The Rancher's Wedding - Diana Palmer Page 0,3
best friend, Ellen. She grimaced. She missed Ellen.
“It’s all right,” he assured her as he opened the door for her. “I don’t bite.”
She flushed. “Sorry. I’m not . . . well, I’m not used to men. Not much.”
Both thick eyebrows went up over silvery eyes.
She cleared her throat. She unbuckled her seat belt and held on to the handle above the door so that she didn’t fall out. It was a very tall vehicle.
“Shrimp,” he mused.
She laughed self-consciously. “I’m five foot seven inches,” she protested. But she had to look up, way up, to see his amused smile.
“I’m six foot two. To me, you’re a shrimp,” he added.
He went ahead of her to open the door. She hesitated, but just for a minute. She was really cold and her clothes were drenched.
“Bathroom’s that way,” he said, indicating the hallway. The floors were wood with throw rugs in Native American patterns. The furniture in the living room was cushy and comfortable. There was a huge television on one wall and a fireplace on the other. It was very modern.
“Thanks,” she said belatedly when she realized she was staring around her.
“I’ll see what I can scare up in the way of dry clothes.”
“We’re not the same size,” she protested, measuring him.
He chuckled. “No, we’re not. But my housekeeper’s daughter left some things behind when she came to visit her mom. You’re just about her size.”
He walked off toward the other end of the house.
She darted into the huge bathroom and took off her coat. She looked like a drenched chicken, she thought miserably. At least the bathroom was warm.
She heard heavy footsteps coming back, and a quick rap on the door. She opened it.
“Here.” He handed her some jeans and a shirt.
“Thanks,” she said.
He shrugged. “Come out when you’re ready. We’ll throw your wet things into the dryer.”
“Okay.”
She had to put the jeans and shirt over her underwear, which was damp, but she wasn’t about to take it off and put it in a dryer in front of a man she didn’t know. She was painfully shy.
She came out of the bathroom. He called to her from a distant room. She followed the sound of his voice to a sprawling kitchen.
“Drink coffee?” he asked.
“Oh, yes!” she agreed.
“Give me those.” He held out his hand for her clothes. “I’ll stick them in the dryer.”
“Thanks.”
He gave them a cursory look, pursed his lips amusedly at the lack of underthings, and took them to the dryer in still another room. She heard it kick off.
He came back in and poured coffee into two thick white mugs. “Cream, sugar?”
“No,” she replied, seating herself at the small table against the window. Outside, cattle were milling around a feed trough. “I always drink it black and strong. It helps keep me awake when I’m working. . . .” She stopped suddenly. Waitresses didn’t work at night in Benton.
He raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t question the odd comment.
She sipped coffee and sighed. “This is very good.”
“It’s Colombian,” he replied. “I’m partial to it.”
“So am I.”
He sipped his coffee and stared at his odd houseguest. He wondered how old she was. She had that radiant, perfect complexion that was common in young women, but she didn’t look like a teenager, despite her slender figure.
She lifted both eyebrows at his obvious appraisal.
“I was wondering how old you were,” he said, smiling.
“Oh. I’m twenty-four.”
He cocked his head. “You look younger.”
She smiled. Her blue eyes almost radiated warmth. “Everybody says that.”
She wondered how old he was. His hair was black and thick, conventionally cut. His face was strong, with an imposing nose and chiseled mouth and high cheekbones. His skin had a faint olive tone.
He chuckled. “Sizing me up, too? I have Comanche ancestors.”
“I thought Comanches lived in Texas and Oklahoma,” she began.
“They do. I was born south of Fort Worth, Texas. That’s where my mother was from. My folks moved back here when I was ten. The ranch was started by my great-grandfather. My grandfather and my father had some sort of blowup and Dad and Mom left when I was on the way. I never knew what happened. Dad lived on the ranch, but he didn’t own it. My grandfather held the purse strings until he died, and even then, he left the ranch to me instead of my dad.”
“That must have been hard on your father.”
“It was. They never got along.” He smiled. “I missed Texas when we came here. It’s very different.”
“I love Texas,” she confessed. “Especially up