Coming Home To You. Fay Robinson
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me off your property?” she asked.
He yanked harder at the tangle of threads. The sooner she was on her way, the better. Strangers, even pretty ones, could be trouble.
“I guess so,” she answered for him. “And here I thought Southerners were famous for their hospitality.”
He reached in the pocket of his jeans for his knife. When he had cut away that part of the trapped material, she eased forward on the limb and pulled her skirt free.
“Climb down,” he told her.
“I will, but—” she pointed at Sallie “—can you get rid of that first, please?”
“Sallie, go to the house.” The dog ran to the porch and curled up in front of the screen door.
Bret slid from his horse, scooped up the woman’s shoes and remounted. “Here.” He thrust them at her. They were covered in dog slobber and puckered with holes.
She held them up and sighed. “Great. The next time I need to strain vegetables, I’ll know what to use.” She steadied herself on the branch with one hand and used her other to slip on a shoe, making a sound of disgust. “They’re wet.”
“Climb down,” Bret ordered again.
“You know,” she said, easing into the other shoe, a pained expression on her face, “you didn’t even ask if your dog bit me. I felt her mouth on my ankle, and I think I should go in the house and put antiseptic on it.”
“She didn’t bite you.”
“I believe she did.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“How can you say that when you haven’t looked?”
“Lady, the dog didn’t bite you. Stop stalling and get down.”
“I’m not stalling.”
“If Sallie had bitten you, we wouldn’t be arguing about it. She’d still be hanging on.”
The woman shuddered. “You’re kidding. Does she often hang on to people?”
“Always.”
“You mean she clamps down and won’t turn you loose?” When he nodded, she asked, “Did you train her to do that?”
“Of course not. She just does it. Now, I’m tired of telling you. Get in your car.”
She stared off into space, apparently deep in thought, then glanced at his horse. “I guess things like that are bred into dogs, like racing and working are bred into horses. That’s what they call a quarter horse, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen an animal so beautiful. Is he your only stallion?”
“No, I have three.”
“Three? Gosh. And I bet they’re all that healthy-looking. And how many mares do you have?”
“Sixteen.”
“So how many of those would you normally breed in a year’s time, and how many babies would you get?”
“Usually I’d breed all of them if they’re—”
He swore, realizing she had somehow dragged him into conversation. Did she know he bred horses for a living or had she made an educated guess?
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Doing what?”
“Chattering. Trying to make me forget you’re not supposed to be here. Confusing me.”
“No, I wasn’t. Are you easily confused? You know that can be one of the first signs of a serious illness. A brain tumor. Alzheimer’s. Dementia. Although I would think you’re too young to have Alzheimer’s. This confusion you have, is it like short-term memory loss or more cognitive?”
He groaned loudly. “You’re the most exasperating woman I ever tried to talk to.”
“Do you have trouble talking to women?” She clucked as if she felt sorry for him. “No need to feel embarrassed. An estimated two million men in the United States have the same problem. There’s even a name for it. It’s called Fe—”
“Stop!” he yelled, holding up a hand.
She casually plucked a pine needle from her skirt. “Are you confused again?”
He eyed her with suspicion. “Are you purposely trying to drive me crazy?”
“Why, heavens, no. Are you paranoid, as well as confused?”
He raised his arms and grabbed her before she understood his intent, lifting her from the branch and setting her sideways on the horse in front of him.
“You’re leaving,” he said gruffly, kicking the horse into a trot. His arm came around her waist to hold her. She clung to it in panic.
Bret pulled her closer, his anger fizzling the moment he felt her fear. He stiffened as he got a stronger whiff of her perfume. The fragrance was exotic, like some delicate flower. He’d forgotten how good a woman could smell, how soft she could feel.
They reached her car, but he didn’t immediately dismount or set her on the ground. She gave him a questioning look. His gaze settled on her mouth, an unusual mouth that curved upward only on the right side when she smiled. When she wasn’t smiling, like now, it dipped only on that side and made her seem younger, even vulnerable.
He knew that mouth from somewhere, and having it inches from his own was making him want to do something crazy.
“Who are you?” he asked, curiosity overpowering his impatience.
“Ah, there is a normal human being beneath that grumpy exterior. I was beginning to wonder.”
“Are you a reporter?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, Mr. Hayes, I’m not a reporter. At least not now. But I have come a long way to talk to you, so I would appreciate a few minutes of your time. I promise I’ll be brief.”
Her use of his name made his eyebrows knit together under the brim of his cap. “Do I know you?”
“No, we’ve, um, never really met in person.” She looked away and fanned her face with her hand. “Could we go into your house where it’s cooler and maybe have a glass of iced tea? Whew, it’s so humid out here. Is it always this hot in August? How many days has it been since you had rain?”
“You’re doing it again.”
She turned to face him. “Doing what?”
“Chattering.”
“Oh, sorry. It’s not intentional. I promise.” She shot him a big lopsided smile in apology. Desire came out of nowhere and slammed him in the gut.
The reaction was understandable, he told himself. He hadn’t had a woman in…hell, too long, and this one was particularly pleasing to look at with her long flowing hair and small well-curved body. She couldn’t be more than five feet tall, but every inch of it appeared soft and feminine.
If he could tape her mouth shut, she’d be perfect!
“Who are you?”
“I think, considering the way things are going, we might get along better if I didn’t tell you that yet.”
“Are you under the impression we’re getting along at all?”
“Well, no, but it’s my nature to be optimistic.”
“That’s too bad. You’ve got five seconds to tell me who you are or I’m putting you on the ground and calling Sallie.”
“Wait, please, that’s not—”
“Two seconds.”
“Oh, no, don’t!”
He