She nodded stiffly and forced a smile. “Welcome to Paradise.”
Emotion flickered across Travis’s expression before he dipped his head. Disappointment and . . . vulnerability, maybe? Which, Hannah ruefully admitted, she must have misinterpreted. There was nothing vulnerable about the rock of a man standing below her. He didn’t have a soft spot on him.
Travis retrieved the knife and straightened, casting her a sidelong glance. “May I come up? I need to use the hose.”
Hannah swept her arm in that direction. “Sure.”
He walked up the hill, each long stride bringing his massive bulk into sharper focus until he reached her side, his impressive height looming over her. Despite the chill in the air, heat radiated from him and blocked the February breeze that swept across the grounds. An earthy mix of pine, lumber, and smoke drifted past her as he knelt by her side, turned on the hose, and scrubbed the hem of his shirt along the wet blade in his hand.
She looked down and studied his hair as it ruffled in the wind. She’d been wrong in at least one respect—he did have one soft spot. That wealth of shaggy hair looked soft and welcoming. He was so close, if she reached out her hand, she could touch the dark strands. Could follow the muscular line of his neck and shoulders, which seemed more impressive than intimidating from this vantage point. Could trace the curve of his mouth and gain a clear view of features she’d yet to fully examine.
He stiffened and shifted away, obscuring his face from view.
“Hannah,” Red called. “Come down here and take a look at this mess of fish I caught.”
She shoved her hands in her pockets and headed down the open hill. The breeze kicked up, slunk beneath the cuffs of her long sleeves, and sent a chill through her. She shivered and caught herself glancing back, missing—for a brief but disconcerting moment—the warm shield of the stable . . . and the heat from Travis’s massive frame.
“Had I known you’d be up and about before dawn,” Red called as she approached, “I’d have invited you to go with me.” Standing by the cleaning table, he took the top off a large cooler and tilted it. Ice slid forward, revealing a pile of fresh fish. “That old river was good to us today.”
“You’ve always had better luck than me.” Hannah leaned closer for a better view and smiled. “Looks like trout’s back on the menu for a while.”
Red grinned. “Knew that’d make you happy. When I stopped by the lodge, Margaret offered to bring—”
“Your delivery is here,” a feminine voice chimed over the hum of a motor.
A utility vehicle arrived with Margaret behind the wheel. She parked the UTV beside Red’s truck, slid out, and smoothed a hand over her long skirt.
“Those bags of ice are heavy.” Margaret, smiling, tucked her long, gray curls behind her shoulders with French-manicured nails and gestured toward the plastic bags stacked on the back of the UTV. “I could use a bit of manly muscle to help move them. Is our new guest available to lend a hand?”
Hannah stifled a groan. Only Margaret would curl her hair, don a skirt, and paint her nails for a day of ranch work. And Margaret dropping everything to rush outside and meet someone new was no surprise. Ever since Margaret had taken over her late husband’s 50 percent share of Paradise Peak Ranch and moved into the lodge a year ago, she’d been desperate to find and sweet-talk a new hand into renovating the place from the ground up—much to Red’s amusement. Red would indulge any of Margaret’s impractical notions; he’d been secretly sweet on her for decades and still was, despite the fact that Margaret’s daily praises of her late husband, Phillip, made it clear that no man would ever equal his perfect memory in her mind.
But, in Hannah’s opinion, there was nothing funny about Margaret turning Red’s ranch into another run-of-the-mill Tennessee tourist attraction. Whether she owned half of it or not.
“I’ll get those.” Hannah walked to the UTV, hefted a bag of ice from the back and hoisted it onto her shoulder, then whispered to Margaret, “I thought you were gonna help me work on the stable roof.”
She spread her hands, surprise in her eyes. “Well, of course I am,” she declared loudly. “What makes you think I’m not?”
Hannah raised an eyebrow as she walked past Margaret. “You’re an hour late, and you’re wearing a skirt.”
Margaret waved away the concern. “Pioneer women did everything in a skirt, and t
here’s no reason I can’t look my best while handing you tools.”
“A skirt isn’t practical for that kind of work.” Hannah gripped the bag tighter. The ice numbed her fingertips. “I don’t want you tripping and falling face first on a nail.”
Margaret’s mouth tightened into a pink lip-glossed line. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.” She blew out a breath. “Really. You’re too intense, Hannah. You worry far too much about everything.”
“What’s this about working on a roof?”
Hannah ducked her head at the hard tone in Red’s voice and dropped the bag of ice on the cleaning table. “No big deal. I planned to patch a few spots on the stable is all.”
“And what? You thought you’d climb up there and piddle around by yourself while I was out?” Red grunted. “I don’t want you moving around on that rickety roof alone.”
“You’re busy,” Hannah said. “I was saving you the trouble.”
Red scowled. “Hogwash. You just wanted to keep my old butt on the ground so I wouldn’t get hurt. Just ’cuz I got thirty years on you doesn’t mean I can’t keep up. I’m sixty-five, girl. Not dead.”
“Must the two of you argue every day?” Margaret crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her toe in—dear, Lord—high-heeled shoes.