Page 20 of Westin

“What is she like?”

“She was beautiful. And kind. A woman who deserved so much better than what life handed her.” Westin couldn’t help the words that spilled from his lips, just like he couldn’t help the fire that spilled with them.

“Was?”

Rena was a smart girl. She didn’t miss a thing.

Westin scratched his jaw, hating himself for opening this door. “She died,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t just leave it there, but hoping she would.

“I’m sorry.” Rena reached over and tugged at his sleeve, taking his hand when he dropped it from the wheel in response to that simple tug. “How?”

Westin’s hand burned where her gloved hand touched it, the itch to remove her touch so overwhelming that he almost forgot why he needed to keep her on his hook. Talking about his mother was hard enough, but talking about her with this woman? The words clogged themselves in his throat, making him want to gag.

They pulled into the driveway of Rocking D, and the gate opened automatically, triggered by a motion detector. He eased the truck up to the front of the main house, parking within the circle of light that shone from a security lamp at the corner of the front porch.

“She’d been sick,” he finally said in answer to Rena’s question, not willing to expand on that. Instead, he squeezed her hand then let it go, using his newly free hand to pull himself around to face her so that she wouldn’t think he was once again trying to avoid her touch—despite the fact that he was. “It was a while ago.”

“Is that why you don’t talk about her?” She laughed at herself a little, an unamused little sound. “Of course it is. I’m sorry if I’ve touched a sore spot.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He touched her chin, drawing her close to him before dropping a kiss on her forehead. “I had a nice time, Rena. I hope we can do this again soon.”

“I’d like that.” She looked up at him, her eyes burning into his. “Really.”

“Maybe you could come for the chuck wagon.”

She shook her head. “I have plans with a couple of girlfriends tomorrow. But maybe Tuesday?”

“Sure. That would be great.”

She nodded, her observant gaze creating a shadow in her eyes again as she caught the relief that rushed through him on the news she wouldn’t be available. But she only nodded a second time, leaning over to kiss his cheek before she got out of the truck. She paused at the door to turn and wave, a sweet smile belying the sadness he thought he saw in her eyes. Then she disappeared into the house, probably running up the main stairs that were as massive and beautiful as the staircase in some romantic movie from the 1930s. That’s how his mother had always described them, anyway. He’d never been inside the house.

Westin put the truck into gear and drove slowly around the circle drive, his eyes moving over the rolling hills behind the house, the ranchland that had belonged to the Mollohan family for over a hundred years. The firstborn son had inherited it for five generations, beginning with Stuart Mollohan, the man who claimed the land as his own before the Civil War tore the country apart, before reunification, before Colorado was officially a state in the union. Five generations. It was a tradition that hadn’t been broken since Stuart Mollohan had passed the ranch down to his firstborn son, Donald. But it would be broken if Dominic Mollohan allowed Rena to inherit it.

Westin stopped the truck at the far end of the circle drive where he could see around the side of the house into the dark expanse of the four-hundred-acre ranch. Traditions were important to uphold. He intended to remind Dominic Mollohan of that very soon.

With Rena’s help, he was about to turn Dominic Mollohan on his ear.

***

“She’s quite a lady.”

Clint lowered his head in agreement as he navigated the dirt track that led back to the guest bunkhouse.

“You respect her quite a bit.”

“I do. We all do.”

“I can see why. She’s very quick, and she seems to be your biggest fan.”

Clint glanced at Lea, but he didn’t seem to have a comment for that.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Practically my whole life.” Clint pushed his baseball cap back on his forehead and scratched just beyond the hairline. “My father was foreman here before me. I worked beside him the second I was big enough to get on a horse.”

“You grew up here?”

“I did. Like one of the family.”