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really interested in it?”
The question startled her, but she answered it honestly. “Yes, I am.”
“That night…you were looking at a book on Western history,” he said absently.
“I grew up loving it,” she told him. “I used to read every Western novel I could lay my hands on,
especially when I had to go back to Georgia. I took my modeling courses in San Antonio because
there was so much history there—the Alamo and all.”
“And ranching?” he asked.
“I cut my teeth reading about Uncle John Chisum and the Jinglebob spread,” she grinned. “Did you
know that Branntville is located right in the middle of the Chisolm trail?” she began excitedly.
He took a vicious drag from his cigarette and threw the remains down into the dust. “Hell, let’s get
going,” he muttered, suddenly irritable and impatient. “I’ve got a lot of bookwork to do when we
finish the grand tour.”
She followed along curiously, her eyes watchful on his quiet profile as he showed her his purebred
stock and the immaculate, air-conditioned quarters where they were kept. He was proud of his
accomplishments on the ranch, and he pointed out improvements in feeding and breeding as they rode.
“Let’s rest a bit,” he said finally, as they neared the river. “The sun’s getting too high for riding.”
She followed him to the shade of several towering oaks at the water’s edge, dismounted, and sat
down beside him. She put aside the ill-fitting straw hat he’d grabbed out of the tackroom for her.
“It doesn’t fit,” she murmured.
“Don’t tell me your troubles,” he said pleasantly. “You know better than to try riding without a hat
around me.”
“I’ve never had sunstroke,” she reminded him.
“And I’ve seen too many cases of it not to believe in prevention.” He leaned back against the tree,
his long legs crossed in front of him, his hat pulled low over his eyes. He glanced at her. “You invite
disaster, do you know it? You little daredevil.”
She looked down at the faded denims on his powerful legs. “A little excitement never hurt anyone.”
“Shooting the rapids in a canoe isn’t my idea of a ‘little’ excitement,” he observed. “Do you need
that touch of danger to feel alive, Shelby? Does it substitute for what you could have with a man?”
She looked away. “I don’t believe in self-analysis,” she said softly.
“Maybe you should, honey.” She was quiet for a long time, and he reached out and pinched her
roughly. “Don’t brood,” he murmured when she jumped.
“I wasn’t, really.” Her eyes went to the river, gurgling as it ran over rocks on its way through the
trees. “This river reminds me of the Chattahoochee River in Georgia. The name came from a
Cherokee word that meant ‘Flowering Rock.’”
“What was your aunt like—the one who raised you?” he asked suddenly.
She smiled. “Mean as a teased rattler,” she told him. “She hated three things in life—men and
pollution and her sister.”
“Your mother?” he guessed.
She nodded. “Mother and Aunt Jane were as different as spring and autumn, in every way.” Her
hands toyed with a crispy brown leaf on the ground. “Jane loved the outdoors. She taught me how to
garden and swim and even hunt. She could handle a 30.06 rifle with the best of them.”
“Could you?” he asked curiously.
“I was afraid to try and shoot it,” she admitted with a sheepish smile. “It had a kick like a mule and
made a noise like the end of the world. I’m still a little afraid of guns.”
“I’ll teach you to shoot a .22 rifle,” he said. “It’s lighter and there’s hardly any recoil. We’ll go
rabbit hunting this fall.”
“Shoot Thumper?” she exclaimed.
He made a disgusted face. “My God, that’s a fairy tale.”
“No, it isn’t,” she protested. “Poor little soft, fuzzy bunny….”
“Which tastes delicious,” he said maliciously. “Roasted, over an open campfire. Once you get a
taste of soft, fuzzy bunny, you’ll drool every time you look at one.”
“Cannibal!” she accused.
He lifted the hat from his head and tossed it to one side. A lean, strong hand shot out and caught her
wrist like a vice, pulling her down against his warm, strong body. His arm came up and pinned her to
his chest.
“Now, what was that?” he asked pleasantly.
“Now, King…” she protested, laughing.
He tangled his hand in her straight, silky hair and jerked her head back against his shoulder. “Now,
King, what?” he murmured, his eyes dropping to the soft curve of her mouth.
“I…I don’t think you’re a cannibal,” she agreed.
“It’s too late now, honey,” he said. “We all have to pay for our transgressions.”
Her breath sighed against his lips in short, erratic whispers as she watched the hard, masculine
curve of his mouth coming closer to hers. Her hand touched his chest lightly through the thin cotton
shirt, hesitantly, as if it were fire and she was afraid of a burn.
“I like for you to touch me,” he whispered roughly. “You don’t have to go about it so cautiously.”
“A man who likes to eat soft, fuzzy little bunny rabbits is capable of anything,” she teased in a pale
whisper.
“I’d rather taste you right now,” he bit off against her mouth.
She relaxed in his hard embrace, letting his hungry mouth take what it wanted of hers. Her fingers
traced patterns on the soft fabric of his shirt until he lazily unbuttoned it and led her hands to the damp
warmth of the curling dark mat of hair.
He looked down at her hands against his body, and his eyes were dark and sensuous.
“God, you learn fast,” he whispered huskily.
Her hands slid up and around his neck. She reached up and pressed her lips against his softly,
warmly. “I like kissing you,” she whispered, admitting it at last.
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