The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) by Sharon Ihle Page A
Book: The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) by Sharon Ihle
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Authors: Sharon Ihle
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Her head held high, Lacey met Kate halfway across the room. "Did I hear my name spoken in the same breath with trouble?"
"Mr. Winterhawke seems to be concerned about bringing ye back to his ranch."
Lacey turned her bright blue eyes on him. "Are you now? If this has something to do with the dreadful mess I made of your kitchen, I apologize again. I should have told you that I'd ne'er made pancakes before. 'Twas wrong of me to keep that from you, I know that now, but I only meant to please."
There was something different about her. Hawke noticed that immediately even though most of his attention was still on the pie. What had she done to herself? he wondered, Lacey was dressed in a plain navy blue skirt and white blouse as usual, and her coppery hair was bound in a bun at the top of her head the way it started out every day. But somehow between the last time he saw her and this morning, a good deal of that "little girl lost look" had faded from her expression. In place of the formerly edgy, uncertain female who'd begun to haunt his dreams, stood a woman to be reckoned with. One, it suddenly occurred to him, who fascinated him even more than before.
Hawke glanced from Lacey to the pie Kate still held in her hands. They were waiting for an answer. Clearly, the pie would be his only if he made what they considered to be the correct decision. As he pondered his situation, Lacey broke an edge off the golden crust, brushing away a few flakes which drifted down to her skirt. Then she popped the tender piece of pastry into her mouth. The pie was baked to perfection, Hawke could tell that just by the way it fell apart when touched. And, if the highly mounded crust and glazed purple streaks along the vents were any indication, it would be overflowing with sweet, succulent berries. He swallowed hard.
"Well, Mr. Winterhawke?" said Kate impatiently. "Am I to make the trip to the bunkhouse, or no?"
"Ah... no." His mouth watering so he could hardly speak, Hawke smiled at Lacey and made his decision. Hell, he'd once been strong enough to live through the worst winter blizzard he'd ever encountered, alone and unsheltered for nearly three weeks. Surely he could put up with this confounded woman and the unwanted feelings she brought out in him for another measly week or so. All he had to do, he assured himself, was stay on his toes around her—and make sure she kept on baking those pies.
"Are you ready to go?" Hawke said to Lacey as he sauntered over to the women and snatched the pie out of Kate's hands. "The place just hasn't been the same without you."
A lifetime of happiness: No man alive could bear it:
It would be hell on earth.
—George Bernard Shaw
Chapter 7
Hawke ate the entire pie for breakfast; didn't even bother to use a plate. If he'd been alone, he probably wouldn't have troubled himself with a fork, either.
Not that he was a complete pig about it. More than once he'd offered to cut a slice for Lacey and share his bounty, but she'd insisted that she wasn't terribly fond of pie. Imagine that he'd thought in amazement—a living, breathing person who didn't like pie. As he scraped the last bits of crust and berry syrup off the bottom of the pan, he belatedly remembered Crowfoot. How could he have forgotten about the kid? He imagined the look on the boy's face if he knew he'd been slighted this way, then guiltily wondered if it would be asking too much of Lacey if he were to suggest that she bake another.
Hawke glanced her way as she tidied up the kitchen. She was humming, filling his ears with sunshine, and methodically going about each task with slow precision—looking a lot like a woman who'd never so much as washed out a coffee cup before. This wasn't the first time he'd noticed her novice-like approach to anything he asked her to do, and he had a feeling it wouldn't be the last. Hawke had been watching Lacey closely since he'd brought her back to the ranch this morning, scrutinizing her
Her head held high, Lacey met Kate halfway across the room. "Did I hear my name spoken in the same breath with trouble?"
"Mr. Winterhawke seems to be concerned about bringing ye back to his ranch."
Lacey turned her bright blue eyes on him. "Are you now? If this has something to do with the dreadful mess I made of your kitchen, I apologize again. I should have told you that I'd ne'er made pancakes before. 'Twas wrong of me to keep that from you, I know that now, but I only meant to please."
There was something different about her. Hawke noticed that immediately even though most of his attention was still on the pie. What had she done to herself? he wondered, Lacey was dressed in a plain navy blue skirt and white blouse as usual, and her coppery hair was bound in a bun at the top of her head the way it started out every day. But somehow between the last time he saw her and this morning, a good deal of that "little girl lost look" had faded from her expression. In place of the formerly edgy, uncertain female who'd begun to haunt his dreams, stood a woman to be reckoned with. One, it suddenly occurred to him, who fascinated him even more than before.
Hawke glanced from Lacey to the pie Kate still held in her hands. They were waiting for an answer. Clearly, the pie would be his only if he made what they considered to be the correct decision. As he pondered his situation, Lacey broke an edge off the golden crust, brushing away a few flakes which drifted down to her skirt. Then she popped the tender piece of pastry into her mouth. The pie was baked to perfection, Hawke could tell that just by the way it fell apart when touched. And, if the highly mounded crust and glazed purple streaks along the vents were any indication, it would be overflowing with sweet, succulent berries. He swallowed hard.
"Well, Mr. Winterhawke?" said Kate impatiently. "Am I to make the trip to the bunkhouse, or no?"
"Ah... no." His mouth watering so he could hardly speak, Hawke smiled at Lacey and made his decision. Hell, he'd once been strong enough to live through the worst winter blizzard he'd ever encountered, alone and unsheltered for nearly three weeks. Surely he could put up with this confounded woman and the unwanted feelings she brought out in him for another measly week or so. All he had to do, he assured himself, was stay on his toes around her—and make sure she kept on baking those pies.
"Are you ready to go?" Hawke said to Lacey as he sauntered over to the women and snatched the pie out of Kate's hands. "The place just hasn't been the same without you."
A lifetime of happiness: No man alive could bear it:
It would be hell on earth.
—George Bernard Shaw
Chapter 7
Hawke ate the entire pie for breakfast; didn't even bother to use a plate. If he'd been alone, he probably wouldn't have troubled himself with a fork, either.
Not that he was a complete pig about it. More than once he'd offered to cut a slice for Lacey and share his bounty, but she'd insisted that she wasn't terribly fond of pie. Imagine that he'd thought in amazement—a living, breathing person who didn't like pie. As he scraped the last bits of crust and berry syrup off the bottom of the pan, he belatedly remembered Crowfoot. How could he have forgotten about the kid? He imagined the look on the boy's face if he knew he'd been slighted this way, then guiltily wondered if it would be asking too much of Lacey if he were to suggest that she bake another.
Hawke glanced her way as she tidied up the kitchen. She was humming, filling his ears with sunshine, and methodically going about each task with slow precision—looking a lot like a woman who'd never so much as washed out a coffee cup before. This wasn't the first time he'd noticed her novice-like approach to anything he asked her to do, and he had a feeling it wouldn't be the last. Hawke had been watching Lacey closely since he'd brought her back to the ranch this morning, scrutinizing her
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