A Cowboy Under Her Tree. Allison Leigh

course, she’d come to Montana with only a few pieces. The rest was back in Atlanta. Useless and left behind along with everything else from her life.

      Her former life, she reminded herself.

      Things were different now, because she was making them different.

      “Are you going to stand here all morning critiquing my renovations or shall we get going?”

      He looked her over, head to toe, and she twisted the wide leather strap harder around her hand. “What?”

      He shook his head and grabbed the overnight case from her. “Let’s get moving.”

      She refrained from pointing out that she hadn’t been the one standing around. She followed him back out to the car that he’d once again parked in front of the house and this time didn’t bother fruitlessly waiting for him to open her door.

      She kept her focus out the side window as they made the drive from her house to his. It wasn’t that great a distance. Less than ten miles, she figured. Yet the silent drive seemed almost interminable.

      “Wait here.” He finally stopped behind a modest two-story house and got out before she could even summon an argument.

      He left the car running, and she crossed her arms, watching him take the back porch steps in one long stride.

      She could hear the squeak of the storm door despite the distance, and then he disappeared into the house.

      In comparison to the Hopping H, Russ’s house looked about a quarter of the size. The siding was painted white. The shutters around the windows both up and down were black. From what she could see, craning her head around inside her car, the roof looked sound.

      Other than that, the house was decidedly plain.

      She nibbled at her thumb, wondering if Russ had wanted the Hopping H’s ranch house, as well as the land. Maybe that was why he’d seemed to look at her renovations with such criticism.

      She sat back quickly when she saw the storm door move again, and was sliding her sunglasses onto her nose when he got back in the car after tossing his own small duffel atop her overnighter in the minuscule space behind the seats. As she’d done, he’d changed clothes, as well.

      This time, his boots weren’t spit-shined.

      “We’ll grab a charter at the airstrip and catch a commercial route outta Bozeman.”

      She tucked her tongue between her teeth as she mentally calculated the cost of a private charter. The McFarlanes owned more than one corporate jet, but her finances these days didn’t necessarily run to such extravagances. Not when she had nearly every dime she possessed tied up in the Hopping H.

      But a lifetime of pride kept her from uttering a single peep.

      The airfield was located near the Thunder Canyon Resort and they left her car parked in the lot there. Melanie pulled out her credit card and passed it over before they could even bring up the subject of paying for the charter. Russ, however, gave a grimace and pulled out his wallet.

      She was used to always paying the bills. With her family’s wealth, it always seemed expected. Even by men. And though she had to be careful, she still felt odd about putting her card back in her purse. “Purchasing plane tickets another thing that’s a husband’s job?”

      “Be useful,” he suggested, heaping on more outrageousness. “Go find me a cup of coffee.” His lips quirked up, definitely waiting for a reaction.

      Standing there at the small counter while he took care of the finances was nothing she felt comfortable doing, so she merely arched her eyebrow at him and strolled, instead, over to one of the seats lined up below a window that overlooked the airstrip.

      He didn’t exactly look surprised by her failure to jump to his demand, and she ended up feeling thoroughly uncharitable when he returned with not only his own insulated cup of coffee, but a second cup for her, as well.

      “It’s the only kind of tea they had,” he said, flipping her a paper-wrapped teabag.

      “Thank you.”

      “Pilot’ll be ready soon.” He sipped the hot brew. “You probably fly private all the time.”

      “Not lately.” She studiously dipped the teabag in the steaming water. “You?”

      “When I have to.” His gaze passed her for the windows overlooking the airstrip.

      “Is that often?”

      A muscle flexed in his hard jaw. “Not anymore.”

      And after that, he said no more. His silence didn’t bother her, though. She had no particular desire to share her life story, either.

      After that, it seemed an alarmingly short time before Melanie found herself strapped into the rear seat of the smallest plane she’d ever seen, much less been flown in. Only four seats in the horribly small cabin, with Russ in one of the front two, alongside the pilot, whom he briefly introduced as “Mac.”

      The middle-aged pilot with a toothpick clenched between his teeth seemed about as taciturn as Russ, and as the tiny plane took flight, she could only pray that Mac was as capable a pilot as Russ was reportedly a rancher.

      But every time the small plane bumped and jolted, she had to swallow a gasp.

      She didn’t know how long they’d been in the air when Russ pulled off the headphones that matched the pair Mac wore and looked back at her, undoubtedly taking in her clenched hands on the armrests.

      “Thought you’d be used to flying.” He had to raise his voice to be heard above the plane’s engine. The plane’s one engine.

      What happened if that engine failed?

      “Enormous flying buses, yes.” Ones with multiple engines. She uncurled her fingers that were beginning to cramp. “And when it’s not a commercial flight, the McFarlane company planes are…somewhat larger than this.” They were jets. Outfitted with every conceivable comfort.

      The morning sunlight was slanting across his face through the plane’s windows, turning his brown eyes a lighter, amber shade. “You want to live in Thunder Canyon, you’d better get used to roughing it a little.”

      Melanie thought she heard Mac cover up a laugh.

      Her cheeks warmed. She could only imagine how spoiled both men seemed to think she was. “I wouldn’t term riding in any sort of plane as roughing it.” She didn’t need to lean forward to be heard, because the space between her row of seats and his was about the size of a postage stamp. “And this four-seater experience isn’t going to scare me into running back home, if that’s what you were hoping.”

      His lips twisted. “You’ve stuck it out six months already. I gave up hoping after five.” He turned back around in his seat and pulled his headphones back into place.

      Her imagination was really working overtime, because she could have sworn that there had been a hint of admiration in his voice.