“You’ll never know if you can make it unless you try. But if you’re afraid, I’ll go back and bring a truck,” Derek said beside her.

Sydney gave him a thin glare. He was the reason she felt determined to get up that snow bank that rose twice as high as her head. “And here I thought you were going to manage not to say something insulting. I am not afraid.”

He lifted his hands innocently, but the devilish curl on his lips was anything but. “It was just an offer.”

“I think I can manage,” she told him. “You’re not giving me a push, either,” she told him under her breath.

“Didn’t offer, cupcake. But if you want my hands on your butt, say the word. We don’t have to like each other to want each other.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to the world of Weaver, Wyoming and the Double-C Family!

Derek Clay is a pretty traditional guy. Believes in family, duty, honour. He works hard, likes a beer and a game of pool with his cousins now and then, and can definitely appreciate a pretty woman.

Sydney Forrest isn’t exactly a traditional girl. She’s an heiress, for one thing. Having never experienced a particularly happy home life, she’s never thought that “family” was for her. But now, Sydney’s in the family way, and for the benefit of her child, she’s re-evaluating her entire lifestyle.

His life is pretty settled and he likes that just fine. Her life is anything but settled, but she thinks at least she’s got a plan.

And then they meet…

Best wishes,

Allison

About the Author

There is a saying that you can never be too rich or too thin. ALLISON LEIGH doesn’t believe that, but she does believe that you can never have enough books! When her stories find a way into the hearts—and bookshelves—of others, Allison says she feels she’s done something right. Making her home in Arizona with her husband, she enjoys hearing from her readers at Allison@allisonleigh.com or PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-077, USA.

A Weaver

Proposal

Allison Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Greg.

Because you never fail to make me laugh.

Prologue

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Syd. He’s full of it.”

Sydney Forrest hugged her arms around her chest. She could hear her sister’s voice, but it was overridden by the loud tones of her father’s still ringing inside her head.

You ‘re a worthless slut.

Just like your mother.

She stared out the windows overlooking the long, sloping green lawns that spread from their house down to the white-steepled stables. Her dark-haired father was striding across them, his long legs eating up the distance as he headed for the only thing—as far as she could tell—that he did care about.

The Forrest’s Crossing Thoroughbreds. They even came before Forco, the family’s textile business. At least that’s what her sister Charlotte was always saying.

Char wanted to run the huge business someday. As far as Sydney was concerned, her sister was welcome to it. The same went for her older brother Jake—he was studying agribusiness at college. Whatever the heck that was.

“It was only a kiss,” Charlotte continued from behind her. She was being as practical as ever. “No big deal.”

It had been a big deal to Sydney.

She was fourteen years old, and it had been her first kiss. Her first real kiss.

“I wonder if he’d have cared so much if I’d been kissing the son of one of his country club friends,” she said bitterly. “Instead of one of the boys from the stable.”

Charlotte threw her arm around Sydney’s shoulders. She pressed her head against Sydney’s, her blond hair a sharp contrast to Sydney’s raven-black tresses. “Who knows?” she asked on a sigh. At eighteen, she was four years older than Sydney and decades smarter. Charlotte had kissed plenty of boys, but she knew better than to be caught doing so anywhere around Forrest’s Crossing. “Didn’t help that he’s obviously been drinking.” She waved her hand at the crystal decanter that was sitting, unstoppered, on the desk. “If you really like Andy, just meet him in town. Or at school,” she advised. “The old man never has to know.”

“Am I really just like her?”

Charlotte didn’t have to ask what Sydney meant. “You don’t remember what she looked like when she left?”

Sydney shook her head. She wanted to think she remembered her mother. But what she remembered of the woman who’d abandoned her three children when Sydney was a baby was more likely just wishful thinking.

As wishful as thinking that her father had any affection at all for the children his wife had given him—particularly Sydney.

Charlotte crossed their father’s study to his desk. She tipped the pens and pencils out of a silver mint julep cup—the only thing besides the decanter sitting on top of the gleaming wood surface—and fished the desk key out from the bottom. Opening the locked center drawer, she moved a few things, then pulled out a ragged-edged snapshot. She held it up. “Just ‘cause you look like her doesn’t mean you are like her,” she warned.

Still feeling bruised from her father’s tirade, Sydney took the photograph. Black hair. Thin face. Blue eyes.

They were the same eyes that stared back at Sydney whenever she looked in a mirror.

She was just like her mother.

“Jake looks like the old man and he’s nothing like him,” Charlotte added. He really was the spitting image of their father.

“He doesn’t even like any of us.” Sydney crumpled the photograph in her fist. “So why’d he bother fighting to keep us?”

“To win,” Charlotte answered immediately.

Sydney tossed the crumpled picture on the center of the spotless desk. She didn’t care if it did mean he’d know they’d been into his desk or not. “If we had four hooves and won races would he love us?”

“Do what I do, Syd.” Charlotte flicked the balled-up photo with her finger and it rolled off the desk onto the floor. “Stop caring what he thinks.” She relocked the drawer, dropped the key in the julep cup and replaced the pens and pencils before heading for the doorway. “He’s not worth it,” she said before sailing out of the office.

Easy for her sister to say. She was going away to college in the fall and wouldn’t even be living at home. Jake, of course, was already out on his own and had been for years.

Sydney would be stuck at home with the man for several years yet.

She turned back to look out the windows. The horse barns where her father’s pride and joy was stabled were visible in the distance. “He’s not worth it,” she repeated.

But her chest hurt and tears crept down her cheeks when she finally looked away.

She picked up the crumpled picture of her mother and smoothed it out on the desk.

Black hair. Thin face. Blue eyes.

“You’re not worth it, either,” she whispered to the picture.

The large grandfather clock against the wall ticked softly.

Sydney made a face and slowly picked up the photo.

She folded it carefully in half.

Then she pushed it into her pocket and left the room.

