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“This is your project, Mr. Blackhawk. You’ll have to finish it on your own. If there’s something you can’t cope with, you can always leave.”
His gaze locked with hers. “It’s not a matter of coping. I’d just be glad of the company.”
Goose bumps that had nothing to do with the chilly air rose on her skin. She turned away and concentrated on tightening the cinch on Ginger’s saddle.
“I seem to make you nervous, Karen. Why is that?”
She frowned as she faced him. “You don’t make me nervous, Mr. Blackhawk. You make me mad.”
He chuckled at that.
“You find that amusing?” she asked indignantly.
His gaze settled on her mouth. “No,” he said softly. “I find it promising. A woman with a temper is always more fascinating than one who’s docile.”
“I’m not doing any of this to provide you with entertainment,” she snapped, trying not to acknowledge that his words sent an unaccustomed thrill shivering down her spine and set her pulse to racing.
“I know,” he said, his grin spreading. “That’s what makes it so enjoyable.”
Karen bit back a retort that would only have escalated the ridiculous debate and mounted Ginger. Stepping back, Grady touched a finger to the brim of his hat in a polite salute.
“Enjoy your ride.”
“I intend to,” she lied. She doubted she would enjoy anything as long as this impossible man was underfoot.
An hour later, though, after riding hard, then meeting up with Hank and Dooley to check their progress on the fence repairs, she was feeling more at ease. She expected that to change the minute she reached the barn, but to her surprise Grady was nowhere in sight. His truck was gone, too. The sigh that eased through her was tinged with something she couldn’t identify. Surely not regret, she thought with exasperation. No, it was relief, nothing more.
Unfortunately, though, her relief didn’t last long. The evidence of Grady’s presence and of his anticipated return was everywhere. The tools, paint cans and lumber were right where he’d left them. The ladder was still propped against the side of the barn, and the paint had been scraped only from the highest boards, with plenty left untouched.
She had barely cooled Ginger down and started for the house when his truck appeared in the distance, an unmistakable splash of red against the dull winter landscape. Karen hurried inside to avoid another pointless confrontation.
But as the afternoon wore on and her gaze kept straying to the man who was diligently and methodically stripping the old paint off her barn, she sighed and accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to go away. She had to find some way to make peace with him.
In her experience, home-baked cookies were generally an excellent peace offering. With nobody around to appreciate the results, she hadn’t had the urge to bake for some time now. Still, as a gesture of loyalty to her late husband, she made a deliberate choice to bake oatmeal-raisin cookies, her father’s favorites, rather than the chocolate chip that Caleb had loved.
When the first batch was still warm from the oven, she put some of the cookies on a plate, poured a mug of coffee and carried it all across the yard. As she walked toward Grady, she could feel his speculative gaze burning into her.
The gesture had been a mistake, she concluded as she met his eyes. He was going to make too much of it, twist it somehow and use it as an opening. Impatient with herself for allowing room for him to jump to a conclusion that a truce was in the offing, she plunked coffee and plate down ungraciously and scurried back to the house.
She was all too aware that Grady’s intent gaze followed her every step.
“You are such a ninny, Karen Hanson,” she chided herself as she slammed the door behind her. “Taking the man a few cookies was polite. It wasn’t an overture that he could misinterpret.”
But despite the reassuring words, she was very much afraid that he had. And who knew where that would lead?
Grady was satisfied with the way the day had gone. He’d made progress. At least Karen hadn’t thrown him off the property. In fact, she’d baked him cookies, as if he were a schoolboy who deserved nourishment for doing a chore.
She’d regretted it, too. He’d seen that in her eyes and in the way she’d retreated to the house with such haste that he hadn’t even had time to thank her.
One of these days they might actually sit down and have a real conversation, he mused. After that, who knew what might be accomplished? Maybe she would listen to reason.
Of course, in his experience, women were emotional creatures. Reason didn’t matter half as much to them as it did to men. Which meant he would just have to appeal to Karen’s heart. How he was supposed to do that when it was her heart that was telling her to throw his offer back in his face was beyond him, but he would figure it out. He was too close to his goal now to let anything stand in his way.
