Silver James - Cowgirls Don't Cry

He stepped into the soft gloom of the barn and stopped dead in his tracks.

Cassidy was leaning over a stable door murmuring something he couldn’t understand. The old man stood next to her. Damn but she looked fine in jeans and boots. The plaid flannel shirt tucked into those jeans enhanced every one of her curves instead of hiding them. All the blood in his head rushed south, and he had to lean on the barn door to keep from pitching over face-first.

Boots opened the stall door, then they both disappeared inside. Chance inhaled several times, adjusted the front of his jeans and stepped deeper into the barn so he could see what was in that stall.

“Good-lookin’ colt you have there.”

Cassidy jumped about a foot off the ground, whirled and gasped, her face draining of color.

“You!”

He stepped back in mock innocence. “Me?”

“You! From Chicago!”

He held his hands, palms forward, out in front of him. “Guilty. Though I have to admit Fate is being a lady today. I figured I’d never see you again.”

“What are you doing in Oklahoma?” Her brow furrowed, and he decided her glare was one of the cutest expressions he’d ever seen. Then again, there wasn’t much about this woman he didn’t find attractive in one way or another. That seemed to be the Barron family curse—they all had a tendency to think with the wrong part of their anatomy when a pretty woman was involved. He was far from immune from the affliction.

“I live here. What were you doing in Chicago?” As if they were playing poker, he called her furrowed brows with a sardonic grin and raised her with a wink.

“I live there.” She sounded accusatory.

In all honesty, he rather enjoyed keeping her off balance. “So what brings you to Podunk, Oklahoma?” Cassie bristled, and color suffused her cheeks. He wondered if the same thing would happen if she were sexually aroused.

“Were you there this morning? At the memorial service?”

She’d seen him, dammit, just as he’d suspected. Well, he had no choice now. “Yeah. Why?”

“Pardon me for being a bit...suspicious. You try to pick me up in the hotel in Chicago then you follow me here and show up at my father’s funeral. What’s wrong with this picture?”

“Whoa, darlin’.” She was a sarcastic little thing and damn if he didn’t like it. A lot.

“Don’t call me that. I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Chance—Chancellor.”

“Well, Mr. Chance Chancellor, you just turn around and walk right on out of here. I don’t know who you are, why you’re following me and frankly, I’m not sure I want to know. Get out and stay out!”

He blinked as his mind whirled. She’d cut him off before he finished his introduction. And now she was making assumptions about his name. Was it possible she didn’t recognize him? That she had no clue he was a Barron? He wasn’t sure if that bothered him. Okay, it did, but it simplified matters. He could figure things out before she ever guessed what was going on. “Easy, there, girl. I can explain.”

“Oh? Really? And I’m not a girl, either.”

No, she was definitely all woman. Her eyes positively sparked energy, like two aquamarines under the noonday sun, and he shifted his stance to hide the effect she had on him. This was not the time to be thinking about getting her between the sheets. She was already suspicious of him, so he needed to walk very softly to gain her trust, and for some reason, that seemed very important to him.

No, he didn’t need her trust; he needed her cooperation. He’d handled negotiations far more delicate in his career. He’d get Cassie into bed to get her out of his system then he’d move on, taking the deed to the ranch with him. That was the plan, and he needed to stick to it. Crossing the old man was not a smart thing to do, not when Cyrus Barron wanted something as bad as he wanted this place.

Then Chance inhaled. The dusty-sweet scent of Bermuda hay mixed with the musk-and-leather smell of horses. Rising above those, he caught a whiff of Cassidy—almond and cinnamon dancing with an underlying citrus tang.

“Yo, dude! Out of my barn. Now!”

Like a retriever coming out of a lake, he mentally shook to clear his mind. No distractions. Eye on the prize. But as she stood there, hands on her hips, forehead furrowed and chin jutting stubbornly, he realized she would always be a distraction. And that made him very nervous. No woman had ever gotten under his saddle like this one. His mouth curled into a slow smile, and he watched the effect on her—the slight dilation of her pupils, the flare of her nostrils and the swell of her chest. Yes, he could distract her, too. Good. The playing field was a bit more level now.

A not-so-polite hack and spit had them breaking their staring contest to glance at Boots. Chance recognized him now. Would the old man recognize him? Of all the Barron boys, he stayed out of the spotlight the most. Maybe he could slide through this as “Mr. Chancellor” after all.

“You here for a reason, son?”

Cass watched the stranger glance toward the stall, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Yes, he was sexy as all get-out, but she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw that hunky six-foot-plus frame.

“Yessir. I came to see Ben’s colt.”

“I don’t think we’ve met. How’d you know Ben?”

She cut her eyes to Boots. He didn’t sound too put out, but she knew him. He was suspicious.

“I helped him locate the little guy. I own his half-brother. Same sire but from one of my mares. I considered buying this colt but didn’t want to breed that close to the same bloodline.”

She shifted her gaze from one to the other as they seemed to play a game of verbal ping-pong. She trusted Boots’s instincts and for now she’d just let him run with the conversation. In the meantime, she could study Mr. Chance Chancellor. Tall, broad-shouldered and with a propensity for starched jeans and shirts, he looked like a model. But his boots were comfortably worn, if highly polished, and he wore that black Stetson on his head as if he’d been born to it.

If he traveled the rodeo or horse-show circuit, she’d lay odds he left a string of broken hearts in his wake. The hat covered his hair, but she remembered it being shiny, black and long enough to curl across his collar like the fingers of a lover. And his eyes. Amber, almost feral when the light hit them just right. His face? Chiseled. She had no other description for him. His cheekbones bordered on too angular but didn’t cross the line. Plain and simple, he was gorgeous.

A vague memory pecked at her like one of the speckled hens searching the straw on the barn floor for a bite to eat. He still seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him. She’d figure it out eventually. She jerked out of her reverie when the guy took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Morgan.”

“Cass. Everyone calls me Cass.”

Her nose flared as if she couldn’t inhale enough of his warm scent. Leather and rain—a fragrance both homey and... Her insides tightened, but she refused to acknowledge the tiny quiver in the pit of her stomach. Well, a bit lower than that if she’d be honest with herself. This guy was sex on a stick, there was no denying it. But why was she being nice to him?

“On second thought, until you can prove you were a friend of my dad’s, you can just call me Miss Morgan.”

He laughed. Audacious and arrogant of him, but the sound reverberated in the barn and even Buddy came over to investigate. He sniffed at the man’s boots, growled a little and hiked his leg.

“Buddy, no! Bad dog!” Her face flamed. Mortified that the dog was about to mark the man, she stammered an apology until Boots cut through her embarrassment.