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  He didn't let the time stop him from pouring himself a stiff, strong whiskey from the beautiful crystal decanter that lived on the credenza behind his desk and mulled the situation over further. Not that he regretted what he'd done in the least.

  He hadn't expected to find her in his office, and he certainly hadn't expected to find her with one of his guns in her hands. His heart had been in his throat the entire time he'd been crossing the room, but he could tell that she didn't hear him—the legacy of having been a pretty good hunter and trapper as a boy—and he'd hoped to a God he no longer believed in that he could get to her before he startled her into or all on her own she ended up doing something that was accidentally very stupid—and potentially very lethal, either to herself or to him or to someone who caught a stray bullet.

  Doyle admitted to himself that he probably shouldn't have spanked her, but he'd given in to a very primitive impulse to impress upon her the severity of what she'd been doing. His brother, Isaac, would probably have just yelled at her some, but Isaac had always been much more of an actual gentleman than he was. Isaac had come along just at a time when the family was beginning to make some money, and, as the youngest, he'd had the benefit of a lot more civilizing influences than he'd had as the eldest.

  Two black brows drew together. While he'd been involved in the process, he hadn't had the chance—the inclination or the ability really—to notice the state her attire was in, but now that he was playing the scene back in his mind, he realized that every piece of her clothing that he'd touched had been not only out of date, but barely decent to wear—her bloomers in particular. He could probably have had the same exact effect if he'd spanked her over them, but he'd always been a firm believer that spankings were best administered on the bare. Especially those given to women.

  Petite, red haired women were of particular interest, he was somewhat alarmed to realize. But that was a fact that was rudely driven home to him once he had her over his knee and was only reinforced from that point on, especially when he found himself staring down at those beautiful, rounded, pale—for the moment—cheeks of hers. He apparently had enough gentlemanly impulses that he'd adjusted himself so that the evidence of his carnal desires wasn't poking at her, not that he thought she'd know enough to notice that—besides, she was too busy trying to wiggle her way off his lap in the most enticing manner imaginable.

  Which only made hiding his problematic condition that much harder, although he had felt compelled to continue to try to do so, with limited success. Sometimes, size wasn't the blessing it was heralded as.

  When the dinner bell rang, he shook his head physically, trying to clear those highly improper images from his head—Miss Dayton arching up with each smack, bottom flesh wobbling and instantly turning a becoming shade of crimson, legs kicking as much as they could while she valiantly tried to keep them together, although he'd noticed that she'd managed to dislodge the underwear that had been helping her do so almost completely within less than ten slaps, so it was her own strength of will and strong sense of modesty that had kept those knees clamped together.

  Downing the rest of his drink in one big gulp, he rose and headed for the door, his last thought—as he caught his reflection in the mirror and remembered the sight of her fiddling with her hair—was that he wondered if all of her red hair was on her head.

  Of course, she was the first person he saw when he entered the dining room, her eyes skittering nervously away from his as his brother and her sister joined them after kissing affectionately, as if they hadn't just seen each other at breakfast.

  He didn't know why the fact that those two were so blatantly in love irked him so, but it did. If he thought it wouldn't be terribly curmudgeonly of him, he might have said something to Isaac about their displays of physical affection and—worse—much worse—their cooing at each other every chance they got. He'd thought it might abate considerably once they were well and properly married, but he hadn't seen any staunching of the annoying behavior in the least—in fact, it was probably worse now than it ever had been.

  Isaac seated his wife, kissing the top of her head before taking his own chair across the table from her. Clarissa sat next to her sister on the other side—about as far away from him as she could get and glad of it, he imagined—and he was where he belonged—where his father had sat—at the head of it.

  The worst thing in the world happened right off when Isaac frowned fiercely, saying, "Clarissa, is anything the matter? You look as if you've been crying."

  Rissa opened her mouth to repeat the fabrication she'd come up with for her sister when Winnie did it for her, even reaching over to pat her hand soothingly as she did so—and reciting it much more convincingly than she ever could have.

  Isaac, of course, was effusively sympathetic. "You should have Doyle take a look at it. He has quite a bit of medical knowledge, having grown up on the ranch when it was much wilder around here than it is now. Why, when Mother and Father first came here, there wasn't a town for miles and miles around. Now, we have Riverview just a few miles away."

  "Surely, there's a doctor there," Rissa blurted out, wishing instantly that she hadn't.

  "There's an old sawbones—he's a doctor, a vet and a dentist all in one, and not very good at any of them. Besides, he'd charge you money," Isaac informed the women. "I'm sure Doyle would be only too happy to do anything he could to help you feel better."

  "Somehow, I doubt that, since he was the cause," she muttered very quickly and quietly under her breath, but apparently not softly enough.

  "What did you say?" Doyle himself prompted with just the barest hint of a smile on his face.

  "I said I wouldn't want to put you out like that," Rissa came up with quickly, lifting her head as if she was going to look at him, but her eyes never quite made it to his face.

  Doyle's smile only got brighter at her verbal dancing. "Isaac is correct, of course. I'd be glad to assist in any way I can. Perhaps the application of some lotion might help?"