Chapter One

“What on earth are you doing here?” Sydney murmured the question to herself as she yanked a thick sweater over her head. She was wearing two layers of sweaters, on top of a long-sleeved thermal undershirt, and she still couldn’t get warm. January in Wyoming was a long way from January in Georgia.

She shook her head sharply, freeing the ends of her hair from the turtleneck and pulled the cuffs of the sweater even farther down over her hands as she gave the furnace a baleful look.

The offending item was housed behind a door—currently open—off her small kitchen. After failing to get the thing to run for the last forty-eight hours, and considering her dwindling supply of firewood, she’d finally given up and called a repair service.

That had been nearly eight hours ago.

They’d promised to send someone in two.

Clearly, the three impatient calls that she’d made since then hadn’t sped things along.

Not for the first time, she wondered if moving herself—lock, stock and metaphorical barrel—out to this small town in Wyoming was a monumental mistake.

But making monumental mistakes was truly the one thing at which Sydney Forrest excelled.

She rubbed her hands down her flat belly, then picked up the hammer she’d been trying not to pitch at the broken furnace and eyed the cabin wall again. She’d already hung one of her Solieres and had two more to go.

The modern American style of the paintings didn’t match the cabin’s interior—early-American leftover—but she loved the original oils, anyway. They were the first pieces of art she’d ever purchased, and the only ones in her sizeable collection that she’d bothered bringing with her to Weaver, Wyoming. The rest she’d left back in Georgia on loan to various galleries and she could honestly say she didn’t care whether she ever saw any of them again.

But the Solieres…these, she loved.

If she could hang them here, then she’d be home.

She hoped.

She placed the nail and hammered it into the thick log wall. Only when she stopped did she realize that someone was hammering at her door, too.

She dropped the hammer on the hideous green-and-orange-plaid couch that came with the place and headed toward the door, only to stop short.

She eyed the thick, glossy-covered book lying on her couch. The Next Forty Weeks. Maybe it was silly of her, but she shoved it behind a cushion, anyway, before hurrying the few steps to the door.

“You’re late,” she said flatly when she threw open the door.

The tall man standing on the doorstep of the cabin tilted down the dark glasses he was wearing and looked at her over the rims. “I am?”

The fact that there was amusement in the bright green eyes he trained on her face didn’t help her irritation. “I called for you nearly eight hours ago.” Her voice was only a few shades warmer than the cold air that seeped inside around him. “I don’t know what kind of service your employer expects you to provide but he assured me—more than once over those hours—that you would be…right here.” She sounded like a witch and didn’t particularly care. She pointed her index finger at the offending furnace. “It’s over there.”

Still peering over the tops of his sunglasses, he finally shifted away in the direction she was pointing. “I see.” He stepped past her into the cabin, turning slightly sideways as he did so.

To avoid touching her, or to even fit through the door, she wasn’t sure. He was wearing a thick down jacket that, despite the rip in one shoulder seam, nevertheless made his shoulders look a good six inches wider than they probably were.

“Let’s just take a look, then,” he murmured as he passed her.

She shivered and slammed the door shut.

She wasn’t going to remotely entertain the idea that she was reacting to his deep, soft voice.

She was absolutely done with men.

Been there. Done that. With far too many.

She folded her arms around her waist and watched him as he crouched down in front of the furnace. His thighs strained against the faded, dirty jeans he was wearing and she wasn’t going to admit that she, even for one moment, glanced at his rear visible beneath the coat he wasn’t bothering to remove.

Why would he take it off?

The cabin’s interior was freezing.

Her irritation mounted even more. “Didn’t you even bring a toolbox? What kind of a repairman are you, besides a late one?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. He’d pulled off his sunglasses and she got a full-on view of that scruffy face and striking eyes.

He needed a shave, a haircut and, she was betting, a shower.

“Actually, I have a toolbox in my truck.” His drawl seemed to have deepened. “Ma’am,” he added after a moment.

Her lips tightened.

Smart-aleck repairmen she didn’t need. What she did need was heat. Or she was afraid she was going to have to give up the idea of staying in the cabin on her own.

She might as well have a tail that she could tuck between her legs if she had to admit, already, that she couldn’t hack it by herself in Weaver.

The idea tasted bitter. As bitter as the fear that ran deep and strong inside her that she wouldn’t be able to hack it.

And then where would she be?

Back in Georgia? Lolling away her time and inheritance in a place where nobody really cared about her—or heaven forbid—felt sorry for her?

No, thanks.

“If you wouldn’t mind getting to it, then,” she prompted flatly when the guy just kept watching her. She was used to men watching her, but seriously, he wasn’t at all her type. She didn’t go for unshaven, unkempt laborers even if he did come with a pair of emerald eyes. For all she knew he had a wife and a half-dozen kids waiting for him back at his single-wide trailer.

But even her judgmental thoughts shamed her. She hugged her arms around her waist.

Weaver was supposed to be a chance for her new life.

A better life.

That was the whole point of this. A better life.

More importantly a better Sydney now that it wasn’t only herself she had to think about.

This man, emerald eyes and all, was entirely incidental.

She cleared her throat and made herself walk a few steps closer. “I’m not used to this type of furnace,” she admitted. Back home, the climate controls were the very best that money could buy. If she had to push a button, that was doing a lot. “I know it runs on gas and I already had that checked. Yesterday. The guy from the gas company said there weren’t any leaks.”

“Yesterday.” His eyebrows—several shades darker than his blondish-brown hair—shot up a little. “You haven’t had heat since then? You know it’s barely thirty degrees out there. Why didn’t you call before now?”

“I do know. And I did.” Her voice was bordering on withering and she tried not to cringe. “I found a listing for handyman services and called this morning,” she added, determined to sound friendlier. The guy was here. Finally. She needed him to fix the darn thing, not leave because she was acting like a witch.

He looked back at the furnace and shook his head. “Warned Jake that furnace was on its last legs.”

She frowned a little at his easy mention of her brother, but told herself that was all probably part and parcel of living in a small town.

Everyone knew everyone.

