Chapter Six

Bliss sipped her cocoa and remembered that sultry afternoon when she had come to her father’s ranch that summer. The housekeeper had called to John Cawthorne as he’d climbed out of his truck.

“Phone call for you, in the den,” she’d said, standing in the doorway of the house and pushing aside clumps of dry dirt left from boots with her broom.

John, swearing under his breath, had dashed toward the front door and had left Bliss standing alone by the truck in the blistering sunlight. As she stood in the dusty gravel parking area near the garage, harsh, unforgiving rays pounded down on her crown and shoulders. She felt totally alone, a city girl plucked out of her nest and tossed here with a father who usually ignored her. As she reached into the bed of the truck for one of her bags, she silently wished, as she had since she could remember, that she had a sister or brother with whom she could share her misery.

“You must be John’s daughter,” a rawboned, slightly intimidating, cowboy drawled. He was tanned from long hours of hard work under the glare of the sun and his eyes, staring at her from the shade beneath the brim of his Stetson, were a light golden brown. Intense and unblinking, they stared at her in an uncompromising appraisal that caused her breath to catch and warned her that she should run now while she had the chance.

“That’s right.” Why did her tongue want to trip all over itself?

His grin was a slash of white against bronzed skin. “He’s proud of you, let me tell you.”

“Is he?” She smiled back, then blushed. This guy was way too old for her and she wasn’t one to flirt, but there was something about him that made her want to linger. “Bliss Cawthorne,” she said boldly, extending her hand and remembering the manners her mother had drummed into her head from the time she was a toddler.

“Lafferty. Mason Lafferty.” He dropped the trunk and covered her soft small outstretched palm with his bigger, callused hand. His fingers were rough, covered with dust and warmer than the breeze that swept through the grassy acres. He tipped his hat and didn’t apologize for the dirt that he left smudged on her skin.

“You work for Dad.” There was something about him that nudged her curiosity; something that set him apart from the rest of the men who called John Cawthorne their boss.

“Most of the time.” He hitched the trunk onto his back and started for the porch.

“And the rest?”

He glanced over his shoulder and winked at her so slowly she felt her knees turn to jelly. “Raisin’ hell, if you believe the stories in town.”

“Should I?” Lugging her suitcase, she struggled to keep up with his long, easy stride.

His gold eyes glinted. “Every word. Hey, don’t carry that—I’ll get it.” He cocked his head toward the bag she carried.