The Lone Rancher - By Carol Finch Page 0,46
the loans and collect rent on business buildings. Not to mention that I run an expansive ranch operation. Yet, it’s easier to criticize than praise the acquisition of wealth, good fortune and hard work. Not that I’ve enjoyed much good luck in the past two years.”
She followed him to the master suite and halted at the threshold while he lit a lantern in the sitting room. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly.
The prompt set him off. “No, I don’t want to talk about my sister, who might have reduced herself to prostitution to eke out a living for herself and her illegitimate child!” he erupted like a volcano.
Adrianna closed the door and watched him pace from wall to wall in the sitting room. Rain pounded against the windows and thunder rumbled outside—and deep inside Quin, as well.
“And I don’t want to discuss Chance, who is closer to Annie’s age and enjoyed a bond with her that Bowie and I didn’t because we were a few years older. We were her protectors and I failed my baby sister miserably!” he spewed in frustration.
“Damn it, if she’s dealing cards in some low-life saloon it’s because we taught her to play cards as a kid. What a mistake that turned out to be!” He lurched around, his stomach churning with guilt and regret. “Plus, right before she rode away, I jokingly suggested she become a saloon girl since she had no marketable job skills.”
“Maybe Chance is keeping a watchful eye on her,” Boston supplied helpfully as she followed him into the bedroom while he lit the second lantern.
“And maybe he isn’t.” Muttering, he wheeled away from the massive walnut bed to pace toward the marble-top dresser on the far wall. “All Chance ever cared about was being lightning-quick on the draw and deadly accurate with a pistol. Hell, he had better not be someone’s hired gun with notches on the handle of his pistol. Ma and Pa would be rolling in their graves, for sure.”
“It’s easy to think the worst—” she tried to interject, but Quin wasn’t through venting his frustration.
“And Bowie, damn him!” Quin reversed direction to wear another path on the carpet. “He should be checking on the younger ones since none of them want anything to do with me. How could he have allowed this to happen?”
“There is a strong possibility Preston was tormenting you for the sport of it.” She sank into a chair near the dresser. “You claimed he once pursued Leanna and you ran him off when she tired of him. I can name countless suitors who circulated hurtful stories about me to hide their embarrassment of rejection. The same goes for envious locals starting rumors to make sure everyone believes your success comes at the price of that ridiculous curse—”
“Because I’m supposedly in league with the devil,” Quin cut in sourly, and raked his hands through his disheveled hair. “Let’s not forget that, Boston.”
“The same rumors spread about the McKnights,” she informed him, sounding oddly distracted. “Supposedly, prosperous families sell their souls to Satan for power and wealth. The population of Ca-Cross will be ecstatic, I presume, when we are both frying in hell….”
Quin arched a quizzical brow when her voice evaporated. “Boston? Are you all right? Why are you looking at me like that?”
To his stunned amazement, she walked over to unfasten his wet cravat, then tossed it aside. She pulled off his coat and sent it flying in the same direction as the cravat.
He stared bemusedly at her, his eyes glistening like mercury in the lamplight. “What are you doing, Boston?”
“Helping you out of your damp clothing.”
“You sure that’s a good idea? Remember what happened last time you and I started undressing each other in that grove of trees in the pasture?”
She smiled wryly. “You offered room and board for the night, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t expect intimate favors in return. I’m indirectly to blame for that fire, I expect,” he reminded her.
She unbuttoned his shirt, anxious to get her hands on his muscular chest…and other parts yet exposed to her curious eyes. Adrianna wasn’t sure what had come over her while she watched Quin pace in frustration. She had become utterly fascinated by the way he moved with such masculine grace. The fierce, impulsive need for him overwhelmed her. She remembered all too well how it felt to touch him, to be touched by him. And suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, she wanted him—badly.
It was as