Chapter 2

      “You’ve got a problem?” Richard, pretty boy and eternal ladies’ man, took a step toward Charli, eyeing her much like a hungry dog would a biscuit. “Well, baby girl...I’m a problem solver.”

      If looks could kill, for Richard it would have been time for ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Her eyes slid from him to Jackson and back before returning to Warren.

      Richard backed up, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

      “I’ve got a problem with your fence. You’ve enclosed the stream that my cows have used for the last ten years. The next water source is two miles away.”

      Warren’s first thought was wondering how her cows were his problem. He didn’t have long to wait for clarification.

      “That stream is on Reed land.”

      Warren looked at Jackson, who gave a slight nod and walked to a large black pickup. “My people had the land surveyed five years ago, when the first vines were planted. The fence was erected based on those specs.”

      “I don’t care what the paper says. That stream is for my cows. We need access. You need to move your fence.”

      Warren scowled. Who did this gorgeous cup of cocoa think she was? “I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken.”

      Jackson returned from his truck with survey in hand. He unrolled it, giving one end to Warren to hold while he held the other and pointed to property lines. “Here is the lake, Ms. Reed,” he said, pointing to the paper. “And here is the Drake property line.”

      Charli glanced at the paper and said nothing.

      “We had everything double-checked before we erected the fence,” Warren said as Jackson rolled up the proof and placed it under his arm. “Not only against the original paperwork filed at the courthouse, but with another top-rate surveyor.” He crossed his arms, matching her stance. “All of the property within the fence is mine.”

      “How many acres is this—” she spread her arms “—property of yours?”

      “I can’t see how that’s any of your business.”

      “Maybe not. But it’s a shame that with all that you own we’re standing here squabbling about a half acre or less that you probably won’t even see, let alone that you’ll need.”

      “Be that as it may, it’s my land and my fence.”

      A stare-off ensued, during which time Warren took note of a few things: the color of her eyes, her kissable long neck and how even with an oversize shirt he could tell that she was wearing the hell out of that pair of jeans.

      “My contractor and I need to get back to work. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

      “Yes.” Charli spun on her heel, placed a well-worn boot into the stirrup and swung up onto the chestnut-colored stallion in one fluid motion. “You can go to hell.”

      Warren watched the trail of dust that followed his feisty neighbor down the winding drive. “You know,” he drawled to Jackson and Richard as she rounded the bend and galloped out of sight. “I think Miss Charli needs to learn how to say how she really feels.”

      * * *

      Charli used long, strong brushstrokes on the horse’s coat, thankful to have something to do. She was still ticked off—okay, livid—after her encounter with her jerk of a neighbor, Warren Drake. Even after riding hard all the way home, going past her house and giving the horse his head for a good five minutes. After helping the ranch hands round up a herd of cattle, and tossing up heavy bales of hay for the next day’s feeding, there was still enough pent-up frustration for her to go fifteen rounds with a punching bag. Or a neighbor.

      For the past two years, ever since she’d returned to the land she loved and regained the reins of her grandfather Charles Reed’s dream to stave off a foreclosure, Charli had been exhausted but content. She’d finally found the peace that had eluded her for the past few years, peace that had first been shattered when her grandfather—her rock—died, and then had further been obliterated by the dissolution of an engagement that never should have occurred. Coming back to the ranch had been like coming home. Most of the old hands still worked there, and treated her with the respect they’d given Charles Reed. The house manager, whom she called her play uncle, Griff, was now the closest thing she had to family and treated her like his own. It hadn’t hurt that all of them had known her since she was knee-high to a gnat, or that she could ride and rope with the best of them—a country girl through and through.

      “I can’t believe the audacity of that man,” she grumbled in time with the brushstroke. Or how tall and handsome he is, or how his muscles flexed when he crossed his arms. “Arrogant jerk.” Blessed with a cleft and dimples? How unfair! Her grandfather had talked about the Drakes, how they’d swept into town decades ago, buying up acres of land. What had once been miles and miles of empty fields eventually became Paradise Cove, incorporated by Walter’s son, Ike Drake Sr., and his highbrow friends.

      “They’re a bunch of self-absorbed, bourgie possums, Gramps, just like you said.” But what he hadn’t told her was how handsome a Drake man could be, or what to do when just five minutes in his presence had made her heart go boom.