The repairman shifted and leaned down closer to the furnace. “At least you had the sense to check for a gas leak.”

It didn’t sound like praise to her. “I’m not an idiot.” Not about everything, at least.

He gave her a glance again with that amused glint in his eyes that put her teeth on edge. “Didn’t say otherwise. Ma’am,” he said mildly. Then he pulled off a panel and set it on the floor beside him, studying the inside of the furnace for a moment before reaching in and fiddling with something, then pushing to his feet. He turned to her. “I’ll be back.”

He walked past her and went out the door, closing it behind him.

She shivered again and stared at the guts of the furnace, visible behind the missing panel. It might as well have been a nuclear reactor for all of the sense it made to her.

Through the wide window next to the door she could see him stomping across the snowy ground to a big pickup truck. It was so filthy she couldn’t even tell what color it was, unless mud had a place now on the spectrum. He pulled open the door and climbed up inside.

Then he just sat there with the door open, despite how cold she knew it was outside, his sunglasses back in place while he looked at the cabin.

Even from her distance she could see him shake his head.

Her lips tightened again.

She deliberately turned away and picked up the large, square painting and fit it over the sturdy nail, nudging up one corner until she was satisfied. Then she stepped back to survey her work.

But even her satisfaction at having her favorite paintings hanging in her new home didn’t help her forget the man in his truck outside.

She could practically feel his gaze burning through the window.

She picked up her hammer again and set the next nail where she’d already measured off the spot and in just a few minutes, she had the third and last painting hanging in place.

She looked out the window again. Now the man—still sitting in his truck—was talking on a cell phone.

She exhaled noisily and went into the kitchen. It didn’t possess a microwave. Nor a dishwasher. And the pot filled with water that she put on the stove was hardly the latest in design when it came to making coffee.

But then coffee wasn’t on her list of allowable drinks any longer.

She turned on the flame beneath the pot and emptied a packet of hot chocolate mix into a thick, white mug. If her furnace wasn’t working by that evening, she might have to go stay at her brother’s new house.

It was what he’d wanted her to do in the first place. The cabin was barely habitable, he’d said. Sydney figured what he really meant was that it would be barely habitable for her, given her usual taste for luxury with a capital L. He and his wife had left for California the day after she’d arrived four days ago, taking their aunt and her new husband with them. They’d already planned to spend a month visiting Jake’s twin sons, who spent part of the year there with their mother. But no. Sydney had insisted that she was determined to do this on her own. That she loved the quaint little place where she could have all the privacy that she desired.

Jake had just shrugged and told her she’d always been stubborn about getting her own way. What he hadn’t added, but had probably thought was, even when it was a mistake.

Mistake or not, she’d set a course, and she was determined to stick to it. Her brother didn’t know the entire reason she’d sought refuge in Weaver. She’d tell him when she was ready. But right now, she couldn’t bear to admit failure already, and that’s how it felt if she had to give up and go stay at his place.

A failure.

She leaned against the knotty pine cupboards that formed the small L-shaped kitchen and waited for the water to heat. Small bubbles were just beginning to form in the base of the pot when she heard the door open again and she peered around the short wall into the main room of the cabin.

The sunglasses were gone. But the repairman still wasn’t carrying any tools.

“How long do you think this is going to take?”

“Not long.” He crossed to the closet and crouched down. “My tool.” He removed a long-nosed lighter from inside his coat, giving her that amused look again. “Pilot light is out. And you need the light to have heat.” He leaned down again toward the furnace, his broad body blocking her view.

She could feel her nerves tightening up all over again in the face of his exaggerated patience. “Wait,” she said sharply.

He hesitated and glanced back. “Thought you were in a hurry for some heat. Ma’am.”

She really detested his way of tacking that last bit on, as if by reluctant duty, and she gave him an icy look. “I want to see what you’re doing.”

He just shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other, and he waited until she turned off the stove and forced herself to crouch down beside him. The smell of him hit her just as strongly as she’d feared.

Just not in the way she’d feared.

Because he didn’t smell as dirty as he looked. He smelled fresh. Like the first scent of the wide outdoors that she’d gotten when she’d climbed out of her car after driving hours and hours and hours from Georgia to Weaver. Vaguely pine-like. Vaguely earthy. Fresh. Breathtaking.

She realized his gaze was slanting over her and blamed her crazy hormones when she felt her face actually start to warm. She’d stopped blushing when she was about ten years old. It had to be her hormones that were causing her to think this man smelled enticing. Same way her hormones had told her she absolutely had to have both sliced pickles and potato chips on the peanut butter sandwich she’d eaten for breakfast. “Well? Are you going to show me or not?”

His eyebrows lifted a little and his jaw canted slightly to one side as he gave his head the faintest of shakes. But regardless of his personal opinion—obviously lacking—where she was concerned, he tapped one long index finger against a knob. “This controls whether the pilot is on or off. I turned it off before I went outside.” He turned it, and a bit of dried blood on his scratched knuckle stood out. “Turn it to where it says Pilot.” He held up the long lighter with his other hand and clicked it on. A small flame burst from the end and he tucked it inside the furnace, angling his messy head a little in front of her so he could see.

He really did have thick hair.

She averted her eyes back to what he was doing.

“Set the flame there,” he continued, “and keep the knob pushed down.” He pulled out the lighter, letting the flame die.

But she could see the small blue flame burning inside the furnace and ferociously kept her gaze on it, even though she could feel him looking at her again. Then he abruptly leaned down and blew out the tiny flame.

“Here.” He held out the lighter. “You wanted to learn, right?”

She nodded and took the lighter, careful not to touch his greasy fingers.

His lips twisted, as if he noticed. But all he said was, “Don’t be afraid. You’ll never know unless you try.”

She hesitantly pressed the knob where he indicated, clicked the lighter and set the flame where he had.

