The Lone Rancher - By Carol Finch Page 0,13

feet in his boots and his shirttail into his breeches, then hurried downstairs. He grabbed his best Stetson from the hook beside the door and breezed outside to fetch a horse. Not Cactus, he mused. His favorite mount was as exhausted from the roundup as Quin was.

Ezra Fields, the lanky, bearded cowboy who had signed on more than two years earlier, was waiting with a fresh horse. “Figured you were headed for the McKnight spread,” Ezra drawled. “Figured you’d want to give ole Cactus a rest.”

“Thanks,” Quin murmured as he descended from the porch.

“Don’t know what that McKnight gal is trying to pull,” Ezra remarked as he handed over the reins. “She came riding astride on her dapple-gray thoroughbred to see Rock.”

Riding astride? Now why didn’t that surprise him?

“She flashed a big smile and showed off her shapely figure in trim-fitting breeches and shirt.”

That sounded like something that hellion would do. Divert a man’s attention while she pulled her clever stunts.

“She could’ve lured more cowboys to join her but she turned all her charm on Rocky Rhodes that day,” Ez went on to say. “You think she’ll be back to hire away more cowhands while you’re out? You think she’s trying to undermine the 4C?”

Well, I do now! She is going to catch an earful from me, Quin thought resentfully.

“No telling what that seductive woman promised as fringe benefits to lure Rock away,” Ezra commented. “You know how bashful Rock is around women. I’d call him a pushover. Not like you. You don’t back down to nobody.”

Quin bounded onto the saddle and thundered off. Ezra was probably right. Boston had used her charm on Rock, who rarely worked up the nerve to ask a woman to dance at the occasional town social. Poor Rock, he thought. Boston would chew him up and spit him out if he crossed her.

Well, she won’t have the chance, Quin vowed resolutely. He would get his ranch foreman back before that sneaky female sank her claws into Rock and ripped him to shreds.

The moment Quin reached the McKnight Ranch, he headed directly to the house. Aggravated though he was, he noticed the house and veranda boasted a fresh coat of white paint and construction had begun on the new addition. But he wasn’t here to admire the changes. He wanted to have it out with Boston.

His hands curled into fists, itching to put a choke-hold on her lovely neck. Muttering, he rapped on the door—hard. Butler showed up two minutes later. Quin suspected the stoic accountant purposely left him waiting on the veranda.

“How nice to see you again, Cahill,” Butler said—and didn’t sound the slightest bit sincere.

“Same to you.” Quin glanced over Butler’s dark head. Not a hair was out of place, as usual. “Where is she?”

“Where is who?” Butler blinked and tried out a mock-innocent stare. Quin didn’t buy it for even a second. Butler was as annoying as his boss.

“You know perfectly well who I’m talking about,” Quin snapped irritably. “Where’s Boston and what prank is she planning to play on me next?”

“I don’t have the vaguest notion what you mean,” said Butler. “However, if you are asking after Addie K., she is sorting her Herefords. I doubt she has time for you right now. Maybe you could call again next week…or the week after.”

Quin gnashed his teeth so hard he nearly ground off the enamel. He glared at Butler, who obviously didn’t have much use for him. Not that Quin cared what Boston’s man of affairs thought. The sooner Boston and her entourage left Texas, the happier he’d be. Joyous, in fact.

Lurching around, Quin strode toward the barn and the surrounding corrals. To his amazement, Rock and the skeleton crew of cowhands had their arms draped over the top rail of the fence, watching Boston wander around the white-faced cows that she had shipped from New England. To his amazement—and the fascination of every cowboy—she was wearing the formfitting breeches Ezra mentioned. The tan-colored garment accentuated her small waist, the enticing curve of her hips and the well-defined shape of her legs. The breeches were tucked into her boots and her long chestnut hair lay against her spine in a thick braid.

And that blouse! Damn, thought Quin. The top two buttons had come undone. Or more likely, she had unbuttoned them to hold the cowboys spellbound and leave them wondering when another button would work loose to expose more cleavage. For certain, the garment was custom-made to display Boston’s full bosom to