Grady figured he had another week’s work on the barn. Then he’d move on to something else. And something else after that, if need be. He considered the time and money an investment. After all, the work needed to be done anyway and the property would be his someday soon.
Grady leaned against the rung of the ladder and munched on the last cookie. He hadn’t had a decent oatmeal-raisin cookie in years, not since one of his classmates had moved away in sixth grade. Luke’s mama had baked the best oatmeal-raisin cookies ever. None he’d tried in all the years since had lived up to them…until now.
He stared toward the house, saw a light come on in the kitchen and knew she was in there fixing supper. Did she cook for herself now that Caleb was gone? Or did she put together a careless snack, a sandwich maybe, or even nothing more than a bowl of cold cereal and milk? That’s what he found himself doing more nights than not. It didn’t seem worth the effort to fix a hearty meal. When his body demanded something substantial, he drove into town and ate out. He’d become a regular at Stella’s, ignoring the fact that Cassie Davis tended to regard him with suspicion much of the time. If she should consider the entrée he’d gained into Karen’s life an intrusion, he might have to check his supper for arsenic.
Staring over at the house, he felt nagged by curiosity until he convinced himself that going to the door to return his mug and give Karen a proper thanks for those cookies was the gentlemanly thing to do.
As he tapped on the glass, he could see her shadowy movements inside, saw her go still, hesitate, then finally move toward the door. He could imagine her sigh of resignation as she crossed the kitchen.
“Yes?” she said, her tone surly, her expression forbidding.
Grady saw past that, though, to the hint of loneliness in her eyes. Of course, her irritation was doing a mighty fine job of covering it up, but he’d caught a glimpse of it just the same. Or maybe that was just an excuse to prolong the encounter.
He held out the mug and the plate. “Just wanted to thank you for the coffee and the cookies.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, taking the dishes and already starting to shut the door in his face.
He blocked it with the toe of his boot. He was about to do something he was likely to regret, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“What are you doing for supper, Karen?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Why? Are you inviting yourself?”
He grinned. “Not at all. My mama taught me better manners than that. I was going to invite you to join me over in Winding River. I’m partial to Stella’s meat loaf, and that’s the special tonight. I hate to eat alone.”
She was shaking her head before the words were out of his mouth. “I couldn’t.”
“Don’t want to be seen with me?” he challenged.
“That’s not it,” she said with a touch of impatience. “I’ve already started fixing my own supper. It would go to waste.”
“I don’t suppose there’s enough for two?” he asked hopefully.
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Have you forgotten your manners so soon, Mr. Blackhawk?”
“Like I said, I hate to eat alone. I think my mama would forgive me just this once for being pushy. How about you? Can you forgive me? Maybe take pity on a poor bachelor who rarely gets a homecooked meal?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, come on in,” she said with a shake of her head. “You’re impossible, Mr. Blackhawk.”
Grady hid a grin as he entered. He hung his hat and jacket on a peg by the door, then sniffed the air. “Why, I do believe you’re making meat loaf.”
“Which I’m sure you knew before you made that outrageous claim about it being one of your favorites.”
Grady didn’t deny it. Instead, he looked around and asked, “What can I do? Want me to set the table, or are you afraid I’ll steal the silver?”
“No silver,” she said. “I think I can trust you with the stainless-steel utensils and the everyday dishes. You don’t strike me as a clumsy man.”
“I try not to be…especially when there’s a beautiful woman watching.”
She flushed at that, but in less than a heartbeat, her eyes flashed sparks. “Don’t try flattering me, Mr. Blackhawk.”
He frowned. “Can we get past the formalities? I’ve been calling you Karen all day long. Can’t you call me Grady?”
He saw her struggle reflected on her face, knew that she considered it one step closer to an intimacy she didn’t want. She was too polite to tell him that, though. She merely nodded curtly.
“Grady, then.”
“Thank you,” he said, keeping his expression and his tone deliberately solemn.
