The Lone Rancher - By Carol Finch Page 0,7
I’ll return in a moment.”
Quin nudged a stack of boxes out of his way to make room for himself on the sofa. He waited an impatient moment for McKnight to drag his uppity posterior back to the room that was heaped with displaced furniture. Quin had a ranch to run and he didn’t intend to waste unnecessary time before presenting his offer and haggling over a fair price.
“I don’t see anyone, Butler,” came a woman’s voice from the doorway of the parlor.
Butler? Quin frowned, puzzled. He presumed the man he’d met was A. K. McKnight, not the butler. So where was this McKnight character? Was he still back East?
Quin surged to his feet to locate the source of the feminine voice. He blinked in surprise when he spotted a riot of tangled chestnut curls surrounding a bewitching face smudged with dirt. The woman stood five foot five and looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her faded gown was a mass of wrinkles and grime. Cobwebs clung to the mane of shiny hair and stuck to her well-endowed bosom. He couldn’t help but notice the fetching creature had the kind of shapely body that could stop traffic on the bustling streets of Cahill Crossing. Her tempting assets certainly had his undivided attention.
So this was the housekeeper—and no telling what other services she performed for the master of the house. Quin wondered if she had been sent to offer him a spot of tea before she scuttled back to her daytime duties.
“Nothing to drink for me, honey,” he said as he removed his hat and tossed out his best smile. “I have a business proposition for McKnight, then I’ll be on my way.”
She tilted her head to study him from a pensive angle. “What sort of proposition?” the shapely young housekeeper inquired.
None of your business, sugar, he thought, but he said, “I prefer to discuss the details with Mr. McKnight.” He glanced over her mussed head, wondering if the gent had arrived in Texas yet.
“I am A. K. McKnight.”
Slack-jawed, he turned his attention back to the woman. “You?” he croaked when he finally found his tongue.
Her chin tilted to a challenging angle that reminded him of his sister—wherever the hell she was these days.
“I am Adrianna Kathleen McKnight,” she introduced herself with icy formality.
“But who was the man I met?” he asked, baffled.
“Butler.”
“You call him butler?” This tenderfoot was a snob, he decided.
“His name is Hiram Butler. It amuses him to let people think he is a butler, not an amazingly efficient accountant.”
Quin smirked. “I can see he has a killer sense of humor.”
She stared down her pert nose at him, the same way the stuffy Butler had done. “You are one of the town founders, I presume. Or are you a shirttail cousin of some sort?”
Her critical tone and her crisp Eastern accent made him bristle, for it sounded suspiciously like she had made a snap judgment and found him sadly lacking. “I’m named after my grandfather, Quinton Cahill.” He veered around two stacks of furniture to tower over her. “So, yes, Ca-Cross is named after my family and I manage 4C Ranch.”
“I like your abbreviated version of the town name,” she remarked. “I shall remember to use it so I can I fit in.”
“It won’t matter, sugar, you are way out of your element in Texas,” Quin said under his breath.
She studied him challengingly. “Come again, Mr. Cahill?”
He flashed the most winsome smile in his repertoire—which, admittedly, wasn’t extensive. “I came by to offer you a fair price for this property. I tried to buy it six months ago. But now that you’ve seen the poor condition in which the former overseer left this spread, I figured you’d have a change of heart.”
“Did you now? I had no idea you had the ability to read minds. Another service you helpfully provide, I’m sure.”
He ignored her caustic comment. She looked peeved, for reasons he couldn’t understand. Since he had very few dealings with Yankees he had no clue what made them tick.
“I wanted you to know I’ll take this property off your hands. You won’t have to fret about it when you leave town.”
She clamped her lush lips shut, stared at him with those vibrant cedar-tree-green eyes and said nothing.
“This place is a mess. Half the longhorn cattle herd has been stolen. Probably by some of the cowhands who worked the place. Also, you’ll find very little of the comforts and luxuries you enjoyed in Boston.”
“That is true, Mr. Cahill. But