“Dearly beloved…”

The minister’s gaze swept the onlookers, then focused on Chloe and J.T., a small smile curving his lips. “We are gathered together to join this man and this woman in the state of holy matrimony.”

“Who giveth this woman…” the minister began, and before the words could be fully spoken, Chloe’s brother muttered the appropriate response and pressed her hand into J.T.’s palm. And then she was caught up in the beauty of words and phrases that promised to change her life forever.

She spoke her responses in a voice that barely trembled, heard J.T.’s own vows offered in dark, husky tones and felt the cool circle of gold surround her ring finger as he placed it there. His kiss was circumspect, brief, but warm against her mouth. His lips touched her cheek and then whispered words against her ear.

“You won’t be sorry. I promise….”

Acclaim for CAROLYN DAVIDSON’s recent titles

Maggie’s Beau

“A story of depth and understanding that will touch your heart.”

—Rendezvous

The Bachelor Tax

“From desperate situation to upbeat ending, Carolyn Davidson reminds us why we read romance.”

—Romantic Times

The Tender Stranger

“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in the midst of heart-wrenching challenges, portraying the extraordinary possibilities that exist within ordinary marital love.”

—Publishers Weekly

#599 THE LOVE MATCH

Deborah Simmons/Deborah Hale/Nicola Cornick

#601 MARRYING MISCHIEF

Lyn Stone

#602 SHADES OF GRAY

Wendy Douglas

A Marriage by Chance
Carolyn Davidson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and CAROLYN DAVIDSON

Gerrity’s Bride #298

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The Midwife #475

*The Bachelor Tax #496

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“Wish upon a Star”

Maggie’s Beau #543

The Seduction of Shay Devereaux #556

A Convenient Wife #585

A Marriage by Chance #600

Too often we take for granted those people we live with, the people who make out lives full and rich with their presence. This writer cannot write without an atmosphere conducive to her emotional well-being. I am fortunate to share a home with the mother of three of my grandchildren. So, to Merry, my friend for many years, and to Erin and Kelly Jon, who keep me young, I dedicate this book.

But most of all to the man who makes my life complete: to Mr. Ed, who loves me.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Prologue

Silver City, Nevada

March, 1894

Three queens and a pair of deuces appeared before him, and Peter Biddleton all but licked his lips as his eyes flickered to the mound of cash in the middle of the table. It was a cinch, he decided. He had bet first on the three ladies, tossing in his other two cards, and watching as the dealer slid two more in his direction. Now he felt the thundering of his heart as the pair dealt him nestled beside the aloof trio of royal blood.

“Reckon I can bet,” he drawled, pushing in his last gold piece, watching as it rested against several more just like it, there where bits and pieces of cash lured him.

The dark-featured man across the table watched from beneath hooded eyelids, silent as he considered the cards he held. And then he placed them facedown on the table and nudged three gold coins toward the pot. “Got something you’re proud of, sonny?” he asked mildly. “It’ll cost you to stay in.”

Peter aimed a futile glare at the man who spoke. Tall, dressed in the well-worn garb of a cowhand, the stranger had walked with an arrogant stride across the floor of Molly’s Saloon only two hours before. He’d watched for long moments, then joined in the game already in progress. Now his dark, flat gaze focused on his lone opponent, the rest of the men surrounding the table watching with eager eyes the silent battle between the two men.

“That’s the last of my money,” Peter said reluctantly, glancing down again at the full house he was certain was a winner. It felt right. The cards were warm in his hand, the queens looking triumphant, the deuces paired beside them.

“Are you out?” the stranger asked, unmoving except for the lifting of his eyelids as he bent his attention on Peter’s face.

“I’ve got a half interest in a ranch in Wyoming,” Peter blurted. “Worth more than the whole pile,” he muttered, his free hand gesturing at the seductive kitty in the middle of the table.

“Call me or fold.” Lazily spoken, the words were a challenge, one Peter could not ignore.

“I’ll bet the ranch,” he said, making up his mind quickly, before the image of Chloe could force him away from the table and out the saloon door.

“Let’s see your deed.”

“I don’t have it,” Peter admitted. “But I’ll handwrite a letter of ownership.”

“Is there a lawyer in Silver City?” The dark eyes lifted to sort through the gathering crowd.

“I’m a lawyer.” Stout and well dressed, a middle-aged man stepped forward, then directed his attention to Peter. “You sure you want to do this, son?”

Peter nodded, his jaw set, his hands sweating.

“Where’s the ranch?” the lawyer asked, drawing a small notebook from his pocket. His pencil moved quickly across the page as Peter spoke, describing the location and size of the Double B Ranch, his father’s legacy, and then he placed notebook and pencil on the table. “Sign here,” he said, watching as Peter’s trembling fingers grasped the pencil.

Torn from the notebook, the single page fluttered in the air, settling with a whisper of sound atop the pile.

A long index finger nudged the brim of his black hat as the man across the table leaned forward, fanning four jacks across the battered tabletop.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, boy.”

Chapter One

Ripsaw Creek, Wyoming

April, 1894

“Of all the stupid idiots in the world, why did my brother have to be at the top of the list?” Chloe Biddleton’s hand clutched a single sheet of paper, the scrawled letters a tangible threat to everything she held dear. “Damn you, Peter,” she snarled, glaring up at the shimmering sky as though her brother might be visible there among the clouds. And then she repeated the words, softly, in a barely heard whisper, as hot tears filled her eyes.

“Let me see it.” Calm and patient, Hogan held out his hand. “Let me have the letter, Chloe.” Reins in hand, her ranch foreman stood before her, and Chloe placed the missive she’d all but clenched into a wrinkled ball in his palm. Hogan spread it carefully, reading the blotted words and phrases slowly, and his face took on a deadly cast.

“Sold you out, didn’t he?” He read it again, muttering phrases aloud. “A damn poker game. Boy never could hold five cards without losing his shirt.” And then his voice deepened. “Jasper Thomas Flannery. Sounds like a city slicker to me, Chloe. And he’s on his way to stake his claim.”

“If Peter ever shows up here again, I swear I’ll kill him.” Chloe’s anger knew no bounds as her gaze encompassed the house and barns surrounding her. “He lost half of my ranch to some dude, cleaned out our bank account, and I’m supposed to understand.” Her shoulders slumped as Hogan placed a callused hand on her arm.

“He never loved the place the way you do, Chloe.”

Her head lifted abruptly and her eyes glittered. “And that’s supposed to make it all right? He loved spending the money Pa left. I’ll bet he’s having a good time going through every cent of our inheritance.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Hogan agreed mildly. “Don’t get your drawers in a twist, boss. Maybe this fella will take a gander and decide to be a silent partner. Could be he’s not interested in running a ranch.”

“Yeah, and could be, with my luck, he’ll want to run the whole show.” She’d known early on that the day was headed for disaster. Losing a prized colt to colic in the early hours of the morning had been more of a heartbreak than a financial disaster, but that loss had set the tone of the whole livelong day.

She’d wished more than once for Aunt Tilly’s comforting presence during the long hours. From mending a jagged barbed wire cut on a cowhand’s arm to the burning of six loaves of bread, forgotten in the oven as she sewed up the injury, one thing after another had fallen into place, equaling total disaster. The sewing of torn flesh was bothersome, but she’d done it before. When it came to baking, the presence of Aunt Tilly was almost a necessity. And it would be several weeks before she returned for the summer months.

Now Hogan stood before her, weary from the long ride to town, where he’d picked up the mail and done the banking chores on her behalf. Wisely, she’d kept extra cash, both for minor emergencies and for the mortgage payment, beneath the mattress in her bedroom, away from Peter’s grasping hands. At least the ranch was safe for the next six months.

Hogan cleared his throat and she looked up at him. Don’t kill the messenger. The old adage held new meaning as she silently berated the man for the letter he’d carried.

“Don’t get mad at me, Chloe,” he told her, accurately reading the anger she tossed in his direction.

She wilted, accepting the letter from his hand, folding it carefully, almost feeling like she needed to preserve the latest threat to her welfare. “I’m not. Not really, Hogan. I’m just worn-out. I knew better than to count on Peter for any help. I guess I just didn’t think he’d be such a hindrance.” Her lips curved in a rueful smile, a gesture of apology to the man standing before her who worked so hard for so little recompense.

“Things’ll get better,” he said staunchly. “The herd looks good this spring, and you’ve got pret’ near two dozen mares already dropped their foals. There’s more calves out there than I can count—”

“And not enough hay to see us through to the first cutting,” she reminded him glumly. “We need a good spring rain to green up the pastures. At least the river’s running good, and we don’t have to tote water.”

“I arranged for a load of hay from Hale Winters on my way to town,” Hogan told her. “He’ll deliver it tomorrow.”

Chloe sighed and turned from him to walk up the porch steps. “Maybe Jasper Thomas Flannery will be old and fat and not long for this world. Do you suppose he’ll be willing to spring for a load of hay?” She laughed, a harsh sound unlike her usual cheerful demeanor. “Maybe when he discovers he hasn’t won a gold mine, I won’t have to put up with him for long.”

“Yeah, and maybe those hogs out in the pen will take off flyin’ any minute now.” Hogan lifted his gaze to a puff of dust in the distance. “Either we got company comin’, or that’s a dust devil whirlin’ up the road.”

Chloe turned back to follow his pointing finger, and then turned to meet his gaze. “Jasper Thomas, himself. How much do you want to bet?”

His horse was trail-weary, his saddlebags nearly empty, and his stomach in need of a good home-cooked meal. The bank in Ripsaw Creek was richer for the deposit he’d just made, and unless he missed his guess, the woman standing in front of the white ranch house a hundred yards ahead was his new partner.