“That’s it. Give it about a minute, then let up on the knob.” She did as he said and he showed her that the pilot remained lit. “Thermocouple sensed the flame, which triggered the gas valve, and hello, heat. Turn the knob from Pilot to On … you see?” He waited until she nodded and then he put the panel back in place. “You oughta be good to go.”

He pushed to his feet, walked to the other side of the room and held his hand over the register for a moment. “It’s coming.” His gaze passed from her face to her newly hung paintings then back to her again.

She’d straightened, too. There was no question that he didn’t appreciate her modern artwork. It was as plain on his face as his amusement, and her temper glowed warm all over again. “I assume your employer will send a bill.” It wasn’t a question. “I’d have given you a tip if I hadn’t had to wait eight hours for you to show up.”

Derek Clay managed to keep from grinning outright as he looked at Sydney Forrest, the sister of his cousin’s husband.

He’d come by the place to check on her as a courtesy, since he lived closest to the out-of-the-way cabin that she’d moved herself and her ugly paintings into a few days ago. And while he was genuinely concerned that she’d been living without heat, he wasn’t all that interested in the woman herself.

Definitely a looker. But he knew from Jake that she liked living in the fast lane. Along with that, she was snooty. And undoubtedly high-maintenance coming from the moneyed background that she had. None of these qualities was high on his list of attractive attributes in a woman, no matter how good she looked.

“I’m sure they’ll appreciate the prompt payment,” he offered, then stuck out his hand. “I’m Derek, by the way.”

She eyed his hand—which admittedly had a smear of grease on the back of it and had since he’d been wrangling with an ancient tractor engine inside which his mom’s latest cat had decided to have her kittens—with clear distaste. But then she seemed to swallow hard and stuck her slender hand briefly into his. “Sydney Forrest,” she offered.

“I know. You’re Jake’s sis.”

Her fine, dark eyebrows drew together over a narrow nose that tilted up just a bit at the end, saving her oval face from being too classically pretty. “You know my brother?”

Her tone implied that anyone of his ilk couldn’t possibly, and despite his efforts, his ornery grin cracked through. “‘Fraid so, Syd.” He couldn’t help laying on the hick, given her obviously appalled reaction. “You and me? We’re practically kin seein’ how your brother’s hitched to my cousin.”

He didn’t think her ivory face could get any whiter, but it did. “You’re … related to J.D.?” Her rosy lips spread in a thin smile that wasn’t reflected at all in her dark blue eyes.

“Yup. Derek Clay. So some might even call you and me kissin’ cousins,” he added, because she obviously was not going to see the humor in any of this.

Still, something about the situation left him feeling itchy and irritated because—snooty or not—she was pretty damn beautiful.

Her eyes were a deep, dark blue and now, as a steely glint came into them, they iced over. They reminded him of black ice.

“You could have just told me who you were.” Her voice was cold as a witch’s behind, but the cadence of her words nevertheless had an almost hypnotic molasses-smooth sway.

“You maybe could have waited three seconds for me to do so before jumping on that high horse of assumptions you ride,” he returned blandly. “Don’t worry your pretty head any, though. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“You can tell whomever you like.” Her vaguely pointy chin was set. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“No, ma’am,” Derek agreed. She was no more in the right or wrong than he was, when it came down to it. Still, her snooty attitude wouldn’t get her anywhere in Weaver, even though she was Jake’s sister and thereby connected to the Clay family, which was generally well thought of in the community. “I guess you haven’t.”

And since she was connected to the Clays—to him—he pushed aside his general irritation with himself and her and reminded himself of the way he was raised.

He looked past her sweater-bundled shoulder into the cabin’s interior. “Watch that pilot light,” he warned. “If the thermocouple is failing, it’ll go out again no matter how careful you are. And don’t wait an entire day to ask for help when you need it.”

She crossed her arms and managed to look down her narrow, turned-up, sexy nose at him, even though she stood about a head shorter than his six-three. “I did call for help,” she reminded him as if he were dense enough to have somehow missed that point.

“Did you call the number for the Double-C that Jake left you?” He didn’t need to see the chagrin she tried to hide to know that she hadn’t. He’d been at the Double-C since before dawn that day working with his father, Matthew Clay, who ran the family ranch. If Jake’s sister had called, he’d have known about it.

She hadn’t called.

“I didn’t want to impose.” Now that enticing sway to her voice had gone all stiff.

And he was irritated all over again with himself because he felt some regret for that. “Nobody in the Clay family would consider it an imposition. Maybe you’d know that if you’d have bothered to come to Jake and J.D.’s wedding last summer and taken time to get to know us.”

Her jaw dropped a little. “Is that what Jake said? Or is this just your know-it-all take on it?”

Jake hadn’t said a word against his sister. “Weddings tend to bring out the crowds in my family.”

“As they do in mine,” she returned coolly. “If I could have made it, I would have. I was here for my Aunt Susan’s wedding to Stan Ventura a few months ago. He’s sort of family to you Clays now, isn’t he, yet I don’t recall seeing you there.”

He had missed that wedding, but not because he’d wanted to. “I was in Cheyenne. On business.” He gave the lie with no regret. He’d been attending a funeral.

She smiled with no humor. “Is that an excuse that only applies to you? Maybe I was away on business when Jake and J.D. were married.”

“Were you?”

Her head tilted slightly and her shining blue-black hair slid away from her high, patrician cheekbone. “Yes.”

“And what is your business, Sydney Forrest? I hadn’t heard that you worked for Forco.”

Her chin rose a little. “My sister and brother run Forco. I sit on the board.”

“Anything else?”

“Racehorses and art.”

In her Southern warm-honey voice, art came out more like ahhht, and it sent heat down his spine that he didn’t welcome. “Art like those monstrosities you hung on the wall in there?” He jerked his chin over her shoulder.

“I suppose you prefer a paint-by-the-numbers nude lounging on black velvet?”

“Don’t go knocking the combination of velvet and naked skin until you’ve tried it.” He leaned closer. “Kissin’ cousin.”

