“Wait. I’m sorry. I’m just hot and frustrated.” She sighed. “I can’t seem to get this last board to come loose. Since you’re here, would you mind?”

He pulled up short, her soft, seductive tone like a lasso dragging him back. He told himself to keep walking. If he turned around he’d regret it. This woman was trouble in a pair of dirt-smudged canvas pants.

Turning slowly, he eyed her from under the brim of his hat the way he would eye a rattler about to strike. He didn’t trust this change of tune on her part. She couldn’t get the last board so now she was going to turn on the feminine charms, thinking they would work on him?

“I wouldn’t want to make it my business.”

She transformed that magnificent mouth of hers into a lazy grin. One hand was on her shapely hips now, the other beckoning him with the crowbar. “I said I was sorry.”

He felt himself weaken in spite of every instinct to keep his distance from this one. But he’d been born and raised in Texas, where a man came to the aid of a lady. Although it was debatable this woman was a lady.

“I really would appreciate it,” she said in that same come-hither tone. “This last board just won’t budge.”

Russell let out a deep sigh, mentally kicking himself in the behind, as he stepped to her, took the crowbar from her without a word and pried off the board, the nails screeching as they gave way.

He tossed the board to the side where she’d thrown the others and handed her back the crowbar. The plan was to tip his hat like the gentleman he was and get the hell out of there without looking back.

“Dulcie Hughes,” she said, tugging off her glove and holding out one perfectly manicured hand.

He slowly wiped his hand on his jeans and extended it grudgingly, telling himself he wasn’t going to let her rope him into anything else. For all he knew the woman could be lying about owning this place and he’d just helped her commit a crime.

Her hand was cool and smooth as porcelain as it disappeared into his larger, calloused one. “Russell Corbett,” he said, his voice sounding as rough as his hand.

Her molasses-brown-eyed gaze met his. Humor seemed to jitterbug in all that warm brown. “Thank you, Russell Corbett. I do apologize for earlier. I hate it when I can’t handle something myself. It makes me testy.”

He nodded, familiar with that feeling.

“So what is a Southern boy like yourself doing out here in Montana?” she said, smiling.

He told himself he had work to do and no time for standing around in this heat chitchatting, but he’d pay hell before being rude to a woman.