She sounded so much like her mother, Maureen, he very nearly smiled. “Put like that, then yes, I’m hungry. But it’s late and I’m tired. I’ll grab something in the morning.”
To his complete surprise, she clamped a hand around his arm. “Come with me,” she said in a tone that warned him not to argue.
With her hand still burning a ring around his forearm, she guided him out of the kitchen. Before they reached the living room, she turned to the left and down a long hallway. Soft nightlights glowed from the baseboards and illuminated the rich tile on the floor. The walls were decorated with huge framed prints of the Hollisters and the ranch hands doing various jobs here on Red Bluff.
She came to a sudden stop and pointed to one of the photos. “Just in case you’re wondering if you’re in any of these, here’s one of you and Daddy. Remember that day?”
Shoving the brim of his hat back off his forehead, he stepped forward and peered at the picture. The image struck him hard.
“I’ve never seen this before,” he said, his voice thick. “That horse is Dough Boy. He always bucked when you first got on him, so you had to be ready. Your father was riding him that day. We’d been gathering cattle in Lizard Canyon. Dough Boy was a real gentleman that day and Joel joked that he was the only cowboy on the ranch who could ride him.”
“Yeah,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Isn’t it ironic that Daddy was on Major Bob the day he was killed instead of Dough Boy?”
Ironic? No. Matthew’s views on Joel Hollister’s death were no different than those of the family. No matter the horse he’d been riding, Joel would’ve died that day because someone had meant to kill him.
“I’d rather remember other days. Not that one,” Matthew told her.
He heard her long sigh, and then the hand on his arm was urging him toward the nearest door to their right.
“This will be your room while you’re here. I could’ve given you one overlooking the courtyard, but I figured you’d rather have the best mattress than the best view.”
She pushed the door open and gestured for him to enter. Matthew felt like he was stepping into the room of a Mexican villa. The dark wooden furniture was heavy, the bed fashioned with four posts that nearly touched the ceiling. The tall headboard was intricately carved with the images of blazing suns, fighting bulls and trailing moonflowers. At the windows, thick burgundy-colored drapes were pulled to show a moonlit view of the desert mountains.
“Is that one bag all you have?” she asked.
“No. I have another case in the truck, but I don’t need to unpack it tonight.”
She nodded. “Well, just put your things wherever you like. There’s a private bath through the door over by the closet. Make yourself at home.”
He moved into the room while thinking with each step that he didn’t belong in this house with this woman. They were both too rich for his blood. But being here was Blake’s order and Matthew would bend over backwards to make the man happy. Not because he was his boss, but because Blake and his three brothers were like his blood brothers and always would be.
“Thanks. This is nice.” He placed his duffel bag on the green-and-burgundy-patterned spread, then glanced over to her. “I—uh—think I ought to tell you that it wasn’t my idea for me to stay here in the house.”
“I never imagined it was.”
Although he didn’t know why, he felt the need to further explain. “Blake sent an extra man this time. There wasn’t enough room for another bed in the bunkhouse.”
She shrugged. “No problem. You won’t bother me. And I’m gone most of the time so I shouldn’t bother you.”
Maybe not, but she sure as hell was bothering him right now. Strange how he’d not remembered her looking exactly like this. Her hair had grown and now reached the back of her waist. She was wearing some sort of loose flowing pants made of flower-printed material. The top that matched had a low V-neck, and when she turned a certain way he could see a hint of cleavage. Before she’d left Three Rivers she’d been extremely slender. Now she was voluptuous and it sure looked good on her, he thought.
“Don’t worry. The men and I have so much work to do while we’re down here that I doubt our paths will cross much.”
Her plush lips curved into something close to a smile. “Go wash up and come back to the kitchen. I’ll have something for you to eat.”
He wanted to argue with her, but he knew it would be a losing battle. And why bother? After tonight, he expected she’d leave him to see after himself.
“All right. Thanks.”
Back in the kitchen, Camille opened the fridge and pulled out a ribeye steak she’d been marinating. As she heated an iron skillet and tossed in several hunks of butter, her mind spun with thoughts of Matthew Waggoner.
When had he turned into such a hunk of a man? She’d not exactly remembered him being so broad through the shoulders, his waist so trim, or his legs being that long and corded with muscles. And that blond, blond hair. He used to wear it buzzed up the sides. Now it was long and curled against the back of his neck and around his ears. But it wasn’t just the hair or the breadth and strength of his body that had caught Camille’s attention. There was something different about his rugged features. Perhaps it was the hardened glint in his gray eyes or the unyielding thrust of his jaw. Whatever it was, he looked too damned sexy for her peace of mind.
A mocking laugh trilled inside her head. Just what I thought, Camille. You weren’t really serious when you swore off men for the next ten years. You take one look at the Three Rivers foreman and you start swooning like a silly schoolgirl. Snap out of it, girl! You have nowhere else to run to!
Run? No, Camille thought as she shoved the voice right out of her head. She wasn’t going anywhere. And she wasn’t afraid of her heart or anything else getting tangled up with Matthew. She’d known the man since she was a teenager and they’d hardly been anything more than acquaintances. Nothing was different now. Nothing at all.
She was still frying the steak when Matthew returned to the kitchen. He’d not changed out of the clothes he’d been working in, but he’d knocked off most of the dust. The long sleeves were rolled up to expose thick forearms burnt to the same nut-brown color of his face. He’d left his hat behind and Camille decided he must have run wet hands through his hair. Damp tendrils fell across his forehead and tickled the tops of his ears.
Just looking at him caused a flutter in her stomach.
“Go ahead and have a seat at the table, Matthew. Would you like a glass of wine or a beer?”
He pulled out a chair at the end of the table and sank into it. “A beer would be nice.”
She carried a tall bottle and a glass mug over to the table and set both in front of him. “If you’re wondering if I’ve turned into a drinker, don’t worry. I mostly keep beer and wine to cook with.”
“I wasn’t thinking anything like that,” he said.
She went back over to the gas range and switched off the blaze under the steak. By now the French fries were done and she loaded a pile of them along with the steak onto a large plate, then gathered a small bowl of tossed salad from the fridge.
When she set the whole thing in front of him, he cut his gray eyes up to her. “This is overdoing it, Camille.”
Her heart was beating fast and it had nothing to do with his words and everything to do with the way he was looking at her, the way he smelled, the way his masculine presence filled up the small kitchen.
“What’s wrong? I