A firm believer in fate, he’d sat in on the poker game on a hunch. Weary of wandering, his spirit yearning for a place to call his own. Now, at thirty-two, he’d decided to sink his funds into a homestead, settle down and think about a future. One that didn’t include a deck of cards. California was calling, a nebulous dream of home, and maybe even a family, luring him.

Four jacks. Four pieces of heavy, well-worn paper, had put the Double B Ranch in his pocket. Only half of it, he reminded himself. But with a woman as his partner, he’d still be in charge. Another look at the female watching him diluted the strength of that assumption.

J. T. Flannery touched his hat brim, lowering it a bit, the better to shade his eyes, and stiffened his spine. Trouble. He could smell it three hundred feet, dead ahead. The boy had been a soft touch, a weakling of the first water, a traitor to his family’s heritage.

The sister looked to be another story altogether.

She was short, but sturdy, with a neat compact body tucked into a pair of trousers and a dark shirt, and from her stance, he’d say she was halfway to being in a temper. Not that he could blame her any. He’d warrant she was expecting him, given the fact that the man pointed out as her foreman had collected the mail in town, and J.T. was dead certain Peter’s letter was contained in the batch. Generally, a barkeep knew everyone in the area, and the one J.T. had quizzed was free with information.

He’d watched as the lean cowhand rode from the bank to the general store, where the post office occupied one corner, noted the scowl on his face as the man examined the outside of the single envelope among the various catalogues and periodicals he held in his hand. An hour seemed like a reasonable length of time to dally along the way, assuring the letter would be read before they rolled out the welcome mat at the ranch. And at that thought he’d grinned privately, before lifting his considerable length into the saddle, and set off for the ranch.

“What do you want, stranger?” The woman asked as J.T. rode within six feet of her, refusing to back off as the big stallion snorted and stretched out his long neck to check her scent. She was brave, he’d give her that much.

“J. T. Flannery, ma’am, coming to claim my winnings.”

From the look in her eyes, it might not have been the brightest opening he could have come up with. She looked as though she were wishing for a shotgun to aim in his direction, and he tried in vain to restrain the satisfied grin that curved his lips. “I take it you’re not happy to see me,” he continued smoothly. And then he answered his own query with a slow shake of his head.

“Naw, I didn’t think you would be.” Watching her, he wondered at his own lack of caution. She wasn’t armed, but the man behind her wore a gun and she looked capable of snatching it from the holster and aiming it in his direction.

“You thought right, mister.”

Her voice was calmer now, but no less threatening for all its softness. He’d met more women than he could shake a stick at, but this one was in a niche of her own. No fussy ruffles for Peter Biddleton’s sister. No curls adorned her head. No paint or powder covered the freckles that thrived on her cheeks and across her nose. She was pure female, all right, but didn’t bother to dress up the packaging. Her long, dark hair was braided, the thick plait wound around her head, and her eyes were the icy blue of a winter sky.

She stuck her palms into the back pockets of her trousers and he almost grinned again at the picture she presented. If she only realized how her stance emphasized the lush lines of her bosom, how her neat little figure was revealed by the pose she’d taken, she’d no doubt shoot his eyes out for the liberties they took.

“So you’re the rotten bastard who cheated my brother out of his inheritance,” she said, her gaze narrowing as she took his measure. “And I suppose you think I’m going to welcome you and show you around, don’t you?”

He shifted in the saddle, and in a swift movement slid to the ground, facing her head-on. His jaw set, he fisted his hands against his hips, the better to control the sudden urge for battle her remark had brought to the surface. “Number one, ma’am—” his hesitation was just a bit longer than a heartbeat “—my mother and father were duly married when I was born. I take it as an insult to the lady who changed my drawers to be named illegitimate.”

He caught a glimpse of regret in her eyes, and then it vanished as quickly as it had come to be, and he softened his stance. “As to the other, no, I don’t expect a welcome. But—” this pause was longer, and he included the man beside her in his lingering look “—but I do expect to have full access to every single speck of property I own a half share of. That includes the house, the outbuildings, and every living creature in the barns and out of them.”

She inhaled sharply, and her face was white beneath the freckles now. “I’ll be seeing a lawyer in town as soon as I can make arrangements, Mr. Flannery. If your claim is valid—”

“It is, ma’am. I assure you the transfer of deed was accomplished by a genuine attorney in Silver City, Nevada.”

“Was that where you met my brother?” she asked tightly.

He nodded. “He was in a poker game in Molly’s Saloon, and I sat in on the action. Trust me, lady. If it hadn’t been me, he’d have lost the ranch to someone else. He was headed for disaster when I walked in, and I just sat there and waited for it to happen.”

“I told you the boy couldn’t play poker for crap,” the tall ranch hand said harshly.

“You the head man here?” J.T. asked, and was rewarded by a glare from the woman before him.

“I’m head of the place,” she said. “Hogan’s my foreman.”

J.T. held out his hand, fixing his gaze on the husky rancher. Hogan’s hesitation was brief, and his callused palm gave as good as it got as the two hands clasped with a show of force. “You any good at your job?” J.T. asked quietly, assessing the man with a glance. Well put together, wearing his work clothes like a second skin, he stood tall and straight, his eyes wary as he lent silent support to the woman.

“I like to think so.”

“He’s the best there is,” his employer stated firmly. “I’m Chloe Biddleton,” she said grudgingly. She slid her hands from their moorings and fished the letter from her front pocket. “According to this, your name is Jasper Thomas—”

“J.T.” Firm and harsh, his voice spoke the abbreviated title, and her chin lifted as she nodded.

“J.T. it is, then.”

“You want to come out to the barn and take a look around?” Hogan asked, and J.T. wondered if the man sought to lessen the pressure on Chloe. She looked like a good strong wind would blow her over right now, her faith in her brother in shambles and faced, out of the blue, with a new partner.

“Might as well,” he answered. “My horse could use a rubdown and some feed.” He nodded at Chloe, feeling a twinge of regret. Her head high, her lips compressed, she looked like a woman about to burst into tears, if he was any judge, and he’d just as soon not be in the same vicinity if that happened. A crying woman was about his least favorite thing to deal with, right alongside a cornered rattler or a drunk with a gun in his hand.

The two men led their horses toward the big barn, where a lone cowhand lingered near the doorway. Chloe watched in silence as they ambled across the yard, halting next to the horse trough for the big stallion to drop his muzzle into the water. J. T. Flannery glanced back at her, a quick summary from narrowed eyes, and she felt a flush warm her cheeks. The man was arrogant. Not only that, he was equipped with a tall, rangy body, and an intelligence she could not mistake, gleaming from dark eyes that had viewed her with an appraisal which left her aware of her imperfections.

She knew her limitations as a woman, had looked in her mirror enough times to recognize her lack of beauty. Her fair skin invited freckles, and though her hair was thick and long, she thought sometimes it was more trouble than it was worth. Too short to be impressive, and too well-rounded to be chic, she’d found it handy to have a man she could rely on when it came to running the ranch. Her dependence on Hogan was a trust he’d lived up to.

After Pa died two years ago, she’d taken hold, and in the past year, she’d managed to keep afloat. Until the discovery six months ago that her bank account was bone dry, and Peter had left town with every red cent she’d counted on to buy supplies and coast into the summer. The ability to make the payment on the mortgage was a blessing, but without spare cash, she was faced with the delivery of hay tomorrow and the pride-crushing task of asking for credit from her neighbor.

Thankfully, the general store would keep her on the books until she could round up a few yearling steers and sell them. But at spring weight, it would be for a price less than their worth. She sighed as she climbed the two steps to the porch, then shivered as the wind sought her in the shelter of the back door.

The sadness that overwhelmed her couldn’t be helped. Peter had stolen more than the money Pa had left. He’d made his departure with her youthful optimism in his pocket.

Now, she faced a struggle for survival, and a rusty laugh accompanied the first hot tear that streaked down her cheek. At least she had a partner to share the process.

The choice of sleeping beneath a tree or in the bunkhouse with six men who had no reason to enjoy his presence among them was a toss-up, J.T. decided. If he’d had another alternative such as sleeping in the house, he’d have joyfully embraced it, but somehow he didn’t expect Chloe to offer him a bedroom right off the bat. She’d decided to wait until morning to take the trip to Ripsaw Creek, once Hogan murmured an admonition in an undertone. And then she’d looked up at J.T. with defiance.

“The barn or the bunkhouse, mister. Or beneath a tree in the orchard if you like.”

He left her the remnants of her pride, nodding and sliding his bedroll beneath his arm as he sauntered toward the orchard. The barn was too enclosed, and he was a stranger there. Better to be on the outskirts, with a view of house and bunkhouse. He’d slept in worse situations, and the bedroll was warm. Traveling light meant he only had one more clean shirt, and unless he headed to town on a shopping trip, he’d better beg the use of a scrub board from his partner.

The moon was new, a thin sliver against a cloudless sky. Stars filled the horizon, providing a canopy of silver sequins overhead, visible through branches only beginning to show signs of leafing out. At least it didn’t look like rain, he decided, and leaned against the tree trunk he’d chosen, wrapped in wool, his gun at hand. The house was dark, all but a single window on the second floor. White curtains floated from the open pane, and he thought of the woman who slept with fresh air as her companion.

