Ruth Dale - Fiance Wanted

“No time,” Edgar said impatiently. “As to why I’m here—well, the whole town knows you’re dating that—that journalist.”

“That hardly makes me her keeper.”

“No, but it implies some influence.” Edgar’s fleshy face set into grim lines. “Tell her to back off, Cole. We know we’ve got…a slight problem with chamber finances, but we’ve got a committee working night and day to set things right.”

“Is that so?” Dylan tried to curb his irritation. “So you’re telling me that she got the story right.”

“I didn’t say that!” the banker blustered.

“You implied it. She got the story right but you and the good old boys at the chamber are working to correct the situation and you’d like to avoid further bad publicity while you do it. Have I got it straight?”

Edgar squirmed. “Just between you and me and the gatepost—yes.”

Dylan mulled over his options. He didn’t need this. He especially didn’t need to offend the man who held the mortgage on the ranch.

But he also didn’t want to have to justify to himself why he’d left Katy dangling in the breeze when she was obviously in the right.

Finally he said, “The lady has a mind of her own and she knows how to take care of herself.” Understatement if ever there was one. “I’m not your messenger boy. Whatever you have to say, say it to her.”

The banker sneered. “You disappoint me. I guess it’s clear who wears the pants in that relationship.”

Dylan counted to ten—then to twenty. “Edgar,” he said, slowly and deliberately, “if you think that’s an insult, think again. Katy Andrews is a match for any man, including me. But I’d advise you not to run around town bad-mouthing her, because if you do, I might just have to take action.”

Edgar took a startled step back. “Are you threatening violence?”

“Hell, no! I’m promising retribution.” Dylan, in control again, winked.

“Drop by any time, but leave the newspaper at home.”

“I—why you—don’t think—” Edgar sputtered a bit longer, threw the newspaper on the ground, turned and stalked away to the big black car.

Dylan called after him. “My best to Brandee.”

That drew no response whatsoever. Before the dust settled in the lane, Dylan snatched up the paper and began to read.

When Katy got home from work that day, Dylan was sitting outside her house in his red truck, obviously waiting. Before she could get the key into the lock, he’d trotted up to the door.

She glanced at him over her shoulder as she opened the front door. “This is a surprise,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you until lunch, Friday.”

“Yeah, me, too.” He followed her inside.

She tossed her shoulder bag and clipboard onto a chair on her way through to the kitchen. Somehow she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling stealing over her. “So what’s up?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t have the time or interest to play games,” she snapped, opening the refrigerator. “Want a soft drink?”

“Got a beer?”

“Sure.” She pulled out a can of beer and tossed it to him; he caught it one-handed and ripped off the tab. She took out a can of pop for herself and faced him. “What’s this all about?”

“I had an unexpected visitor at the ranch a few hours ago.”

“Anyone I know?” she asked in a bored tone, her pulse rate already rising.

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