Wyoming Brave. Diana Palmer
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He lifted an eyebrow and slid his eyes over what he could see of her trim figure. “How old are you?” he asked suddenly.
“Twenty-two,” she returned.
His eyes darkened. Too young, he was thinking. Years too young. Twenty-two to his thirty-six. She was striking. It wasn’t so much beauty, although she had that, as poise and grace. She moved like some graceful fawn, barely leaving traces of her footsteps when she walked.
“You’re just a kid,” he said quietly, thinking out loud.
“It’s the mileage,” she said suddenly.
He frowned. “What?”
“It’s the mileage. Some people are old at twenty and some are young at eighty. It’s the mileage.”
“I see.” He cocked his head and studied her openly. “You aren’t old enough to have much mileage, just the same.”
She smiled. “I don’t let it show. It takes a lot fewer muscles to smile than it does to frown.”
He cocked his hat low over his brow. “Don’t expect to see many smiles around here in winter.”
“Not true,” she said pertly. “Delsey smiles all the time. So does Tubbs.”
At the mention of the younger man’s name, he froze over. “Tubbs is here to work, not to make calf’s eyes at you,” he said, his tone biting. “Don’t encourage him. He likes blondes.”
“I haven’t encouraged anybody,” she protested.
“See that you don’t.” His smile was colder than the snow around them. “After all, you’re Randall’s...friend, aren’t you?” he added, a note of contempt in his tone.
“Yes,” she said, not understanding. “Randall’s my friend.”
“You remember that.”
He turned and marched off toward the truck, where one of the men was waiting for him. “Tell Delsey I’ll be late,” he called over his shoulder. “We’re going quail hunting.”
He was gone before she could even answer.
“Well, he’s in some great shape to go out hunting,” Delsey said irritably as she puttered around the kitchen. “Hunkered down in a snowbank waiting to spook a covey of quail! He’ll catch his death!”
“He really doesn’t listen to reason.”
Delsey laughed. “No. He doesn’t.”
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