He tossed his bag in the corner of the room and sat down on the bed. It squeaked and groaned beneath his weight. Wishboning his arms behind his head, he flopped backward and stared up at the pitched wooden ceiling.

For no reason whatsoever, his thoughts drifted to Marian Throckmorton.

Prim, proper, look-down-her-nose-at-you Mariah.

She was exactly the kind of woman he shied away from. Not that they usually wanted anything to do with a man named Mad Dog anyway. She was the sort of woman who hurriedly crossed the boardwalk in front of him, the kind who never glanced at a dirty drifter.

He could tell that by the tidy little bun she wore at the back of her neck—and the stiff, unapproachable way she carried herself. And the brown . . . God, didnt she look in the mirror? That god-awful color made her look like a corpse.

He pitied the woman. Her hair was so damn tight, she probably suffered a perennial headache. Life was too short to spend it all tied up in knots.

And too short to spend it working.

He sighed and pushed up to his elbows. Shaking the dirt off his boots, he got slowly to his feet and headed toward the door.

Christ, he hated farm work.

Chapter Three

Marian stood on the porch, watching that man swagger toward her. Her mouth tightened into a disapproving pinch.

Everything about him screamed shiftless, from the scruffy tips of his cowboy boots to the battered tilt of his black hat. He moved slowly, casually, with his hands thrust in his pockets. As if he didnt care if he arrived someplace on time, or, and this was probably more accurate, as if he didnt care if he arrived at all. And he was staring at her, rudely. She could feel his gaze like a prickling heat across her face.

He was an affront to hardworking people everywhere.

She crossed her arms and glared at him, willing him to pick up speed.

He slowed down. In the shadow of his hat, his mouth was a white curve.

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