Trying to appear more competent than her travel-weary appearance allowed, she flashed a small, self-assured smile.
But a second later she lost her composure, as well as her footing. Julianne McKenzie, the fantasy-free, pretending-to-be-tough divorcée, tripped and stumbled, nearly landing flat on her almost-forty behind.
With a foolish little yelp, she managed to regain her balance, but not her dignity. She dropped the suitcase and it opened upon impact, spilling a small selection of clothes.
Right at the cowboy’s booted feet.
Mortified, she looked up at him and mumbled an apology. Suddenly he seemed taller, broader, bigger. And she felt small and stupid.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Julianne nodded. The only injured party was her pride.
“Did you slip on something?”
“No. I’m just clumsy, I guess.” She knelt to organize her mess.
“Let me help.”
He crouched down, and Julianne froze. Her new bustier—the slinky French number Kay and Mern had insisted would boost her breasts, as well as her morale—was wedged beneath his slanted heel.
Should she say, “Excuse me”? Or just sort of yank it back before he got a good look at the lace contraption wrapped around his boot?
Too late, she thought. He was already glancing down to see what he’d stepped on, already shifting his weight, moving his foot, reaching for her bustier.
A piece of intimate apparel that came with a sheer, lightly boned bodice, under-wire cups, hook-and-eye closures and adjustable garters.
He handed it over with a polite if not proper expression, but she still wanted to curl up and die. Somehow his gentlemanly behavior only managed to intensify the mind-numbing moment.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“That’s okay.” Avoiding eye contact, she jammed the bustier back into her toppled suitcase, burying it beneath a pile of folded T-shirts.
Should she tell him that she’d bought it on an emotional whim? That her cousins convinced her that every woman should own one? Not to seduce a man, but to make herself feel pretty?
Oh, yeah, she thought. Go ahead and discuss your insecurities with a stranger. Explain to this hunky cowboy why you’d purchased a see-through bustier and thigh-high stockings as a birthday gift to yourself.
He reached for another dislodged garment and together they worked in silence, clearing the porch of her belongings.
Finally she closed the green case and tried to latch it, but it wouldn’t budge. Some good luck charm, she thought, embarrassed by her incompetence once again.
“Would you like me to try?” He shifted from his crouched position, bending on one knee and keeping the other foot flat on the ground.
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
He struggled with the clasps, too. But he didn’t give up. Determined to come to her rescue, he continued to fiddle with the case.
When he pushed his hat back, she took the opportunity to study him. And realized he was probably as old as she was. Maybe even a tad older. His long black hair, which he wore in a single braid down his back, was threaded with a distinguished hint of silver, marking his temples. And his eyes, those exotic-shaped eyes, were branded with tiny lines, crinkling at the corners.
Gray hair and crow’s-feet. And it looked damned good on him.
So did the rest of his features, she decided. The square jaw, the slightly aquiline nose, the razor-sharp cheekbones, the full, serious mouth.
“You’re—” She paused as he glanced up, suddenly aware that she’d voiced her next thought out loud. “Native American.”
His serious mouth tilted into a slightly amused smile. “And I’d bet my next pot of gold that you’re Irish.”
“Are you sure about that?” she asked, teasing him the way he teased her.
He reached out to smooth a strand of her hair away from her face. “Red hair, green eyes.” He brushed her cheek, rubbing his knuckles over her skin. “A scatter of freckles. To me, that’s Irish.”
She met his gaze, and they stared at each other.
So intimately, she had to force herself to breathe.
Footsteps sounded somewhere nearby. The cowboy dropped his hand, but he didn’t stop looking at her.
“Are you?” he asked.
She blinked. “Am I what?”
He studied her mouth. “Irish?”
“Yes.” She wet her lips, wondering how it would feel to kiss him, to press her—
“What’s going on here?” a masculine voice bellowed.
The cowboy flinched and Julianne nearly jumped out of her skin.
He recovered first. Adjusting his hat, he addressed the intruder. “Just helping a new guest with her fallen luggage.”
The intruder laughed. “Sure looks odd. You two kneeling there on the ground.”
Julianne glanced up and connected the disembodied voice with an older man. Short, paunchy and nearly bald, he wore a big, friendly smile. Another guest, she deducted.
“Yeah, I guess it does look odd.” The cowboy pointed to the stubborn green case, which lay open at his side. “But I’m still working on it.”
“So I see.” The older man turned to Julianne. “I’m Jim Robbins. I come here every summer.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Julianne McKenzie. It’s my first visit. I’ll be here for a week, with my cousins.”
“Then I’m sure I’ll see you at the barn dance on Wednesday, if not before. I come here to fish, but the missus prods me to dance.” He shifted to the cowboy. “Good luck with that, Bobby.”
“Thanks, Jim.”
The other guest departed, sauntering off the porch and into the dry Texas air.
Julianne looked at her companion, who concentrated on her suitcase. “So you’re Bobby,” she said weakly.
He nodded, then cleared his throat. “Bobby Elk. I own this place.”
Bobby Elk. Elk Ridge Ranch. It was a simple enough connection, but one that surprised her. “I thought you just worked here.”
“My mistake. I should have introduced myself first. Especially to a guest.” He glanced up for a second. “So, your name is Julianne McKenzie?”
“Yes.”
“Glad to have you aboard, Ms. McKenzie. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you.” Their conversation had turned professional, but she could still feel the heat between them. The mutual attraction.
While he worked on her suitcase, she studied his deft movements, his calloused fingers. And that’s when she saw the gold band. The wedding ring on his left hand.
The air in her lungs whooshed out. He was married.
The son of a bitch was married, and behaving just like her ex.
How