  The other two at the table were surprised at his unusual suggestion, so they didn't see Clarissa frowning fiercely at Doyle.

  Isaac chuckled. "A lotion? For what might be a broken toe?"

  "Sometimes, a salve helps in these situations—reduces the swelling and the pain," Doyle drawled, thoroughly enjoying the young woman's discomfort as they both knew he was speaking about something else entirely.

  "I'll be fine, I think, thank you. My shoes are so tight that they're holding everything quite steady, and that'll keep the inflammation down, too. Besides, there's not much anyone can do if it is broken."

  "That's true," Winnie agreed, launching into a tale about the time she'd done much the same thing, and Rissa was finally able to relax and eat a little of her lunch. But she could still feel his eyes on her, and the memory of what he'd seen of her and done to her was too fresh in her mind for her to be able to get much of it down, despite how delicious it was.

  So, hating herself for the coward that she was, she nonetheless pulled her napkin from her lap not long after the meal had begun and put it on the table next to her almost untouched dinner and stood—which relieved the considerable discomfort of sitting, too. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling very well at the moment—nothing to do with my foot." She smiled wanly. "Just still tired and a bit unsettled from the trip, I guess. If you'll excuse me, I believe I'll go up to my room and lie down."

  The two men rose immediately when she did, as did Winnie, and, as she moved away from the table, Rissa's eyes caught the men's faces. Isaac looked genuinely concerned. Doyle looked as if he was suppressing the urge to smile, blast him.

  "Can I help with anything? Bring you up a tray later?" Winnie asked solicitously.

  But Rissa was almost at the stairs in the big foyer already. "No, thank you, sister. I just want to nap for a while. But thank you."

  Upstairs, behind the closed door, stretched out—on her tummy—on the luxuriously big bed with the gorgeous blue silk comforter, Rissa gave way to the tears sh
e'd been holding back all that time, cursing the name Doyle Caldwell into her pillow until she fell asleep of exhaustion, moments later.

  Chapter 2

  From that moment on, Clarissa did her level best to spend as little time in Doyle's company as she could manage, which wasn't easy since he seemed to be home all the time. So was she, while she dutifully mailed out her credentials to the few towns that were around them, even sending them to townships that weren't advertising openings, just in case. She was so uncomfortable staying with him that she expanded her job search to include not just New Mexico, but Texas, Kansas, Colorado and Oklahoma.

  She had originally hoped to stay closer to her sister, and if it had just been Winnie and Isaac at the house, then she would have felt welcomed and comfortable taking her time finding just the right placement that would have allowed her to remain relatively nearby.

  But as it was, she was now at a point that she just wanted to get out of this house. She didn't have enough money left to go back East, and there was really nothing there to go back to, anyway. She'd resigned herself to taking pretty much take any job offer that came along in order to get out from under his roof. So, she soldiered on, doing her best not to become too discouraged when she received no responses.

  After that fiasco of a lunch, Rissa had to admit, though, that Doyle was the soul of discretion, except for the knowing smirk that lurked just beneath his lips whenever she happened to be idiotic enough to glance at him. And his tone when he spoke to her was always just shy of unseemly, although, luckily, she seemed to be the only one who noticed it. Winnie and Isaac were too caught up in each other to see much of what was going on around them, and she wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not.

  One afternoon, when she'd given herself a few well-deserved hours off from writing letters of introduction and inquiry that she knew weren't going to yield anything for her efforts, she happened across Isaac and Winnie, who were walking hand in hand through the foyer towards the front door, apparently heading out for the afternoon.

  "We're going for a ride and taking a picnic lunch. Would you like to come?" Isaac asked with the surety of someone who didn't know anyone who couldn't ride.

  Rissa grinned. "Thank you for the lovely invitation, but I don't know how."

  They both looked remarkably crestfallen for a couple who would probably have been much happier to be by themselves anyway.

  "Well, we've got to rectify that situation as soon as we can," Winnie pouted prettily. "Isaac taught me, and it didn't take very long before I felt pretty comfortable. Now, it's second nature."

  "Then I shall have to prevail upon my new brother-in-law's good nature, if you'd be willing to teach me, too."

  Isaac bowed low. "I would be honored. But if you'd rather not wait, Doyle is around somewhere today, and he's a very good teacher. He's the one who taught me."

  Apparently, she had no future on the stage, because Isaac smiled, answering as if he could plainly see her distaste for his brother on her face. "He has more patience than you might think, and he loves to ride himself. I think that's why he teaches it so well."

  Rissa could hardly release the unladylike snort she was holding back about what he'd said in regards to his brother, although that was her first impulse. Instead, she smiled and said, "I'm fine waiting for you, if you don't mind."

  Isaac shrugged. "Suit yourself. We'll get started on that this weekend, then. Enjoy your afternoon."

  Rissa nodded and saw them off. They headed towards the stable, arm in arm. Someday, she hoped she could find someone like her sister had so obviously discovered—someone whose love for her shown on his face every time he looked at her, even when he knew people were watching.

  But at this point, she just wanted to get out of here.

  She headed to the kitchen to let the family cook—Lucille—know that she was the only one who'd be having lunch at home, but the warm, friendly older woman corrected her on that.

