A dust cloud swirled around the windows, making it difficult to see who was inside, but there were two of them—a man and a woman. When the engine shut off, the driver’s door opened, releasing the big band sounds of the Glenn Miller Orchestra.
Uh-oh. That explained it all. Gram had come home with that man again.
But this time, there was an upside. At least, Amber had an excuse to put some distance between her wacky hormones and the fancy British nobleman who’d aroused them.
* * *
For the briefest of moments, while Jensen had rushed to Amber’s assistance, something had passed between them—an intimacy that had shocked the living daylights out of him.
The minute his hand slid around her waist, he couldn’t help pulling her closer—and not just in an attempt to save life and limb. Then, when her lips parted, there’d been a moment—a single heartbeat, actually—when he’d been sorely tempted to kiss her.
Amber must have felt it, too, because she’d had such a lovely expression of bewilderment—that is, until Lady Sybil and the big green machine had put a stop to it all and reality had set in.
The driver of the green Dodge Charger, a squat older gent in his early eighties, climbed out of the car and yelled over the sound of swing music, “I can’t figure out how to turn this dadgummed i-radio off.”
Then he reached back into the car, took the hand of the lady who’d accompanied him and helped her to slide across the bench seat and exit through the driver’s door.
But rather than calling it a day, the older gent spun the woman in his arms and lowered her into a graceful dip that should have only been attempted by the most agile of professional dancers.
Jensen found it all rather amusing.
Apparently Amber didn’t because she handed him Lady Sybil’s reins, then strode across the yard, reached inside the vehicle and disconnected a cord, ending the song, as well as the impromptu dance. “What are you doing?”
“Practicing our moves for the upcoming dance contest at the Moose Lodge,” the elderly gent said. “I’m trying to talk Helen into competing with me, instead of with Harold Witherspoon, who don’t stand a chance of winning, even with a woman as pretty as Helen in his arms.”
Amber shifted her weight to one booted foot. “Gram, I thought you and Mary Trimble went to have breakfast with your quilting group.”
The older lady, who wore a green floral dress and a cream-colored sweater, turned to her granddaughter with flushed cheeks and a pleasant smile. “We did have breakfast, honey. But on the way, we learned that Martha Bradshaw’s relatives are all still staying at her house, which is where we usually go. So the group had a change of plans, and we decided to move over to the VFW instead. I ran into Elmer Murdock there, and he offered to give me a ride home so Mary wouldn’t have to.”
Amber’s grandmother, whose steel-gray hair had been woven into a French twist, fingered the side of her head and tucked a loose strand behind her ear before addressing Jensen. “I’m Helen Rogers. I recognize the horse you’re riding, but I don’t believe you and I have met.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m Jensen Fortune Chesterfield.” Then he turned to her companion.
The short, elderly man with a gray buzz cut reached out a weathered hand and gave Jensen a firm handshake. “Elmer Murdock, United States Marine Corps, retired.”
Jensen glanced at Amber, who didn’t look too pleased with the newcomer’s arrival.
“You Jeanne Marie and Deke’s nephew?” Mr. Murdock asked him.
“Yes. I’m in town staying with my sister, Amelia.”
The man’s clear blue eyes traveled up and down, studying Jensen hard, but not in a threatening manner. “Those are some pretty fancy riding breeches.”
“Thank you.”
“Where’d you find them? Might get me a pair like that.”
“Actually, I purchased them at a shop in Windsor.”
“Humph. That figures. You being one of them Fortunes from England and all.” Mr. Murdock crossed his arms, gave a little nod, then rocked back and forth. “You got any relatives that fought in the RAF?”
“Yes, sir. My father was a pilot in the RAF.”
“You don’t say.” Mr. Murdock stroked his chin. “He see any action in the war?”
“Which war?”
“Any of ’em. Personally, I was too young to fight the Germans. I had to earn my stripes over in Korea. But my older brother Chester went over early and helped get you boys out of that pickle in dubya dubya two.”
Clearly, Elmer Murdock was quite the spitfire, but Jensen was used to the bravado of elderly soldiers when it came to World War II and their role in it. “Then I thank both you and your brother for your service.”
“You’re welcome. The US of A has no match on the battlefield, which some of your kin found out for themselves back during the Revolutionary War.”
“Jensen,” Mrs. Rogers said, before the men lapsed into a patriotic rivalry, “I was just about to fix lunch. I hope you’ll join us.”
Jensen glanced at Amber, who still held Mr. Murdock’s music device in her hand. A frown marred her pretty face, but he didn’t think it was because he’d been invited to stay. Instead, he had a feeling it was because her grandmother had included Mr. Murdock.
And while Jensen probably ought to gracefully decline, he remembered hearing the ingredients of the franks and tots casserole Amelia planned to make for lunch, doubling the recipe so she could freeze the leftovers. Suspecting his odds for a tasty meal would be much better here on the Broken R, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Rogers. I’d like that.”
Besides, he’d enjoyed his tour of the ranch and had found Amber even more intriguing. The cowgirl had been so animated when she’d explained their operation, and when she’d talked about animal husbandry, it had sounded as if she had an advanced degree. He couldn’t help wanting to spend more time with her.
“I’m so happy you’ll be joining us.” Mrs. Rogers flashed a smile at her friend, then hurried into the house.
Amber walked around the front of the early model Dodge Charger, assessing the vehicle that had delivered her grandmother home from Vicker’s Corners. “Is this your car, Mr. Murdock?”
“Sure is. I’m getting this beauty ready for the classic car show me and some of the boys down at the VFW are planning to put on next fall. We’re calling it Cruisin’ Vicker’s. All the cars have to be built in 1975 or earlier.”
While Jensen didn’t think this old heap would win any competitions, he kept his opinion to himself.
“The cars don’t have to be American made,” Murdock added with a sly nod at Jensen. “So if you want to ship one of your fancy MGs or Jaguars this way, you can.”
“That’s kind of you to invite me,” Jensen said, “but I’ll be in town only for a short duration.”
“Well, hopefully you’ll stick around for a few more weeks.” The old man patted the hood of the car. “I should have the new paint job done by then, and Rod down at R and J Auto Body promised he’d order a passenger-side door, too, since I can’t get the fool thing to open.”
“Rod Rogers?” Jensen asked, letting the old man know that he was picking up on a few names and business