Sharon Swan - Cowboys And Cradles

Now both brows went up. “You mean you bought this place with money you made from clothes?”

Oh, it felt good to finally jar this man. And she still had what she felt would be an even greater surprise in store for him. Eve began to enjoy herself.

“Not just clothes,” she told him, echoing his astonishment. “Upscale Western wear for women, sold under the label Sassy Lady. As I said, it’s a profitable business, and even though I no longer own it, I still design for the line.”

There was pride in her voice, she knew, and she was proud of what she’d achieved. It had taken long years filled with hopes, dreams and sheer hard work to put the Sassy Lady line on department store racks across the country. And it was a vindication of sorts that her designs were done with the full-figured female form in mind.

She’d been chubby as a child, chubbier yet as a teen. Those years bridging the gap between childhood and college had been the most difficult of all for her, and she remembered them well.

Yo, hefty hips.

Sometimes she could still hear that mocking chorus of deep voices thrown from a passing convertible, one crowded with a bunch of thoughtless punks out for a joyride on a hot summer night. Not that they’d been punks to her. Back then, they were her peers, boys she went to high school with, which only gave their taunting remark all the more power to hurt her.

And, of course, it hadn’t ended there. In a society that valued thinness almost as highly as wealth, she’d felt less than worthy throughout her young adulthood, a feeling she’d since discovered was familiar to others standing on the wrong side of the scale. Although she’d lost weight as she’d grown older, she continued to struggle with more than a few extra pounds she could have done without. Still, she’d won the battle not to let that bother her too much. Not most of the time, at any rate. Trying on swimsuits under a store dressing room’s unforgiving light could still make her wince, she had to admit.

Not that those swimsuits had been anywhere near dowdy. Not any longer. Clothing styles for women with bodies not built along Barbie lines had taken a dramatic turn over the past several years. She’d been a part of that transformation and had reaped its rewards—all of which had her proud enough of her achievements to burst the pearl snaps on a shirt that fit well and made a fashion statement.

“Sassy Lady,” Ryder murmured, breaking into her thoughts. “Somehow it seems to suit.”

His sudden grin, flashing a string of strong, white teeth, was so starkly male—and so all-out appealing because of that fact—she felt the impact ripple a path through her and had to steel herself to keep it from showing. The last thing she needed, she told herself, was to let him know he could affect her that way. The very last thing.

He was used to being in charge, that was as plain as the nose on her face. Regardless of what he seemingly had no trouble making her feel—right down to her toes, she couldn’t deny—she had to keep her wits about her and maintain as much control as she could over this conversation. Too much depended on the outcome.

“So I suppose we’ll agree that where ranching is concerned, I’m over my head,” she said, marshaling her forces.

“Seems to sum things up,” he said, his tone as dry as dust.

“I need you…badly,” she added, seeking to be bluntly businesslike yet regretting those last words the minute they made it past her lips. Far from her intention, they’d come out loaded with innuendo.

For a split second something sizzled in the air. Something that had nothing to do with business. Something far closer to silk sheets than balance sheets. “That is, I need your expertise,” she tacked on hastily.

His grin had turned just a bit smug around the edges. “And I take it you can afford to pay for it.”

“I’m not opposed to giving you a raise,” she replied, glad to be on less dangerous ground. “Name your price, and we’ll see if we can make a deal.”

Ryder drew in a breath and shifted his gaze to a large, bare window. Name your price, he thought as the words rang in his mind. He wondered what it was.

Did he really want more money?

It seemed to have lost its appeal, he had to admit, now that his main use for it had disappeared. What remained was a long-held goal that might never be attained. He could move on and start over somewhere else, of course, maybe even try city life for a while.

But he discarded that last notion in a heartbeat as he watched a hawk streak past in the distance, cutting a swift path through the sky. Whatever he chose to do in the future, he knew down deep that he’d spent too much time in open spaces to live in a cramped city for any length of time. The sprawling desert, rolling hills and low mountains of the Southwest were almost as much a part of him as they were of the bird he’d just viewed. He’d never be able to—

It rose up and hit him squarely between the eyes. Something he should have realized the minute he got a good long look at Eve Terry. From her stylish haircut to her manicured fingernails to her—no doubt—manicured toenails, the whole fancy package said she belonged in the city. A big, thriving, fast-paced city. Like Dallas, where she’d come from. A ranch on the outskirts of Tucson wasn’t the end of the world, but it was hardly the world she was used to, not by a long shot.

She wouldn’t stick it out. Couldn’t, he was certain—certain enough to waste no time in using that newfound knowledge to his advantage.

“I don’t want a raise,” he said, breaking the silence. He turned his head, locked his gaze to hers. “What I want is the right of first refusal on buying this place if you decide to sell.” When you decide, he added to himself. “I’ll give you exactly what you paid for it, down to the last penny.” Given a little time, he could come up with the extra financing, surely. She’d probably last at least a couple of weeks.

As though she’d guessed his thoughts, Eve’s jaw tightened. “I’m staying,” she said flatly. “I subleased my apartment, sold my furniture, gave away my plants, shipped what I’ll need to continue my design work here and sent out 123 change-of-address cards. I’m here for good.”

“Then it shouldn’t be difficult to give me what I want,” he countered.

They stared at each other for ten humming seconds before she nodded. “Okay. You’ve got the right of first refusal, and I’ll be glad to put it in writing.”

Ryder heaved an inner sigh. He felt better than he had in weeks. Losing Amos Cutter, as mule-headed as the old man could be on occasion, had been a blow. Amos, along with cantankerous Pete Rawlins, had been the closest thing to family he’d had for many years.

But things were looking up again. For the moment he’d still be part of the ranch. And when his boss got bored with playing cowgirl and went hightailing it back to where she belonged, he’d—

Eve’s voice hauled back his attention. “Now, since I’ve given you what you asked for, I’d like something in return.”

He should have known it wouldn’t be that simple. Simple, it was becoming as clear as daylight, was not a word to be used in connection with this woman.

“And what’s that?” he asked warily.

She didn’t hesitate a second. “I want your agreement that you’ll remain with the Creedence Creek for the next six months, no matter what I decide to do here.”

Ryder ran his tongue over his teeth. Agreeing to stay was no problem. Long before those six months were up, he’d probably be the owner. It was the “no matter what” that bothered him.

Somehow he’d assumed the ranch would remain pretty much as it was, going on as it always had. A foolish assumption, he now realized. Yet what could she possibly plan to do with it? he asked himself, frowning in thought.