Barbara McCauley - The Nanny And The Reluctant Rancher

Logan turned to his daughter. “See, honey, I told you—”

But Anna had disappeared. It was no surprise. He knew how difficult it was for her to meet strangers. He’d coax her out later, after he’d spoken to and finalized everything with the new nanny.

He moved to the front door and opened it. Punch stood there, his fist in the air, ready to knock. His large frame blocked Logan’s view of the woman standing behind him.

“Howdy,” Punch said with a silly grin on his face. “Brought your new nanny to ya.”

“Thanks.” Logan reached for the suitcase and stepped aside. Punch moved into the entry past Logan and headed for the living room.

A tall, slender, distinctly feminine figure wearing a large gray hat stepped in front of him. Oh, no, he groaned silently when he noticed the violin case she held in front of her. Anything but that.

Slowly she tipped her head back. When her smoky green eyes met his, his throat went as dry as the dust still swirling outside from Punch’s truck.

Who the hell was this woman?

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said with a touch of breathlessness to her voice. “Transportation here was much more difficult than I’d anticipated. I’m Kat Delaney.”

She held out one delicate, finely sculptured hand. In a daze, Logan took it. He had the distinct sensation of silk against sandpaper. Her fingers were long and tapered, her skin smooth and incredibly soft, like nothing he’d ever felt before.

Kat Delaney? This couldn’t be the woman he’d hired.

She shifted uncomfortably when he said nothing. “You, ah, must be Logan Kincaid.”

He had to think for a moment. “There must be some mistake.”

She frowned. “You aren’t Mr. Kincaid?”

“That’s not what I mean.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’m talking about you.”

“Me?” she said hesitantly, then slipped her hand from his when he didn’t let go.

“The woman I hired is supposed to be fifty-four,” he said impatiently. “You’re not, I mean you aren’t—”

“Fifty-four?” She raised one finely arched brow. “I’m twenty-four, Mr. Kincaid. That’s what I put on the application.”

Twenty-four? Logan tried to remember the application. The fax had come in a little fuzzy, but still, how could he have made a mistake like that? He never would have hired a younger woman to take care of Anna. Maturity and experience were a necessary and important element of caring for his daughter. What could a twenty-four-year-old know about raising children?

He stared down at her. She was taller than most women, maybe around five-foot-eight, but still a good eight inches shorter than him. She wore no makeup, but her dark, thick lashes outlined wide, slightly slanted eyes. Her high cheeks glowed with color, though he assumed the heat was responsible for the flush on her skin.

“Hey, Logan,” Punch called from the living room, “got a cold one?”

“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, Punch,” Logan said with more annoyance than he intended. “There’s ice tea in the fridge.” He looked at Kat. “Can I, uh, get you something?”

“In a minute, thank you.” She swept off her hat. “The ride here with Mr. Wilkins was a bit overwhelming. I just need a minute or two to catch my breath.”

So do I, Logan thought as he watched the woman shake her long golden brown curls away from her face. She wore white, the color no more practical on a Texas ranch than her high heels or slim-fitting skirt and tank top. She’d pushed the sleeves of her matching cardigan up to her elbows, revealing long, graceful arms. He would have offered to take her sweater, but since she wasn’t staying, he didn’t bother.

She might belong on the cover of a fashion magazine, but she sure as hell didn’t belong on his ranch.

“Hey, Logan,” Punch yelled from the kitchen, “you gonna eat these tamales in here?”

Anyone other than Punch, Logan would have strongly warned against Sophia’s cooking. But considering the mood he was in, he needed to vent on someone. “Help yourself,” he called back.

He closed the front door, then turned back to the woman standing in front of him, her hat in one hand and a violin case in the other. Damn, but this was awkward.

“Miss Delaney—”

“Kat.”

“Kat, I—”

“Hey, Logan, how do you work this here microwave?”

He was going to murder the man. No, better yet, he’d give him the leftover enchiladas to go with the tamales. He looked at Kat and frowned. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Kat let loose of the breath she’d been holding when Logan disappeared around the corner. Her insides were shaking and her palms were sweating. She’d given countless performances in front of thousands of people, but never had she been more nervous than she was right now. Her training had taught her to hide her fear, but nothing had ever prepared her for Logan Kincaid.

His height had been the first thing that had taken her aback. He was tall, probably around six-foot-four, with broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms. He wore a denim work shirt, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and snug, faded jeans over long, powerfully built legs. His hair was black, his eyes darker than any eyes she’d ever seen. When he’d first looked at her, she’d felt as if she were made of glass, and she might shatter under his piercing gaze.

But the fact that he was handsome wasn’t what had knocked the sense out of her. She met handsome men all the time. Not one had ever left her weak-kneed or light-headed. No, Mr. Kincaid was just so... male. At the most basic, the most primitive level, the man exuded virility. He was a masculine feast for the feminine senses: the rough, electric texture of his hands, the deep rugged sound of his voice, the faint, strangely pleasant smell of dust and dirt and leather. Just looking at him had made her pulse rate increase, and when he’d held her hand in his, pleasure had rippled through her entire body.

Had he noticed the color rise to her cheeks? she wondered. Something told her there was very little that Logan Kincaid missed with those eyes of his. Had Oliver been right? Could Mr. Kincaid know just by looking at her that she really wasn’t a nanny?

Of course he couldn’t. She was just tense. After all, she’d flown the red-eye, waited three hours for the first bus out of Dallas to Harmony—which was a four-hour ride—an hour trying to find someone to drive her here from the town, and at least thirty minutes bouncing in a truck. She was also in a completely new environment, meeting a strange man about a new job.

She had good reason to be high-strung, and that would certainly explain her physical reaction to Mr. Kincaid, she told herself. She was just tired and on edge. A good night’s sleep and she’d be fit as a fiddle.

Smiling at her own pun, Kat moved into the living room. She’d immediately liked the house when Mr. Wilkins had driven up. It was single story, a redbrick ranch-style structure with a wide, cement circular driveway and gently sloping gray tile entry. The living room was spacious, with a high, vaulted ceiling, hardwood floors and a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. The furniture was large and masculine, like the man himself, and the few pieces of art were a blend of American Indian and the Old West. It was a warm, comfortable room, not like the man himself.

A movement from a doorway across the room caught Katrina’s attention. “Hello?”

There was no answer. With her violin and hat still in her hand, Kat moved toward the doorway. “Hello?” she called again. “Is someone there?”

Again, no answer, but there was a sound, a soft, swooshing sound. Kat stopped, then watched as a young, blond child in a wheelchair appeared in the doorway. She was a beautiful little girl with pale, smooth skin and enormous gray eyes. In her plain brown jumper and white blouse, the child almost blended in with the room.