THE OFF WORLD COLLECTION (Short, Steamy Science Fiction Romances) (Off-World Series) by Rebecca York

horses. The usual farm stock.”
    “Why do you need horses?”
    “With some places it’s easier to get there on a horse than a rider. And…” He raised one shoulder, “They’re fun.”
    “The borgans and granlings can’t get them or the cows out in the fields?”
    “There are force fences that mostly keep them out.”
    “But you have stronger defenses around the house?”
    “Right. And when I’m out in a field, I increase the power.”
    “The farm stock and the vegetables are for yourself—or do you make a living from them?”
    “Mostly for myself. But I do sell some horses and steers.” He paused for a minutes. “And there’s a catborn mine on the property.”
    “ Catborn, what’s that?”
    “It’s used in the biotech industry.”
    “A mineral?”
    “No. It was originally organic.”
    “There’s a biotech industry on Palomar?”
    He laughed. “No. I ship it off world.”
    “How much time do you spend mining?”
    “Not a lot. It’s easy to dig out the stuff, once you get down in the tunnels.” He kept the explanation simple. He wasn’t going to talk about the dangers of mining catborn until he had to.
    After unbuckling his harness, he jumped down and walked around to her side of the transport. When he reached for her hand, she let him help her down, and they stood stiffly facing each other before he turned toward the house.
    His heart was pounding now, and his mouth had turned so dry that he wondered if he could speak. She was here, finally. But what would she think of his home?
    He keyed the access pad at the door, and they stepped inside where he activated the few energy lights, then struck a match and lit two oil lamps.
    He’d spent hours cleaning and straightening, but now he cringed as he looked at the worn furniture in the front room. From there he could see the bedroom, where he’d put on the new sheets and an old quilt over the top of the blanket.
    Instead of making a comment on the decor or the sleeping arrangements, she said, “I want to take care of your arm.”
    “Yeah.” It was hurting like a son of a bitch, but he wasn’t going to mention that.
    She looked around. “Where is the light best?”
    “Uh . . .” He shrugged. “The food prep center, I guess.”
    “Okay.”
    He crossed to the prep center at the side of the main living area and flipped on the lights.
    “You need to take off your shirt.”
    He nodded and ran his fingers along the inside of the fasteners. When the front was open, he lowered his suspenders. As he started to ease the burned arm out of the sleeve, fire shot through his nerve endings.
    “Slat.” Immediately, an apology sprang to his lips. “Sorry.”
    “I’ve heard worse. I guess on a farm, there’s a lot of slat.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Let me help you.” She pulled out one of the chairs. “Sit down.”
    He sat and she moved to his left side, easing the shirt off his shoulder and down his arm. He gritted his teeth and tried not to curse again when she worked the charred fabric off mangled flesh.
    The other side was easier, and he was soon sitting at the table naked to the waist, conscious of her gaze on him.
    “The med kit’s in the storage bay. The double doors in back of me.”
    She retrieved the plastic box and set it on the table, then looked inside and found sterile wipes, antiseptic salve and bandages.
    “Can you turn a little?”
    He swiveled in his seat so that the overhead light was shining more directly on the wound. She leaned over him, her breasts close to his face, her scent filling his nostrils.
    “How bad is it?” he asked.
    “You lucked out. The beam grazed you.”
    “Uh huh.”
    She worked on the wound, her touch gentle and sure as she used a wipe to clean the area, then soothed on salve with another pad before pressing on a bandage. He knew that she wasn’t afraid to deal with an injury, but his mind wandered from her practical skills. They were close to each other, even closer than they’d been in the hauler, and he