Chloe couldn’t be more than—what? Twenty-one, maybe a year or so older. Too young to be faced with the burden of running a ranch, especially with a lack of cash, if what he’d overheard at the bank was to be believed. A clerk, in an undertone that carried to J.T.’s hearing, spoke of Peter Biddleton’s perfidy to a townsman, shaking his head as he told the tale. The rascal had walked off with the contents of their joint bank account, leaving Chloe empty-handed and in desperate need of funds.

As J.T. watched, a figure clothed in white passed the window. Probably a nightgown, he decided, his eyes focusing on the movement of curtains and the hand that brushed a filmy panel to one side as its owner looked out upon the yard and toward the barn. Decently covered, she was still a temptation, he decided. A couple of the men sleeping in the bunkhouse might look with greedy eyes upon that slender form. His gaze became thoughtful.

If she were his, he’d—But she wasn’t, he reminded himself. And stood no chance of belonging to him. Nevertheless, she was his partner, unwilling or not. He owed her his protection. His mother had taught him a few things before the fire that cost him the lives of both his parents. One was the sanctity of womanhood. It seemed that he’d taken on the task of keeping Chloe Biddleton safe, along with the responsibility of keeping the ranch afloat.

Breakfast was a simple affair. Tea and toasted bread usually. Today was doomed to be different. Chloe watched as her new partner approached the porch, his bedroll once more tucked beneath his arm, his hat pulled low, hiding his expression from view.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got coffee in there,” he began from the other side of the screened door. His voice was early-morning husky, and she rued, for just a moment, the urge that had sent him to the orchard to sleep. It wouldn’t have been any trouble to toss a set of sheets on Peter’s bed or offer him the parlor sofa to sleep on.

And so her tones were moderate as she waved him into the kitchen. “I have tea made. Does that suit you?”

His nose twitched and a glum expression turned his mouth down. “I can just about stomach it. Coffee’s better.” He cast a look at the stove. “I know how to make it, if you have the fixings.”

“In the pantry,” she answered, and then her upbringing had her on her feet. “I’ll get it. Sit down.” In moments, she’d rinsed the pot, filled it halfway and added coffee. The stove was freshly stoked, and she placed the blue-speckled pot on the hottest area. “It won’t take long. Would you like some bread? It got neglected yesterday when I had an emergency to tend to.”

He eyed the scorched loaves she’d rescued from the oven and nodded. “I’ll cut off the worst of it, if you’ll tell me where the knives are.”

Chloe waved at the shelf over the stove and he reached for the longest utensil, then busied himself with sawing off the darkest parts from the loaf she’d already cut into. “I heard from Hogan that you sewed up a man’s arm. That your emergency?” he asked, opening the oven door to place two thick slices of bread on the rack.

“Yes. It wasn’t pretty, but I managed to do the job. Eight stitches.”

“You’ve got a strong stomach,” he said, turning his head, his eyes fastening on her hands as she tore a piece of toasted bread into small bits.

“It comes with the job,” she said. Her appetite was gone, what little there’d been to start with. The ride to town was a necessity, although probably futile. Peter’s signature was strong and familiar on the paper she’d looked at yesterday. No doubt existed in her mind; yet, if there was any slight chance, any hope at all, she must pursue this to its end result.

“I’ll be leaving for town in half an hour,” she told him, watching as he opened the oven door to check on his bread.

He speared it with the knife and held it before him as he turned to face her. Chloe waved at the buffet where a stack of plates waited, and he followed her silent instructions. Plate in hand, he sat down across from her and she shoved the saucer of butter closer, offering her own knife for his use.

“Thanks,” he said, absorbed with spreading a thick layer of her butter on the crusty surface. “I didn’t eat supper last night. This smells good.”

“Why didn’t you go to the bunkhouse? They had a whole pot of chili.”

His shrug was telling, and she felt a pang of guilt. Courtesy called for a meal to any stranger coming down the road. And she’d sat in here eating her soup while J.T. went hungry. “I wasn’t sure how welcome I’d be, to tell you the truth,” he said after a moment. “Figured I’d wait till today, once you found out that my claim is on the up-and-up before I tackled your ranch hands.”

“Tackled?” She held her cup of tea midair, her eyes pinned to him as she considered his choice of words.

His look was level as he nodded. “They’ll have to decide if they can follow my orders or not, before I decide if they still have a job here.”

“Before you decide—” she caught her breath and almost choked on the bread she’d just begun to chew “—I hired most of those men, and if they cause a problem, I’ll do the firing. That’s not your problem.”

His head tilted a bit as he considered her. “Maybe that’s a matter of viewpoint,” he said. “They’ll take orders from me, or I’ll show them the road, ma’am. I’m half owner, remember? I mean to begin as I plan to go on with this arrangement.”

And she’d felt guilty for leaving him in the orchard overnight, and for not feeding him any soup. The tea was bitter on her tongue and the bread was a mass of gluten in her mouth. “That remains to be seen, Mr. Flannery,” she muttered, rising and wishing she could spit out the sodden mouthful that muffled her words.

From the stove the scent of coffee met her nostrils, and she snatched up the coffeepot with a folded dish towel, dumping it in the sink. It splattered her trousers and sprayed across the front of her shirt, coffee grounds scattering the floor at her feet.

“Burn yourself?” he drawled, his eyes watchful. And yet, there was an underlying note of concern she thought as she shook her head. Not for the world would she admit to the stinging sensation on the tender flesh above her waist. With a glare he seemed to ignore, she left the kitchen, stomping up the stairs to her room where she slammed the door with a flip of her wrist.

The shirt hit the floor and she strode to the long mirror, peering at herself, one finger tracing the pink skin where the damp fabric had left its mark. Her washcloth was handy and she rinsed it in the pitcher, then wrung it out and placed it over the area, her hand trembling as she held it in place. Not from the pain, for there was little to bear, but from the chagrin of looking a fool before the man in her kitchen.

She loosened her belt and dropped the trousers to the floor, stepping out of them readily as she levered off her low shoes. Stocking-footed, she walked to the bureau and pulled open a drawer, seesawing it a bit as she worked one-handed to find fresh clothing. There wasn’t much choice, her daily wardrobe consisting of a variety of shirts and several pair of nondescript trousers.

Back before the mirror, she removed the damp cloth and examined her skin. It wouldn’t blister, she decided, only be touchy for a day or so. And that she could live with. Easier than she could tolerate the arrogant cowboy who’d come to play squatter on her ranch.

He was still there when she stalked into the kitchen minutes later. “You all right?” he asked, holding a cup before himself.

“Are you drinking my tea?” she asked, fury chilling her words.

“Not yours, ma’am. I found my own cup and poured from the potful you made. I thought you might like fresh, so I poured yours out.”

He’d cleaned the floor, too, she noted, and wrung out the rag, placing it on the edge of the sink. Somehow, that small act cooled her anger and she only nodded as she refilled her cup and leaned against the buffet to drink it.

“I’ll ride along with you, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“I don’t need company,” she told him. “Just give me the paper Peter signed and I’ll take it to town to show the lawyer.”

He shook his head. “You may not need company, but that paper proves my claim. It doesn’t leave my pocket till you hear the verdict for yourself. And then I’ll deposit it in the bank vault for safekeeping. I’ve already spoken to the bank president.”

She felt a flush rise, and swallowed hot words of anger. “You discussed this with Mr. Webster? You told him that my brother gambled away half my ranch?”

He nodded. “I also told him it was worth his hide if that information went any further. As far as anyone else knows, I bought it from your brother. I told Hogan to let your hands know they’d be facing trouble if they let the cat out of the bag.”

Her shoulders slumped and she placed her cup on the buffet. “I’ll saddle a horse and be ready to leave in five minutes.” Unable to meet his knowing gaze, she tugged on her boots that sat by the back door, then snatched a jacket from a hook and jammed her arms into the sleeves. “I’d suggest you do the same. And bring your damn piece of paper along with you.”

Chapter Two

“The whole thing looks legal to me, Chloe. Are you certain that’s Peter’s signature?” Paul Taylor returned the letter she’d offered for his inspection. Then, while awaiting her reply, he picked up the document J.T. had offered as proof of his claim.

Chloe looked for a final time at the wrinkled letter and felt the hand of fate clutch at her heart. “Yes, I’m about as sure as I can be, without watching him write it. He has a distinctive hand.” Not neat, but certainly no one else she knew scrawled quite so boldly as Peter when he set pen to paper. “Can I do anything at all about it?” she asked quietly, ignoring J.T.’s presence at her side.

“Hmm—no, I doubt it,” Paul said, shaking his head as he finished reading the simple note the lawyer in Silver City had written up. “He’s tied it up neat and tidy, I’d say. Peter signed away his interest in your ranch, sure enough.” He glanced up at J.T. and his eyes were glacial. “Took advantage of the young man, didn’t you?”

J.T. returned the icy stare. Then, as Chloe shifted beside him, he stifled the harsh words that sprang to mind and softened his stance. “No, not really,” he murmured. “The boy was set on gambling away everything he owned, it seemed, and I figured it was worth my while to spend a couple of hours helping him along. I gave him a stake when the game broke up, and advised him to go home and face the music.”

He looked down at Chloe’s upturned face and shrugged. “Apparently, he decided against it, and wrote his sister a letter instead.”

Paul watched the byplay in silence, then held out the document to J.T. and nodded, a curt movement of his head. “You’re in the clear, as far as I can tell. Enjoy your winnings, mister.”

His tone gentled as he turned his gaze on Chloe. “Can I do anything else to help?”

“No.” She shook her head, not willing to encourage him in any way, shape or form. Paul Taylor had more than once expressed a desire to keep company with her; and though he was a nice man, she wasn’t interested in pursuing a courtship with him. “I think you’ve covered it all,” she said quietly, and turned to leave Paul’s office.

