Black Hills Bride Read Free Page A

flash, suspicious and full of questions he really didn’t want to answer.
    “Mr. Wheeler?” she offered, gesturing for him to move inside.
    “Erik,” he corrected, tipping his hat off and reaching above her head to hold the door for her. The movement caused a whiff of her perfume to meander over him, and he inhaled deeply. Wasn’t often he was this near a beautiful, fragrant woman.
    Peaches and cream, he thought, like the lady herself. It took all his willpower not to lean in and inhale again. She stared up at him for a moment before letting out a breath and leading the way into the main house.
    Her dismay at seeing the interior was evident on her face, giving him the oddest inclination to distract her from the mess. But what business was it of his? Surely she’d checked the place out before she bought it.
    “I was told,” she said, her voice cracking, “there was furniture in this old house. I thought it would at least be livable until…”
    Oh, man, she was about to cry. “Please, God, don’t let there be tears,” he mumbled, though in truth he didn’t believe God was listening.
    He didn’t believe there was a God at all, at least not the loving, merciful God his mother had spoken of—before that merciful God took her away, leaving his father to raise three small boys.
    He tensed, shaken by the memory. He hadn’t thought of his mother for a long time, or what his father…
    No. He wouldn’t go there.
    Turning his attention to Dixie, he mentally shook his head and crammed the lost-little-boy’s feelings back into the recesses of his heart.
    If there was a God, He sure wasn’t helping this little lady, and she was professing to do His work.
    He snorted his disdain, then pressed his lips together to keep from asking her why she didn’t know the condition of the interior of this building. It was none of his business. It wasn’t her fault his memories made him angry.
    “Well,” Dixie said, her expression gathering composure as she walked into the kitchen, “there’s a table, at least. And a couple er—chairs.”
    Using the term loosely, he thought. Logs would be more accurate, but not wanting to point out the obvious, he pulled up a log and sat down, elbows on his knees. It made him feel as gangly as an adolescent. He frowned at the picture he must make, all elbows and knees.
    She sat on a log facing him and put her notepad on the table. “I’m glad we don’t have to eat this way,” she said with a wavering smile, gesturing to the table, which came just below her chin. “I wasn’t planning to use the furniture anyway, but I had hoped to live here until I can get some other things in order.”
    She looked at him as if she expected a response, and he grunted noncommittally. What did she expect him to say? That she was crazy even to consider it?
    “Good thing I brought a tent along.”
    A tent?
    He nearly stood up, so strong was his reaction. Now he knew the woman was certifiable.
    She was planning to camp in a tent? He’d bet his last paycheck she didn’t have a clue how to set it up, much less what kind of danger she was putting herself into. This wasn’t Jellystone Park. And the bears here weren’t after her picnic basket.
    “Yep,” he said at last.
    And I’m a monkey’s uncle, he added silently.
    She glared at him, angry sparks shooting from her eyes. He curled the brim of his hat in his fist, wishing desperately it was polite to wear it in the house. His hat made him feel more comfortable; it was like a shield from the world.
    Somehow he’d ticked her off. Seemed like everything he said was the wrong thing, though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how yep could be construed as anything bad.
    Oh, to be out with his horses, instead of squatting on a log with a beautiful woman. With his horses, he knew what to say, how to act. It was only around people he felt tongue-tied and awkward.
    His horses.
    He didn’t have any horses. A spur dragged across his gut, and he clenched