and five of John's men. Michelle
offered them all a cup of fresh coffee, which they politely refused, just as
they refused her offer to show them around the ranch. John had probably given
them orders that she wasn't to do anything, and they were taking it seriously.
People didn't disobey Rafferty's orders if they wanted to continue working for
him, so she didn't insist, but for the first time in weeks she found herself
with nothing to do.
She tried to think what she'd done with
herself before, but years of her life were a blank. What
had
she done?
How could she fill the hours now, if working on her own ranch was denied her?
John drove up shortly before nine, but she
had been ready for more than an hour and stepped out on the porch to meet him.
He stopped on the steps, his dark eyes running over her in heated approval.
"Nice," he murmured just loud enough for her to hear. She looked the
way she should always look, cool and elegant in a pale yellow silk surplice
dress, fastened only by two white buttons at the waist. The shoulders were
lightly padded, emphasizing the slimness of her body, and a white enamel
peacock was pinned to her lapel. Her sunshine hair was sleeked back into a
demure twist; oversized sunglasses shielded her eyes. He caught the tantalizing
fragrance of some softly bewitching perfume, and his body began to heat. She
was aristocratic and expensive from her head to her daintily shod feet; even
her underwear would be silk, and he wanted to strip every stitch of it away
from her, then stretch her out naked on his bed. Yes, this was exactly the way
she should look.
Michelle tucked her white clutch under her
arm and walked with him to the car, immensely grateful for the sunglasses
covering her eyes. John was a hardworking rancher, but when the occasion
demanded he could dress as well as any Philadelphia lawyer. Any clothing looked
good on his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped frame, but the severe gray suit he
wore seemed to heighten his masculinity instead of restraining it All hint of
waviness had been brushed from his black hair. Instead of his usual pickup
truck he was driving a dark gray two-seater Mercedes, a sleek beauty that made
her think of the Porsche she had sold to raise money after her father had died.
"You said your men were going to help
me," she said expressionlessly as he turned the car onto the highway
several minutes later. "You didn't say they were going to take over."
He'd put on sunglasses, too, because the
morning sun was glaring, and the dark lenses hid the probing look he directed
at her stiff profile. "They're going to do the heavy work."
"After the fencing is repaired and the
cattle are moved to the east pasture, I can handle tilings from there."
"What about dipping, castrating,
branding, all the things that should've been done in the spring? You can't
handle that. You don't have any horses, any men, and you sure as hell can't
rope and throw a young bull from that old truck you've got."
Her slender hands clenched in her lap. Why
did he have to be so right? She couldn't do any of those things, but neither
could she be content as a useless ornament. "I know I can't do those
things by myself, but I can help."
"I'll think about it," he answered
noncommittally, but he knew there was no way in hell he'd let her. What could
she do? It was hard, dirty, smelly, bloody work. The only thing she was
physically strong enough to do was brand calves, and he didn't think she could
stomach the smell or the frantic struggles of the terrified little animals.
''It's my ranch,'' she reminded him, ice in
her tone. "Either I help, or the deal's off."
John didn't say anything. There was no point
in arguing. He simply wasn't going to let her do it, and that was that. He'd
handle her when the time came, but he didn't expect much of a fight. When she
saw what was involved, she wouldn't want any part of it. Besides, she couldn't
possibly like the hard work she'd been doing; he figured she was just too
offered them all a cup of fresh coffee, which they politely refused, just as
they refused her offer to show them around the ranch. John had probably given
them orders that she wasn't to do anything, and they were taking it seriously.
People didn't disobey Rafferty's orders if they wanted to continue working for
him, so she didn't insist, but for the first time in weeks she found herself
with nothing to do.
She tried to think what she'd done with
herself before, but years of her life were a blank. What
had
she done?
How could she fill the hours now, if working on her own ranch was denied her?
John drove up shortly before nine, but she
had been ready for more than an hour and stepped out on the porch to meet him.
He stopped on the steps, his dark eyes running over her in heated approval.
"Nice," he murmured just loud enough for her to hear. She looked the
way she should always look, cool and elegant in a pale yellow silk surplice
dress, fastened only by two white buttons at the waist. The shoulders were
lightly padded, emphasizing the slimness of her body, and a white enamel
peacock was pinned to her lapel. Her sunshine hair was sleeked back into a
demure twist; oversized sunglasses shielded her eyes. He caught the tantalizing
fragrance of some softly bewitching perfume, and his body began to heat. She
was aristocratic and expensive from her head to her daintily shod feet; even
her underwear would be silk, and he wanted to strip every stitch of it away
from her, then stretch her out naked on his bed. Yes, this was exactly the way
she should look.
Michelle tucked her white clutch under her
arm and walked with him to the car, immensely grateful for the sunglasses
covering her eyes. John was a hardworking rancher, but when the occasion
demanded he could dress as well as any Philadelphia lawyer. Any clothing looked
good on his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped frame, but the severe gray suit he
wore seemed to heighten his masculinity instead of restraining it All hint of
waviness had been brushed from his black hair. Instead of his usual pickup
truck he was driving a dark gray two-seater Mercedes, a sleek beauty that made
her think of the Porsche she had sold to raise money after her father had died.
"You said your men were going to help
me," she said expressionlessly as he turned the car onto the highway
several minutes later. "You didn't say they were going to take over."
He'd put on sunglasses, too, because the
morning sun was glaring, and the dark lenses hid the probing look he directed
at her stiff profile. "They're going to do the heavy work."
"After the fencing is repaired and the
cattle are moved to the east pasture, I can handle tilings from there."
"What about dipping, castrating,
branding, all the things that should've been done in the spring? You can't
handle that. You don't have any horses, any men, and you sure as hell can't
rope and throw a young bull from that old truck you've got."
Her slender hands clenched in her lap. Why
did he have to be so right? She couldn't do any of those things, but neither
could she be content as a useless ornament. "I know I can't do those
things by myself, but I can help."
"I'll think about it," he answered
noncommittally, but he knew there was no way in hell he'd let her. What could
she do? It was hard, dirty, smelly, bloody work. The only thing she was
physically strong enough to do was brand calves, and he didn't think she could
stomach the smell or the frantic struggles of the terrified little animals.
''It's my ranch,'' she reminded him, ice in
her tone. "Either I help, or the deal's off."
John didn't say anything. There was no point
in arguing. He simply wasn't going to let her do it, and that was that. He'd
handle her when the time came, but he didn't expect much of a fight. When she
saw what was involved, she wouldn't want any part of it. Besides, she couldn't
possibly like the hard work she'd been doing; he figured she was just too
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