the law will be after you before you can say snap, crackle, pop.”
A crack of laughter boomed from his chest as she passed him the bags. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, ma’am. I’m a Wheaties kind of guy.”
Obviously,
she thought, as he snaked those muscled arms around the grocery bags. Only a blind woman wouldn’t have noticed biceps that impressive.
“I’m Chance Roper,” he said easily as he fell into step alongside her. “I’m a ranch hand at the Crystal Horseshoe Ranch. Let me guess—you’re one of our guests staying out at the private cabins, right? If you were staying in the main house, I’d definitely remember you.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong on both counts. Here we are.”
“This bucket of bolts is yours?” He was eyeing the Blazer as if it had just crawled out of the junk heap on one cylinder. His glance immediately flipped back to her and she almost laughed, knowing he was trying to reconcile her fancy sandals and cool jeans with the beat-up, semi-rusted car.
“She’s mine all right. Good old Nellie.” She reached out for the bags with an amused smile. “I’ll take those now. Thanks—”
“Hold on, let me put ’em in for you.”
When the groceries were stored in the backseat of the Blazer, Chance Roper stood there another minute, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “You’re not a tourist, then? Just driving through?”
“I’m staying on a bit. But not at the Crystal Horseshoe.”
“A mystery woman, huh?” He grinned. “Maybe I could buy you a drink sometime? Like tonight?”
“I don’t think so.” He was persistent, she had to give him that much. Charming, sweet, and persistent. But she wasn’t here to date cowboys, or anyone else for that matter. Of course he had no way of knowing that, she told herself. Or of knowing that for her, right now,
date
was a four-letter word.
“How long are you staying around?”
“I’m not sure.” She met his gaze squarely. “Look, thanks for the help, but I have to go pay for my new tire and I have a lot of settling in to do—”
He held up a hand good-naturedly. “Sure. Don’t say another word. I’m outta here.” He tipped his wide-brimmed cowboy hat at her. “See you around . . . uh . . . what did you say your name was?”
She did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. You had to admire—or despise—a guy who wouldn’t give up. But Chance Roper seemed too genuinely nice for anyone to despise.
She caved.
“Josy. Josy Warner.”
His smile was nearly as wide as his hat brim. “I’ll see you around, Miz Warner.”
As he swung off toward his pickup, whistling, Josy could only wonder if all the men in Thunder Creek were as charmingly skillful at hitting on newcomers. Then she remembered the man she’d encountered on the stairway of the Pine Hills apartments last night. Nothing charming about him. And obviously no interest in hitting on newcomers. At least not this newcomer.
Which was fine with her. Unlike Chance, who, apart from his cowboy hat and boots and his cute twang, was not so different from any number of smooth, confident guys she could meet in any club in New York, the man on the stairwell had struck her as a dark, cool-eyed loner. That was hardly her type and never had been.
Of course, Doug Fifer was exactly her type and look how that had turned out.
With a sigh, Josy went in search of the gas station attendant, deciding that thinking about men—any man— was a waste of valuable time and energy. What she needed to do now was go back to the apartment to put her groceries away, then drive to Wal-Mart for some bed linens and towels and cleaning supplies and then back to the apartment for the rest of the day, to concentrate on work.
Which was a great plan in theory, but in reality, she realized by eight o’clock that night, it just plain sucked.
Sitting on her rented sofa in her tiny Pine Hills living room after the sun went down, she stared morosely at the doodles occuping the bottom quarter
A crack of laughter boomed from his chest as she passed him the bags. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, ma’am. I’m a Wheaties kind of guy.”
Obviously,
she thought, as he snaked those muscled arms around the grocery bags. Only a blind woman wouldn’t have noticed biceps that impressive.
“I’m Chance Roper,” he said easily as he fell into step alongside her. “I’m a ranch hand at the Crystal Horseshoe Ranch. Let me guess—you’re one of our guests staying out at the private cabins, right? If you were staying in the main house, I’d definitely remember you.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong on both counts. Here we are.”
“This bucket of bolts is yours?” He was eyeing the Blazer as if it had just crawled out of the junk heap on one cylinder. His glance immediately flipped back to her and she almost laughed, knowing he was trying to reconcile her fancy sandals and cool jeans with the beat-up, semi-rusted car.
“She’s mine all right. Good old Nellie.” She reached out for the bags with an amused smile. “I’ll take those now. Thanks—”
“Hold on, let me put ’em in for you.”
When the groceries were stored in the backseat of the Blazer, Chance Roper stood there another minute, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “You’re not a tourist, then? Just driving through?”
“I’m staying on a bit. But not at the Crystal Horseshoe.”
“A mystery woman, huh?” He grinned. “Maybe I could buy you a drink sometime? Like tonight?”
“I don’t think so.” He was persistent, she had to give him that much. Charming, sweet, and persistent. But she wasn’t here to date cowboys, or anyone else for that matter. Of course he had no way of knowing that, she told herself. Or of knowing that for her, right now,
date
was a four-letter word.
“How long are you staying around?”
“I’m not sure.” She met his gaze squarely. “Look, thanks for the help, but I have to go pay for my new tire and I have a lot of settling in to do—”
He held up a hand good-naturedly. “Sure. Don’t say another word. I’m outta here.” He tipped his wide-brimmed cowboy hat at her. “See you around . . . uh . . . what did you say your name was?”
She did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. You had to admire—or despise—a guy who wouldn’t give up. But Chance Roper seemed too genuinely nice for anyone to despise.
She caved.
“Josy. Josy Warner.”
His smile was nearly as wide as his hat brim. “I’ll see you around, Miz Warner.”
As he swung off toward his pickup, whistling, Josy could only wonder if all the men in Thunder Creek were as charmingly skillful at hitting on newcomers. Then she remembered the man she’d encountered on the stairway of the Pine Hills apartments last night. Nothing charming about him. And obviously no interest in hitting on newcomers. At least not this newcomer.
Which was fine with her. Unlike Chance, who, apart from his cowboy hat and boots and his cute twang, was not so different from any number of smooth, confident guys she could meet in any club in New York, the man on the stairwell had struck her as a dark, cool-eyed loner. That was hardly her type and never had been.
Of course, Doug Fifer was exactly her type and look how that had turned out.
With a sigh, Josy went in search of the gas station attendant, deciding that thinking about men—any man— was a waste of valuable time and energy. What she needed to do now was go back to the apartment to put her groceries away, then drive to Wal-Mart for some bed linens and towels and cleaning supplies and then back to the apartment for the rest of the day, to concentrate on work.
Which was a great plan in theory, but in reality, she realized by eight o’clock that night, it just plain sucked.
Sitting on her rented sofa in her tiny Pine Hills living room after the sun went down, she stared morosely at the doodles occuping the bottom quarter
Similar Books