The door closed behind her and J.T. caught up with her rapid pace as she headed for her horse. “Slow down, lady,” he said smoothly. “Let me drop this off at the bank and I’ll ride back with you.”

“I don’t need your company,” she told him sharply. “And I don’t intend to be seen waltzing around town with you.” Leading her mount to the edge of the boardwalk, she stepped into the stirrup and onto the saddle.

J.T. watched, and his chuckle galled her to the core. “You need to carry a mounting block around with you, ma’am. Either that, or get a shorter horse.”

She swung the black mare around and faced the man. “I’ve got shorter horses, but this is the one I prefer. Keep your advice to yourself, Mr. Flannery. I’m sure you’ll find good use for all your knowledge when you start working the ranch.”

He rocked back on his heels, hands thrust into his pockets, and his grin was cheeky, she decided. “Never said I had a lot of experience at ranching, Chloe. But I’m more than willing to learn the details from you.”

“And here I thought you were already making decisions about changing my way of doing things,” she taunted, holding a tight rein on her horse. The black pranced sideways, fighting the bit, and J.T. reached out a hand to grip the reins beneath the horse’s jaw.

“Now, here, I’m qualified to give a little advice, ma’am. The first thing you need to do is let up on those reins,” he said quietly. “Don’t let your temper spill over onto the animal you’re riding. You’ll have her all lathered up before you leave town.” The mare tossed her head and J.T. released his hold. He reached to tilt his hat brim a bit, then watched as Chloe turned the horse in a tight half circle and loosened the reins.

Her mount broke into a quick trot, and J.T.’s eyes lit with appreciation. The woman could ride, sitting the saddle like she’d been born there. Her head high, nodding at several passersby, Chloe rode quickly toward the edge of town, and J.T. headed for the bank. In moments he’d placed his proof of ownership into an envelope and watched as Mr. Webster deposited it in the big vault.

His next stop was at the general store, where he chose pants and shirts to fill in his sparse wardrobe, adding socks and drawers to the pile before he nodded to the woman who’d gathered the assortment together for him. “How much?” he asked.

“Let me see,” she told him, obviously adding the total in her head. “That’ll come to four dollars, even.” She took his money and hesitated. “You stayin’ at the Double B Ranch?”

“Word gets around fast, doesn’t it?” he said with a grin. “Yeah, I’m the fella that bought out Pete Biddleton’s share. Just arrived yesterday.”

“That boy’s a scamp,” the woman said, shaking her head in judgment. “Never figured he’d amount to much, even before his pa passed on. Since then he’s been pretty predictable, leavin’ everything up to his sister to tend to.”

“She seems pretty capable to me,” J.T. allowed mildly.

“And it’s a good thing she is,” the woman snapped. “That boy spent more time shufflin’ cards than he did workin’ the ranch. His pa was ready to disown him, according to Mr. Webster, then the old man died real sudden like, and the boy inherited half of everything. Doesn’t seem fair to Chloe, if you ask me.”

“Well, you never know how things will work out, do you?” J.T. said, picking up his package. “I assure you I’ll do my share of work at the ranch. She may be better off with me there, than with the last partner she had.”

“She’s been the backbone of the place since she was sixteen, when her mama took sick and died. Folks around here think a lot of Chloe,” the woman said, her eyes scanning J.T. as if she issued a warning.

“I’m sure they do,” he said agreeably. “She seems like a fine woman.” He headed for the door, aware of listening ears, grinning to himself as he thought of the discussion he would miss once the door closed behind him. He’d given the town a brand-new topic of gossip today and hadn’t offered much for them to base their speculation on.

The ride back to the ranch was long, spanning almost two hours, and he wondered how often Chloe made the trek. Between them, they probably should have picked up supplies, but buying groceries was no doubt the last thing on her mind right now. She’d gone home empty-handed today, with only her frustration and anger for company. By the time she got to the ranch, she’d probably be in a stew, ready to make his life a misery.

He’d have to watch his step, especially when he announced his intention to move into the house. His new partner might be small, but he’d be willing to bet she knew how to handle a gun. And getting a load of buckshot aimed in his direction would certainly put a damper on his day.

“You’re gonna do what?” Hogan’s exasperated query was met by a shrug.

“I’m going to fix up a room for Mr. Flannery to sleep in,” Chloe said quietly. “He owns half the ranch, and that gives him the right to Peter’s bedroom, I’d say.”

“When did you decide to be so easygoin’?” Hogan asked. “Last I talked to you, you were hell-bent on makin’ the man’s life a misery. I thought sure you’d make him stay in the barn or the bunkhouse.”

“I know,” she said. “I thought so, too, but he gave Peter a stake after the poker game and advised him to come back home. At least that’s what he told Paul Taylor. I guess he doesn’t have any reason to lie about it.” She looked toward the town road where the big stallion would shortly appear, and decided she’d pretty well gotten over her mad. Fair was fair, and if J.T. had tried to do right by Peter, he deserved at least the treatment she would offer anyone else.

Hogan was silent for a minute, as he digested J.T.’s generosity. “He seems a good enough man to me,” he said finally. “So long as he doesn’t start throwin’ his weight around, we’ll get along all right, I expect.”

“Don’t count on that,” Chloe told him, remembering J.T.’s remarks. “He may be trying to run roughshod over all of us before he’s done.” She sighed, thinking of the tasks awaiting her in the house. “Once Aunt Tilly shows up, I’ll be free to work with you on roundup.”

“And I’ll feel better about having Flannery in the house with you,” Hogan said bluntly. “I don’t like to think about folks making remarks, with you and your new partner sharing the house. If you’re giving him Peter’s room do you need to be moving furniture or anything?” he asked. “I can send one of the boys up to give you a hand.”

Chloe shook her head. “No, he’ll get Peter’s room just as it is. Clean sheets is about as far as I’ll go to get it ready for him. And as far as propriety’s concerned, I’ve been doing a man’s job for a lot of years already, Hogan. Folks quit talking about me a long time ago. I don’t think half of them even consider me a woman. I’m just a rancher. And that suits me just fine.”

Hogan shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not, Chloe. This might be a good thing for you, set you to thinking about woman stuff, instead of pushin’ yourself so hard. And another thing. You gonna be doing the cooking for Flannery, or send him out to the bunkhouse for his grub?”

She hesitated and then, casting another long look at the town road, made her decision. “I’ll feed him in the house. If it was Peter, I’d cook for him. The man is half owner, no matter whether I like it or not. And once Aunt Tilly gets here, she’ll be cooking for everyone anyway.”

“Chloe?” From the bottom step of the long, curved stairway, J.T. called her name, then listened as light footsteps moved overhead. A door opened and closed and he watched as Chloe hesitated at the top of the stairs. “Hogan said you were fixing up a room for me.”

“Did he?” Her foot touched the top step, and she grasped the banister as she made her way toward him. Pausing two steps above him, she hesitated, looking down at his upturned face. “I’d begun to think your hat was a permanent part of you,” she said idly, her gaze lifting to where dark waves cascaded almost to his collar.

“I take it off every once in a while,” he told her. “When I eat and sleep anyway.” Refusing to give way, he watched her patiently, waiting for her response, and then nudged her with another query.

“What changed your mind?”

“About the room?” Her shrug lifted one shoulder. “You own half the house. The least I could do was let you have one room to sleep in.”

He stepped back, allowing her passage past him, and then followed as she moved down the wide hallway to the kitchen. Leaning his shoulder on the doorjamb, he watched as she snatched an apron from a hook near the pantry, halting at the sink to wash her hands.

“I’m heating up chicken soup from last night, if you’d like to have a bowl,” she told him. “I’ll cook supper after a while, but this ought to hold you over for now.”

“I appreciate that.” For some reason she’d changed her tune, and he searched her profile for a clue to her mood. Women were usually a puzzle, and this one was no exception. “Some reason why you’ve decided to allow me in the house?” he asked, noting the subtle hesitation in her movements at his words. She paused in the pantry door, cans of fruit in her hands.

“I already explained that.” The cans hit the table with a thump. “You own half of it,” she said simply. “Or at least half of the part that isn’t mortgaged.”

J.T. ambled toward the round table in the middle of the room. “I didn’t know there was a mortgage on it. Peter didn’t tell me that.” He shot her a sidelong glance as he pulled a chair from beneath the oilcloth-draped table, then hesitated. An offer of help might be appreciated. “You want me to get out the dishes?”

“All right.” She pulled a kettle from the back of the stove, lifting the lid to inspect the contents. “This is almost ready. We’ll have shortcake with it. I made biscuits.” The tinned peaches sat on the buffet and she pulled out a can opener from a drawer, offering it in his direction. “You know how to use one of these?”

“I reckon I can figure it out,” he said, tossing the utensil in the air and catching it by the handle. “I’ve kept one in my saddlebag ever since I discovered all the different things I could do with it.”

“Those saddlebags looked pretty flat to me,” she said, lifting an eyebrow as she glanced again in his direction. “You travel light.”

“Doesn’t pay to haul too much around with you, I’ve found,” he said, working at the cans of peaches. “Where do you want these?”

Chloe pointed at a blue bowl on the buffet. “Pour them in there. Soup bowls are in the left hand door, spoons are on the table in the jar.” She picked up a ladle and lifted the lid of the kettle, watching as the steam rose. “Why don’t you hand me the bowls?”

