Chapter Two

      “How did you hear about the Lazy O?” Luke asked as he steered the pickup along the narrow gravel road that led from the barn to the lodge.

      “My travel agent gave me a brochure,” Josie replied, gripping the seat as the truck bounced over the rough terrain. “Everything sounds wonderful!”

      That was the problem with that blasted brochure, Luke thought glumly; his father had gone overboard on the descriptions, painting everything in glowing terms and flowery, romantic language.

      Especially the honeymoon cabin, Luke thought as he braked the pickup to a jerky stop in front of it. He’d bet his best bull she’d be disappointed to discover it was nothing more than a ramshackle old log cabin fronted by a long, covered porch.

      “Here we are,” Luke said, glancing over at Josie and bracing himself for a string of complaints.

      She peered through the truck’s rain-streaked window. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” She looked up and flashed that dimple at him before turning back to the view. “So rustic and secluded. Just like the brochure describes.”

      Stifling his surprise, Luke followed her gaze. He’d always thought the cabin was great, too, but it wasn’t everyone’s reaction. Nestled amid a backdrop of oaks and pines and illuminated by a lantern-shaped light shining on the porch, it looked like it belonged in another century.

      “My father built it years ago as a guest house,” Luke explained. “He designed it after a cabin in the Rockies where he honeymooned with my mother. The main lodge is behind it, just past those trees.”

      “You wouldn’t know there was anything around for miles.”

      “In the good old days, there wasn’t.”

      Josie couldn’t miss the tension in his voice. “You sound like you don’t much like the lodge.”

      Luke’s shoulders tightened. How had they gotten off on this topic, anyway? He shrugged in a show of casualness. “I’m a rancher, not an innkeeper. Turning the Lazy O into a dude ranch was my father’s idea.”

      He switched off the engine and reached for the door handle, wanting to forestall any more questions. “Stay put. I’ll come around and help you down so you don’t get tangled up in that dress again.”

      She took his hands and stepped down, lurching against him as her feet hit the ground. He inhaled sharply at the contact of her soft breasts against his chest and caught a heady whiff of her scent—something soft and subtle, like baby powder and fresh flowers, mingled with a deep, earthy aroma that seemed somehow familiar.

      Mud—that was what smelled familiar. And she was probably smearing it all over him. Boy, was he ever a sorry sack of hormones, getting all muddle headed and romantic over the scent of mud!

      Scrunching his forehead into a frown, he pulled away.

      The sudden motion made her lurch again. “Sorry,” she murmured. “This darn gown…”

      Without thinking, he bent and swooped her up, one arm under her knees, the other around her back.

      Her arm involuntarily flew around his neck. Her face was inches from his, her eyes wide with alarm. “What are you doing?”

      Good question. He was as shocked to find her in his arms as she was to be there.

      There was that scent again. Jiminy—he didn’t care if it was partly mud, it still smelled downright delicious. She felt that way, too. Even in her sodden gown she was no heavier than a newborn colt, but the wet silk made her as slippery as a greased pig.

      He bounced her slightly in the air as he adjusted his grip, searching his mind for a way to explain his purely reflexive action. “That blasted dress is a hazard,” he muttered. “My insurance company would cancel my liability coverage if they knew we had guests running around outfitted like that.”

      Carrying her as easily as he’d tote a bale of hay, he strode rapidly to the covered porch and set her down outside the door. No way was he going to carry her across the threshold; he was having a hard enough time keeping his thoughts about her under control without acting like a surrogate bridegroom.

      The imprint of her warm, wet body burned against him long after he released her, and he had a physical reaction to it. Jeezem Pete, he responded like a teenage boy every time he touched her.

      So stop touching her, O’Dell, he chided himself sarcastically.

      He fumbled in his pocket for a master key, then unlocked the door. It swung open. He reached in and flipped on a light. “Here you are. I’ll get your bags.”

      She was still standing on the porch when he returned from the truck. He plopped the bags down by the door and eyed her warily. “You ought to get out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower before you catch pneumonia.” The last thing he wanted was to have her laid up convalescing, needing to be waited on hand and foot.

      “I don’t want to track mud inside. I think I should take off the dress out here.”

      The thought did strange things to his pulse rate. He cleared his throat and turned to go. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

      “Wait!”

      Now what? He swiveled around.

      “I…I can’t undo the buttons myself.”

      She turned and pointed over her shoulder. A long row of tiny buttons ran from the neck of the gown to below her waist—dozens of buttons, each about the size of a raisin, each fastened with tiny loops of thread.

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake…”

      “I’m sorry to be such a bother.” Her voice had a suspicious warble in it.

      Oh, criminy; she wasn’t going to cry again, was she?

      “I realize it’s beyond the call of duty, but I’m freezing, and…”

      “I’ll call the housekeeper to help you.”

      He strode into the cabin, picked up the phone and punched out Consuela’s number. No answer. No answer in the lodge kitchen, either.

      Great, just great. He’d have to deal with this himself.

      The screen door banged behind him as he rejoined Josie on the porch. “Turn around and stand still.” The words came out more harshly than he’d intended.

      She presented her slender back to him. He stepped forward, pushed her veil out of the way and tackled the top button. It sat at the nape of her neck, covered by damp tendrils of shoulder-length dark hair. He brushed the wet strands aside, his fingers feeling huge and awkward, and tried to ignore the rush of arousal that tightened his body.

      The woman was wreaking havoc with his libido. Maybe it was because this was supposed to be her wedding night— a night when her skin was supposed to be touched, her lips were meant to be tasted, those enticing curves were to be explored and caressed…

       By another man, O’Dell. For heaven’s sake, get a grip.

      His fingers fumbled, and the button tore off in his hands. “Sorry,” he muttered, moving on to the next one.

      It had evidently been too long since he’d been around a woman. He hadn’t dated much since his divorce, and that had been five years ago. Judging from the way he was reacting now, it was time he got back in the saddle and started socializing again.

      The button popped free. His fingers edged down to attack the next one. Josie shifted and sighed, and he struggled