She jerked back, a flash coming and going in her eyes. “I cannot believe you are even related to J.D. She is perfectly lovely and you are—”

“—not a woman, that’s for sure.”

“Odious,” she finished, witheringly.

“And you’re a snob,” he countered. “You work on that little problem, cupcake, and I’ll work on mine.”

“Cupcake?” Her eyes narrowed to slits and she took a step back, shutting the door smack in his face.

Not that he didn’t deserve it.

If he had a door to slam in her face, he’d probably do it, too.

“Nice meeting you, cuz,” he said loudly through the door. Then he turned away and headed toward his truck.

He’d give her about a week, and then she’d be hightailing it back to her pampered life in Georgia.

As far as he’d ever been able to tell, that’s what spoiled rich girls always did when the going got tough. Ran.

He reached the truck and swung up into the driver’s seat, looking back at the cabin despite his intention not to.

She was looking back at him.

Hard to tell which one of them looked away first.

Derek’s pride hoped it wasn’t him. But with the tires crunching over the snow as he turned a wide circle, he had to admit that it might well have been.

Chapter Two

Sydney had come to Weaver for lots of reasons. Some were more immediate than others, but none of them were unimportant. Rebuilding a relationship with her brother was one. Or—she thought with brutal honesty—establishing a relationship with her brother was a better way to put it since—aside from the occasional racehorse she found for Forrest’s Crossing, which Jake still ran even though he’d moved to Wyoming—they’d had little to do with one another for years.

And yes, she had missed his wedding to J. D. Clay. She still felt guilty about it, because she could have made it if she’d really tried. But she truly hadn’t believed that he would care much one way or another, and despite her Aunt Susan’s urging, she’d pulled her usual Sydney act. She’d commissioned a crystal statuette of Latitude—a Thoroughbred her brother was particularly fond of—and had it delivered to him and J.D. before the wedding.

But she hadn’t left Antoine’s side where they’d been staying in Antibes at the home of a particularly discriminating art collector. Mostly because she was well aware that Antoine was taking his newest assistant with him on the trip, and said assistant was ten years younger than Sydney, particularly pretty and clearly looking to be more than an assistant.

Despite Sydney’s absence from the nuptials, J.D. had called her, thanking her for the incredibly beautiful gift. Sydney wasn’t surprised by that. She’d met J.D. on a few occasions when she’d been working for Jake at Forrest’s Crossing. The other woman had always been professionally courteous. But after J.D.’s call had come Jake’s, and he’d been rather less courteous when he’d told Sydney that J.D. assumed Sydney didn’t approve of their marriage.

It couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Which was why Sydney was now picking her way through the snow behind her cabin to the shed that acted as a garage and storage for a bunch of tractor-size tools.

Maggie Clay—J.D.’s mother and yet another one of the seemingly endless Clays that Weaver possessed—had called her the evening before to insist that she join the family for dinner out at the family’s ranch. “Sunday” dinner, which Sydney knew from her brother was usually a family affair. Since Sydney had some bridges to build, she knew she might as well start doing it now, even if J.D. and Jake were in California.

And if nothing else, the place where the meal was being held—the Double-C—was bound to be warm, which was more than could be said of her cabin right now, since the furnace had quit on her again this morning.

So she climbed into her little red convertible two-seater and prayed the engine would start.

The import was nearly thirty years old and had belonged to her mother. A gift from Sydney’s father, until he’d taken it back from her during the divorce. He’d later given it to Sydney as a gift—not because he was bestowing some treasured thing upon her—but because it was a manual transmission. After she’d backed one of Forrest’s Crossing’s trucks through a paddock fence, he’d mockingly laughed that, like her mother, she’d never be able to drive it properly, anyway.

“Just a little paternal adoration,” she murmured now as she coaxed the engine to life.

Bringing the car with her here to Wyoming had probably been the height of folly. But no more, possibly, than bringing herself had been.

When it came down to it, she was about as equipped for the practical matters of life here as her red demon was equipped for snow-covered roads and frozen temperatures.

“But we’ll both do it, won’t we? We have to.” She ignored the faint edge of desperation she felt and patted the steering wheel when the engine finally caught.

She wasn’t quite sure what she’d have done if it hadn’t started. Did Weaver even possess a cab company?

Somehow, she doubted it.

Fortunately, it hadn’t snowed since she’d arrived, so the bumpy drive that led from the highway to the cabin was still clear and she made it out of the shed and down to the main road with no engine stalls. Then it was just a matter of following the instructions Maggie had given her to reach the “big house” on the family’s cattle ranch.

Sydney realized soon enough that the place was no more “in Weaver” than the cabin was. When she finally pulled to a stop in front of a sprawling stone house, there were already a half-dozen cars parked in the curving drive in front of it. She pulled as close to the snow-plowed edge of the drive as she dared, parking behind an enormous black SUV, and climbed out, smoothing down her cashmere coat as she eyed the vehicles. Everything from economy cars to luxury SUVs. Jake had told her the Clays were a diverse bunch.

Even their automobiles reflected it.

She carefully picked her way between the vehicles toward the snowy ground separating the plowed drive from the house, wincing a little as her high, stacked heels sank into the snow. Her boots were suede and not meant for getting wet. She needed to shop. And soon.

“We were about ready to send out a search crew.”

The low, masculine voice startled her and she jerked her head up to see Derek Clay standing on the wide porch that stretched across the front of the house. He was wearing jeans again—though this time at least they looked clean. The down coat was gone, but all that did was show off the shoulders stretching the limits of his untucked, navy blue pullover. Evidently the down coat he’d worn the day before hadn’t been solely responsible for the wide shoulders.

Sydney also noted the arm he had looped possessively over the shoulder of a very pretty young woman. Whether this was another cousin of the “kissing” variety or not, Sydney could see she was considerably younger than Derek. She was guessing he was closer to Sydney’s thirty-one than the girl’s probable twenty-one.

Men were men, obviously. And for a good many of them, the younger their companions were, the better.

Not that she cared one whit that Derek seemed no better than Antoine had been in that regard.

