Wyoming Tough by Diana Palmer Page B

ones.”
    He was diverted, as she’d meant him to be. “Me, too. I’m partial to Randolph Scott and Gary Cooper and John Wayne, myself.”
    She raised her hand. “Bette Davis.”
    He made a face. “Hard as nails. I like feminine women.”
    She shifted uncomfortably. He was making a statement. Probably Gelly Bruner was his ideal. He’d already said he liked the pretty blonde actress in the werewolf movie. Gelly was blonde and blue-eyed, and pretty, also. Morie, with her dark hair and eyes and olive complexion, would never be to his taste. He might like kissing her, but he wasn’t looking at her as if he wanted anything more from her.
    â€œDo you ever wear anything besides slacks and shirts with writing or pictures on them?” he asked suddenly.
    She stared at him. “I’d have a real hard time pulling calves in a dress.” She said it with a straight face.
    He gave a sudden laugh. “Damn!”
    â€œWell, I would, boss,” she said reasonably.
    He just sipped his coffee. “I guess you would.”
    Piano music was coming from the living room. It was soft and pretty at first, then there were fumbles and then a crash. “Damn it!” Tank groaned.
    They heard him get up and soon he came into the kitchen. He glanced at Morie. “I can’t get therhythm of that coda. Do you have your iPod with you, with the soundtracks on it?”
    â€œNo,” she replied. She’d left it in the bunkhouse. “But I can show you.”
    He frowned. “You can play a piano?”
    She shifted as Mallory stared openly at her. “Sort of.”
    â€œSort of.” Tank caught her hand and pulled her along with him to the living room. He seated her at the grand piano. “Show me.”

CHAPTER SIX
    â€œI JUST PICKED UP a little piano playing at the last job I worked,” Morie protested, denying her many years of piano lessons. “I probably can’t even do an octave now.”
    â€œCan you read music?” Tank persisted.
    She shifted. “Yes. A little.”
    â€œCome on, then. Play.”
    She couldn’t figure a way out of it. They might ask all sorts of questions if they knew how well she played. She’d been offered a music scholarship in college, which she’d turned down. Her parents could well afford her tuition, and the scholarship might help some deserving student who had no such means.
    After a minute’s hesitation, she put her long-fingered hands on the keyboard and looked at the score before her.
    She found the pedals with her foot, rested her hands on the keyboard and suddenly began to play.
    Mallory, standing in the doorway, was shocked speechless. Tank, closer, smiled as he sank into aneasy chair. A minute later, Cane heard the exquisite score and came into the room, as well, perching on the sofa.
    Lost in the music, Morie played with utter joy. It had been weeks since she’d had access to a piano, and this one was top quality. It had been tuned recently, as well. The sounds that came from it were as exquisite as the score she was playing with such expression.
    When the final, poignant crescendo was reached and she played the last notes, there was an utter stillness in the room and, then, exuberant applause.
    She got up, embarrassed and flushed. “I only play a little,” she protested. “Thanks.”
    Mallory was staring at her through narrowed eyes. “Aren’t you full of surprises, for a poor cowgirl,” he remarked with faint suspicion.
    She bit her lower lip, hard. “All of us have natural talent of some sort. I always knew how to play. I played by ear for a long time, then this nice lady took me in and tutored me where I worked last.” Actually, it had been Heather Everett, who played as well as she sang.
    â€œAnd where was that, did you say?” Mallory persisted.
    But this time he didn’t catch her out. “The Story Ranch outside Billings.” She