her. Her!
God only knew what he wanted to do with Carrie.
CHAPTER 4
“Chuck dropped off the first load of wire this morning.” Joanna refilled her mug, then loaded it down with heaps of sugar. “So Travers and I’ll get started on the fence today.”
Levi only half listened as she and Mac nattered on about it, but for the most part, he was too busy studying the array of freckles across her nose. Mornings were the best time to see them; just after she’d washed her face and
before the dust and grime from the ranch had a chance to dull them again.
There were lots of them, too, and scattered in no particular pattern.
He’d never figured freckles to be an attractive trait on a woman before. But on her. . . Levi shook his head clear. What was wrong with him, anyway? Since when did he ever think twice about something as bone-headed as a woman’s freckles? There were a few other things he’d thought more than twice about, but freckles?
And this was Joanna, for crying out loud. Joanna who refused to have anything to do with frills or fanciness; Joanna who refused to be coddled or fawned over; and Joanna who refused to use her real name, preferring a man’s name instead. How could any of that be the slightest bit attractive to him?
Hell if he could figure it out.
Carrie’s sugary voice buzzed in his ear as it had at every meal for the last week. If it hadn’t been for the way Joanna’s eyes shot scorching emerald flames at both of them, Levi would have ignored Carrie altogether. But knowing it bothered the hell out of Joanna whenever he glanced Carrie’s way was all the encouragement he needed to pay the younger girl any attention at all.
The McCaine girls were as different as night and day. Carrie about fell over herself trying to get his attention; she smiled and primped and spoke in those soft dainty tones girls were supposed to. Joanna, on the other hand. . .well, she couldn’t be more unlike Carrie if she tried.
She did all she could to avoid him, spent less time primping than most men did, and her voice - well, that voice wasn’t near as soft or dainty as Carrie’s. It was low, throaty and sexy as hell.
Joanna was blunt, strong and more often than not, plain mean to him, but any time he moved close to her, her pulse beat harder in her throat and she seemed to lick her lips a lot.
Levi swallowed hard. There was something about those lips. . .didn’t look nearly as soft as Carrie’s, not nearly as dainty or well-tended as Carrie’s, either. But Lordy, what he wouldn’t give to taste them. Just once.
Maybe twice.
Damn, he needed to get a grip. Joanna would probably shoot him on the spot just for thinking these things. And if she didn’t, Mac sure as hell would.
It must be the lack of Stella’s comforts that had him thinking like a crazy man. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so long without a woman’s company and the stress of it was definitely beginning to show. He’d have to get himself into town right quick like – a good dose of Stella would straighten him out all right.