“Are you mocking me?”
“Not mocking,” he said. “Just teasing a little.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” she said sharply.
“Oh, really? When was the last time a man teased you, Karen?”
“I’m sure you know the answer to that.”
“When Caleb was still alive,” he suggested. “Tell me about him.”
She stared at him with surprise written all over her face. “Why?”
“Because I’d like to know how you saw him. I imagine it was quite a bit different from the way I viewed him.”
“Yes, I imagine it was,” she replied wryly. “He was my husband and I loved him.”
“Needless to say, I didn’t. He always struck me as an unreasonable man, one who twisted the facts to suit himself,” Grady said, deliberately baiting her just to see the flash of fire in her eyes, the color blooming in her cheeks. He liked seeing her come alive, instead of wearing the defeated air he’d seen on his arrival the day before.
“Caleb was the fairest men I ever knew,” she retorted, her voice as prickly as a desert cactus. “Which is why I owe it to him to think twice before I believe a word you say. You tell me you weren’t responsible for any of those incidents that almost cost us our herd, but words aren’t evidence. Where’s your proof?”
He leveled a look straight into her soft blue eyes. “Where’s yours?”
She swallowed hard at that and turned away, dishing up mashed potatoes, gravy and meat loaf with quick, impatient gestures that told him his barb had gotten to her.
Silently she slapped a fresh loaf of country sourdough bread on the table, along with home-churned butter, then took a seat opposite him.
“Shall we call a truce, Karen?” he suggested mildly. “Otherwise, we’re going to ruin a perfectly fine meal, and we’ll both end up with indigestion.”
“Calling a truce with you is a risk,” she said candidly. “You tend to take advantage every chance you get.”
“I’m highly motivated. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“I suppose that depends on your motivation and your goal.”
“You know mine. I’ve laid all my cards on the table. What about you? What motivates you?” He noticed that the travel brochures had been gathered up and tossed into a basket on the counter. “Dreams of faraway places?”
“Dreams can be a motivation,” she conceded, though it wasn’t a direct answer to his question. Her gaze met his. “Or merely a fantasy.”
“Which are they for you?”
“Fantasy at the moment, nothing more.”
She was fibbing, he decided, noting that the brochure for London was already dog-eared from handling.
“If you could go anywhere in the world you wanted, where would you choose?”
“London,” she said at once, then seemed to regret it. “Any particular reason?”
“Lots of them, but I’m sure you’d find then all boring.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”
She hesitated, then shrugged as if to concede his point. “I studied literature the one year I went away to college. I love Jane Austen and Charles Dickens and Thackery. I love Shakespeare’s sonnets. And for me, London is permeated with the spirit of all the great British authors. Some of them are even buried in Westminster Abbey.”
“You’re a romantic,” Grady concluded.
“You say that as if it’s a crime.”
“No, just a surprise. Romantics don’t always do well in the real world. Ranching can be a hard life. There’s very little romantic about it.”
She gave him a pitying look. “Then you’ve been doing it with the wrong person. I found my share of romance right here.”
“Is that why you don’t want to leave? Nostalgia?”
“You already know why I won’t sell this ranch—at least not to you.”
Rather than heading down that particular dead-end road again right now, Grady concentrated on his meal for a moment. “You’re a fine cook,” he said as he ate the last bite of meat loaf on his plate.
“Thank you.”
“You’ll have to let me return the favor sometime. Not that I’ll cook, but I’d be happy to take you out for supper.”
“I don’t think so, but thank you for offering.”
That stiff, polite tone was back in her voice. Grady couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to see her defenses slip, to hear her laugh.
Whether that ever happened or not wasn’t important, he chided himself. He only needed her to trust him just a little, to persuade her that she wasn’t cut out for the life of a rancher. And then to coax her into selling this land to him and not someone else.
He shoved his chair back and stood up. “Thanks for the meal. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She seemed startled. “No angling for dessert?”
“Not tonight,” he said, then hesitated. “Unless you’ve got an apple pie warming in the oven.”
