Wyoming Woman by Elizabeth Lane Page A

and parlor. The house was small but sturdily built, with touches that showed a loving attention to detail—the log walls that had been oiled to bring out their natural golden color; the built-in shelves that flanked the fireplace, filled with dozens of well-thumbed classics; the matching leather wing chairs, worn but of good quality, that faced the unlit fireplace. On one chair a faded Navajo blanket had been flung over an arm. Its fringed corner spilled over the bare, oiled planks of the floor.
    â€œDid you build this house?” Rachel knew herneighborly tone would not fool him, but she had to make some effort at conversation.
    â€œThe house and most of the furniture. My grandfather was a carpenter. What little I know, he taught me.” Luke set the stacked plates and mugs on the counter next to the dishpan. Relieved that he was playing along, Rachel willed herself to relax.
    â€œI didn’t just want a ranch, I wanted a home,” Luke bent to take a clean flour sack towel from a basket under the counter. Picking up the first plate Rachel had washed, he began wiping it dry. “In the beginning, I didn’t have much to work with, but what little I had got me this far. I always planned to build onto the place, add a wing, maybe even an upper floor, but now…” The words trailed off into a shrug, as if to say, what for?
    â€œThat sounds like the way my grandfather built our house—he started with a couple of good, solid rooms and added on. It’s become quite a grand place.” Rachel was chattering now, something she tended to do when she was nervous. “You really should go ahead with your plans. You’ll need the extra space when it comes time to start a family.” Turning to hand him another plate, she was struck by the smoldering frustration in his eyes. Startled, she drew back. “Did I say something wrong?”
    â€œYou saw what happened today. Even if I found a woman who could stand to live out here—and could stand me— ” He glanced toward the back of the house, where the old man’s body lay. “How could Ithink of exposing a wife and children to this kind of hatred?”
    â€œBut surely it won’t always be like this.”
    He chuckled bitterly. “Earlier today you were telling me to leave.”
    â€œI know.” She handed him another plate, struck, suddenly by the intimacy of the common task in the quiet, lamplit kitchen. He was standing very close to her, their fingers not quite touching as she handed him the clean dishes. His presence, so large and warm and fiercely gentle, sent a quiver of awareness through her body. “I did say you should leave.” Her throat felt raw and husky. “But that was before I saw this ranch and realized how much of your heart you’d put into it. For you, leaving isn’t a choice. You’d die on this land before you let yourself be driven off it.”
    The house was so silent that Rachel could hear the small brass clock ticking on the mantel. She could hear the deep rush of Luke’s breathing beside her. She dared not look up at him. To do so would be an invitation for him to touch her; and she sensed that if his fingers so much as brushed her skin, she would burst into flame like an autumn leaf in a bonfire.
    â€œWill you tell your people that?” His voice was gravelly, as if he needed to clear his throat.
    Rachel’s legs felt unsteady beneath her. A cup slipped from her fingers and tumbled into the soapy water. “Tell them what?” she whispered.
    â€œThat I won’t leave. That I’m here to stay. That all I want is to be left in peace.”
    She shook her head. “You know I can’t tell myfamily anything. If my father knew I’d spent the night here alone with you, he’d come riding over here with a rifle and shoot you himself.”
    â€œThen tell me what you saw today.”
    The saucer Rachel was holding fell from her