RECLAIMED BY THE RANCHER
Janice Maynard
One
Not much rattled Jeff Hartley. At twenty-nine, he owned and operated the family ranch where he had grown up during a near-idyllic childhood. His parents had taken early retirement back in the spring and had headed off to a condo on Galveston Bay, leaving their only son to carry on the tradition.
Jeff was a full member of the prestigious Texas Cattleman’s Club, a venerable establishment where the movers and shakers of Royal, Texas, met to shoot the breeze and oftentimes conduct business. Jeff prided himself on being mature, efficient, easygoing and practical.
But when he opened his door on a warm October afternoon and saw Lucy Peyton standing on his front porch, it felt as if a bull had kicked him in the chest. First there was the dearth of oxygen, a damned scary feeling. Then the pain set in. After that, he had the impulse to flee before the bull could take another shot.
He stared at his visitor, his gaze as level and dispassionate as he could make it. “I plan to vote Democrat this year. I don’t need any magazine subscriptions. And I already have a church home,” he said. “But thanks for stopping by.”
He almost had the door closed before she spoke. “Jeff. Please. I need to talk to you.”
Damn it. How could a woman say his name—one measly syllable—and make his insides go all wonky? Her voice was every bit the same as he remembered. Soft and husky...as if she were on the verge of laryngitis. Or perhaps about to offer some lucky man naughty, unspeakable pleasure in the bedroom.
The sound of eight words, no matter how urgently spoken, shouldn’t have made him weak in the knees.
Her looks hadn’t changed, either, though she was a bit thinner than he remembered. Her dark brown hair, all one length but parted on the side, brushed her shoulders. Hazel eyes still reminded him of an autumn pond filled with fallen leaves.
She was tall, at least five-eight...and though she was athletic and graceful, she had plenty of curves to add interest to the map. Some of those curves still kept him awake on dark, troubled nights.
“Unless you’re here to apologize,” he said, his words deliberately curt, “I don’t think we have anything to talk about.”
When she shoved her shoulder against the door, he had to step back or risk hurting her. Even so, he planted himself in the doorway, drawing a metaphorical line in the sand.
Her eyes widened, even as they flashed with temper. “How dare you try to play the wronged party, you lying, cheating, sonofa—”
Either she ran out of adjectives, or she suddenly realized that insulting a man was no way to gain entry into his home.
He lifted an eyebrow. “You were saying?”
His mild tone seemed to enrage her further, though to her credit, she managed to swallow whatever additional words trembled on her tongue. Was it bad of him to remember that small pink tongue wetting his— Oh, hell. Now he was the one who pulled up short. Nothing stood to be gained by indulging in a sentimental stroll down memory lane.