DONNA ALWARD - The Rebel Rancher

His gaze was steady on her again and the ridiculous fluttering she’d felt at the wedding came dancing back. What had Sam warned him about? That Virgil was more stubborn than ever? That things weren’t exactly calm and peaceful around Diamondback Ranch? Or had he warned Ty of something else—about someone else? A sudden thought struck. Had Ty asked her to dance because he’d been put up to it?

Each time she thought of that night she regretted it more.

“I’m just his nurse,” Clara replied, turning away and taking the rolling pin and empty biscuit bowl to the sink.

“I didn’t realize nurse duties included baking.” He stepped forward and snuck a small bit of raw biscuit dough from the countertop, popping it in his mouth.

Clara felt a sharp and sudden pain in her heart, watching him sneak the scrap of dough. How many times had she and her brother done that as kids? Bread dough, cookie dough, it hadn’t mattered. Their mother would scold but never yell, saying that she hoped they had children someday who did the same thing and drove them crazy. The memory sent a bitter pang through Clara’s heart. Life had been so uncomplicated then.

Clara missed her family terribly. She’d followed Jackson to Alberta when he’d claimed he’d make his money in the oil patch and set them up for life. She’d been blind and stupid to leave all the good things behind to chase empty promises. But it was too late to go back home now. How could she possibly explain the changes over the years that had passed? No, the gulf was too wide. Saskatchewan was only a province away but it might as well have been a continent.

“I like to cook, and it gives Molly more of a chance to get out now and again,” Clara explained. Besides, if she wasn’t here at Diamondback, she was home at Butterfly House, and lately she’d felt more and more dissatisfied with that arrangement. She wanted her own place. Her own space and her own things. She wanted to buy her own groceries and eat on her own schedule and not worry about a set chore list.

“Did you make the pumpkin bread yesterday?”

She wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

“I did, yes.”

“It was very good.”

It felt so stilted and practiced, Clara realized. She lifted her chin. At least Ty was making an effort for the first time since the wedding. Maybe they just needed to clear the air and find some common ground. He’d never answered her first question so she repeated it.

“Is there something you wanted, Ty?”

The tiny smile threatened to mar the perfection of his lips. She’d called him Ty deliberately and according to his wishes. Maybe if they could move past the Tyson and Miss Ferguson bit it would be more comfortable.

“Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared up the stairs. Clara ran water into the sink, preparing to wash up her dishes. In seconds he was back, holding her shawl in his hands.

“You dropped this the other night,” he said quietly. “I thought you might want it back.”

She’d wondered where she’d misplaced it, but was so embarrassed about her quick exit that she hadn’t had the courage to ask Molly if it had been found. She dried her hands on a dishtowel and took it from him, careful not to touch his hands. “Thank you. I wondered where it went.”

Silence filled the kitchen once more, a quiet of the awkward variety. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she put her dishcloth back in the water and turned to face him. “Was there something else?”

“I don’t quite know how to say it,” he admitted, then reached up and took off his ball cap. His sable hair was slightly flattened and the band of the cap created a ring around his head.

“Just spit it out,” she suggested, her tummy doing weird and wonderful things. Tyson Diamond exuded a carelessness that practically shouted bad boy . But most bad boys she’d known growing up had been overconfident and pushy. Not Ty. He was just … there. With his intense eyes and slow swagger. It wasn’t much wonder the women flocked to him. Ty didn’t have to do anything more than breathe. And here she was, hanging on his every word.

And she knew what it was like to be pressed up against his lean body.

And why on earth was she thinking such a thing?

He frowned, jamming his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry for the other night. I upset you and I didn’t mean to.”

Her lips dropped open. Ty was apologizing? He thought she was mad at him—and she was, she supposed, but only a little bit. She’d been the one to ask him to dance. She’d been the one who’d quite unexpectedly melted in his arms. Yes, he’d gotten quite close and then he’d suggested they get out of there, but he hadn’t truly done anything so very wrong.

She couldn’t have asked for someone to be gentler with her as they’d danced. He’d tipped up her chin and put himself into her hands, letting her take the lead. It wasn’t his suggestion that had upset her. It was the fact that she’d wanted to take him up on that offer so badly she’d frightened herself. For a brief, heady moment she’d considered taking his hand and letting him lead her away.

And then she’d come to her senses. She wasn’t anywhere near ready to let something like that happen. And then there was the fact that for a few precious minutes she’d forgotten all about her plans and goals and let herself weaken. Oh, she hadn’t been mad at Ty. She’d been furious with herself .

“You don’t need to apologize. Let’s just forget the whole thing.” She made a show of picking up a set of oven mitts, wishing the oven timer would ding so she could be doing something, anything, rather than feel pinned beneath Ty’s dark gaze. She chanced a look up and saw that his eyes had warmed.

“Did you think I was angry?” she asked bravely, suddenly wanting to know. She thought perhaps she’d prefer that to him thinking she was silly and weak.

He opened his lips to answer when the oven timer dinged—just when she wanted to hear his answer.

With a frown of consternation she opened the oven door and slid out the pan of golden-brown biscuits. She put the pan on top of the stove.

“I wondered,” he replied, “because you ran. I wondered if it was because of … you know, your past. I didn’t think about that when I … well … it wasn’t really a kiss, was it?”

She kept her back to him, closing her eyes. It was a small town and the Butterfly House project was a big deal around here. It was no secret that she came from an abusive background. Of course she was damaged goods.

“I’m not angry. It was just wedding fever or something. I blew what happened out of proportion. You have been perfectly polite and kind to me since you came home.”

“Then why won’t you look at me right now?”

Her gaze darted up to look into his face. He was too serious. When he looked at her that way it was twice as bad as when he flirted with his saucy grin. “Why did you do it?” she whispered. She didn’t need to elaborate for them both to know what “it” was.

“Why did you ask, after you made it clear you didn’t want to dance?”

She grabbed a dishcloth and began wiping off the counter. “I thought maybe I’d hurt your feelings.”

He laughed, a sharp sound of disbelief as he leaned against the island. “Hurt my feelings? Clara, I think I’m made of tougher stuff than that.”

She was getting annoyed now at being put on the spot. “Well then I’m sorry I did it. You can take your unhurt feelings and quit cluttering up my kitchen!”

But it wasn’t her kitchen, and they were both aware of it. Silence settled over them, bringing that same, damnable feeling of intimacy she could never escape when he was around.

“You felt good in my arms,” he said quietly. “And that’s not a line. It’s the only reason I have for losing my head. It’s not the sort of situation I normally find myself in. It was innocent, I swear. But I forgot what it’s like here in Cadence Creek. It probably opened you up to speculation and for that I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”