One Tall, Dusty Cowboy. Stella Bagwell
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“I’m not making visits to the Silver Horn ranch for your amusement, Mr Calhoun.”
“How could anything so cold come out of such a beautiful mouth?” he countered. “Especially when I haven’t given you a reason to dislike me.”
She breathed deeply and assured herself that she wasn’t feeling an ounce of attraction for this man. “I’ve not given you any reason to flirt with me either,” she said stiffly.
Instead of making him angry, her response merely made him laugh. Again. And Lilly was shocked at how the low, rich sound sent a shiver of pleasure right through her.
“You’re definitely a saucy little thing.”
And he was just the sort of man that Lilly had taken great pains to avoid these past few years. “I’m not a thing, Mr Calhoun. I’m a woman.”
The corner of his lips curved upward. “Yes, I can see exactly how much of a woman.”
* * *
Men of the West: Whether ranchers or lawmen, these heartbreakers can ride, shoot—and drive a woman crazy …
One Tall,
Dusty Cowboy
Stella Bagwell
STELLA BAGWELL has written more than seventy novels for Mills & Boon. She credits her loyal readers and hopes her stories have brightened their lives in some small way. A cowgirl through and through, she loves to watch old Westerns, and has recently learned how to rope a steer. Her days begin and end helping her husband care for a beloved herd of horses on their little ranch located on the south Texas coast. When she’s not ropin’ and ridin’, you’ll find her at her desk, creating her next tale of love. The couple has a son, who is a high school math teacher and athletic coach. Stella loves to hear from readers and invites them to contact her at [email protected].
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To my late brother-in-law, Gerald Foster, and the loving memories I will always carry in my heart.
Contents
The man standing at the foot of the long staircase was one tall, dusty cowboy and looked entirely out of place standing on the polished wood floor in his boots and spurs and bat-wing chaps. A straw hat was pulled low over his forehead, but the moment he spotted her descending the long steps, he swept it off to reveal thick waves of varying shades of chestnut. Yet it was the speculative gaze on his face that jarred Lilly Lockett the most and prompted her to lift her chin to a challenging tilt.
She halted two steps from where he stood with a gloved hand resting on the polished balustrade. “Are you lost?”
To her dismay, he threw back his head and howled with laughter. “A few folks around here would say I’m lost all the time, Ms...?”
The unsettling glint in his eyes put a prim note to her voice. “Lilly Lockett. And you are?”
Climbing one step closer, he jerked off a scarred leather glove and extended his hand to her. “Rafe Calhoun, at your service, ma’am.”
Lilly wasn’t sure if the blush warming her face was because the man was touching her or because she’d mistaken a member of the Calhoun family for a common ranch hand.
“Hello, Rafe Calhoun. Are you Bart’s son or grandson?”
His outlandish grin was bracketed by a pair of incredible dimples, but they only made up a small part of this man’s striking looks. His skin was tanned to a deep nut-brown, making a pair of gray eyes stand out beneath hooded brows. Chiseled cheekbones angled downward to a proud, hawkish nose and lean cheeks, while a hank of rusty-brown hair flopped onto a high forehead. She’d heard through the rumor mill that one of the Calhoun boys was a player with the ladies and from the looks of this one she’d pretty much bet him to be the culprit.
“Bart is my grandfather.” His gaze slipped from her face to her bare