Abandoning the peaches for a moment, J.T. did as she asked, reaching to accept the hot vessel from her hand. Beneath his callused fingers, the back of her hand was soft, and he thought she slid it from his touch with haste. But not rapidly enough to dispel the effect of warm skin and the faint scent of soap wafting from her hair.

He placed the bowl on the table with care, reflecting on the woman behind him. This wasn’t in the plan, this sudden awareness of her as a female. He’d assessed her yesterday, viewed her with an eye to getting in her good graces, hoping to ease into the running of this operation without any amount of hassle. That alone had been a futile thought, he decided, recalling her eyes spitting fury in his direction.

Taking a liking to the woman was a far cry from being attracted to the female element. And why that was a fact was beyond his reckoning right now. He only knew that for a moment, there’d been a recognition of that subtle warming within him that signaled desire.

“I’ll get the biscuits from the oven,” Chloe said from behind him, and he turned, grasping the second bowl, only to find she’d slid her hand from contact with his, her eyes avoiding him. Her movements were brisk as she retrieved the biscuits, as if she were more than familiar with the kitchen and the tasks inherent in providing meals. Yet, who had she cooked for, he wondered. The boy had taken his leave months before, apparently.

Chloe had been alone. Alone with a handful of ranch hands, and the awesome responsibility of turning a profit from a ranch that was struggling along without a bank account to dip into. Damn. Peter Biddleton had a lot to answer for.

“Who’s Aunt Tilly?” he asked idly, picking a spoon from the jar in the center of the table.

“My father’s sister,” Chloe told him. “Where did you hear about her?”

“Hogan told me she’d be here soon.” He grinned. “That was when he told me there’d be a chaperon to keep me in line.”

Chloe turned a sharp look in his direction. “You’ll mind your manners or end up in the bunkhouse, Aunt Tilly or no.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the fragrant soup. “She came to us after Pa died, pitched in and took care of things. I ended up working the ranch, taking Pa’s place. When cold weather came that year, she took a train south to her daughter’s place for the winter. Did the same thing before the first snowfall back before Christmas. I got a letter from her last week, saying she’d be back as soon as the weather broke, probably within two weeks.”

“Did you ever think of offering her a permanent job here?”

Chloe looked up at him as she buttered a biscuit. “She may decide to stick around, once she sees you here. She’s a real stickler when it comes to respectability, and she won’t like the idea of our sharing the house.”

“I pretty much expected a battle over that,” he said quietly. “You surprised me, Chloe.”

“I’ve learned there’s some things you’ve just got to live with,” she said. “It seems you’re on my list, J. T. Flannery.”

The youth named Willie was cocky. There was no other word to describe the toss of his head and the arrogant look he offered as Chloe entered the barn. “Ma’am?” His single word caught her attention and she turned at his bidding. “You need anything?” he asked, his gaze sweeping her length.

“No,” she answered sharply. “I’m just looking for Hogan.”

“He’s out back, talking to Lowery.”

J.T. watched, noting the appraising look the boy cast on Chloe’s backside, bristled as the grin reappeared once she was out of sight and inhaled sharply. His fist clenched as he stepped noiselessly from the tack room. Willie glanced in his direction, and the grin vanished. “You need me, J.T.?” he asked smoothly. “I was just fixin’ to clean the stalls.”

“Sounds like a good job for you,” J.T. answered. He watched as Willie snatched a pitchfork from the wall and turned to the closest stall. “I’d suggest you remember your place, young’un. I’ve watched you for three days.”

Willie looked back over his shoulder. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Defiance edged his words.

“Miss Chloe is the owner of this spread. She’s way out of your class.”

A sly grin curved one corner of Willie’s mouth. “Can’t help it if I admire a good-looking female, can I?”

“You make any move toward my partner, son, and you’ll be in more trouble than you can imagine.”

“Kinda slick, the way you rode in here and took over, mister,” Willie said, leaning indolently on the pitchfork.

“I’m legally half owner of the place. You want to challenge my authority here?” J.T.’s voice deepened, and his clenched fist opened against his thigh. Poised, he ached for the younger man to dispute his words. But it was not to be. The boy’s gaze wavered and he shook his head, sliding the pitchfork beneath a section of soggy straw.

A nearby wheelbarrow received the load, and Willie turned back to his chore.

J.T. strode past him, catching a glimpse of Chloe’s checkered shirt beyond the far doorway. Two men stood before her, arguing heatedly, and J.T. grinned, surmising the dispute in progress.

“Hell, I’ve worked with worse than this,” the redheaded cowhand thundered, waving a bandaged forearm in the air.

“Not for me, you haven’t,” Hogan countered, his jaw thrusting forward.

“How about some light duty?” J.T. asked, approaching the trio.

Chloe’s mouth closed with a snap, and her eyebrows lowered. “I can handle this.”

J.T. shrugged negligently. “I imagine so, ma’am. Just thought I’d mention that the tack room needs some attention. Enough work to keep a man busy for a couple of days, I’d say.”

“I earn my keep,” Lowery said, pale beneath his freckles. Frustration rode each syllable, and J.T. nodded agreeably.

“I’ve heard that,” he said, a bold-faced lie, to be sure, but one he didn’t think either Chloe or Hogan would dispute. “Nobody’s saying otherwise, Lowery. Just makes sense to me to let the thing heal properly, give the cut a chance to mend.” He tilted his hat back and faced the man head-on. “Every job on a ranch is of equal value, far as I can see. It takes well-tended tack to work with horses, and clean stalls to keep them healthy.”

His shrug was offered to Chloe. “What do you say, partner?”

Her eyes still glittered with subdued indignation, but she stifled it, earning a grin. “I won’t argue with that,” she replied, then turned back to Hogan. “Are you picking up more hay from the Winters’ place today?”

His glance encountered J.T.’s as he hesitated. “Thought maybe you might want to talk to him. If you take the wagon, he’ll have his men load it for you.”

“Why don’t I go with you?” J.T. asked smoothly, taking her arm and leading her back toward the barn. “Do we pay cash on the barrel, or wait till the next trip into town?” It seemed not a subject to discuss in front of hired hands, even though Hogan was obviously privy to financial dealings.

“He’ll wait,” Chloe said quietly, snatching her arm from his grasp. “I don’t care if you go along. You might’s well know the bottom line, anyway.” She turned to face him, and a glance over her shoulder told him that Willie stood just inside the door.

“Let’s take a walk,” J.T. said, his glare sending Willie into motion.

“All right.” Chloe set the pace and they headed for the corral fence, climbing in unison to perch on the top rail. Before them, three young steers moved aimlessly within the confined area. “How much you think they’re worth?” Chloe asked as J.T. settled beside her.

“How much do you need?” he countered, placing his hand careful inches from hers.

“Right now, enough for a couple loads of hay. I can sell these three in town.”

“That’s not good business,” he said flatly.

“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But I won’t take advantage of a neighbor.”

J.T. nodded, judging the weight of the animals Hogan had penned. He looked down, considering his options, his fingers gripping the rail he perched on. His quick gaze noted the hand beside his own, and measured the contrast, hers narrow, tanned, yet feminine, his own broad and scarred from numerous encounters. One slash, from a broken bottle swung in his direction, had merited a line of stitches. Another pale nick told of a knife blade that he’d barely escaped.

She lifted her hand, and her index finger lightly traced the raised scar, its ragged edges pale against his bronzed skin. “You’ve been pretty battered in your time, haven’t you, cowboy?”

“Never had anybody like you around to mend my bruises,” he said with a grin. “Old Lowery doesn’t know how lucky he is.” And then his mouth firmed. “I’m not a cowboy. Maybe a sometimes gambler, and I’ve spent my share of time on the range, riding herd when I needed a grubstake. But never a cowboy.” Spoken aloud, he gave the word a distasteful sound.

“Didn’t mean to insult you,” she said. “I just figured you’ve been riding for someone, somewhere, to come up with the usual assortment of scars a man collects.”

His look was long, and she glanced aside. “How much do you need?” he repeated.

“I told you. Enough for a couple loads of hay.” Her hand lifted to rest atop her thigh, and he mourned its absence. He’d enjoyed its presence, basked in the warmth of soft flesh against his callused skin, there for a moment.

“Seems like a pity to sell off a steer that doesn’t have enough weight on him to bring a good price.”

“Think I don’t know that?” Her words were sharp-spoken. “We all do what we have to, Flannery.”

“Well, you don’t have to raise money that way, Chloe. I’ll spring for the hay, and we’ll settle up later. I’ve got a bit of cash on hand.”

Her lips compressed as she concentrated on the young beef cattle before her. “I’ll set up a page in my record book,” she answered grudgingly. “I won’t cheat you.”

He nodded. “Another thing, Chloe.” Silently, he waited for her to respond.

She sighed and turned her head, offering him a patient look from blue eyes. “What now?”

“I’m not real fond of Willie-boy.”

“He’s all right,” she said after a moment. “Young and a little arrogant, but his mama needs the money his pay brings in.”

“He’ll either stop looking you over like you’re on display for his benefit, or he’ll be looking for another place to work.”

“He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

His laugh was harsh. “Either you’re more innocent than I thought, or—”

“I’m not a child, Flannery. I can handle Willie.” She eased down from the fence and tugged her pant legs in place over her boots. “If that’s all for now, I’ve got a meal to put together before I hitch the wagon and pick up my hay.”

“You get the meal together and I’ll hitch the wagon,” he countered smoothly. “If I’m paying for the hay, I want to see it first.” She stalked away and he watched her, admired the rounding of her hips beneath the denim pants, and privately agreed with Willie that she was, indeed, a good-looking female.

