you, Mr. Cantrell? You’ve not married yet?”
He took his time sipping his coffee and as tense moments begin to tick away, Maura decided he was going to ignore her question entirely. Which was embarrassing. Especially since she’d talked about her personal life.
“No,” he said finally. “I haven’t been looking for a wife. Can’t see that I need one.”
And why would he? she asked herself. The man had everything. Cattle, horses, thousands of acres of prime ranch land at his disposal, anything that money could buy. And that probably included women; the sort that he could take or leave at his convenience. A young hunk like him probably didn’t want to be saddled with a wife.
“And I wish you wouldn’t call me Mr. Cantrell,” he went on. “That was my father’s name. I’m just Quint to everyone.”
Calling him Mr. Cantrell helped keep him at an emotional distance. But it looked as though he meant to tear down even that flimsy barrier. Feeling even tenser, she drained her cup and rose to her feet. “Okay, Quint. Will you be staying for supper? There’ll be plenty.”
He got to his feet and Maura unconsciously stepped backward to put plenty of space between them. He was a big man. In size and presence. Strength and masculinity were stamped all over his rough features, broad shoulders and long, hard legs. Just being near him left her feeling cornered.
“I don’t know yet. Right now I’m going to go find my grandfather.” He placed his cup in the sink, then went out the back door, the screen banging behind him.
Maura stared after him and wondered why meeting Quint Cantrell had felt like going through an earthquake. Even her hands were still shaking.
Because Jenna Cantrell had wanted the dust and commotion of a ranch yard well away from her home, Abe had built the working part of Apache Wells two miles west of the house. Normally, he and Quint drove the distance, but there were times they chose to walk to the bunkhouse and work pens.
Down through the years, the outbuildings and barns had been built with no particular style or planning in mind, except durability and practical use. Some were made of wood, some corrugated iron, but one thing the buildings did have in common was their whitewashed walls and red tin roofs.
To one side of the network of buildings and connecting holding pens was a long arena where the hands gathered to train their horses to follow and cut cattle, and in quieter times, swap stories around a small campfire.
This late summer evening just happened to be cool enough to appreciate the warmth of a fire and, after Quint parked his truck, he found his grandfather with several of his hired hands squatting around the ring of rocks. The moment Abe spotted his approach, he left the circle of men and walked over to his grandson.
The older man was the same height as Quint and bony thin. He never went outdoors without his black hat and he always wore the legs of his jeans stuffed deep into his knee-high cowboy boots. This particular pair had lime-green tops with fancy yellow stitching and the leather was as scarred and worn as his grandfather’s face. Tonight he was wearing a brown quilted vest to ward away the chill and the puffy garment camouflaged his wiry torso.
Stroking his thick white mustache, he said to Quint, “So I see you finally managed to come check on your grandfather.”
Not allowing the old man any slack, Quint said, “I had to work at it. But I’m here.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Abe rocked back on his high heels. “Well, it’s about time.” He jerked his head toward the men behind him. “Jim’s makin’ some camp coffee. Come have a cup with us.”
“I just had coffee—with your nurse,” Quint added pointedly.
Abe grinned that goofy sort of grin that men got on their faces when they talked about women. “So you met the little filly, did ya? What’d you think about her?”
If Quint hadn’t been so shocked at his grandfather’s ribald questions, he would have rolled his eyes and cursed a blue streak.
“Forget about that,” he muttered. “What the hell are you doing, Gramps? You’re not sick! You’re using that vertigo problem of yours as an excuse to have her here. Aren’t you?”
“S-s-shh! Don’t be raising your voice so, damn it! She might hear you.”
“She’s in the house—two miles from here,” Quint reasoned.
His head tilting one way and then the other, Abe chuckled. “Well, she thinks I’m needy—and I am. At times. You know, Quint, I always had it in my mind that nurses were hard-hearted women. They sure seem like it when a man is sick. But Maura ain’t. She’s as sweet as a summer peach.”
“Since when did you need a summer peach?” Quint countered.
Abe shrugged. “Well—since I got dizzy.”
Quint snorted. “Looks to me like you’ve gotten more than dizzy.”
“That’s right,” Abe retorted. “I got the notion that I was tired of living alone.”
Shaking his head, Quint looked out at the ranch yard. The dipping sun was lengthening the shadows of the buildings. A pen of horses munched on alfalfa while around their feet several dominickers pecked at the morsels of oats and corn that had fallen from the feed troughs. Apache Wells had always felt more like home to Quint than any of the other Cantrell properties in Lincoln County.
As a young child he’d spent many days and nights here with his grandparents and those memories were more than special to him. His time here had influenced his life. The endless days he’d spent with his grandfather working in and out of the saddle had set Quint’s goals and visions for the future.
Yes, Apache Wells had always been special to him and he didn’t want a woman coming along and changing anything about it.
“Living alone! Gramps, you have men all around you. That’s hardly being alone.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Abe countered with a question.
Quint frowned, then heaved out a heavy breath. “Look, Gramps, I’m not the one complaining about being lonely. You are. My life is one big whirlwind right now. I don’t have time to be lonely. And frankly, neither do you. So spare me.”
Abe scowled at him. “Spare you? I’d like to kick your ass.”
Seeing he was getting nowhere, Quint took a different direction. “So how long do you plan on keeping this nurse?”
Abe gave him a palms-up gesture. “‘Til I don’t need her, I suppose. ‘Course if I get over this dizzy problem, I’m hardly likely to run her off.”
Quint suddenly decided he’d been all wrong about the old man. Abe was sick. With dementia or something like it. Had Maura already recognized Abe’s problem and saw it as a way to get her foot in the door? He hated to think the woman might be that calculating. She didn’t seem the sort, at all. But then, he’d spent four years believing that Holly Johnson was a true-blue innocent and look what that had gotten him. She’d run off with a rich real-estate mogul and Quint had become the laughingstock of Lincoln County.
“Gramps, I want you to have a complete checkup. You need blood work, scans, the whole nine yards. You’re not yourself and we both know it.”
Abe laughed gleefully. “I’m not acting like myself, am I? Just because I’m enjoying a little female company? I think any doc would say you’re the one who’s messed up.”
“What about Granny?” Quint challenged him. “Doesn’t she matter anymore?”
Abe’s expression suddenly softened and he patted Quint on the shoulder. “She ain’t here anymore, Quint. All I have is memories and photos. A man needs more and you ought to understand that.”
Lord, did his grandfather have romantic intentions toward the nurse? “Gramps, did you hire her to be your nurse or something