Paradise Peak (New Americana 5)

“You’re welcome.” She glanced at him and flashed a smile before facing the road. “Did Gloria embarrass you? She was hauling you around the store like you were her long-lost son.”

He laughed, but the sound was rusty and felt foreign to his chest. “Maybe, but I enjoyed her company. She was very kind.”

“I’m sure she was.” Hannah laughed, too—the sound feminine, fun, and light. Man, even her laugh was gorgeous. “Gloria has always been a sucker for handsome men, and even before you spiffed up, you looked gor—”

Her cheeks reddened and she clamped her mouth shut. She straightened in her seat and her fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

Travis smiled.

“I mean, you . . .” Hannah cleared her throat. “What I meant was, you’re easy to l

ook at.” She glanced at him, then away and back again as if she couldn’t help it, her blush deepening. “I don’t mean to stare. Or be rude. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Chest warming, Travis studied the bloom of color in her cheeks, the soft curves of her pink lips, and the tendril of red hair tucked behind the shell of her small ear. “I appreciate the compliment, and I feel the same about you.” He eased back in his seat and softened his voice, hoping not to come on too strong but wanting her to know. “As for being rude”—he shook his head—“anything you do is fine by me, Hannah.”

Her lips curved and she ducked her head briefly as if embarrassed; then she smiled. “So, if I volunteered you to take my place for dinner dishwashing duty the rest of this week, that’d be okay?”

He laughed again—this time, more easily. It felt freeing. “Yeah.”

Her smile widened. “And swan napkins? You’d be up for folding those, too?”

“Swan napkins?”

Still smiling, she rolled her eyes. “Margaret. She wants formal dinners to become routine and swan napkins are her go-to for elegant dining. I cringe every time she asks me to help her make them.”

Travis nodded as his smile faded. “Can’t say I’d be any good at it, but anything you or Margaret asked me to do, I’d do it.”

“Just like that?” she asked, one auburn eyebrow raised.

“Like that,” he returned quietly. “Every time.”

She studied his expression, the teasing light in her blue eyes fading, then refocused on the road. “Guess we’ll need to be careful of what we ask, then.”

He didn’t respond because it didn’t matter what Margaret asked of him—he’d do it anyway. He’d decided that before he’d undertaken the long hike up here. What he hadn’t been able to foresee or consider was Hannah. He was equally thrilled and dismayed by this attraction he had for every part of her—her tempting figure, strong mind, and honest disposition—and his eagerness to please her.

But it distracted him. Took him off course on his progress with Margaret. And it made him vulnerable, a feeling he’d always detested in the past, but somehow no longer minded when it came to Hannah, her wishes, or this strange urge to protect her.

Hannah remained silent for the rest of the drive, and so did he. The low rumble of the engine and whip of wind against the truck windows filled the cab for the next five miles and, when a gated entrance to a paved driveway appeared, Hannah took a left and eased the truck up to the decorative gate.

She pulled to a stop beside an intercom, lowered the window, and pressed a button.

Moments later, a male voice, brisk and impatient, crackled through the speaker. “Misty Ridge Stables. Name and nature of business, please.”

“Carl, it’s H—”

“Hannah Newsome.” The tone lightened, a slow, pleased drawl taking over. “Come all the way to the other side of the mountain to pick up a mare, I presume?”

Travis glanced at Hannah, who grinned as she listened.

“That’s the gist of it,” she said into the speaker. “Unless you’d like to rescind your invitation? Sounds like I caught you at a bad time.”

“Ain’t no such thing when it comes to you.” A buzz sounded and the ornate gates swept open. “Come on in, darlin’.”

Hannah shifted gears and drove through the opened gates, then down a long, winding driveway flanked by cedar trees. When they reached the end of the driveway, she parked in front of a three-story house positioned in the forefront of sprawling fields. Dark clouds still loomed overhead, seeming to hover inches from the roof of the house, but the haze of smoke that had begun to slowly enter downtown was no longer visible, and the scent of smoke was noticeably lighter.

A man—blond, built, and much younger than the gray-haired good friend of Red whom Travis had envisioned—strode out of one of three massive stables nearby and walked toward the truck.

“Is that Carl?” Travis asked.