“Well, much obliged.”
From under the edges of the morning news he fastened his gaze on the woman’s shoes…rather, moccasins… peeking from the hem of a dress the color of ripe peaches. How unusual. Payton couldn’t recall anyone quite so unorthodox. Or one with feminine enticement oozing from every nook and cranny.
He felt her lean closer and squirmed.
Her breath dallied on the newspaper like a gentle caress. A ragged gulp of air couldn’t save him. He knew if he lowered the shield again he’d fall into the bottomless depths of her sooty gaze. He’d wrestled many a steer and ridden ornery broncs without a speck of the panic he knew now.
“Excuse me,” mystery lady’s silken request further muddled his musing.
Payton reluctantly folded the paper. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Could I beg you for the time?”
“I believe it’s half-past eight. Meeting someone?”
“Perhaps.” She captured the tips of each gloved finger between pearly teeth and with painstaking deliberation drew off the soft kid before extending her hand. “I’m Amanda.”
“Pleasure’s mine. Payton McCord of the Frying Pan Ranch.”
Miss Amanda had a firm grip. No limp-wrist woman.
Yep, the pleasure was most definitely his. Heat rose from his midsection and spread in sultry, scorching waves.
A curtain of dark hair the shade of thick, warm molasses cascaded from a jeweled contraption fastened at the crown instead of worn in the God-awful stiff custom of the day. Amanda evidently thumbed her nose at convention both in her choice of footwear and appearance. He was a lucky man.
“Forgive me, Mr. McCord. I shouldn’t pry. But can you tell me if you wear leather gloves all the time?”
He sat up a little straighter. “What the…?”
“I see I’ve shocked you. Too much time alone I fear. I forget the niceties.”
A woman of her caliber shouldn’t ever be alone. What a waste of prime womanhood. Payton glanced again at the clock wondering if it had gotten stuck on half-past eight. “If I learned niceties they didn’t stick. And yes, gloves have become a permanent fixture. Helps in my line of work.”
“Which would be?”
“Cattle.”
“No surprise there,” she murmured so low he had trouble hearing. Or it could’ve been the swarm of angry bees in his head that searched for stolen honey.
Amanda withdrew a lacy kerchief from her handbag and dabbed at the slim column of her throat. Blood pounded in his ears as he followed the lazy, agonizing path to hidden soft skin lurking beyond the vee of her neckline. She toyed with the top button.
Payton wanted to look higher, somewhere in the vicinity of her forehead. Dammit, he tried. But there weren’t enough horses in the state of Texas to drag his attention anywhere else. Perspiration soaked through the underarms of his shirt. He prayed she’d not notice. Sweat probably offended a nice lady of her obvious breeding, the moccasins aside. She could’ve fallen on hard times and resorted to what she could get. He wouldn’t hold that against her. He’d like to hold
Crossing his legs, he nodded at her valise. “Traveling?”
“No.” Tendrils of Amanda’s hair curled about her ear with the shake of her head.
Then why in Sam hell did she carry a case?
“Traveling folks usually tote one of those.” He pointed to the worn leather bag.
“Oh, that.” Her quick laugh washed over him in thick, indolent pulses. “I thought this may require spending the night instead of riding back to my ranch. Depending.”
“On what? If you’re at liberty to say, that is.” Why had his throat gotten so dry all of a sudden?
“My plans depend on the person I’m meeting. If he shows up and things…Well, if things turn out. I’m sure you understand.”
Payton’s stomach twisted, resisting the fact that Amanda had a man friend and they might be doing…uh, never mind what they might be doing. The painful lump in his throat grew.
“No need to explain.”
Absolutely no need. She didn’t have to plow a whole dad-blamed field before he knew she was sowing something. He might be a bachelor but he had more than a little experience with the ladies. In fact, too much, or his mind wouldn’t linger on featherbeds and social calls. Amanda rested her hand on his arm, the touch plundering the remainder of his good sense.
“Are you waiting for someone, Mr. McCord?”
“James Wyness, head of the Cattle Raisers Association.”
“My goodness, your meeting must be awfully important.”
“I couldn’t say. I’m in the dark why the boss sent me.”
Amanda twisted the handkerchief around her finger. Feathery lashes lowered to hide her burnished mahogany gaze.
It surprised him that she’d be nervous. Must be her first time. A married woman cheating on her husband? No ring weighted her hand, but she could’ve discarded it. He hoped she at least knew this fellow she was fixin’ to let ruin her life. The bastard would make her a fallen woman.
The thought soured on his stomach.
Payton made a rule not to judge others but at the moment he could gladly whip the fellow up one street and down the other for taking advantage of such a genteel lady.
With angelic grace, she fingered a strand of warm molasses while treating him to a wide-eyed regard. Payton’s heart skittered sideways.
“Your ranch, ma’am…would it have a name?”
The smile that teased the corners of her lush lips wobbled. “It’s a small spread and I tend to keep to myself.”
“How many head you running?”
“More than enough to keep me busy.” Shadows lurked in the dusky gaze that swept the room’s occupants. “And yes, I’m the sole owner. I do the work of several.”
So the lady had no husband. Interesting.
Payton shifted. “Awful big burden for small shoulders.”
“Whatever doesn’t whip us into the ground makes us stronger, I’m told.”
Amanda touched the outside of each eye with the tip of the handkerchief, examining Payton. He had the right initials. But he couldn’t be the letter writer for the obvious reason that he’d come to meet the Scotsman, Wyness. Not her.
Part of her wished he was. He had an honest firmness that made him shine above other men. Payton McCord would stand up when it came time to be counted. He would never fold or trifle with her. How she came to that conclusion she wasn’t sure, or why she took to a saddle-warmer of all things.
Well, she never wanted a perfect man. Just one that would hold her when she was cold, frightened, or empty, and ask for nothing except the sharing of a life in return. This one she could learn to accept if the price were right. With him the midnight hours would hold no loneliness or despair.
McCord had a rugged strength. Perhaps he would afford her respect few others had.
Eyes the color of freshly picked mint seemed to look at the world in shades of green-perhaps not minding that she raised sheep of all things. Sandy waves, streaked by the sun, brushed his jacket collar in rebellion. And the groomed mustache added flair to features that had probably seen good times and bad in equal measure and served to forge some strong steel.
From lowered lids she imagined the gentleness of the sensual mouth. The rapid thud of her pulse seemed loud as the ache expanded.
The mustache would tickle just a tiny bit.
But she wouldn’t mind. Not when he could banish the ills of the past. And she had little doubt that he could. This man held promise. She needed, desired, him to be real. Was that too much to ask?