She yanked the lapels of her coat more tightly around her waist as she gingerly picked her way through the snow until she reached the shoveled walkway.

“As you can see, I made it.” She even managed a smile, though how she did after their encounter the day before was a minor miracle.

“Small wonder,” he returned and nodded his head toward her car. “We have snowdrifts bigger than that toy.” He might have cleaned up in the clothing department, but the dark blond waves of his hair were still as unkempt as ever. “J.D. and Jake have plenty of suitable vehicles up at their place. Why not use one?”

His tone made it perfectly clear that he considered her brainless for not having done so, and Sydney’s jaw ached as she locked her insincere smile in place. “I’m surprised Jake didn’t tell you already. I like unsuitable,” she assured him blithely, though nothing could have been further from the truth.

Yes, she’d frequently indulged in the unsuitable. More often than not. But that was exactly what had led her to this particular point in her life.

Nausea nudged at her, deep inside, like the low tide getting ready to come in.

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath of cold, bracing air as she crossed the walkway to the shallow steps leading up to the house.

“Unsuitable doesn’t fly real well in these parts,” Derek said when she reached the top. “Thinking about safety does.”

His companion—who looked even more dewy and fresh up close—didn’t bother trying to hide the elbow that she poked into his side. “Be nice,” she said, and stuck out her hand toward Sydney. “I’m Tabby Taggart. And not all of us are quite the sticks in the mud as this guy is.”

Sydney shook the girl’s hand. “I’m Sydney.” She wasn’t going to comment on the sticks business, even if she did happen to agree. “It’s nice to meet you, Tabby.” She let her gaze take in both of them. “I apologize for running a little late.”

“No worries.” Tabby waved an unconcerned hand and without losing Derek’s arm, pulled open the enormous front door with obvious familiarity. “When there’s a crowd around here for Sunday dinner it always takes a bit of doing to get the meal on the table, anyway. And can I just say that I love those boots of yours? I hope you’ve treated the suede for getting wet, though.”

Over the girl’s head, Sydney’s gaze ran into Derek’s and she cursed herself for being caught looking his way.

“Wouldn’t worry about the boots, Tab,” he said as they headed inside. “Sydney’s an honest-to-God heiress, remember? If she wanted to pretend they’re disposable after one wearing, she could.”

Tabby looked up at him, grabbed his face in her hand and planted a kiss on his lips. “Funny guy, aren’t you?” Then she gave his cheek a playful slap.

“Deathly,” Sydney murmured, watching the girl move off. Tabby could think her boyfriend was joking, but Sydney knew he wasn’t. She wasn’t dressed appropriately for the weather any more than her car was suited to it.

In his eyes it was obviously just one more strike against her.

She wondered what he’d think if he knew that his strikes were small potatoes in comparison to the ones she’d had leveled at her since childhood. But then again, she’d rather he didn’t know. Thinking she was a snob was much better than knowing what she really was.

A pregnant, rejected fool who’d never accomplished anything on her own.

Fortunately, her arrival had been noticed, not just by Maggie Clay, the woman who’d invited her, but by countless others who quickly surrounded her. Maggie, who was just as blonde as her daughter, J.D., grabbed Sydney’s hand as if she were five and began introducing everyone even as she took Sydney’s coat and thrust it at Derek with instructions to hang it up.

As Sydney struggled to keep up with the introductions—some familiar and some not—a part of her couldn’t help wondering if she’d find her coat later hanging from some tree outside when he disappeared with it.

“Oh, my goodness, what a fabulous dress! Is it actually leather?” The petite brunette, whom Maggie had just introduced as Tara, was definitely not one of the individuals that Sydney recalled from Susan and Stan’s wedding. The other woman barely waited for Sydney’s nod before she continued gushing. “If I could get some items like that for the shop, I’d sell them out in a heartbeat no matter what price tag I put on them.” She grinned ruefully as she ran her hand over the noticeably pregnant bulge stretching out the front of her cherry-red sweater. “Not that I’m likely to ever be able to wear anything cut so narrowly again.”

Sydney could have laughed—or cried—at the irony.

“Tara owns Classic Charms down on Main Street,” Maggie explained. “She has the most wonderfully eclectic collection. Everything from furniture to clothing.”

Tara shrugged dismissively. “Not everything. But I do like to have some unusual items, and that dress would definitely be one. Vintage?”

Again, Sydney nodded. She glanced down at the caramel-colored leather dress that draped from her shoulders to just above her knees. “I found it in a secondhand shop in Paris a few years ago.” She loved it and was determined to wear it as long as she could. “But I can see that I am overdressed,” she admitted. Nearly everyone there was dressed in jeans and sweaters.

“You think?” A deep voice murmured from behind her and she didn’t have to look back to know it was Derek. She’d recognize his voice anywhere now.

She ignored him and looked at Maggie beside her. “I think I should have taken notes with the introductions,” she admitted. “I’m not sure I’ll keep everyone straight.”

Maggie laughed and squeezed Sydney’s hand. “Unless you’ve been born into the group, we’ve all thought the same thing at one time or another. We’re an overwhelming bunch. But you’ll get used to it.”

“If she’s here long enough,” Derek added. His tone didn’t imply it, but Sydney didn’t have to guess very hard to know that he was hoping she wouldn’t be.

“Actually, I plan to be here a long, long while.” Smiling a confident smile she didn’t feel at all, she directed her comment toward the friendly Maggie.

“I know how much Jake and J.D. are hoping so,” the older woman returned comfortably.

“How’s that furnace holding out?”

“Just fine,” she lied, finally looking Derek’s way. Instead of the nubile Tabby under his arm, he was now holding a wildly giggling dark-haired imp upside down.

Her stomach took a dangerous dive and she quickly looked away. She wasn’t sure if it was the baby-related nausea or the sight of that odious man looking so perfectly natural jiggling around an obviously delighted toddler.