“I’ve been thinking,” Chloe said, watching as J.T. picked up the reins. The horses moved out at his bidding and she half turned to face him. “Maybe we need to hammer out an agreement.”

“Thought we’d already made some progress at that,” he said, lifting one booted foot to rest against the frame of the wagon. His trousers were snug, outlining his thigh, and Chloe tore her gaze from the sight.

“Hogan’s a good man. I want you to leave him in charge.”

He nodded. “All right. Up to a point.”

“A point?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”

“He’ll carry out my orders, and see that the men do as they’re told.”

“What about my orders?” she wanted to know. “I’m in the habit of meeting with Hogan every day, keeping up with things. Lots of days I ride with the men, work alongside them.”

“Not anymore,” he said shortly. “You’ve branded your last calf, lady. I caught sight of a scar on your hand that shouldn’t be there.”

She turned her hand over and examined it briefly. “I’ve got several. It comes with the job.” She outlined one that formed a neatly imprinted B on her palm. “I did this when I was sixteen. The first time Pa let me help in spring roundup.”

“You won’t wear another brand like that,” he said harshly. “You’re a woman, not a cowhand.”

“I’m a ranch owner,” she reminded him. “I won’t be treated like a fragile flower, Flannery. I can get banged up just as easily in the kitchen.” Her hand lifted to press against her stomach, and his eyes followed the gesture.

“Did you blister?” he asked quietly. “I didn’t think the coffee had drenched your shirt. Was I wrong?”

Chloe shook her head. “Just left a red spot. Nothing to talk about.” She rolled her fingers into a fist and rested it on her knee. “When Aunt Tilly comes back, I’ll be free to work outside all day, instead of just piecemeal.”

His jaw tightened as she watched. “There’s some of the work I’d rather you didn’t tackle,” he said. “I expect you’re good at training horses, and that’s one thing. Now, roping steers is another thing altogether.”

“I’ll bet you’ve got in mind letting me keep the books, haven’t you?” Her words oozed sarcasm as she thought about being penned up in the big office, adding and subtracting lines of numbers and, more often than not, coming out short. At least, that had been the situation for the past months.

“Maybe,” he said easily, ignoring her tone. “We’ll go over them together,” he told her. “Then decide from there.”

“There’s not much to decide on, right now,” she admitted unwillingly. “You might as well know the whole story, partner. There aren’t any funds available. My brother cleaned out the bank account when he left town. We’ll be operating on the cuff until fall roundup.”

“I figured as much,” he said, lifting the reins to crack them with a sharp sound, sending the team into a quick trot. The harness jangled and the wagon wheels rode roughly over the rutted town road. Chloe grabbed the side of the seat, holding herself in place.

“Peter’s young,” she said quietly. “Maybe too young for the pressure I put him under, trying to make him into a man.”

“How old is he?” He turned a harsh look in her direction. “I’d thought you were pretty close in age.”

“We’re twins,” she said shortly. “Twenty-two our last birthday.”

“And he’s young, but you’re not?” Skepticism coated the words.

“He didn’t take well to responsibility,” Chloe said quietly. “Ranching wasn’t his first choice.”

“What was?”

She was silent, weighing her words. And then she laughed, a humorless sound. “Let’s just say that anything involving hard work didn’t come easily to Peter. He might have done well if Pa had sent him East to school and he’d been able to learn a profession.”

“Bankers and lawyers work hard, Chloe,” J.T. reminded her. “There isn’t a job in the world that doesn’t take some elbow grease of one kind or another to accomplish. I think you’ve been protecting Pete long enough. You need to take a long look at him and recognize his faults.”

“His name is Peter. And I’m aware of his faults, thank you.” She sat upright, forsaking her relaxed stance on the seat.

“A man his age should have outgrown a boy’s name. When he turns into Pete and makes his own way in the world, I’ll be able to respect him.”

“Well, there’s not much chance you’ll be running into him again, is there? I’ll warrant he’s nowhere near Ripsaw Creek.”

“He’ll be back one day, mark my words,” J.T. growled. “When his grubstake runs out, he’ll show up like a bad penny.” His eyes flashed darkly as he glanced at her. “There’ll be hell to pay when that happens, Chloe. He lost his share of the ranch in a fair game, in front of witnesses. And you’re not giving him another slice of the pot.”

“Damn!” She shot the word in his direction, and ground her teeth together lest another follow in its wake. “You don’t have Boss Man printed across your forehead, Flannery. And being my partner doesn’t mean you control my share of the ranch.”

“We’re gonna butt heads over this, aren’t we?” His look was measuring as he drew the wagon to a stop in the middle of the road.

“What did you expect?” she asked. “That I’d sit here and have you tell me what to do? I don’t think so, Flannery. You can just take your orders and put ’em—”

He grabbed her arms, stepping on the reins with one boot, lest the horses take it in mind to move. His grip was firm and unmoving, long fingers sliding up to wrap around her shoulders. Then he drew her closer and she lost her balance, falling against him. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed as his glittering gaze scanned her startled face.

“Don’t say it,” he warned, his voice low, rasping against her hearing. “Don’t say one more word. Just keep your mouth shut.”

“Damn you!” The curse dared him, spurting in his direction from between clenched teeth, and he inhaled sharply, reaching further, his gaze on her full, lush lips.

“I said not another word,” he whispered, the sound seeming more hostile than a shout. And then his head bent, and she felt her eyes widen as he pressed his lips against hers. His mouth was hard, his lips firm, and she heard a low moan deep in her throat, an anguished cry that protested his touch.

“Hush,” he whispered, allowing her breathing space for a fraction of time that was barely long enough for her to inhale. And then his mouth was there again, softer this time, persuading her to his purpose, his lips warm and damp against hers.

His hands slid from their firm grip to encircle her back, and she was drawn across the seat, to lie precariously against his chest. Her fingers clutched for purchase, gripping handfuls of his shirt, and she fought for balance, aware that only his strength kept her from sliding to the floor beneath the seat.

“Haven’t you ever been kissed?” he asked quietly, easing his mouth from hers, his dark eyes surveying her.

She shook her head, aware of the flush that rose from her throat to cover her cheeks. Her heart thumped within her breast, an uneven rhythm that caught her attention. His hands held her in place, and she felt the heat of his body, even through the layers of clothing separating them.

“I’ll do better next time, Chloe. I’d hate to have you think this was the best I can manage.” His touch softened and he lifted her, settling her on the wagon seat, straightening the collar of her shirt with gentle hands.

Next time? She shivered. If this was any example of the man’s skill, she’d do well to steer clear of another demonstration.

“I expect you want an apology,” he said, his mouth twitching at one corner.

“I doubt if I’ll get one, will I?” Her lips tingled, her vision was blurred with a mist of tears and her hands were trembling as she clenched them into fists. And then as she caught a shuddering breath she heard the apology she’d not expected.

“I’m sorry I upset you,” he said. “But I can’t say I’m sorry I kissed you, Chloe. I’m just wishing it had been for another reason than to get you calmed down and settled.”

Well, he’d certainly failed at that. Calm? And settled? She’d never felt so discombobulated in her life.

Chapter Three

For a week she steered clear of him. Keeping the books was a daily task, one she found more to her liking when being in the black seemed more of a possibility. But discovering a bill of sale tucked inside the cavern of her ledger brought her out of the desk chair with all flags flying.

“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered beneath her breath, setting off for the barn.

“What happened to being partners?” Chloe asked. Her anger held on a short leash, she faced J.T. down in the central aisle of the big barn. Lowery was in and out of the tack room, and if she knew anything about it, he was listening for all he was worth. Apparently J.T. shared the thought, for he only glared at her for a moment, then gripped her elbow and shuffled her toward the double doors.

“We’re not going to argue in front of the men,” he muttered between gritted teeth. “If you’ve got something to say, I’ll listen to it out here, without an audience.”

“If?” The single word was all she could manage for a moment, and she inhaled deeply. “You know damn well I’ve got something to say.” Her hand was fisted around a yellow slip of paper, and she released it, allowing it to flutter to the ground at his feet. “Would you like to explain just how you figured we could afford a new stallion right now? And what we needed one for, anyway?”

“I didn’t ask you to put out one red cent,” J.T. said calmly. “I bought him.”

“And I’m supposed to write that amount on your side of the ledger book, I suppose,” she hissed. “Which gives you the edge, having invested your own money.”

“Chloe, you’ve got mares dropping foals out there that aren’t going to amount to a hill of beans. They’re only good for pulling a buggy or carrying kids back and forth to school. Wait till you see this stud. You need new blood, or your herd is never going to be worth anything.”

“What’s wrong with using the stallion you rode in here with?” That his words were true wasn’t the issue. Her father’s stud was old, and he’d been interbreeding over the past several years. But buying a new stallion was a major investment, and now J.T. viewed the news of the horse’s imminent arrival as if Christmas were coming at the end of a lead line.

“I told you already. His bloodlines aren’t what we need. We’ll use him, too, but this new stallion is almost guaranteed to give us a herd of horses that will make some real money a couple of years down the road.”

“You planning on being here that long?” she asked tartly.

His jaw clenched, as did his hands, and she wondered for a moment if she might not have pushed him a bit too far. “Are you bein’ obnoxious on purpose?” he asked, “or is it just your natural disposition?” His hands were hard, callused and strong, and when he used one of them to propel her toward the house, she had no choice but to march beside him. He turned her around when they reached the back porch and deposited her on the top step.

“I don’t like being manhandled,” she told him, snatching her arm from his grasp and sitting down. “There’s not a man big enough to push me around and get away with it.” And yet it seemed he had. For the moment at least.

