Page 14 of Falling for the Cowgirl
“You alright, Miss McQuaid?” asked a tall fella passing by.
She was half-tempted to kick off the shoes, but she haltered the urge and instead offered the man a polite greeting. “I’m doing just fine.”
Greta had dismounted and was hobbling toward the end of the wagon with one hand on her back and the other on her rounded belly.
Ivy started after her sister-in-law. “Don’t you dare lift a finger with any of those crates.”
“They weigh less than Ryder. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t matter. Wyatt told me to tie you to the wagon seat if you start carrying things.”
“That man worries enough for the both of us.”
“Reckon he’s hoping for some extra smooching time later and doesn’t want you too tired for it.”
“Ivy!” Greta’s rebuke was tempered by a smile and twinkle in her eyes.
Ivy just smirked. She wasn’t sure which of her brothers took the prize for the most kissing. They were all pretty-near the same in cornering their women and kissing them every chance they could get.
“You ladies need some help unloading?” asked the tall fella as he followed Ivy.
“If you’ve got a mind to it.” Ivy sized up the man—Hance Payne, the owner of the barbershop that had opened up last summer. With neatly combed blond hair that was slicked back with some sort of musky cream, he was a distinguished-looking gentleman, especially with his spectacles and fine trousers and vest. His trim mustache and sideburns lent him a dashing air.
Recently during her visits to town, he’d made a pointof approaching her, inquiring if she needed assistance, and complimenting her on her outfits. Last time, he’d asked if he could come out to the ranch to visit her.
Since he was a spell older than her and more worldly-wise, his request had flustered her, and she’d told him she was too busy for any visitors. But later, when she’d lain in bed with Astrid and whispered about Hance, Astrid scolded her for refusing. “You’re of the proper age to have men come courting,” Astrid said. “And Hance Payne is mature and responsible. You should have said yes.”
Another fella approached the wagon bed. Otis Profitt, the dentist whose office across the street was connected to Hance’s barbershop with a shared waiting room. “I’d be happy to help you ladies too.”
Otis was shorter than Hance and twice Ivy’s age. But he was always real friendly, even if he had the habit of blushing a bright red every time he talked to her.
As the men unloaded, several other fellas rushed over to help.
“Looks like you draw quite the crowd.” Jericho spoke near Ivy’s ear, sending her pulse into a full-out gallop. She’d taken up a post at the door, holding it wide for the men as they carried Greta’s butter and eggs into the store.
Jericho had come from out of nowhere and was now standing beside her on the plank walkway. Maybe he’d been inside the store and had seen them pull up. “You could have offered to help too.”
“You have more than enough men at your beck and call already.”
“Maybe because everyone ’round here’s real friendly, unlike you.” She didn’t look at him, but she caught a whiff of his unique scent, a blend of sage and gunpowder.
“Every man around here is friendly because you’re flaunting your feminine figure.”
She sucked in a sharp breath and spun to face him.
Freshly scrubbed and shaven, he was more handsome than even last night, more grown-up looking, more assured, more determined. But his eyes were a frigid blue, like a cold winter sky. He let his sights drop to her bosom for just an instant before pressing his lips together grimly.
She glanced at her bodice. The velvet buttons were still straining against the material, and the top two had already come loose. Heat spilled into her cheeks. Oh, land sakes. Astrid had been right about making alterations before wearing it.
Quickly, Ivy reached for one of the loose buttons and attempted to close it. But her fingers fumbled. Her mind spun back to her encounter with Jericho at the river, when her hands had been frozen and Jericho had almost buttoned her blouse. His gesture had been innocent enough. But she hadn’t been able to forget about the brush of his fingers.
She didn’t want to meet his gaze, but her eyes were drawn to his anyway. His pupils widened and darkened. Though his expression remained unreadable, something hot seemed to spark between them. Something she didn’t understand but wanted more of.
He gave a curt shake of his head, as though fending her away. “I’d offer to help you with the buttoning. But I’m sure you could get any of the other men to do the job.”
At the brazen insult, she lifted a hand and smacked his cheek. It happened before she could think, before she knew what she was doing.
He didn’t flinch.
