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Stephanie Julen was a realist and she knew what Grant felt for her: He wanted her. A lot. He wanted her—and he didn’t want to want her. He’d always considered it his job to protect her.
And now he intended to protect her from himself.
She was a whole lot more woman than he realized, however. And as a woman, she would do all in her power to see that he put those noble intentions aside and got what he wanted. After all, it was only what she wanted, too.
It had taken her a while to catch on, painful hours on Sunday—between the time he found her at the creek and the kiss they shared in the office. She’d been so sure he was mad at her or shocked or disgusted or something else equally upsetting.
But eventually, she’d figured it out. That strange look in his eyes every time he glanced her way…why, it was a hungry look.
And if she’d had a single doubt that he desired her, the kiss had burned all uncertainty clean away.
Oh, that kiss. He’d kissed her as if he wanted to gobble her right up.
And, well, Steph wouldn’t mind at all being gobbled. Not as long as it was Grant doing the gobbling. Oh, my, yes. She got chills all through her every time she thought about that kiss, about the hard, strong feel of his body pressed close to hers, about the way he’d swept his big hand down and cupped her bottom and pressed her closer still.
She’d felt what she did to him then, oh, yes, she had. She’d felt what he wanted to do to her. She’d felt it and known that she was getting her chance with him. At last.
No regrets, she promised herself. She would take things with Grant as they came. Ride this wild horse and just hope against hope that maybe she’d manage to stay on.
He was a good man. And a generous one. A protector of the weak and the needy. A man you could count on when you were down.
But he was not looking for a wife. What did he need with a lifetime commitment, or even a steady girl? The women flocked to him and he seemed to thoroughly enjoy his bachelor lifestyle.
Stephanie really hoped she could make him see that even a man who had everything needed the right woman to stand by his side. But she wasn’t counting on anything. She had no expectations of how it would all work out.
He stood back, watching from under the brim of his hat, as she went to where they’d hobbled the horses and began taking their lunch from the insulated saddlebags. She glanced over her shoulder, sent him another smile and thrilled to the lovely flare of heat that sparked in his eyes.
“I couldn’t resist the urge to race you over here,” she said. “And that means the beer is nothing but foam about now. You’ll have to wait for it.”
“It’s fine,” he said, his voice low and a little bit ragged.
“I’ve got lemonade, though.”
“I love lemonade.”
She laughed. “No, you don’t. But until the beer settles, lemonade is what you’re getting.” She unloaded the plastic jar of lemonade, the food and the forks and paper goods, taking way too much pleasure out of knowing that he watched every move she made—hungrily, like some big mountain lion stretched out on a tree limb, his tail flicking lazily, eyeing his dinner. She loved knowing it wasn’t just her mom’s cold chicken he was hungry for.
Once she had all the food out, she dropped to the blanket and took off her boots.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
She had to cover a laugh. For a ladies’ man, he sure was acting edgy and nervous today. She wiggled her stocking foot at him and answered in an easy tone. “Just getting comfortable.” She set her boots in the grass, tucked her legs to the side and patted the empty space next to her. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
He approached with caution and again, she had to hide a smile. But when he reached her, he turned, dropped to the edge of the blanket—and took off his own boots. She watched the muscles in his back bunch and stretch beneath the worn fabric of his old Western shirt and felt a heat down low in her belly, a sort of melting, lazy sensation. She wanted…
His mouth on hers. His knowing hands stroking her body.
Whoa, girl. Slow down a little. All in good time.
He set the boots away from the blanket, set his hat on them and faced her, drawing his long legs up, sitting cross-legged. She served him: a paper cup of lemonade, a breast and a drumstick, a mound of potato salad, a buttered roll and some carrot sticks. Over the years, she’d watched him eat hundreds of times. She knew how much food he liked, what parts of the chicken he preferred.
“It’s good,” he said, as he dug in.
She was filling her own plate from the plastic containers. “Oh, yeah.” She tasted the potato salad. “Mmm. My mom. She sure can cook.”
He waved the drumstick at her. “You mean you didn’t fry this chicken yourself?”