J.T.’s mouth thinned and twisted, his eyes sending sparks that should have warned her off. He stood tall before her, anger oozing from every square inch of his being. “I’m not pushing you around, and I didn’t leave a mark on you, Miss High-and-Mighty.” Bending a bit, he peered into her face. “But I’ll tell you one thing right now. You won’t give me orders when it comes to spending my own hard-earned money.”

“You had no right to—”

“I had every right,” he boomed. “The damn horse was on the auction block. If I hadn’t bid on him and bought him outright, I’d have missed the chance to get a stud like that. And like it or not, he’s exactly what your herd needs.”

“And what’s he going to do for my mares? Put thoroughbred fillies and colts in their bellies?”

J.T. shook his head. “Better than that, lady. We’ll have a pasture full of paints within five years, horses that’ll be known throughout the state once we get them trained. Do you know that any cowhand worth his salt will pay fifty dollars more for a paint than a solid-colored horse?”

A glimmer of interest nudged her as his words made inroads on her aggravation. “Why?” she asked bluntly.

“Because a well-trained paint is the best cow pony you can buy. The Comanches have been hunting buffalo with them for years. We’ll have buyers waiting in line.” He turned to sit beside her, enthusiasm vanquishing his anger, and she listened intently, excitement growing as he spoke.

“We’ll use the best of your mares for breeding, and concentrate on selling off the stock we don’t need. There’s always a buyer around for everyday mounts, and by the time we weed out the bottom of your herd, we’ll have a crop of foals dropping next spring that’ll really put a shine in those blue eyes of yours.”

“And when do we get to begin this breeding program you’ve come up with?” she asked. “I assume the horse is being delivered?”

“Hogan is bringing him home later today.”

“Hogan went along with it?”

J.T. had the grace to look chagrined, and long fingers raked through his hair. It fell in place, dark and wavy, touching his collar, catching her attention so that his words took moments to penetrate. “He told me you’d have a fit, and I’d better come home and get you softened up before he arrived.”

She stiffened at his words, her cheeks warming with a flush of anger. “And do I look properly softened?” Dark, assessing eyes measured her as his gaze swept her form, finally focusing on her face, and the silence was long, as though he contemplated several words before choosing to speak.

“You look soft in all the right places, Chloe, but I think you’re still madder than a wet hen.” His head tilted to one side and he allowed a grin to play about the corners of his mouth. “I can’t say as I blame you. I suspect I knew you’d have a hissy. I just didn’t think you’d cause a fuss in front of your hired hands.”

“I didn’t,” she protested, raking her mind. They’d been alone in the barn, all but for Lowery, coming in and out.

Apparently J.T. had the same thought. “Lowery was in the tack room, and Willie was right outside the back door,” he said quietly. “It won’t do to air our differences in front of them, and I couldn’t let you raise Cain with me that way. Not without having a knockdown battle right there in the barn.”

“They listen to you,” she said harshly, looking aside, unwilling to allow her hurt to show.

“I’m a man,” he said simply. “Men always respond better to another man. Except in some things,” he added softly.

She turned quickly, her mind snagging on his words. “Like what?”

“Like…” He hesitated, and she wondered at his loss for words. J.T. never thought twice before he spoke, as if the phrases he wanted were ready and available at the tip of his tongue. Now, he watched her warily, and she felt the rosy flush of anger recede, only to be replaced with a warmth generated by his slow appraisal.

“Like the way I react to you,” he said finally, and his mouth twisted wryly, as if he rued the words he spoke. “There’s something about you that brings me to attention.” He shook his head. “And isn’t that a fine thing to be telling my partner.”

“I bring you to attention? Well, whatever that means, I’d say there’s nothing about me that suits you,” she told him tartly. “And you aggravate me beyond belief. No matter what I do, you’ve got to have the last word. You’d think I didn’t know how this place operates.” Again she felt the threat of angry tears behind her eyelids and blinked them away, unwilling to waver before him as she defended herself. “What do you suppose I did before you got here?”

“Got along the best way you could,” he answered amiably. “And did a decent job of it. Hogan’s a good man, and you’re lucky to have him.”

He took the wind out of her sails. Just when she was working up to a good mad, he managed to be agreeable and she was left to bluster.

“By the way, I gave him a raise in pay,” J.T. said, eyeing her for a response.

“Well, twice what he’s getting this month is just about zero,” she said with an angry laugh. “I told you there’s no money for wages, or anything else, till we get some income. I barely paid the new men their wages the past three months. And I’m at rock bottom right now.”

J.T. watched her, invigorated by the quick-witted responses she gave, the sharp working of her mind. She’d only get mad again, but he might as well have it over with, he decided. “I put money in your account.”

She was pale beneath the freckles, and her jaw flexed as though she gritted her teeth against angry words. And then she spoke, and her voice held more than a trace of the frustration she battled. “You’re putting me in a hole, J.T. What if I can’t get out? What’ll you do next? Just take over the whole place?”

He reached for her hand, enclosing it within his palm, reaching out for her understanding in the small intimacy of flesh against flesh. “I knew you’d take it that way, Chloe. And that’s not what I intend. I figured we can’t expect these men to stay on here much longer if we don’t pay them. It’s not fair, and you don’t want to take a chance on losing Hogan, or Lowery or Shorty, either, for that matter. The others you could replace if you had to, but not those three.”

She nodded, accepting the warmth of his fingers enclosing hers. There seemed little to say. No doubt he was right, but her independence was threatened more each day, simply because he was there, with his influence reaching to every area of her life.

Including her awareness of herself as a woman. And at that thought she felt a nudge of apprehension. He’d kissed her once, a week ago, and then as if it had never taken place, ignored the episode, not in any way referring to it again.

Until now. She retrieved her hand from his, clenching it in her lap as her mind replayed the words he’d spoken in that dark, rasping tone. You look soft in all the right places, Chloe…. There’s something about you that brings me to attention. He’d bewitched her with his flattery. That was all there was to it, she decided. Pure and simple flattery, designed to throw her off guard. She clenched her jaw as he spoke again.

“Chloe? Are you going to give me a hassle over this? Can we just agree to let things ride for a while, at least until we sort through the herd and decide which animals you want to sell off?”

“What?” His query caught her unaware. Her mind had traveled far from the discussion over wages and hired hands, and for a moment she faltered, willing herself to concentrate on his words. He was making plans, while she was still dithering over his foolish talk.

“I’m not trying to push you,” he said quietly. And perhaps he wasn’t, she thought. Yet, to her discerning eye, he was poised for action, impatiently absorbed in his plans, and she knew a sense of disquiet. For one thing, she was ignorant when it came to a breeding program such as the one he spoke of.

One hand lifted, as if to assure him of her compliance, and she gathered her wits. “I’d rather talk about this later. Maybe after supper tonight.” To give in so readily was against her nature, but he’d boxed her into a corner and the need to regroup was foremost in her mind.

A look of pure relief erased the frown lines he wore, and his mouth curved slowly. “Whatever you want,” he said agreeably. “Hogan should be here right soon, and I’ve got to get a stall fitted up for the stud. We’ll keep him in the corral for a day or so, till we decide which mares we want him to cover, and then go on from there.”

Excitement filled his voice, and Chloe nodded, his exuberance contagious. “I want to come out with you.”

“All right. There’s not much for you to do, but you need to take a look at him anyway.”

Perhaps she’d expected a creature of majestic size, or at least an animal more impressive than the painted horse that followed behind Hogan’s gelding an hour later. “He’s not very big, is he?”

“Big isn’t always better, not when it comes to a good cow pony,” J.T. said, intent on passing his hands over the side and flank of the black-and-white spotted stallion. He lifted one hoof after another, and Chloe watched as shivers rippled the smooth coat, the stud sidestepping from J.T.’s touch.

“He looks all right,” he told Hogan. “Give you any trouble?”

“Not on the end of a rope,” Hogan answered. “I’m waiting for the chance to get on his back. Fella at the auction said this one’s the best cutting horse he’s ever seen.”

J.T.’s eyes lit with satisfaction. “You’ll get your chance, come tomorrow morning. I thought we’d just handle him for now, feed him good and let him settle in.”

Chloe could barely hide her disappointment. Having reconciled herself to the plan, she was filled with misgivings now. She watched as Hogan led the horse into the barn, and then, as she turned away, she heard the shrill sound of his trumpeting. From the near pasture a mare returned the challenge, and she spun around in time to see Hogan gripping the lead line, even as he dodged the stallion’s tossing head.

Tail swishing and hind legs bent, the stud seemed intent on freeing himself from the man holding him, and J.T. moved quickly. His laugh rang out as he came from the far side to grasp the horse’s halter. His considerable weight pulled the stallion’s head to meet his chest, and then J.T.’s voice became soothing, his words soft as he strove to quiet the animal.

“Well, he seems to know what he’s here for, don’t he?” Hogan asked, breathless from his efforts. His grin flashed in Chloe’s direction, and then as though he reconsidered his words, he turned his head aside. “Sorry, ma’am,” he murmured politely, but Chloe heard the amusement beneath the muttered apology.

Unused to such blatant masculine emotions, whether they be from man or beast, she felt a quickening as she thought of what would take place here in the next weeks. The process of breeding had always been confined to the pastures, at the discretion of both mares and stallion, and with no set purpose, only the intention of new life each spring.

Now it seemed there would be a scheduling of those events, and as she turned from the barn and headed with haste toward the house, the realization of change became a fact. J. T. Flannery was about to set out upon a path that would make mockery of her father’s haphazard operation. And she had given him the go-ahead to do just that.

