A Ranch To Call Home

“I suppose we are but I’ve only been in Forget-Me-Not for a short time.”

“It’s a good place to settle.” In one leap, he hopped off the wagon.

She watched him while he walked to the wall where the tools were hanging, taking note of the long rip down the back of her nightgown. She would have to repair it before bed.

It was interesting to note that he knew the exact spot to put the tool even though he had never been in her barn. A barn was a barn, she guessed, pretty much the same anywhere. Tools went where they went with no great mystery involved.

“Must be getting close to dawn,” Mr. Creed remarked while leading the two stallions in his herd, each to a separate stall.

It made sense that he would put the stallions away. But it struck her as forward that he had not asked for her permission. It was her barn, for all that he seemed so at home in it.

“I’ll fix us something to eat.” Since he had unloaded the hay wagon for her, she owed him a meal before she sent him and his livestock on their way.

“Appreciate it. I’m not much of a hand in the kitchen. I’ll build us up a fire in the parlor. Reckon it’s nearly as cold inside as it is out here.”

* * *

Jesse ran toward the house, his saddlebag slung over his shoulder, his rifle in his fist.

The sooner he peeled out of this blamed sleepwear the better. He’d toss it in the fire he was about to build if he didn’t guess the woman would need to take it with her when she left.

He had hoped it would happen after breakfast, but during the dash from the barn to the house, the weather took an intense turn for the worse. This was the kind of storm that living things ought not to venture out in.

The lady dashed a few feet ahead of him, through the mess of rain and sleet. She sure was a shapely little thing. Rude as it was, he couldn’t help staring at how gracefully she bounded up the stairs, how her hips swayed—

He forced his gaze down, watching his knees bump the lace border of the nightgown. He purely hoped she hadn’t married her unfaithful beau. She seemed far too fine for the likes of someone who’d picked the nickname of Hell Dog.

Standing on the porch, he opened the front door for her to enter before him. He was as soaked and muddy as when he last came in the house, but this time he thought better of shedding his clothes.

The dog rushed in first, heedless of the debris sticking to his fur.

“Hey...Dog, get out of the house!” he called.

“He belongs to me now and I’ve named him Chisel,” the lady announced, brushing by him. “I do allow him inside.”

The hell she did! He opened his mouth to say so, then noticed the high gleam reflecting off the floor. Words dried in his mouth like a stream in a three-year drought.

Curtains in the windows, a shine on the floor... How long had she been squatting in his house? And what was he going to do about it?

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