One Bride Delivered. Jeanne Allan
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name. Calling her hair bleached. He knew it wasn’t, in spite of those dark brows and ridiculously long, black eyelashes. No dark roots.
Bossy blonde. She might have terrific legs, but he detested strong-minded, aggressive women who felt compelled to prove they could be tougher than men. He cast to a likely-looking riffle. It didn’t take much imagination to visualize Cheyenne Lassiter in a man’s bed. She’d issue such a stream of orders and directives, a man would despair of getting a word in edgewise.
A man could take forever kissing her into silence.
He toyed with the idea of those shapely lips used for something other than lecturing. Those long legs wrapped around him.
He’d always welcomed a challenge.
But he’d never been stupid. It was stupid to seduce a woman merely because she disagreed with you.
The fly floated unchallenged over the riffle. The law prohibited using bait in this section of the Roaring Fork and any fish caught had to be returned immediately to the river. Not that he’d caught any.
Ms. Lassiter hadn’t wanted to stop here. She’d argued it wouldn’t be fun for Davy. That was her problem. They didn’t have to hang around. Thomas had found Davy a playmate. It was up to her to entertain him.
He false cast, drying the artificial fly. Tomorrow he’d tend to business.
And forget self-righteous crusaders who held him in contempt because he didn’t behave according to some juvenile, preconceived notions.
Cheyenne Lassiter spent too much time in his head.
A situation he refused to allow. He’d force her out A woman like her wasn’t for a man like him.
Something sharp stung his arm. Rubbing the tender spot, he looked around for biting insects. Another stabbed his back, then a little geyser of water erupted near his legs. A second geyser splashed up. Suspiciously Thomas looked toward the bank, but not in time to evade the sharp object striking his shoulder. He barely avoided the small missile which plopped in the water beside him.
Cheyenne Lassiter dropped her arm when she saw him looking her way. “Hey!” she shouted. “Come over here.”
He’d do what he damned well pleased. Thomas carefully waded upstream at an angle to the current, feeling his way around the treacherously smooth rocks. Here, the water ran too fast and deep for Davy’s short legs.
A much larger geyser exploded in the water beside him. She’d switched from pea-size gravel to rocks. The woman needed her head examined. A boulder flew through the air, landing harmlessly several feet from him. Effectively scaring off any trout in the vicinity.
Thomas moved a couple of feet closer to the bank so he wouldn’t have to holler like someone calling pigs. “I’m trying to fish.”
“If you were any kind of fisherman, you’d have caught a fish by now.”
He scowled across the water. “No one could catch a fish with you two around. You’ve done everything but use a bullhorn to frighten the fish away.”
“What a self-centered jerk you are.”
“When fishing, a man appreciates a little peace and quiet. There’s nothing selfish about that.”
“You could let Davy try the hip boots.”
“I came to fish, Ms. Lassiter, and I intend to fish. Despite your childish behavior.” Turning his back, he cast his line upstream.
The rushing river drowned out whatever reply she made. Sunlight sparkled on the water and aspen leaves danced in the breezes, unknotting his muscles. He ought to get away more often. From the office. The hotels. From his family.
Overhead, a commuter jet climbed into the sky from the Aspen airport. Laughter, loud enough to be heard over the river’s roar, came from the bank. Thomas looked over his shoulder. Davy, holding the tops of the large rubber boots he wore, splashed in the shallows. The boots must belong to the woman. The boy waded toward the middle of the river. Ms. Lassiter thought she knew everything, but obviously she knew nothing about boys and rocks. Heaving an exasperated sigh, Thomas angled his way downstream toward his nephew.
He’d moved to within several yards of Davy when the inevitable happened. A large, flat rock proving irresistible, the boy scrambled up on it and stepped to the edge furthest from the bank. The fast-moving river had scooped the sand and gravel from beneath the far side of the slick rock, creating a large hole. Davy’s weight tipped the rock into the hole and he slid into the river. Thomas dropped his fishing rod and rushed toward his nephew as quickly as he could in the clumsy, borrowed hip boots. Davy was almost in reach when Thomas stepped on a moss-slicked rock and windmilled wildly in the air in a futile attempt to maintain his balance. Falling, he managed to keep his head from slamming onto the river rocks, but icy water cascaded over his shoulders, down his body and poured into the boots. Setting his jaw, Thomas watched Davy splash over.
A big grin covered Davy’s face. “I fell in, too, but I didn’t get all wet.” His grin faded and he took a step back. “Are you mad at me ’cuz you fell in?”
He couldn’t look at the boy without scaring him. “I’m not mad at you.” It wasn’t Davy’s fault. Thomas knew who deserved the blame. He sat up, belatedly noting the river was less than six inches deep where Davy had taken his plunge. The only danger Davy had been in, was getting wet. A danger Davy had obviously circumvented much more effectively than Thomas had.
Thomas closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. He could have counted how many dollars the handcrafted bamboo fly rod speeding downstream to the Colorado River had cost him, but somehow he didn’t think that would alleviate his annoyance.
“Are you all right? Did you bump your head?”
He opened his eyes. “No, I did not bump my head,” he said coldly to the shapely legs in front of his nose. She’d come in the river wearing her hiking boots. It was her own damned fault if she ruined them.
“Are you hurt? Do you need a hand up?”
“I do not need your help.”
“Says you.”
“Listen, Ms. Lassiter...” His angry words died away as he looked up. She held his fly rod. Water dripped from the bottom edges of her shorts. “Thank you,” he said stiffly.
“Worth would skin me alive if I let an expensive rod like this get away.”
Meaning she’d done it for some character named Worth, not for him. Thomas struggled to his feet, taking half the river-with him. If she made a single wisecrack, he’d toss her in the middle of the Roaring Fork.
“I have an old pair of Worth’s jeans in the car. They’re clean and dry. I’ll get them.” She scrambled up to the parking area, returning seconds later with the jeans.
He grabbed them. “Do you plan to watch me change?” he asked as she stood there.
“Nope. I’ve seen your knobby knees. C’mon, Davy, let’s fix lunch.”
Halfway up the bank she slipped and grabbed a clump of weeds at her feet. The sight of her khaki-clad bottom waving in the air momentarily took Thomas’s mind off his cold, wet misery.
The jeans were ripped in one knee and threadbare in the other. They were at least a quarter inch too short for Thomas. A fact which, inexplicably, satisfied him immensely.
Cheyenne manfully swallowed her laughter as she poked around in the large basket sitting on the riverside picnic table. Thomas Steele failed to share her amusement at his mishap even after she’d loaned him Worth’s dry jeans and given him an old blanket to drape around his shoulders. Admittedly the river was cold. And wet. She clamped her lips to hold back a giggle.
After he’d changed into Worth’s dry jeans, Thomas Steele had marched up the bank on bare feet and ranted and raved, accusing her of all kinds of folly, including recklessly