Hot Christmas Nights. Sharon Kendrick
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revealing long, delectable legs. An utter lack of cosmetics revealed a pretty face more delicate and vulnerable than he remembered, but the most surprising element of her appearance was the short hair. The long, heavy fall of brown-black had been transformed into a wispy cap that seemed to enlarge her warm brown eyes and call attention to the plumpness of her dusky pink mouth and the graceful length of her neck.
Win realized that his mouth was hanging open only when he used it to exclaim, “Wow!” Her brows beetled at that, and she folded her arms. Win shook away his speechlessness and found a compliment. “I—I mean, I really like your hair, Dorinda.”
A soft gasp was his only warning before she stepped back, reached out and slammed the door, literally, in his face.
A full minute passed before he could grasp the reality of what had happened. Even then, it made no sense. Unless she meant to fight the restitution order. Suddenly, his blood boiled.
He’d been darn patient about this. Everyone from whom Bud had stolen got their cattle back but him, and he’d be skinned for a polecat before he swallowed the loss of forty producing heifers. He felt bad for her, but the law said that Dorinda, who had received the ranch and the Thacker herd in her divorce settlement, was responsible for reimbursing him. Bud couldn’t very well come up with either cattle or their cash equivalent from a prison cell, and he had testified that the proceeds of his thieving had been put back into the place he’d inherited from his uncle, so that left Dorinda on the hook.
Winston turned on his heel and stomped across the porch and down the steps. The dog followed, and Win was of no mind to discourage it. He yanked open the cab door of the truck and waited for the dog to climb up inside. Muttering under his breath about capricious women, he got in and started the engine. The dog whined as Win backed the truck away from the house. The sound had a quality about it with which Win could readily identify.
“I know what you mean, boy, but she hasn’t heard the last of us, not by a long shot.”
Danica lifted her head from the kitchen table. A dull ache bulged deep within her ears, and her eyes were swollen, a condition with which she was too often plagued since the death of her beloved sister. Even now, some two months after the fact, she couldn’t quite believe that Dorinda was gone. The entire past year and a half had been one catastrophe after another.
First Dori had met Bud and, despite Danica’s misgivings, married him after a whirlwind courtship. Then the newlyweds had moved to Wyoming, leaving Danica to struggle alone with the full rent of an apartment that had been meant for two. As if to add insult to injury, the pediatrician for whom Danica worked as a nurse had taken for a partner none other than Danica’s philandering ex-husband, Michael. Over the following months, Michael had attempted to reignite their relationship, Bud had been caught rustling cattle and was sentenced to prison, Dori had gotten a divorce and returned home to Texas to decide what to do next. And finally had come the awful accident that had cost Dorinda her life.
Danica told herself that a lesser woman would have buckled under all the strain, but she knew that she was holding on by her fingernails. Her reaction to Winston Champlain’s unexpected appearance today was proof of that. And yet, the reaction was somewhat justifiable, wasn’t it?
For weeks and weeks after returning home, Dori had alternately complained about her ex-husband and rhapsodized about their nearest neighbor, Winston Champlain. She’d waffled between returning to the entertainments and sophistication of Dallas for good and the supposed joys of actually owning her own ranch in Wyoming, however remote. Even after her normally ebullient spirits and natural penchant for fun had reasserted themselves, she had troubled Danica by measuring every man she met by the growing enticements of Champlain. Finally she had confessed to a “special relationship” with the man. Thoroughly alarmed, Dani had begged Dori to sell the ranch and stay with her in Dallas.
At length, Dorinda had agreed. Danica had arranged to take a few days off to accompany her sister back to Wyoming to settle her business affairs and put the ranch on the market. They were in the vicinity of Tucumcari, New Mexico, driving Danica’s small coupe in order to save on gasoline, when Dorinda had cut in front of a tractor-trailer rig only to find the traffic in front of them braking to avoid a garbage bag tumbling across the six-lane highway in a stiff breeze. The resulting crash had given Danica nightmares for weeks. The worst of it, however, had been waking up in the hospital with a smashing headache but hardly a scratch otherwise to find that the person dearest to her in all the world was no longer a part of it.
The weeks following had been unbearable. Danica had emerged from the initial fog of grief in a confused state of mind. She’d found it difficult to concentrate on work or much of anything, really. The well-meaning condolences and advice of friends and coworkers had been especially difficult to take, and Dani had found herself reacting with surprising anger. Just two weeks after returning to her job, she’d taken a leave of absence and retreated to the relative privacy of her apartment, only to find that her self-appointed caretakers were even more determined to pull her back into everyday life than she’d realized.
Finally, in sheer desperation, she’d packed a suitcase and headed for Wyoming in Dori’s gas-guzzling truck, ostensibly to settle whatever unfinished business remained and put the place on the market. She’d taken some ridiculous chances, she realized now, by driving straight through, and the week or more that she’d been here, she’d done little but sleep and stare out across the treeless plains, never seeing another soul until Winston Champlain, of all people, had arrived at her door.
The irony of it was not lost on Danica. Here she was right where she’d begged her sister not to go, and the first person she sees is the very one she least wants to. Now that she was over the shock of it, she was rather surprised to find that Dorinda had not exaggerated his physical appeal. Standing at least three inches over six feet, he had that kind of lean, rangy strength about him that many athletes possessed. His hair—though mostly hidden by a dusty gray felt hat with a wide, curly brim and high, domed crown—was a light, biscuit brown and fanned out in undisciplined flips from the nape of his neck. Slightly darker brows slashed straight across his face in two short dashes above light, smoke-gray eyes of startling clarity. It was a strong face, strong enough to carry a square, slightly cleft chin, prominent cheekbones and a long, slender nose that had obviously been broken at least once above a wide, spare mouth.
No wonder Dori had allowed herself to become entangled with him. How easy it must have been for him to slip beneath her defenses after the deep disappointment of her marriage to Bud, and now, clearly, he was ready to resume the affair. Obviously, she should have told him about Dorinda, but she’d been so shocked to see him standing there just as Dori had described him that she’d been tongue-tied. Then to hear her sister’s name on his lips, with a compliment, no less, had been more than Danica could bear. She’d slammed the door in his face and dissolved in tears.
How long ago that might have been, she didn’t really know, but a hollowness in her middle reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day. She put her head in her hands and contemplated the necessity of it, dredging up the will to rise from her chair and go to the pantry. Fortunately, since the refrigerator didn’t work, the larder was well-stocked with nonperishable foodstuffs. Unfortunately, with neither microwave nor functioning cookstove, she was reduced to eating her irregular meals cold right out of the can, box or bag. At least she had electricity and, therefore, hot water, though why that had not been shut off she had no idea.
Forcing herself to her feet, she went to the pantry and selected a can at random, carried it to the counter and opened it. Corn. She hated canned corn. Fresh or even frozen was much better, in her opinion. With a sigh she picked up the spoon left on the counter after her last meal and carried it to the table along with the can. She got down three bites before a pounding at her door made her start so violently that she turned over the can, spilling the contents across the table top.
“I want to talk to you!”
Him! An uncontrollable anger seized her. How dare he intrude like this again! She balled up both fists and shouted at the door, “Go away!”
“Fat chance, lady! You can’t just brush this off!”
“Go away!” she cried again,