Cattleman's Courtship. Lois Dyer Faye
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“You’re a salesclerk? Isn’t that a big step down from practicing law?” Quinn shifted the little boy on his arm. Her voice was frostily reserved, and the soft smile that had dazed him while they danced was noticeably absent.
“Some people might say so. However, I’m also handling Hank Foslund’s emergency calls and doing some other work for him for the next month or so. I happen to believe that work is work, regardless of the occupation. While I have a law degree and practicing law is my profession, it’s not the sum total of my existence,” she said pointedly, her gaze narrowing over the shift in his expression as he registered her words. His jaw firmed, his eyes narrowed. She could swear he grew taller as he stiffened. “My doctor ordered me to stay away from stress for at least six months. So—” she gestured at the store around her, wielding the colored collection of feathers “—I’m a clerk.”
“Six months? Do you really believe that you can keep from meddling in other people’s lives for six months?”
“I don’t meddle in people’s lives.”
“You’re an attorney,” Quinn said flatly. “Meddling in people’s lives is how you make your living.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion.” Victoria held on to her temper with an effort. “But a lot of people, myself included, wouldn’t agree with you. In fact, Mr. Bowdrie, a lot of people, myself included, might argue that your opinion is suspect because you’re clearly prejudiced against attorneys.”
“Damned straight,” he shot back.
“Bobby? Where are you?” The female voice interrupted Quinn.
“Uh-oh.” The little boy in Quinn’s arms patted his face, demanding his attention. “That’s my mama.”
A young woman in her early twenties rounded the end of the aisle, her harassed expression quickly changing to relief and exasperation as she spied them.
“Bobby! There you are.” She walked down the aisle toward them and held out her arms.
Quinn handed the little boy to his mother, and she settled him against her hip with practiced ease.
“He wasn’t a bother.”
The young mother’s guarded gaze flicked from Quinn to Victoria before she smiled at her son. “I thought he was right behind me, playing with his car, while I talked to Mr. Denning. Then I turned around and he was gone.” She smoothed a lock of black hair from the little boy’s forehead.
“Thanks.” Her quick glance included both Quinn and Victoria before she hurried away down the aisle, the bells on the front door ringing melodically as the pair disappeared outside.
Quinn turned back to Victoria.
“I’d better be going, too.”
The cowboy who had smiled gently at the toddler was gone, replaced by a remote, hard-faced stranger. This Quinn was the man that had walked away from her at the Crossroads Bar and Grill after kissing her nearly senseless. She’d neither forgotten nor forgiven how easily he’d turned off the heat while she still felt singed. Besides, she was angry enough with Quinn’s unreasonable prejudice against her occupation that the urge to needle him was irresistible.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
A faint frown creased his brow. “Not that I know of.”
Victoria gestured at his empty hands. “Didn’t you come in here to buy something, or were you just browsing?”
“No, I didn’t stop to browse.” He slipped his fingers into his shirt pocket and removed a folded paper. “A neighbor asked me to drop off this prescription.”
She took the slip of paper and unfolded it, frowning slightly as she struggled to decipher the scribbled words.
Quinn took advantage of her distraction to study her unobserved. The blue pharmacy smock she wore was hip length; unbuttoned, it hung open from throat to hem. Beneath it, she wore a scoop-necked white T-shirt tucked neatly into belted khaki shorts that hit her at midthigh. Below the narrow hem of the shorts, her legs were long, curvy and lightly tanned. White socks with neatly folded down tops and tennis shoes covered her small feet. Her hair was a smooth fall of silvery silk that brushed her shoulders, only the bangs were faintly ruffled where she’d sifted her fingers through them as she talked. She reminded him of a well-cared-for, sleek little blue-eyed cat. And he wanted to cuddle her, stroke and pet her just to see if he could make her purr.
It irritated the hell out of him that he couldn’t seem to stop wanting to touch her.
“…don’t you think?”
Quinn realized that he’d missed the question, whatever it was.
“I, uh…”
Victoria glanced up from the prescription to find him staring at her. His gaze lingered on her breasts before stroking upward to focus intently on her mouth. Her heartbeat thudded faster, and she caught her breath, awareness flaring between them.
“If you weren’t so prejudiced against lawyers,” she murmured, “I’d ask you over for dinner.”
Quinn went completely still. His eyes went hot, and he stared at her for a long moment.
“But I am, and even if I weren’t, I don’t think seeing you is a good idea.” His deep voice was quiet, undertones of tension humming beneath the simple refusal.
“But…”
Too late. Even as Victoria started to protest and ask him to explain, he was gone. His long strides carried him swiftly down the aisle to the front of the store, the bells tinkling as he pulled the plate-glass door open and disappeared through it.
She stared at the empty doorway, regret mixed with irritation.
Men. Who can understand them? And cowboys seem to make less sense than general, run-of-the-mill guys. Maybe working outside in all that fresh air affects their brains!
She shook her head and returned to her dusting, determined not to spend another minute thinking about Quinn Bowdrie.
Unfortunately, Victoria discovered over the next week that commanding herself not to waste brain power thinking about the handsome rancher and actually accomplishing it were two very different things.
Saturday morning found her seated cross-legged on the floor of Hank Foslund’s office, a pile of file folders on her lap. Behind her, the top drawer of a low filing cabinet stood open, the files that had crammed its now-empty space surrounding her in a circle of neatly labeled stacks. She’d been pulling and organizing files for two hours, finishing the A’s and moving on to the B’s.
She scanned the last three remaining folders and shifted them off her lap, placing them in the proper alphabetical stack.
“Hank,” she muttered to herself with a fond shake of her head. “You may be a great attorney, but you’re terrible at organization. You should have hired another file clerk when Shirley retired.”
She pushed the top drawer closed and pulled open the bottom one. Like its mate, it too was crowded full of files, loose papers jammed haphazardly to hang half-in, half-out of folders.
The first file was so thick that she had to slide both hands beneath it to lift it from the drawer. The sides bulged and when she set the folder on the floor, it popped open, papers slithering loose to slide across the carpet.
Exasperated, Victoria shuffled the papers together before settling cross-legged once again to attach loose pages and reorganize the file. One look at the heading on the topmost document, however, had her mouth dropping open.
She hadn’t known that Hank Foslund represented the Bowdries.
But I should have, she realized. He’s the only attorney in town, and he’s represented most of the ranchers for years.
Feeling almost guilty, Victoria tried to deal with the