Lynnette Kent - Married In Montana

Maxwell’s temper vibrated in the air. “Who asked you to butt in?”

Rafe refused to be baited. He didn’t want to tell Maxwell that his son had started a bar fight—why cause the boy any more grief? Especially with an old man as hard as Maxwell was reputed to be. “I thought Bobby could use some help getting home, that’s all. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“You’ll leave when I say so, and not before.” Maxwell stepped into the porch light. His lined face testified to years in the harsh Montana weather, his red hair showed streaks of white at the temples. “My boy doesn’t need a baby-sitter, especially not some wet-behind-the-ears deputy still breaking in his boots.” The rancher didn’t have to raise his voice to make a point—his sharp tone did all the work.

“I may be new to Paradise Corners, but I’ve been wearing these same boots for six years now.” The grin he tried got no response, so Rafe abandoned the effort. “I was just doing my job, sir.” This last “sir” came out through gritted teeth.

“Your job is to stay out of decent people’s business. The folks of this county will let you know when they want your help. As for the Maxwells…” The older man sliced the air with the side of his hand. “We don’t need your help. Just stay clear. I’ve got connections all over this state. I can get you run out of town so fast—”

Thea arrived in time to hear the threat. “Calm down, Dad.”

Both men jerked their heads to stare in her direction. They’d been so involved in their argument, they obviously hadn’t noticed her return to the doorway. Arms crossed, she surveyed them in turn, reminded of mature bulls staking a claim on the same herd of cows. Both big, both strong, both stubborn.

She put her hand on her dad’s arm. “Deputy Rafferty did us a favor. There’s no telling what would have happened if Bobby had tried to drive home. Why don’t you just say thanks and get to bed? It’s 1:00 a.m., and you wanted an early start in the morning.”

Robert Maxwell didn’t give in, but she hadn’t expected him to. With a sound somewhere between a snarl and a grunt, he turned on his boot heel and stomped back into his wing of the house.

Shaking her head, Thea looked at the deputy. “We haven’t treated you very well, considering how helpful you’ve been. I’m Althea Maxwell—Thea to most people.” She held out her hand to shake his. “Would you like some coffee before you head back?”

His warm palm closed against hers, comforting, safe. “That would be great. I’m Rafe, by the way. Well…” He shrugged. “Actually it’s Owen, but I got tired of the teasing by about the second grade.” He grinned and took off his hat.

Thea blinked twice. Hard. With Bobby in such a state, she hadn’t had time or opportunity to notice the deputy’s looks, but she sure was noticing now. Deep brown eyes under thick lashes, a proud nose that might have been broken a time or two, dark brown hair that kept its wave even with a regulation short haircut. And then there were his shoulders…

A cold draft through the open door brought Thea to her senses. “Oh…good. The kitchen’s this way.” Only as she led him through the dining room did she remember she was in her pajamas. Flannel pajamas, true, in a conservative dark blue. She might as well be wearing jeans and a shirt.

But standing across the kitchen from the gorgeous deputy as she made a pot of hot, sweet coffee, she couldn’t help feeling…exposed. She should have put on a robe, at least.

“Thanks for leaving out the part about the fight,” she said, filling a mug for each of them. “Especially since Bobby probably started the whole thing.” She glanced at the deputy, who nodded. “He’s not in any shape to deal with Dad’s temper tonight.”

“I’d imagine that requires a clear head.”

She waved him to the kitchen table. “Nerves of steel help. As well as not having done anything wrong to begin with.” She sighed. “With Bobby, we hardly ever get all three at the same time.”

Considerately, Rafe Rafferty left that comment alone. “These are good,” he said after a minute, gesturing with one of the oatmeal cookies she’d set out. Thea looked up from her coffee and saw that, like a little boy, he had a crumb at the corner of his mouth. Such a nicely shaped mouth…

“Did you make them?”

Startled yet again, she laughed, hoping he hadn’t noticed her staring. “Coffee is my only kitchen skill. Our housekeeper, Beth, is the genius.”

He nodded. “Genius covers it. I hear you work the ranch with your dad.”

“That’s right.” She said it with the warm surge of pride she always got when she thought about her job. “I wouldn’t do anything else.”

“It’s beautiful country, that’s for sure.” A fifth cookie left the plate. “But hard work for a woman, I’d imagine. I’ve done some climbing since I got here a few weeks ago—this terrain can be tough.”

Eyebrows lifted, Thea sat up straight. “You think it’s easier for a man?”

He stared at her a second, his jaw hanging slightly loose, then laughed. “So you do that, too.”

“Do what?”

“Your dad doesn’t have to yell—he can cut like a bullwhip with just a whisper. And your voice just did the same thing.”

Her cheeks got hot. “I didn’t intend to go after you with a bullwhip. Still, if you assume that because I’m female I can’t—”

He finished the cookie and dusted the crumbs from his big hands, shaking his head the whole time. “Sorry, my mistake. It’s just hard to imagine a woman as pretty as you out there castrating calves all day.” His smile was a clear invitation to flirt back.

But Thea had seen that smile—heard the line that went with it—too many times. She wasn’t about to fall for another slick maneuver, wasn’t about to be used to curry favor with her father.

Especially not when she felt so…so vulnerable to this man. After just ten minutes of his company, no less.

“I can castrate with the best of them, thank you very much, Deputy. I’ve delivered breech calves by myself and spent three days alone on horseback rounding up cows lost in a blizzard. There’s nothing on Walking Stones I can’t or won’t do.” She stood up. “Now, if you’ve finished your coffee, it’s late and I’m going to be at work before sunrise.”

He got to his feet and picked up his hat. Under the bright kitchen light, his cheeks were a dull red. “I apologize yet again, Ms. Maxwell. I seem to be stepping in it whichever direction I turn.” Without waiting for her guidance, he made his way to the front of the house, fast enough that Thea had to hurry to keep up with his long strides. Before she quite reached the door, he’d crossed the porch and started down the steps.

The cold rain had gotten worse, whipping across the driveway like bullets. Rafe Rafferty drew up his shoulders as he jogged out to his truck. The engine roared to life, the lights blazed, and for a second she could see him through the water-glazed windshield as he wiped a hand over his bare head. He glanced her way, and his mouth tightened.

Then the tires squealed against the stones of the driveway and the truck disappeared into the night. Heedless of the damp chill, Thea stood there for a while, knocking her forehead against the edge of a door.

I can castrate calves, she mocked herself in a prissy voice, and deliver breech births and round up cows in a blizzard.

But she didn’t know jack when it came to men.

ROBERT MAXWELL WAITED to check on his son until the upstart deputy had left and Althea had gone back to her bed. Standing in the doorway of Bobby’s room, he shook his head at the sight of his boy, spread-eagled on top of the blanket. In the dim light, he looked so much like his mother…the same thick, wavy black hair, the same dark sloe eyes, the fair skin and curved lips. Helen had given beauty to all of their children, but especially to their son. If only she had lived to give them her good sense.