Cattleman's Courtship. Lois Dyer Faye
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He dropped off a prescription—I believe it was yours, Becky.”
Victoria noted the raised eyebrows and speculative glances between her aunt and Becky, but before she could question them, the minister joined their group and her query was forgotten in the ensuing conversation.
“Hey, Quinn!”
Cully’s shout, followed by the slamming of the front door, shattered the silence of the ranch house.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Quinn yelled. He glanced over his shoulder and watched his brother enter the room before he turned back to the sink. Dirty water ran from his soapy hands and swirled down the drain. Mud freckled his face, dotted his hair, splattered his shirt and coated his jeans almost to the knee. Only his feet, covered in white socks, were free of the half-wet, half-dry brown mud.
“What happened to you?” Cully asked, halting in midstride to stare.
“I got the truck stuck in that bog out in Pilgrim’s Meadow.”
“No kidding. What does the truck look like?”
Quinn glanced up and caught the amused grin that lit Cully’s green eyes and tilted his mouth.
“Worse than I do.” He said drily. He bent and ducked his head under the spigot, scrubbing his face and hair vigorously under the running water before he twisted the faucet closed. Eyes shut, he fumbled for the towel on the countertop and dried water from his face and hands before he turned back to Cully, his head buried in damp terry cloth as he rubbed his hair. “So,” he mumbled, “where have you been?”
“Over at Becky’s, helping fix her corral gate.”
Quinn frowned and tossed the wet towel back onto the countertop. Cully’s voice was filled with amusement. Quinn eyed him. His brother leaned against the counter, boot-covered feet crossed at the ankles, his arms folded across his chest. He was the very picture of innocence.
Quinn was instantly suspicious.
“At Becky’s, huh?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What happened at Becky’s that’s so funny?”
“Becky went to church this morning.”
“What’s funny about that? Becky goes to church every Sunday morning.”
“Yeah, but this Sunday morning the druggist’s niece was there, too.”
Quinn stiffened. “So?”
“So was our wicked stepmother.”
Quinn’s hands curled into fists. “What did she do to Victoria?”
“It’s not what Eileen did to Victoria, it’s what Victoria did to the wicked stepmother.”
“All right, get to the point—what happened?”
“Victoria must not have known that Eileen hates our guts because she asked her if she was related to us. Becky says Eileen practically exploded and the longer she ranted about us, the angrier the niece got. According to Becky, the lady interrupted her in midspeech and verbally ripped her to shreds.” Cully chuckled. “Becky told me that Eileen swelled up like a balloon, she was so mad. Then she told the niece that she was owed an apology and stomped off.”
“Hell.” Quinn uncurled his fists and thrust his fingers through his hair. “What did she do that for?”
“Damned if I know,” Cully said bluntly. “But it’s nice to know that somebody besides Becky has the guts to tell Eileen to shut up every now and then.” He eyed Quinn with curiosity. “Why did she stick up for us, anyway? Becky says the niece knows you—when did you meet her?”
“A couple of weeks ago at the Crossroads,” Quinn replied, distracted by the mental image of what Victoria might have looked like angry. The smooth skin of her cheeks would have been flushed, her blue eyes snapping, her small body defensive.
“At the Crossroads?” Cully’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Is this the blonde Nikki told me you took away from Sam Beckman?”
“I didn’t take her away from Beckman,” Quinn said impatiently. “He was giving her a hard time and I cut in to dance with her. That’s all. End of story.”
“Yeah. Right.” Cully’s tone was patently disbelieving. “If that’s the end of the story, then how come she jumped down Eileen’s throat when she started complaining about you?”
“Who knows?” Quinn shrugged. “She’s an attorney. Maybe it’s just a natural reaction for her to argue.”
“Hmm. Possibly, but I doubt it—sounds to me like the lady likes you, Quinn.”
“I doubt it, but if she does, she’d be smarter to keep it to herself,” Quinn said grimly. “If the gossips in Colson decide she’s interested in a Bowdrie, her reputation will be toast.”
Cully’s face tightened, his eyes narrowing.
“Yeah,” he agreed, his voice hard.
The kitchen was silent for several moments while the brothers were immersed in their own thoughts before Cully glanced at Quinn in slow surprise.
“She’s an attorney? Did you say the Dennings’s niece is an attorney?”
“Yeah.”
Cully whistled, a soft, almost silent pursing of his lips.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You not only spoke to her, you actually went out of your way to take her away from Beckman?”
“I told you—I didn’t take her away from Beckman.”
“But she’s an attorney. You hate women attorneys. We both do.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know she was an attorney when I danced with her, okay?”
“Okay.” Cully lifted his hands in surrender. He started toward the doorway to the back porch. “Must be some woman.”
And with that parting shot, he walked across the small utility room and disappeared outside, the screen door slapping shut behind him.
Quinn glowered at the closed door. Cully’s departing figure was clearly visible through the mesh screen and his cheerful whistling was plainly audible.
There was no question that Cully thought he’d discovered a chink in Quinn’s armor and would continue to tease him about Victoria.
“Damn,” Quinn swore as he threw his mud-splattered shirt inside the washer before stripping off his jeans and heading upstairs for a shower.
Moments later, he stood under the pounding stream, sluicing the remaining mud from his hair. He braced his hands against the tiled wall and let the hot spray knead his sore back muscles.
Why was she defending him? He’d given her no cause.
The question nagged Quinn the rest of the day and into the evening. He wanted to ask her why she’d championed him in front of her aunt and her friends but he knew he shouldn’t. He should stay away from her.
Victoria was curled up in bed, reading, when someone knocked on her apartment door.
She glanced at the alarm clock on her nightstand. “Ten o’clock?” She couldn’t think of anyone who might be visiting her except Lonna, and she’d already spoken with her cousin earlier in the evening. Nevertheless, she grabbed her comfortable cotton wrap robe from the foot of her bed and headed into the living room. The old-fashioned oak door was heavy and solid, with no peephole marking its thick panels. She paused, her hand hesitating on the doorknob, made cautious by her years in Seattle and the lateness of the hour.
“Who’s there?”
“Quinn Bowdrie.”
Startled, Victoria stared at the oak panel for a moment before