“Derek told us you had a little problem with it.” Maggie drew Sydney farther along the scarred wood floors. “He’s a whiz at fixing everything. Always helps out when he’s able. He’s wonderful that way.”

Sydney managed not to choke.

They’d reached a long dining room that was dominated by the china-and-crystal-laden table that took center stage. Three-fourths of the chairs around it were being claimed by the people who had already greeted Sydney, and Maggie led her to two on the side near the head of the table. “Come and sit here beside me. You can tell me how you’re settling in at J.D. and Jake’s cabin.” She pulled out one chair and took the other.

“It’s going fine. I’m just not sure what I’m going to do with myself now that I’ve finished unpacking,” she admitted a little ruefully. She sat where directed and waved off the wine that Maggie offered in favor of water and turned to smile at the blond-haired teenage boy sitting on her other side, who was not very discreetly throwing wadded bits of his paper napkin at the girl sitting directly across from him.

He dropped his hands guiltily to his lap, though, when Sydney sat and almost did a double take as he gave her a lopsided grin. “Hey. I’m Eli.”

“Yeah, Eli. Stop drooling over the lady and move it. You’re in my seat,” Derek said behind them. He set a long-necked bottle of beer next to the empty wine glass near his plate and jerked his thumb.

Sydney’s stomach sank as the lanky boy slid out of the chair and moved to the other side of the table. “Nobody wants to sit next to their sister,” he complained, giving the target of his napkin wads a little shove before slouching into the chair next to her.

“Nearly everyone at this table is a sister or brother of someone,” Maggie said without heat.

“And if not that, then cousins,” Derek added as he took the vacated seat.

Sydney ignored him. She noticed that Tabby was sitting on the other side of the table, several seats down from Derek, between Tara on one side and a toffee-haired young man on the other. Maggie had mentioned his name. Jared. Justin. Something like that. But he was Maggie’s nephew, that she was certain of. And the young man was graced with the unfair quantity of “wow” genes that all of the Clays seemed to possess.

Maggie was nodding toward the empty seats at the end of the table. “It’s too bad that Gloria and Squire are gone right now.” Her hand had come to rest over the bronzed hand of her husband, sitting on her other side and now, she patted it. “Daniel’s father. I know you met at your aunt’s wedding. I’m sure they’re looking forward to seeing you again.”

They hadn’t had time to speak much at the wedding since Sydney had only been there for a matter of hours, but she did remember the iron-haired man who was the patriarch of this large, rambunctious family and his wife. “Jake mentioned they were away for a few weeks?”

“Yeah, Squire doesn’t like the cold winters so much anymore,” added another man as he entered and took the chair at the head of the table. He was blond as well, though with plenty of silver shot through the brutally short, thick strands, and his eyes were the palest blue she’d ever seen. For someone old enough to be her father, he, too, was ridiculously handsome.

“I’m Matthew,” he said. “Welcome to the Double-C.”

“Daniel’s brother,” Maggie provided from her side.

“My father,” Derek added from her other.

Sydney’s gaze flicked back to the older man. It irritated the life out of her when she realized she was looking for some resemblance between him and his son. Aside from the fair hair—which on Derek was a whole lot darker than his father—the likeness was slim. Despite the dark stubble liberally shadowing Derek’s jaw, she figured his face was less squarely, ruggedly male than his father’s.

No less good-looking, whether she wanted to admit that or not, but in a prettier way.

Then, she couldn’t help a small smile. She didn’t know much about Derek Clay, but she couldn’t help but figure he wouldn’t appreciate being called pretty. “Thank you,” she told Matthew, glad that her private amusement at Derek’s expense would simply be taken at face value. “Your ranch is quite something to see.”

“Oh, darling, you have barely scratched the surface.” Jaimie—the auburn-haired woman who’d obviously passed on her finer features to her son Derek—angled between their chairs to set an enormous platter in the center of the table. She swatted Derek’s hand when he reached out to grab one of the pizza boxes that were incongruously stacked high on the china platter. “Wait until after grace,” she chided.

Sydney sent him a sideways look as his mother moved away to take her place adjacent to her husband’s. But instead of looking cowed by his mother, he was just eyeing Sydney with that vaguely challenging, amused look. She was beginning to wonder if he had it all the time, or if he’d reserved it just for her.

But then, when Maggie clasped her hand and she noticed that everyone around the table was doing the same, she realized what “grace” meant to these people.

She reluctantly set her palm into the upturned one that Derek had rested on the table between their two plates and it took all of her willpower not to jerk it back when his long fingers closed over hers, capturing it but good.

He, she noted, didn’t close his eyes or bow his head even a fraction, as his father gave a brief blessing for the meal.

And when the amen was said and everyone turned their attention to the meal, and pizza boxes were thrown open and passed hither and yon, Sydney spread her napkin on her lap and eyed him. “Not showing a lot of reverence there, were you?” She kept her voice low, even though she doubted her words would be carried beyond his ears, since everyone’s mouths—if they weren’t already occupied with eating—were running a mile a minute. She couldn’t even begin to unravel the half-dozen conversations that seemed to be running concurrently.

“Neither were you,” he countered. A few lines radiated from the corners of the green eyes that he’d clearly inherited from his mother. “Or you wouldn’t have noticed what I was doing.”

The fact that he was right didn’t comfort her any. She managed not to snatch the pizza box he was holding aloft for her as she passed it smoothly to Maggie on her other side.

“Pizza too common-folk for you?” He jerked his chin at her empty plate.

“Not at all,” she returned truthfully. She loved the stuff. But the smell of the pepperoni was luring the threatening tide inside her as surely as the moon lured the ocean. Instead, she reached for the enormous salad bowl that was sitting almost directly in front of her, and put some on her plate.

Even that, though, wasn’t exactly nirvana for her senses, because there was a plentiful amount of chopped black olives among the lettuce and tomatoes.

She’d always liked black olives.

But right now, they looked as appetizing as an infestation of little black bugs.