The table was set for three when J.T. entered the kitchen hours later, and he tossed Chloe a quizzical look. “You expecting company?”

“Not really. Just Aunt Tilly. She arrived an hour ago. Howie Henderson brought her out from town and dropped her off.” Chloe opened the oven door and pulled a roasting pan from its depths. “She’s upstairs, settling in.” Her grin was quick as she glanced his way. “She asked about you.”

“Me?” He pulled his chair from beneath the table and eased himself onto the seat. Muscles well used over the past couple of weeks were protesting, and getting dumped in the dust of the corral by a half-broke horse hadn’t helped any. “How’d she know about me?”

“Howie gave her all the details about my new partner on the trip out from town,” Chloe said.

J.T. watched her as she dealt with the contents of the roasting pan. The woman was adept at more than just riding and tending to ranch business. The pot roast, surrounded by potatoes and carrots, was a tempting sight, and he hoped fervently that Aunt Tilly was at least as handy in the kitchen as Chloe.

“And does she approve of your new partner?” he asked, aware of footsteps approaching from the front hallway. The scent of lilac preceded the woman as did her voice, its tones sharp, her words cautious.

“If he turns out to be a scalawag like the last one, I’ve got a shotgun that’ll guarantee he won’t last long.” Iron-gray hair, curled and crimped into an abundant mass, topped the sturdy figure in the doorway. Eyes the startling color of a bluebird’s back scanned him thoroughly, as if she sought out every possible defect and scar on his miserable hide. From where he sat, Tilly looked to be nearly six feet tall, altogether a woman to be aware of. A brilliantly flowered house dress covered her ample frame, and sturdy black-laced oxfords, surely made to fit a man, carried her toward him.

J.T. rose, bowing his head just a trifle in greeting. “Ma’am?” he said politely. “I’m the fella you’ll be gunning for, should I not come up to snuff.” It took all his control not to smile at the picture she presented, but he managed to subdue his humor.

Aunt Tilly halted several feet from him, and he waited as she scanned him from top to bottom. A flash of approval from brilliant blue eyes, and an abrupt nod that barely disturbed her curls, told him she’d completed her appraisal, and he moved to pull a chair from beneath the table.

“Won’t you sit down, ma’am?” he asked politely.

She shook her head. “I’ll give Chloe a hand first.”

“I’ve got everything ready,” Chloe said quickly. “Just sit, Aunt Tilly.” The platter centered the table, steam rising from its contents, and beside it were bowls of applesauce and some sort of greens J.T. didn’t recognize. “I just need to pour the coffee.”

Tilly sat down, allowing J.T. to play the gentleman, and he held her chair with a flourish, earning a sharp look as he smoothly seated her.

“Where you from, boy?” she asked bluntly. “You’re pretty slick with the manners, seems to me.”

“My mama raised me to be polite,” he said, allowing a smile to appear. “I know enough not to wipe my mouth on my sleeve, and I learned how to ask nicely when I want a favor.”

“Well, that says something for you,” she answered, watching as Chloe sat down across the table. “You make biscuits, girl?”

“No, but there’s bread from yesterday,” Chloe told her.

“You can get some out after we bless the food,” Tilly said, and immediately bowed her head, booming words of thanks to the Almighty for the supper Chloe had prepared.

J.T. leaned back in his chair, amused by Chloe’s quick movements as she unwrapped a fresh loaf of bread from its dish towel and quickly wielded the knife. Four slices were deposited on a plate and she brought it to the table. “There’s fresh butter, Aunt Tilly,” she said, uncovering the glass dish.

It was easy to see who was in control here, J.T. decided. The kitchen was suddenly Aunt Tilly’s domain, and Chloe bent to her will in a way he hadn’t expected. And then the older woman paused midway in the process of buttering her slice of bread to cast her eyes on her niece.

“You’ve taken off a few pounds, girl. Been working too hard, I’ll warrant.”

Chloe laughed aloud. “I could take off a few more, Aunt Tilly. And once I get you back in charge here, I probably will. I need to be out with the men, working with the new foals. Hogan says we’ve got a dandy crop of calves already.” Her enthusiasm seemed to be generated by the thought of being relieved of kitchen duty, J.T. decided.

“You’re turning out to be a good cook,” Tilly decreed, tasting the beef roast and savoring the flavor. “You use bay leaf in this?”

Chloe nodded meekly, though her eyes glittered with good humor. “Just like you told me, ma’am. And I picked the dandelion greens early this morning while the dew was still on them.”

J.T. stopped chewing, his mouthful of greens suddenly losing their appeal. “Dandelions?” he asked dubiously. “I’m eating dandelions?”

“Just the greens,” Chloe said patiently. “They’re good for you.”

“Whatever happened to turnip greens or collards?”

Chloe turned patient eyes on him. “It’s too early for them.” She waved her fork in the direction of his plate. “That’s good spring tonic. Even the Indians eat them.”

“I’m not sure I need a spring tonic, whatever that is,” he told her, forking up another mouthful. “My mama used to give me a dose of castor oil when the trees started leafing out.” He chewed a moment, then swallowed the greens dutifully. “But only one dose, mind you.” His fork stirred the green mass on his plate. “Do I get to eat these every day?”

“I could probably locate a bottle of castor oil, if you’d rather,” Tilly said helpfully, obviously amused at his dislike for Chloe’s chosen vegetable for this meal.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said politely. “I’m a big boy now. I’ll do just fine without.”

“That you are,” she agreed. “Came from south of here, didn’t you?”

He hesitated. Giving details about his background was something he steered clear of usually. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

Tilly nodded. “When I arrived on a wagon train from Saint Louis and met my husband for the first time, he said he’d always wanted a Southern belle to grace his table.” Her laughter rang out. “He was looking for a dainty little creature with curls and a sunbonnet to keep her skin all nice and pale. Instead he got me, with my Georgia tan and a body almost six feet tall.”

“I’ll bet he wasn’t disappointed,” J.T. ventured, enjoying the tale she wove.

“Not after a week or so,” Tilly admitted with a grin.

“Bless his heart, he decided I was a lot of woman, just what he needed. And he gave me three handsome boys and a pretty baby girl, about half my size, once she got to be full grown.” She eyed J.T. intently. “If you don’t have specks of y’all hidden under that nice Western drawl of yours, I’ll eat my hat.”

“You may be right,” he conceded. “My mama was a Southern lady.”

Chloe perked up at this bit of news. This was the first time she’d heard one word about his background. He’d insidiously wormed detail after detail from her about the running of the ranch, about Peter’s affinity for poker and about the sudden attack that had brought her father to his knees.

She’d relived that afternoon with barely concealed tears as she spoke of John Biddleton’s death. She’d told of his gasping for air as his skin took on a bluish cast and his breathing became tortured, and J.T. had halted her before she reached the final part of her story. Reaching to place long fingers on her forearm, he’d squeezed gently to get her attention, then shook his head to halt her words, seeming to understand her pain.

And now, from that silent, closemouthed man, Aunt Tilly had managed, with blunt queries and canny insight, to learn more in two minutes than Chloe had gotten from him in almost two weeks. She leaned toward him. “Where do your parents live?” she asked. “Still in the South?”

His eyes met hers and she felt his withdrawal even as she finished her question. “They’re buried on the home place,” he said shortly. “The house caught fire and neither of them got out.” He picked up his cup and drank deeply of the hot coffee, seemingly immune to the scalding heat.

“How old were you?” she asked quietly.

“Old enough to be on my own,” he answered. “It was a long time ago. No sense in raking up the past, to my way of thinking. I’ve traveled a long way from that life.”

And that was probably all she’d ever hear about it, Chloe thought, totaling up her scant store of knowledge. The man was a gambler, and he knew horseflesh. Beyond that, and the small addition of facts he’d just offered, he was a puzzle. His dark eyes held secrets, and his long, lean body bore muscled strength. Sharp featured and equally sharp spoken, he was arrogance in its finest form, she thought ruefully.

And more of a man than she’d ever come across in all her twenty-two years of living. The thought of his hands against her skin, or his mouth touching hers, was enough to bring her to a level of anticipation she refused to consider. Even during the dark hours before midnight, when she tossed restlessly in her bed, reliving the single kiss that burned in her memory, she’d been aware of the insidious attraction of his presence.

Foolishness on her part. He was her partner. And didn’t seem inclined, as far as she could tell, to press her into a more intimate situation.

“You ever been married?” Aunt Tilly’s words caught Chloe unaware and she stiffened, certain that J.T. would take umbrage at the bold query.

Instead he grinned, an expression that totally changed the stern lines of his face. “A man who keeps on the move doesn’t need to tote a woman along with him.”

“You’re not on the move anymore,” Tilly pointed out. “Seems like a fella who owns half a ranch ought to be thinking about putting down roots and looking to the future.”

Chloe choked on a half-chewed piece of beef and pushed her chair back from the table. Coughing and gasping, she headed for the back door, aware of J.T.’s chair scraping across the floor. She bent over the porch railing, catching her breath and felt his warm hand against her back.

“You all right?” he asked, concern mixed with amusement as he bent to peer into her face. “I think your aunt kinda threw you there, didn’t she?”

“I can’t believe she was so brazen,” Chloe managed to gasp. “The next thing you know, she’ll be arranging a wedding for you.”

“Nah,” he said, drawling the word in a teasing tone. “When I decide to tie the knot, I’ll do my own arranging, partner.” His hand slid up her back to rest against her shoulder, and he squeezed lightly. “And trust me, Miss Chloe, you’ll be the first to know.”

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