“Do you come out here to the ranch often?” he asked her as they followed Matthew and Camille through a group of milling guests.
“When Camille lived here I visited the ranch quite often. Now I don’t have much reason to drive out here. Most of the family stops by the coffee shop where I work, so I see them regularly.”
Ahead of them, Matthew and Camille paused to acknowledge a small group of old acquaintances. While Taggart and Emily-Ann stood waiting, he turned his gaze back to the redhead. And suddenly he wished the gentleman in him had never offered his arm to this woman. The casual touch of her hand was causing hot sparks to shoot all the way up to his shoulder, making it difficult to concentrate.
Doing his damnedest to ignore the unexpected reaction, he tried to focus on her last remarks. “You work as a waitress?” he asked.
“I guess you could call me a waitress,” she told him. “The coffee shop is small and I run it by myself. The owner does the pastry baking, then leaves everything else up to me.”
“I’d never be able to do your job,” he told her. “I’d end up eating all the profits.”
The smile on her face drew him like a warm fire on a frigid night and he silently cursed himself for being so responsive to her. He was in no position to be feeling such things toward any woman.
A week had hardly passed since he’d arrived here on the ranch. Boxes of his belongings were still stacked in the modest house where Matthew had lived during his tenure as the ranch’s foreman. What with getting to know the Hollister family and learning his way around the ranch, he’d hardly had a chance to draw a good breath, much less unpack. He didn’t have time for a woman. And even if he did, he wasn’t in the market for marriage or even a serious affair. Furthermore, he never would be.
Her rich voice suddenly broke into his dire thoughts. “Once you have one of Conchita’s pastries you’re hooked. I try not to eat them, but it’s a fight. Now Holt’s wife, Isabelle, is a different matter. She comes in and eats a pile of brownies or whatever she wants and never gains an ounce. It isn’t fair. Little Carter hasn’t turned a month old yet and Isabelle already looks great. Must be all that horseback riding she does.”
Taggart could’ve told Emily-Ann, she had no cause to worry about her figure. It was nice. Hell, it was more than nice, he thought. She was curvy in all the right places and he had no doubt she’d feel soft in his arms. Just the way a woman ought to feel.
The unsettling thought forced him to clear his throat. “Do you ride horses?” he asked.
She nodded. “When Camille and I were much younger we rode all over the ranch,” she answered, then went on in a pensive voice, “Because she was my friend I got the chance to do things that I couldn’t have done otherwise. But now, working and taking classes doesn’t leave me much leisure time. And with Camille living at Red Bluff things have changed. But then you already know that. I mean, you’re here because Matthew runs Red Bluff ranch now.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here. To try to fill his boots,” he said wryly. “It’s not going to be an easy job.”
She smiled at him. “If Blake and Maureen believe you can do the job, then I’m positive you can.”
He was thinking how the confidence in her voice made him feel just a bit taller when Matthew and Camille turned back to them.
“Sorry about that,” Matthew said. “Everyone wants to talk. You’d think I’d been gone for five years instead of five months.”
Camille slanted a loving glance at her husband. “Shows how well you’re thought of around here.”
The first time Taggart had met Matthew and Camille, he’d not missed the affection that naturally flowed back and forth between the newlyweds. It was obvious they were deeply in love and though he was happy for them, seeing them together was a constant reminder of all that he’d lost. All that he’d never have.
“My wife is trying her best to give me the big head,” Matthew said with a chuckle, then gently nudged Camille onward.
The four of them moseyed on through the crowd until they reached the long bar constructed of native rock and topped with rough cedar boards. Behind the rustic counter, Jazelle, a young blond-haired woman was pouring a hefty amount of tequila into a tall pitcher of margarita mix.
“Oh, I’ll take one of those, Jazelle,” Emily-Ann spoke up.
“Same for me,” Taggart added his request.
Jazelle poured the concoction over two iced glasses and handed them over, while Camille continued to study the large assortment of refreshments lined up on the counter.
“I can’t make up my mind,” she said after a moment.
After giving his wife an indulgent smile, Matthew said to Jazelle, “I know what I want. Just give me plain ole coffee.”
Camille groaned. “That’s too hot. I want something sweet and cold.”
“We know Camille can’t have alcohol so just give her tomato juice,” Emily-Ann joked. “Or water.”
Pulling a face at Emily-Ann, Camille said, “Don’t listen to her, Jazelle. She doesn’t know about cravings. She’s never been pregnant.”
“No. I haven’t been pregnant,” Emily-Ann replied. “And I’m beginning to think I’ll never be.”
“Oh, come on, Emily-Ann,” Jazelle teased, “I wouldn’t be saying anything like that. You caught Camille’s wedding bouquet. You know what that means.”
Somewhat puzzled by the whole exchange between the women, Taggart watched a dark blush steal across Emily-Ann’s cheeks. The added color made her face even prettier, he decided.
“All right, that does it!” Emily-Ann muttered. “As soon as I down this margarita, I’m going home and tearing that damned bouquet into shreds and throwing it in the trash can.”
Instead of getting angry