Her fork dropped on the plate with a clatter as she hurriedly grabbed her filled water glass and, with an appalling lack of dignity, chugged half of its contents before she set it down.

Derek was watching her, the corners of his lips turned down. “What do you do? Maintain a rabbit’s diet just so you can fit into look-at-me dresses like that?” His gaze dropped from her face to the dress in question and she was certain it was only irritation that made her skin beneath the garment feel hot.

“Stop teasing,” Jaimie said from down the table. She was pinching off pieces of her pizza crust and setting them in front of the fat-cheeked baby occupying a high chair next to her. “As I was starting to say before, Sydney’s hardly seen a fraction of the Double-C. Derek, you ought to show her around after dinner.”

“Tramping through snow and cow piles with those boots of hers?” Derek shook his head as he reached out a long arm and grabbed a slice of plain cheese pizza from another box. “Probably not a good idea.” He plopped the slice on Sydney’s plate and pointedly moved the box as if he feared she’d be rude enough to put the slice back.

“Don’t be silly.” Jaimie’s face was wreathed in a smile. If she recognized her son’s obvious reluctance, she was ignoring it. “You can borrow something more suitable,” she told Sydney. “It’s worth the trouble,” she promised. “Even covered in snow, the Double-C is impressive.”

Sydney knew that Jake had been impressed, which was no mean feat. “I’m sure it is,” she said. “But I don’t want to put anyone out.”

“Face it, Mom,” Derek said with just enough dry humor not to sound as odious as Sydney knew he really was. “She was raised at Forrest’s Crossing. She might not be that interested in our little cow operation here considering she grew up around prize-winning Thoroughbreds.”

Her jaw was tightening again. She was well aware that there was nothing “little” about the Double-C. It was the largest cattle operation in the state. She also could feel the look that Matthew was sending their way and knew, without question, that he at least was picking up on something between them.

Jake would never forgive her if she managed to alienate a single one of his beloved J.D.’s family.

She forced a smile toward Derek. “But I am interested,” she assured him brightly. “I just don’t want to be an imposition.”

She hoped to heaven she was the only one who heard the faint snort he gave.

“Don’t be silly,” Jaimie said again. “You’re family now, darling. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Cousins, remember?” Derek was smiling, too, though it looked a little thin around the edges as far as Sydney could tell.

“Right.” She didn’t even realize she’d picked up the slice of pizza until it was in her fingers and the aroma—thankfully tantalizing this time—reached her. She bit off the narrow point of the slice and nearly closed her eyes with glee as the chewy, cheesy mess practically melted on her tongue.

She heard Derek make a strangled sound and looked his way. “Are you all right?”

“Peachy.” He dumped a load of salad on his own plate, jabbed his fork viciously into a tomato slice and shoved it into his mouth.

She glanced down the table toward Tabby. The girl was laughing and looking particularly animated as she talked with the good-looking young guy sitting next to her. “You have competition,” she murmured to Derek. “Is that what’s making you crankier than usual?”

He gave her a strange look. “What the hell are you going on about?”

She nodded toward Tabby. “Not that it’s any business of mine, but he seems more suited to her. Age-wise, that is.”

“You think Tabby and I are—”

“Aren’t you?”

The corner of his lips jerked a little, then settled into a curl. “I’ve known her since she was in diapers.”

Sydney gave him a derisive look. “Is that supposed to excuse robbing the cradle?”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Tab is Evan’s little sister. Evan’s married to my cousin, Leandra. They’re not here today.” He jabbed his fork in the direction of his mother and the high chair–corralled baby beside her. “But that’s their youngest kid, Katie. And Justin—” his fork air-jabbed the young man next to Tabby “—and Tabby have been friends since their sandbox days.”

Then he lowered his fork and ran his gaze over her in a way that had her nerve endings heating up all over again. “Trust me, cupcake.” His voice dropped a notch. “I like my women all grown-up.”

The pizza she’d swallowed seemed suddenly stuck like a lump in her throat. It took every inch of effort she possessed to smile casually. “I guess I misunderstood.”

His eyebrow peaked, making him look devilish. “You think?”

She grabbed her water glass and downed the remainder of its contents. “I’m not going to apologize again,” she said under her breath. “You deliberately misled me yesterday. And you’ve been needling me since.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re carrying around a pincushion of needles of your own, though God knows where you have the room in that dress you’re wearing.” He looked over at his mother when she called his name and asked him to bring in the rest of the pizza.

Startled, Sydney looked over the long tabletop. “There’s more?”

Maggie laughed outright. “There’s always more, Sydney. One thing this family has learned how to do right together is eat.” Then she asked, “Tara, do you still need me to help out at the shop tomorrow?”

Sydney tried not to pay too much notice as Derek left the table, but it was hard considering his arm brushed against hers as he did so. She was positive he’d done it deliberately.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Tara was saying. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to hire more help whether I want to or not.”

“You have that much business?” The second the question left her lips, Sydney realized how it might sound.

But Tara was just smiling ruefully. “Surprising, I know. But Weaver draws more people than you would think just from driving down our little old Main Street. I’m open seven days a week now, and—”

“And it’s too damn many hours,” her husband, Axel, said flatly. He was holding a squirming little boy who was clearly anxious to get down from his daddy’s lap.

“So speaks the King.” Tara held out her hands. “Give me Aidan.” Her husband immediately handed over the tot.

“Well, darling,” Jaimie inserted, “you are pregnant again. And getting more so by the day.”

Derek had returned and dumped three more enormous pizza boxes on top of the empties. Sydney watched with some amazement as eager hands reached out and threw them open, passing the food all over again.

“Thought you already ran an advertisement for some help,” Jaimie said.

Tara shrugged. “I did a few months ago. No takers, though.”

“Hire Sydney,” Derek said, sitting down once more beside her. “She was just telling Mom she needed something to fill her time.”

Sydney’s jaw loosened a little.

He gave a little frown that she didn’t buy for a second. “But then working in a local shop might be too tame for you, with your love of racehorses and ahhht.”

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