Diana Palmer - Wyoming Brave

She fingered it gently. Her mother had given it to her when she was a little girl. She’d changed the gold chain many times over the years, but the cross remained the same. It was something from her mother, her childhood, something priceless. Ren didn’t have to like it. But she wasn’t taking it off.

His coldness hurt her. She wondered why. He was just Randall’s brother. He wasn’t even nice most of the time. Ah, well, she thought, she wasn’t going to be here long anyway. No use wasting thoughts on a man who’d probably pay to see her breaded and deep-fried.

* * *

IT TOOK HIM two days to get up enough strength to leave his bed. He was a little unsteady on his feet when he came down to breakfast, but his bad attitude was back in full force.

He pulled out a chair and glared at the women. “I don’t need babying, in case you had that in mind. I feel fine.”

Merrie stared at him. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Delsey agreed.

He popped his napkin out and folded it in his lap on top of his immaculate jeans and chaps. The spurs on his boots made a jingling sound when he moved his feet under the table.

“Is that sausage?” he asked suddenly, pointing his fork at the platter next to the bacon and eggs.

“Yes. Merrie likes it.”

“I hate sausage,” he said curtly.

“I love it,” Merrie replied, just to irritate him. She gave him a long, steady look. “It just makes me feel good, thinking of pork being shoved through a sausage grinder.”

His eyebrows went up. It was the way she said it, eyeing him the whole time. “I would not fit in a sausage grinder,” he said abruptly.

She sighed. “Pity,” she said, with a blithe smile.

He choked back a laugh and reached for the coffeepot.

* * *

SHE WALKED OUTSIDE before he left, enjoying the previous night’s fall of new snow. It lay like a blanket over the hills and mountains in the distance. She wrapped her arms around herself, because it was below freezing and her coat was more decorative than functional.

“I thought I told you to go to town and buy a coat,” Ren muttered as he came outside, sliding his hat over his brow.

“There hasn’t been time,” she replied.

“I’ll have Delsey drive you in tomorrow,” he said. His eyes gave the old coat a speaking glance. “Don’t you own a decent winter coat?”

She flushed and lowered her eyes. “We had a very strict clothing allowance when Daddy was alive,” she said with stinging pride. “He thought coats were a waste of money. He only gave us enough money to buy jackets, but I found this coat on sale.”

“I’m surprised they weren’t giving it away for free,” he said haughtily.

She frowned at him. “Not everybody is rich, Mr. Colter,” she said shortly. “Most people in the world just do the best they can with what they have.”

He lifted an eyebrow and slid his eyes over what he could see of her trim figure. “How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

“Twenty-two,” she returned.

His eyes darkened. Too young, he was thinking. Years too young. Twenty-two to his thirty-six. She was striking. It wasn’t so much beauty, although she had that, as poise and grace. She moved like some graceful fawn, barely leaving traces of her footsteps when she walked.

“You’re just a kid,” he said quietly, thinking out loud.

“It’s the mileage,” she said suddenly.

He frowned. “What?”

“It’s the mileage. Some people are old at twenty and some are young at eighty. It’s the mileage.”

“I see.” He cocked his head and studied her openly. “You aren’t old enough to have much mileage, just the same.”

She smiled. “I don’t let it show. It takes a lot fewer muscles to smile than it does to frown.”

He cocked his hat low over his brow. “Don’t expect to see many smiles around here in winter.”

“Not true,” she said pertly. “Delsey smiles all the time. So does Tubbs.”

At the mention of the younger man’s name, he froze over. “Tubbs is here to work, not to make calf’s eyes at you,” he said, his tone biting. “Don’t encourage him. He likes blondes.”

“I haven’t encouraged anybody,” she protested.

“See that you don’t.” His smile was colder than the snow around them. “After all, you’re Randall’s...friend, aren’t you?” he added, a note of contempt in his tone.

“Yes,” she said, not understanding. “Randall’s my friend.”

“You remember that.”

He turned and marched off toward the truck, where one of the men was waiting for him. “Tell Delsey I’ll be late,” he called over his shoulder. “We’re going quail hunting.”

He was gone before she could even answer.

“Well, he’s in some great shape to go out hunting,” Delsey said irritably as she puttered around the kitchen. “Hunkered down in a snowbank waiting to spook a covey of quail! He’ll catch his death!”

“He really doesn’t listen to reason.”

Delsey laughed. “No. He doesn’t.”

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