LITMIR.BIZ

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She wrestled the suitcase from him. “And don’t slam Daisy’s door. You’ll knock off the rust holding her together.”

      She started for the house, but spun around to glare at him. “I don’t know what your problem is, but your attitude toward me sucks saddle soap. As long as I do my job, you have no reason to complain. And you’d do well to remember that.”

      Flint watched her march toward the house. It shouldn’t matter to him what she did so long as his horse got trained. But the sight of her well-shaped backside and long, slender legs made his mouth go dry. Those legs of hers went all the way up to—

      Disgusted with himself, Flint shook his head. Just how could he expect his men to turn a blind eye to something like that, when he couldn’t? He, more than any other man, should be immune to Jenna Adams and her considerable charms, after the way she’d duped him into hiring her.

      But he’d be the first to admit she was one hell of a sight in a fit of temper. Her sparkling, gray eyes promised a passion that would consume a man when he loved her. And the husky quality of her voice had whispered over his senses like a piece of soft velvet. His body tightened. How would his name sound when she cried out as he pleasured her?

      Flint took hold of the reins to his runaway imagination. Whiskers must have put locoweed in that damned chocolate icing, he decided, starting off in search of his son. He wanted to get better acquainted with Jenna Adams about as much as he wanted to get up close and personal with a rattlesnake. She would train his horse, then be on her way.

      And that’s just the way he wanted it.

      Two

      Jenna placed the last of her clothes in the dresser, then turned to survey her room. Indian print curtains framed the tall, old-fashioned windows and matched the coverlet on the natural pine bed. On the wall above the headboard, a large dream catcher adorned with rawhide thongs and hawk feathers assured sweet dreams for the bed’s sleeping occupant. On the polished bedside table beneath lamps made from Native American pots, two Kachina dolls in the images of the eagle and buffalo stood watch.

      She smiled. It wasn’t a feminine room by any means, but the bright colors against the off-white walls made it seem warm and friendly. “Just the opposite of its owner,” she muttered, heading for the stairs.

      She followed a tantalizing aroma, stopping just inside the spacious kitchen to inhale deeply. “Something smells wonderful.”

      Whiskers turned to give her a toothless grin. “Hope you like son of a bit—” His weathered cheeks reddened above his snow white beard. “—gun stew.”

      Laughing, Jenna patted his arm. “I’ve had it before and no matter what you call it, I’m sure yours is delicious.”

      He took a tray of sourdough biscuits from the oven. “Your room okay? It’s been a while since we’ve had us a lady round here, and it might not be as purty as what you’re used to.”

      Jenna swallowed hard. How long had it been since anyone cared if she liked her room, or if she even had one?

      “Everything’s fine,” she said around the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”

      “Whiskers, look what I found.” A small boy of about four flung open the screen door and ran into the kitchen.

      When the child spotted Jenna, he stopped so fast he almost dropped the box he held. “Who are you?”

      “Ryan McCray, mind your manners,” Whiskers scolded. “You didn’t even give this here little gal so much as a howdy-do.”

      “Sorry,” Ryan said, his smile friendly. “Howdy-do. Who are you?”

      Jenna laughed when Whiskers sighed his exasperation. “I’m Jenna Adams.”

      “Wanna see what I found, Jenna?” He held out his treasure for her inspection. “It’s a kitty.”

      Afraid to move, Jenna and Whiskers froze.

      “What’s the matter?” The puzzled child looked from one adult to the other. “He’s kinda smelly, but you can pet him.”

      “That’s a dad-gummed polecat,” Whiskers exclaimed.

      As if in slow motion, Ryan set the box on the floor and the three of them watched the half-grown skunk climb out. Jet-black with twin stripes of white running the length of its back, it waddled around the kitchen sniffing its new surroundings.

      “Don’t nobody move,” Whiskers commanded, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. When the animal ambled toward the door, he reached for the broom in the corner, eased forward and used the handle to push open the screen. “Get Ryan outta here while I take care of this varmint.”

      “I want my kitty,” Ryan protested loudly.

      Afraid the child would upset the animal, Jenna placed her hand over Ryan’s mouth and backed them from the kitchen. But she’d only gone a few feet when she encountered an immovable object planted in the middle of the hall.

      Flint tensed, every nerve in his body alert to the soft warmth of the female bottom resting against his thighs. His hands came up to hold her there. He told himself he was only trying to steady her, to keep her from falling. But turning to glance over her shoulder, her body shifted to brush the most vulnerable part of his anatomy and the jolt of awareness coursing through him felt as if he’d walked into an electric fence.

      He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the urgent signals pulsing through his body. He had to focus on the way she’d maneuvered herself and Ryan from the occupied part of the house. A mixture of anger and suspicion overtook him. Had she been trying to kidnap his son?

      “What in blazes are you doing?” Flint demanded, his voice echoing through the unnaturally quiet house.

      An acrid smell suddenly permeated the air, followed by a vehement curse from Whiskers.

      “Skunk,” she said, covering her nose.

      Flint brushed past Jenna and Ryan to enter the kitchen. He coughed several times, then pinched his nose shut and scowled at Whiskers. “How did it get in here?”

      “You’re gonna have to sit down and teach that young whelp of yours which critters to leave be,” Whiskers said angrily. “He thought the dad-burned thing was a cat.” He limped over to turn off the simmering stew, a colorful string of curses accenting his steps. “Now we ain’t got no supper, and we’ll be takin’ meals outside on the picnic table for a month of Sundays. And it’s all your fault. If you hadn’t started your bellerin’, I’d a had it outta here before it had a chance to spray it’s stink.”

      “Daddy, I want my kitty back,” Ryan wailed from the hall.

      “When was the last time you took a bath, Whiskers?” Brad asked, stopping just inside the back door. The other ranch hands piled up behind him.

      Tom Davison fanned the air with his hat. “Whew-ee! This place smells like a cross between Jed’s feet and a damned old billy goat.”

      “Whiskers, did you finally die and somebody just forgot to tell you?” Jim Kent choked out.

      “Outside,” Flint gasped, bolting for the door. He stood in the yard taking cleansing gulps of air. When Whiskers came to stand next to him, Flint moved upwind. “Do you mind?”

      “Consarnit all. It weren’t my fault that kid got hold of a polecat.” Whiskers pointed to Ryan when he and Jenna joined the group. “I cain’t figure out how he kept from gettin’ bit when he picked it up. Those things can have the hydrophoby, you know.”

      Worried, Flint knelt down in front of his son and searched for any signs of an open wound. “Did it bite or scratch you, Ryan?” he asked, his voice sharpened by his concern.

      Ryan’s chin quivered and he shook his head. “No. What’s hydo…hydotrophy?”

      “Hydrophobia. It’s another name for rabies,” Flint explained

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