A Cowboy in Manhattan by Barbara Dunlop Page B

least he didn’t think it was his right to sleep with her.
    “I think your world is a completely different place than mine,” he said.
    “Do you think yours is better?” She honestly wanted to know.
    “I think it’s harder,” he admitted, still searching through the toolbox. “I don’t think everyone can make it out here, and I think—”
    “You think it’s easy becoming a professional dancer?”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “You thought it.”
    “I was about to say, I think people stay cleaner in your world.” He seemed to find what he was looking for, pulling an object out of the box and squinting at it in the dusk.
    “I work hard,” she told him defensively.
    “You should work at getting rid of that chip on your shoulder.” He returned to the repair.
    “I do not have—”
    “Admit it, Katrina. You think you’re better than the rest of us.”
    “I—”
    “You live in the bright lights of a big city. You dress in designer clothes. You hobnob with the rich and famous. You eat in the best restaurants. And every few years, you come back to Colorado to go slumming.” He reefed hard on the wrench.
    “That’s not fair. ”
    “And for some reason, this time, you’ve decided I should be part of your down-home experience.”
    Katrina’s jaw dropped open. Reed thought she was slumming it by kissing him? Was he crazy?
    “Thanks, but no thanks, Katrina.” He rose, collecting some of the scattered tools. “I’ll keep my self-respect, and you can run back to those champagne-swilling dandies at your snooty cocktail parties.”
    Katrina lurched to her feet. “Wow,” was all she managed. She stared at his slick, half-naked body, powerful and magnificent in the waning light. “Did you ever get that wrong.”
    He bent to fiddle with something on the pump contraption, and the piston came to life with a rhythmic, sloshing sound.
    Apparently satisfied, he closed a sheet-metal cover and fastened it. He gathered up the remaining tools, shoving some of them back into his tool belt, putting others in the box and securing the lid.
    He stood and looked around at the dark surroundings. “We have to get back.”
    He waited for her to stand and start moving, then he took the lead, making his way along the ridge, heading toward the steep trail that led to where they’d parked the truck. Thankfully, he took it slower this time, and Katrina didn’t have to struggle quite so hard to keep up.
    But when they came to the top of the trail, Reed stopped abruptly. The top of the bank had sloughed away, and the trail had turned to a rivulet of mud and water, coursing down in the direction of the road.
    “I don’t think so,” said Reed, holding out his arm as a block between her and the edge of the bluff.
    “What do we do now?” she asked, peering into the gloom of the aspen grove, listening to the whoosh of the water below them.
    He set the toolbox down, well back from the edge, and he stripped off the leather tool belt, plunking it on top. “I’m not dragging you through the bush in the dark, that’s for sure.”
    “I’ll be fine,” she assured him, wondering if it was a lie. Just how difficult would it be to make their way back through the thick woods?
    “There’s a line shack about a mile that way.” He gestured with his head in the opposite direction of the well. “We’ll wait it out there.”
    That seemed like an only slightly more palatable option.
    “It’ll be pitch-dark by the time we get there.” She was already having a hard time picking her way across the uneven meadow. And she was cold and wet and miserable.
    “Yes, it will. So, up you go.” He scooped her into his arms.
    “Hey!”
    “You’d rather walk?”
    “Yes!”
    “No, you wouldn’t. I’ve got leather boots and long pants, and I’ve been hiking these hills my entire life.” He adjusted her in his arms.
    “You can’t carry me a whole mile.”
    “I could carry you twenty miles without breaking a sweat. And even if I