“I’d never be able to run in that sort of social circle,” Bart chuckled.

“Neither would Mina,” he said surprisingly. He turned to the window and rammed his hands into his pockets. “Even at Latigo, we have business dinners and parties. I travel all over the world on business, go to conferences, meet with legislators.” He sighed. “She dresses like a cowgirl. I doubt she’s ever organized even a small dinner party.”

“A lot of woman never have. But they can learn.”

He laughed coldly. “She said that.” He turned back to Bart. “She couldn’t cope with Latigo, or me. So I’m not going back over there. You’ll have to carry your own apples next time.”

“That’s decent of you,” Bart said.

“It’s self-protection,” came the dry reply. “Maybe even survival. I grew up rich. All the people I associate with are rich. I’ve never been poor. We come from different worlds. It’s best to keep them separate.”

“I guess so.”

“Mina said she’d bring you an apple pie tomorrow,” he added.

Bart laughed. “I was hoping she’d do that, when I sent the apples over. Nobody makes an apple pie like Mina!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

CORT SLEPT LATE the next morning. Bart was just finishing bacon and eggs and biscuits provided by the bunkhouse cook, when his cousin dragged into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of black coffee.

“Have some eggs,” Bart offered.

Cort made a face. “I don’t usually eat breakfast. Where did you get all that?” he added, because Bart had been eating cereal in the mornings.

“Bunkhouse has a cook for a couple of weeks,” he said. “Until the production sale. We have to feed people who come to buy our bulls.”

“Nice. We do the same thing at Latigo,” Cort replied. “Except we have a permanent cook and a full bunkhouse.”

“Considering the size of Latigo, I’m not at all surprised,” Bart chuckled. “You even trot out a chuck wagon during roundup, I hear.”

“We have to,” Cort explained “The damned ranch is so big that it would take half a day for the hands to go all the way back to the bunkhouse for every meal. We also have extra nighthawks who have to watch over the herds when we have calves dropping, and they have to be fed at odd hours.”

“I think I’m glad my ranch isn’t that big.” Bart grinned.

“You still have the problems I have,” came the amused reply. “Just on a smaller scale.”

Bart studied him. “You’re dragging this morning. Bad night?”

He hesitated. Then he nodded.

“Combat comes back to bite us in our dreams,” he said quietly.

Cort couldn’t tell him that his particular dream was of Mina Michaels in his bed. He woke squeezing the hell out of a pillow, so hot that he wondered if he’d burned the sheets. He couldn’t get the taste of her out of his memory. He’d as much as told her he wasn’t going to see her again. Now he was wondering how he could find an excuse to go back. She haunted him.