The Rancher's Best Gift. Stella Bagwell
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When he’d first gone to work at Three Rivers, Camille had been in high school. She’d worn her hair bobbed to chin-length and it had matched her perky personality. The years since had transformed her into a very sensual female. One who was impossible for Matthew to ignore.
He said, “We’ve not moved any yet. We’ve been rounding up steers. Blake wants all of them shipped back to Three Rivers. So that has to be done before we turn the cows out on the range.”
“And after that?”
He finished chewing a bite of tortilla before he spoke. “We’ll move certain herds to different areas of the ranch. It all depends on the available grazing.” He glanced at her. “We’re doing the same job this year that we did last year. You didn’t come around or ask questions then.”
Shaking her head, she said, “You men have enough to do without a woman showing up and getting in the way. Unless you’re talking about Mom, or Vivian, or Isabelle. They all know what they’re doing on the back of a horse or in a cow lot. I was never good at any of that.”
Her admission surprised him. “You never wanted to learn?”
“I tried, but I usually ended up getting in trouble more than being helpful. Once I dropped my rein, and when I leaned forward to pick it up, my spur hit the flank of the horse. I ended up being bucked off into the fence and got two black eyes from the wild ride. Another time I was helping at the branding fire and somehow got my arm caught between the rope and the calf. I wore a cast for two months after that incident.”
“Those things happen all the time in ranch work.”
“Yes, but they never happen to Mom or Viv. They’re smart enough to avoid trouble.”
He leveled a challenging look at her. “So you’re afraid to get out among the cows and horses.”
Her spine stiffened to a straight line. “I’m not afraid of anything!”
“Hmm. Maureen will be glad to hear that. She thinks you’re afraid to come home.”
Her chin thrust forward. “I am home. Red Bluff is Hollister range, too, you know.”
Yeah, he knew. Just like he knew that she was like a piece of dynamite. Jostle her too much and she might just explode in his face.
“So, what are you afraid of, Matthew?” she tossed the question at him. “Getting burned again by another piece of fluff like Renee?”
Compared to the heat of the day, the kitchen was cool. So why did he feel a sheen of sweat collecting beneath the collar of his shirt?
“I’ve learned about women since Renee,” he said, his gaze fixed firmly on the food in front of him.
He heard her let out a long sigh.
“I’ve learned about men since Graham, too,” she said, then reached over and gave his forearm a gentle squeeze.
“Ouch! Damn!”
She jerked her hand back and stared at him in comical confusion. “Oh! I guess I don’t know my own strength. Sorry if I hurt you.”
He shook his head. “It’s not you—I was in a lot of thorns and cacti today. I think some are still stuck in my arms.”
Concern wiped the humor from her face and she quickly rose to her feet. “Finish eating,” she instructed. “And don’t get up until I get back.”
She was bossier than Blake ever thought about being, Matthew thought. But what the hell, giving in was easier than trying to argue with her.
A few minutes later, as he shoveled in the last bite of food from his plate, Camille returned carrying a large straw basket.
She placed it on the table and then, pushing his dirty plate aside, ordered him to roll up his sleeves.
Seeing the basket was full of first aid items, he let out a loud groan.
“No! I don’t need doctoring! Forget it!”
Her pretty lips formed a tight line as she stared at him. “I’m not forgetting anything. And I’m not going to hurt you! So quit being a big baby.”
“The guys that rode with me today also got thorns and stickers. Are you going to go out to the bunkhouse and treat them, too?” he demanded.
“No. The men in the bunkhouse can help each other. You only have me.”
She began to lay out an assortment of cotton swabs, ointment, peroxide and a pair of tweezers. Matthew bit back a groan, and rolled up the sleeves of his denim shirt past his elbows.
“Hell, Camille, you act like I’ve never been stuck with a thorn before,” he muttered. “This happens all the time.”
“Maybe it does. But I happen to know that mesquite thorns are poisonous to humans. If you don’t get them out and disinfect the spot, it will become infected.”
“I know all that. I told the men to be careful.”
“Humph. Guess you think your hide is so tough you’re immune,” she said.
She sat down and reached for the arm nearest to her. Matthew tried to ignore the feel of her hands on his bare flesh, but it was impossible to do, and after a moment, he decided to quit fighting the sensation and simply enjoy it.
Bending her head, she carefully studied the back of his forearm. “This is awful. It’s no wonder you yelled when I squeezed your arm. I see three, maybe four thorns still stuck in the flesh.”
“We rode through thick brush today.”
“Guess you were wearing your chaps.” She picked up the tweezers and, after disinfecting them, attempted to pull out one of the longer thorns.
He said, “I don’t leave home without them.”
“Good thing. Otherwise your legs would be full of these things.”
And Matthew couldn’t imagine her hands touching his legs. No. That would be more than he could handle.
“This is probably going to hurt,” she warned. “I’m going to have to probe with a needle.”
“Go ahead. You’re a long distance from my heart.”
She lifted her head and their gazes locked.
“Really?” she asked. “I never believed you had one of those things.”
He had one, all right, Matthew thought. And at the moment it was banging against his ribs with the desperation of a trapped bird.
“You think I’m a rock—or something?”
Her gaze fell to his lips and for a crazy second he thought she was going to lean forward and kiss him. But his thinking must have been dead wrong because all of a sudden she dropped her gaze back to his arm.
“Or something,” she murmured. “Except for Daddy, I always thought you never felt much about anyone or thing.”
A hollow sensation spread through his chest and made his voice stilted when he spoke. “Joel was the first man who ever treated me like I was more than a doormat. He taught me that I was just as worthy as the next man and just as capable if I wanted to be. He changed my life.”
She stopped the probing and, clasping her hands warmly over his arm, she lifted her gaze to his. “Daddy was special like that. But I—I’m missing something, Matthew. What about the uncle who raised you?”
He grimaced. “I’m surprised you knew about him.”
“I don’t. I mean, I remember Daddy saying you came from Gila Bend and that an uncle had raised you. That’s all I ever knew.”
“Odin Waggoner was a bastard and his brother, my father, was no better.”
Her eyes were full of questions as she studied his face, and Matthew wanted to tell her that he didn’t