Visions of the uncomfortable sort swept through Payton’s head. Each one brought to mind a swarm of angry bees after someone knocked down their hive and stole their honey.

“Exactly how does a man measure ‘in time’?”

“When he’s learned his lesson good and proper.”

Which meant what? Female riddles-who could understand them? He’d rather have things spoken straight out. That way a man knew where he stood. Looked as if Joe sat astraddle a fence and Payton couldn’t advise him where to light.

Nodding as though it made perfect sense, he backed out the screen door and returned to the barn in time to catch Joe scribbling on a piece of paper. His friend hurriedly pushed the writing tools under the britches he’d retrieved from the yard, his foot tapping out a rhythm on the dirt floor.

“Well? What did Lucinda say?”

“Hell if I know what a woman means.” Heavy silence followed after Payton relayed the message.

“Damn it!” Joe yelled at last. “No telling when her disposition will sweeten. I guess you did your best to make amends. You know, this forces me into your company. Can you try not to raise the roof with your snores?”

“You should talk. It’s me that has to put up with your sorry hide. What were you writing?” Payton glanced at the edge of the paper peeking from the worn, blue denim. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen Joe trying to hide his handiwork. Maybe letters posed the best way back into Lucy’s good graces. And it stood to reason Joe would want to avoid the ribbing the ranch hands would give him.

“Me?” Joe tucked the pencil above his ear and grinned. “Nothing. Nope, wasn’t writing a goldarned thing.”

“Reckon I’ll get my gear ready for branding then.”

“I forgot to tell you…Mr. Sanborn wants you to meet James Wyness in Amarillo first thing tomorrow. Cattle Raisers Association business. He can’t go himself.”

Meeting with Wyness midweek seemed rather peculiar. Especially at the start of branding season.

Payton smelled something afoot, and it wasn’t manure either.

Chapter 3

Payton eased his sore bones onto a comfortable settee in the lobby of the recently completed Amarillo Hotel and stretched his long legs. His aching knee thanked him for taking off the weight.

All right, he was here. Where was James Wyness?

An ornate grandfather clock struck eight. He searched the room, hoping to spy the boss of the LX Ranch. No luck. Again, Payton wished Mr. Sanborn had elaborated on the all-fired urgency in getting to Amarillo by morning.

The door abruptly opened and he swung an anxious glance toward it.

A ragged breath filled his lungs. The slight beauty who strode through bore little resemblance to Wyness’s craggy features. High cheekbones sculptured her face into a rare work of art that belonged on some artist’s canvas.

Though he really couldn’t say she was the most beautiful woman in the world, given his limited knowledge of such things, she was easily the most memorable. The hotel guest could put any heifer in the pasture to shame in nothing flat. He inspected her through a narrowed gaze.

Despite her small build, the way she carried herself seemed to suggest legs clear up to Sunday.

And she had big…

He swallowed hard.

…eyes, he finished lamely. He dragged attention from the rounded curves. Yep, they were sure big.

Somewhere among the cobwebs in his brain he recalled that a gentleman shouldn’t notice a woman’s figure. Especially the top half-unless of course he already had before he could help himself.

A polite nod wouldn’t hurt though, which he managed weakly before she sat down and propped a valise at her feet.

She’d not only captured his attention, but every last man, woman, and child’s in the hotel. Whispers circled. Pointed stares flew her direction. Her presence appeared to engulf the lobby. He couldn’t say he blamed the onlookers. She was a rare sight for the newly platted town.

Payton snatched up the weekly edition of the Panhandle Herald and whipped it open. Maybe reading about cattle prices would get his mind off the traveler’s…embellishments.

The pretty lady must’ve arrived on the Fort Worth and Denver City Railway that had pulled into the station fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps she came in on one of the many excursion trains bringing prospective buyers for town lots. Beyond the hotel doors, Amarillo whirred with comings and goings. Way too noisy. One reason he stayed well removed unless necessary. Give him peace and quiet of the ranch any day. Except the Frying Pan had become littered with too many pots, pans, and prickles of late. Thinking of Lucy and Joe, he felt another rush of guilt.

Rosewater drifted around him in a lazy swirl.

Payton tried to ignore both the fragrance and the faint rustle of fabric, but his senses had stood up and taken too much notice. A hard blow couldn’t slap every nerve ending back down that had popped to the surface and saluted.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” The rich tones, wrapped in layers of female softness, slid over his skin like satin on silk.