She laughed, glad that he seemed to be relaxing a little. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do that to you.” She knew how to cook. Marie had insisted on teaching her the basics, at least. But she was always much too impatient to hang around the kitchen. She wanted to be out the door and on the back of a horse. So her biscuits ended up gooey in the center and half the time her chicken got charred. “I know my limitations. I’m a rancher, not a ranch wife.”
He set the chicken leg back on his plate. Suddenly he seemed kind of thoughtful. “You’re happy, huh? Working cattle? Up before dawn to get the chores done, freezing your butt off all winter, dripping sweat while you fix fences and burn out ditches in the blazing summer sun?”
She tipped her head to the side and studied his face. “What kind of question is that? You know me. Does a dog have fleas? Do bats fly?”
He frowned. But when he spoke, his voice sounded offhand. “Just making sure you remember there are other options for you.”
“Too bad there’s nothing else I want to do.”
“But there are other things you could do. As I recall, you got As and Bs in high school.”
“I’ll have you know I got straight As.”
“I’m impressed.” “I did my best in school. That doesn’t mean I enjoyed being there.” She wouldn’t have gone past the eighth grade if her mom and Grant hadn’t insisted she get her diploma. And she still believed she could have held on to the Triple J, if only she’d been able to work full-time, instead of spending five days out of seven at Thunder Canyon High.
He advised in a weary tone, “You scrunch up your face like that, it might get stuck.”
“Hah,” she said. “You sound like Mom.”
He chuckled. “Just don’t be bitter. Believe me, it was the best thing. You’d have regretted not finishing high school.”
“No. I wouldn’t have. But it’s okay—and I’m not bitter.” She wrinkled her nose at him again. “Well, not much, anyway…”
He ate half of his flaky, perfect dinner roll. She chomped a carrot stick and got to work on a tender, crispy-skinned thigh. Eventually he said, “What I was trying to tell you is that I’m doin’ pretty well now. I could help you out, if you decided you might want to give college a try…”
Emotion tightened her throat. Not because she felt she’d missed out on college, not because she wanted it. She didn’t. Not in the least.
It was just that he was always so good to her, so generous. “Oh, Grant. Thank you. But no. I’m pretty much a self-starter. If I need to know something, I find a way to learn it. I never had a yen for any formal higher education. All I’ve ever wanted was a chance to do exactly what I’m doing now.” “I see.” His voice was flat. He set his plate down beside him, only half-finished.
Distress made a leaden sensation in her stomach. “Okay. I don’t get it. What did I say?”
He stared at her for a long, strange moment. And then he shrugged and picked up his plate again. “It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“But you—”
“No buts, Steph. I am positive to the millionth degree.” He grinned as he said it.
She grunted. “Oh, very funny.”
The Christmas she was seven, five years before their dads were killed, her mom had tried to talk her into asking Santa for one of those fancy American Girl dolls, the kind that came with a whole perfect miniature wardrobe—and a doll-size trunk to put all those fine clothes in.
Steph had sworn that a doll was the last thing she needed. She wanted a pony more than anything. She knew she was old enough for a horse of her own.
Grant, a high-school senior that year, had been over at the house, for some reason long lost to her now. She’d been following her mom around the kitchen, arguing endlessly, “I mean it, Mama. Don’t you get me any doll. I don’t want a doll and if you get me one I’ll rip its head off. I need my own horse. I got work to do. Just ask Daddy. He’ll tell you I’m his best helper and his best helper needs a horse.”
Grant had stuck his head in from the living room to tease, “Oh, come on, Steffie, you know you want a pretty little doll.”
She still remembered whipping around to glare at him, shaking a finger as she lectured him, “Do not call me Steffie. And I don’t want any doll.”
“You sure?”
“I am positive, Grant Clifton,” she’d smartly informed him. “Positive to the millionth degree.”
Now, he lifted his drumstick to her in a salute. “You were one feisty kid.”
She faked a groan. “Oh, please. Feisty? Not me. I was a practical kid. And I got my first horse that Christmas, if you recall.”
Malomar, her sweet-natured bay mare, had ended up sold at auction with the rest of the Triple J stock. It was one of her saddest memories: her mare being led into that horse trailer, the trailer kicking up dust as it rolled away.