  "It's almost ready, Miss Clarissa, but you ain't the only one. Himself is going to be home—he told me this morning—and he doesn't like to miss meals."

  Well, that changed her plans. She wondered if she should fake a stomach ache or a headache to avoid him.

  The kitchen door opened at that point and he strode in, before she had a chance to make up her mind, covered head to toe in some kind of muck she didn't want to get close enough to identify, winking outrageously at the cook, who giggled like a schoolgirl, and saying as he sauntered past her as if he was wearing a white tie tuxedo rather than what looked to be—under the layers of gunk—a denim shirt that clung to the muscles of his broad shoulders, obscenely well-fitting jeans, and a disreputable hat, commanding, "Give me a moment to get cleaned up and I'll join you for lunch."

  "That's not at all necessary, Mr.—" she began primly.

  But he was gone.

  No amount of pleading with Lucille would get her to go upstairs and inform him that she would be perfectly fine having a tray in her room.

  "I'm getting the meal ready, Miss Clarissa. If you want him to know that, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to go up to his room and tell him yourself."

  Rissa balked at that idea. She never wanted to see the man again. There was no way she was going to go to his bedroom!

  But she didn't want to have lunch alone with him, either.

  She ended up pacing back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, and before she noticed it, he was halfway down them, looking much cleaner and—she hated to admit it—strikingly handsome in a dark blue suit with a brocade waistcoat.

  And now, because she'd stupidly spent her time gawking at him like a streetwalker, she felt she'd lost her chance to duck out without making him grin at her as if he knew full well that she was just trying to avoid him. She'd rather dine with him than have him think she was a coward. Even if she occasionally was, especially around him.

  As he took the last step, he extended his elbow to her to escort her in to lunch, a surprisingly formal move, and she had no choice but to put her hand on his arm or look like a petty brat.

  Once there, she headed for her usual seat, well away from him, but Doyle stood behind Winnie's usual spot and cleared his throat loudly.

  Rissa, who had been just about to sit down, sighed ungraciously and moved to allow him to seat her to his left before taking his own bigger captain's chair.

  She hadn't known she was hungry until she smelled the food Lucille brought in—steaks from the ranch, seared to perfection with garlic and herbs, hot, fresh rolls she'd made just that morning, fried onions, mashed potatoes laced with sour cream and parmesan cheese, and waxed beans from the gardens out in back of the house, as well as sweet tea and coffee for drinking.

  She didn't think she'd ever get over the amount of food the family consumed at one meal, and easily two thirds of it was consumed by the master of the house, but then she figured he worked it all off outside, obviously, since there didn't seem to be an ounce of fat on the man—he was pure muscle.

  She knew that fact better than most, unfortunately. Much better than she should have.

  Before she could reach for the platter of steak that was in front of her, he took possession of her plate and made it up for her, giving her one of the smaller cuts, a good-sized portion of beans and a small spoonful of potatoes, as well as a roll, then passed her plate back to her, pronouncing, "I want you to eat all of that. You and Winnie eat like birds, and that's not a good habit out here. Things can go south very quickly away from the comforts of civilization that you're used to. You need to lay in some reserves just in case."

  Even though she knew that he had cut the portion size he would have used for himself down quite considerably, it was still an enormous amount of food. "I can't possibly eat all of this. It would make me sick and that would defeat the purpose."

  He laughed at that, a deep, throaty chuckle that had her head coming up to look at him, startled by the unwanted pleasure she was deriving from the sound of it. "I guess you're right. But I want
you to take more than a few bites then push it away, as you have a habit of doing."

  Rissa didn't want to think about how he knew that, not wanting to consider that he paid that close attention to her.

  He was giving her one of those looks she hated, as if he thought he had the right to command her to do his bidding, just because she was living under his roof.

  Not that what he was asking of her was so horrible—in fact, it was actually nice of him to be concerned for her at all—she hadn't thought he was capable of it.

  "I'll try," she answered, not bothering to hide the grudging edge in her voice.

  "Thank you," he said, and she couldn't detect the expected note of mockery in his tone. "Where have the lovebirds gotten to this afternoon, do you know?"

  "I saw them just as they were leaving. They were going out to have a picnic lunch."

  He put down the bowl of beans he was holding, looking downright appalled. "And they didn't invite you to go along?"

  "Yes, they did, but I don't ride."

  He gave her a contemplative look, then said, "Well, that's something that's easily fixed. I'm done for the afternoon. I'd be glad to teach you."

  "In one afternoon?" she asked doubtfully.

  "No, missy," Doyle corrected, although not sharply. "But I can get you started, at least. I'll do more, if I have the time later on."

  Why was she blushing? He hadn't said or done anything inappropriate, and yet her cheeks were flaming as if he'd threatened to spank her again.

  "Thank you for the offer, Mr. Caldwell, but—"

  "You're welcome," he bulldozed over her impolitely. "We'll begin after lunch."

  "I have nothing to wear, besides I—"

  Dear God, he was running his gaze up and down her body as if sizing her up. "I'm sure your sister has something you could borrow until you can get your own."