So much for the expected bumper crop of odoriferous mushmelons. Payton lowered the newspaper and found himself face to face with the slight beauty who probably had to stuff rocks in her pockets to weigh a hundred pounds. She’d scooted beside him and was damn near in his lap.

“Yes?” He tried to sound unruffled, as if conversing with eye-boggling women was an every day occurrence.

“You’re reading the paper upside down.”

“Oh.” Beads of sweat dotted his brow as he hurriedly switched it around. “Anything else?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Well, much obliged.”

From under the edges of the morning news he fastened his gaze on the woman’s shoes…rather, moccasins…peeking from the hem of a dress the color of ripe peaches. How unusual. Payton couldn’t recall anyone quite so unorthodox. Or one with feminine enticement oozing from every nook and cranny.

He felt her lean closer and squirmed.

Her breath dallied on the newspaper like a gentle caress. A ragged gulp of air couldn’t save him. He knew if he lowered the shield again he’d fall into the bottomless depths of her sooty gaze. He’d wrestled many a steer and ridden ornery broncs without a speck of the panic he knew now.

“Excuse me,” mystery lady’s silken request further muddled his musing.

Payton reluctantly folded the paper. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Could I beg you for the time?”

“I believe it’s half-past eight. Meeting someone?”

“Perhaps.” She captured the tips of each gloved finger between pearly teeth and with painstaking deliberation drew off the soft kid before extending her hand. “I’m Amanda.”

“Pleasure’s mine. Payton McCord of the Frying Pan Ranch.”

Miss Amanda had a firm grip. No limp-wrist woman.

Yep, the pleasure was most definitely his. Heat rose from his midsection and spread in sultry, scorching waves.

A curtain of dark hair the shade of thick, warm molasses cascaded from a jeweled contraption fastened at the crown instead of worn in the God-awful stiff custom of the day. Amanda evidently thumbed her nose at convention both in her choice of footwear and appearance. He was a lucky man.

“Forgive me, Mr. McCord. I shouldn’t pry. But can you tell me if you wear leather gloves all the time?”

He sat up a little straighter. “What the…?”

“I see I’ve shocked you. Too much time alone I fear. I forget the niceties.”

A woman of her caliber shouldn’t ever be alone. What a waste of prime womanhood. Payton glanced again at the clock wondering if it had gotten stuck on half-past eight. “If I learned niceties they didn’t stick. And yes, gloves have become a permanent fixture. Helps in my line of work.”

“Which would be?”

“Cattle.”

“No surprise there,” she murmured so low he had trouble hearing. Or it could’ve been the swarm of angry bees in his head that searched for stolen honey.

Amanda withdrew a lacy kerchief from her handbag and dabbed at the slim column of her throat. Blood pounded in his ears as he followed the lazy, agonizing path to hidden soft skin lurking beyond the vee of her neckline. She toyed with the top button.

Payton wanted to look higher, somewhere in the vicinity of her forehead. Dammit, he tried. But there weren’t enough horses in the state of Texas to drag his attention anywhere else. Perspiration soaked through the underarms of his shirt. He prayed she’d not notice. Sweat probably offended a nice lady of her obvious breeding, the moccasins aside. She could’ve fallen on hard times and resorted to what she could get. He wouldn’t hold that against her. He’d like to hold himself against her though. The startling idea launched another wave of heat.

Crossing his legs, he nodded at her valise. “Traveling?”

“No.” Tendrils of Amanda’s hair curled about her ear with the shake of her head.

Then why in Sam hell did she carry a case?

“Traveling folks usually tote one of those.” He pointed to the worn leather bag.

“Oh, that.” Her quick laugh washed over him in thick, indolent pulses. “I thought this may require spending the night instead of riding back to my ranch. Depending.”

“On what? If you’re at liberty to say, that is.” Why had his throat gotten so dry all of a sudden?

“My plans depend on the person I’m meeting. If he shows up and things…Well, if things turn out. I’m sure you understand.”

Payton’s stomach twisted, resisting the fact that Amanda had a man friend and they might be doing…uh, never mind what they might be doing. The painful lump in his throat grew.

“No need to explain.”

Absolutely no need. She didn’t have to plow a whole dad-blamed field before he knew she was sowing something. He might be a bachelor but he had more than a little experience with the ladies. In fact, too much, or his mind wouldn’t linger on featherbeds and social calls. Amanda rested her hand on his arm, the touch plundering the remainder of his good sense.