That memory, somehow, was almost as bad as seeing her dad’s lifeless body with that big red hole in the side of his head on the day that he died. The death of a parent was an enormous and terrible thing—too terrible in some ways for a young mind to comprehend. But the end of her life as she’d known and loved it?
That had been horrible, too. And by then, three years after her dad died, she’d been old enough to understand what was happening when she watched Malomar being taken away.
But she wasn’t dwelling on any sad memories today. Uh-uh. She had the man she loved sitting right beside her, and he was finally seeing her as a woman grown. She fully intended to enjoy every minute of this afternoon.
They ate in silence for a little while, finishing off their drumsticks and potato salad, sipping their lemonade.
Finally Grant said, “I remember that you got your horse that Christmas, just like you wanted—and promptly fell off her and broke your collarbone.”
She confessed, “It’s true. I was never what you’d call a cautious kid.”
“Uh-uh. You were brave and bold and nobody ever told you what to do.” Those sky-blue eyes of his gleamed at her. She saw admiration in them.
For the fearless kid she’d once been? Or the woman she was now?
Or maybe…both? Her heart skipped a beat at the thought.
And then he was frowning again. “Look. Steph. There’s something I really have to—”
“Oh, don’t,” she cried before he could finish.
Now he seemed puzzled. “Don’t?”
“That’s right. Don’t. I know just what you’re going to say and I don’t want to hear it, okay?”
He actually gulped. “Er, you know?”
She set her plate aside and wiped her hands on a paper towel. “Of course, I know. How could I not? Something like this, a woman always knows. I admit, you had me wondering at first. But I got the message eventually. Really, it’s all just so…perfectly obvious.”
“Obvious.” He gaped at her.
“Yes.”
He set his own plate down. And he knocked back the rest of his lemonade, crushing the paper cup in his big fist when he finished. And he swore under his breath. “Steph.”
“Yeah?”
“What, exactly, are you talking about?”
Should she say it right out? Probably not. Her mom always used to tell her that men didn’t like it when a woman got too direct, when a woman dared to take the lead in an obvious way.
But her mom was from a different generation, after all. From a time when women were expected to wait around for men to make the first move.
Thank God it wasn’t like that anymore.
But still, what if she spooked him by laying it right out there, bold as you please? She didn’t want to scare him off.
A sudden gust of wind stirred the trees around them and tried to blow the paper plates away, with only chicken bones to hold them down.
“Oops.” Swiftly she gathered up the remains of their meal, stuffed it in the trash bag she’d brought and weighted the bag down with a rock. “There,” she said unnecessarily when that job was done. He was sitting so still, watching her, kind of narrow-eyed, waiting for her to explain herself.
She stalled some more. “Hey. Want a beer?” She started to rise.
“Stay here.” He reached for his boots. “I can get it.” He pulled on his boots and grabbed the trash bag from under the rock. “You want one?”
She didn’t much care for beer. “No.”
She watched him go to the horses, something inside her kind of aching in a joyous way. His shoulders were so broad, his waist so hard and narrow. And he truly did have one fine butt.
And how could she tell him—that she knew he wanted her though he didn’t want to want her? How could she make him understand that she didn’t expect anything from him?
Except maybe his kisses and his eager embrace. Just this…wonder. And this joy.
And as for the rest? Well, why not just let the rest take care of itself?
He stuffed the trash in the saddlebags, got a beer and returned to her. She stewed some more over what to say to him as he set the can on one of the rocks and pulled off his boots all over again. He popped the tab and took a long drink. She watched his Adam’s apple bounce up and down and continued her internal debate: What to say?
How to say it?
Finally he set down what was left of the beer. “Well?”
“Um. Yeah. Okay. I…” The words were right there, inside her mind, so clear. I know that you’re attracted to me, but you’re thinking it’s not right because you’re not looking for anything permanent. You’re telling yourself you won’t take advantage of me. But oh, please. Take advantage. Take advantage right now….
So clear. And so much easier to think than to actually say.
“What?” His gaze locked on hers. “Say it.”
