through the front door. But it was the nights that were the worst, when he was asleep and her perfume drifted past his defenses to invade his dreams. He never remembered what he dreamed and didn’t want to, but he woke up restless and on edge. And it was all her fault.
In self-defense, he avoided her and the house every chance he got. The summer days were long, thankfully, and the ranch overrun with a film crew that had little experience with cattle, so he found plenty to keep him busy. There were downed fences to repair, strays to round up, and the herd to be moved when it was needed for filming.
He couldn’t, however, work around the clock. Eventually, he ran out of daylight and was forced to go home to find the lights on and the infuriating Ms. Wiley already home herself. Normally, he would have cleaned up, then scrounged around in the kitchen for something hot and filling. But not with her in the house. He didn’t want to see her, to talk to her, to have any more to do with her than he had to. So every night, he grabbed a cold sandwich from the kitchen, then retreated to his workshop in the barn.
It was his last sanctuary, his woodworking shop, and the one place of his that his houseguest had yet to invade. Here, working on Cassie’s bed, the smell of sawdust and varnish thick in the air, he didn’t have to think about that damn perfume of hers, didn’t have to think of her. And he intended to keep it that way.
Finishing off the last of his sandwich, he ran his hands over the headboard and found it as smooth as a baby’s bottom. When he’d picked the bed up at Myrtle’s, it had been covered in so many coats of paint that it had been impossible to tell the kind of wood it was made of. It had taken him four days to strip away a lifetime of paint with paint remover, but he was finally down to the bare wood. And it was beautiful.
Elizabeth and Zeke were going to love it. They didn’t know that he’d bought an antique, but he’d wanted to give Cassie something special. She was the first baby born into the McBride family in over three decades and he’d wanted her to have something special that could be handed down for generations to come. It had taken Myrtle a while to find what he was looking for, but this was it. After another light sanding, staining and a coat of varnish, it would be beautiful.
“Excuse me. I don’t mean to intrude, but there’s no hot water—”
Swearing, Joe whirled to find Angel standing at the entrance to his workshop just like she had every right to be there. Too late, he wished he’d locked the door. Because the lady looked too damn good. So much for the rumor mill, he thought sarcastically. Gossip abounded about the ranch now that it had been overrun by the Hollywood crowd, and from what he’d heard, the glamour queen had had a rough day playing the part of a widow trying to break a stallion on the ranch she’d inherited from her deceased husband.
She hadn’t done the actual work, of course, but even then, a certain amount of real physical labor was required in order for her to look like she knew what she was doing. Supposedly, she’d thrown herself into the scene—and gotten more than she bargained for when the horse she was working with got out of hand and pulled her off her feet into the dirt.
He nearly rolled his eyes at that. Yeah, right. The studio’s publicity department might get her adoring fans to swallow that bunch of malarkey, but anyone who’d been jerked around by a stubborn horse knew better. If a soft city slicker like Angel Wiley had really been pulled off her feet, she’d be laid up in bed right now whining about her sore muscles, not standing there in his workshop looking as fresh as a ray of sunshine in a simple yellow cotton blouse and jeans that clung in all the right places.
Irritated that he’d noticed the enticing curve of her hips and thighs, he growled, “What do you want?”
Not surprised by his coldness—he hadn’t said two words to her after their initial confrontation when she’d moved in—Angel didn’t so much as blink. She was just too tired. Every bone in her body ached from her battle on the set earlier that afternoon with the horse from hell, and all she wanted to do was soak in a hot tub, then go to bed. But there was no hot water, and she absolutely refused to go to bed without a bath first.
If she’d known where the hot water heater was, she would have checked the pilot light herself—even if she was too stiff to sink down on her knees to do it—but she didn’t. Which left her with no choice but to beard the lion in his den in the barn. And there was no question that it was his den. He’d hidden out for hours there every night that week, not returning to the house until well after she turned out the light in her room.
More than once, she’d been tempted to follow him just to see what he did out there every night. But she’d already intruded on his privacy more than he liked, and the peacefulness of their coexistence was fragile at best. He still didn’t want her there and didn’t insult her by pretending that he did. And he had no idea how much she respected him for that. He was a rarity in her world, where people played nicey-nice just so they could get close to her. His rudeness could be off-putting at times, but he didn’t play games. She knew where she stood with him, and that was a welcome relief.
“I was going to take a bath, but there’s no hot water,” she began, only to gasp in delight when her glance slid past him to the antique bed he’d obviously been working on. “Is that the bed you bought from Myrtle?” she asked in surprise. “The one for your niece? My God, it’s beautiful!”
If she hadn’t recognized the angels carved into the bed’s headboard, she never would have thought it was the same bed she’d seen Joe carry out of Myrtle’s shop last week. Then, it had been ugly and scarred and nearly black with paint. She wouldn’t even have looked twice at it. But now…it was gorgeous!
Eager to examine it closer, she stepped across the threshold into the workshop, but that was as far as she got. She never saw him move, but suddenly he was right in front of her, blocking her path, and so close she could almost feel the hard wall of his chest against hers. Startled, she looked up and found herself caught in the trap of his narrowed, dark brown eyes. And for no reason at all, her heart began to thump.
“The barn isn’t included in the agreement with the studio.”
She knew that and wouldn’t have had a problem with it—if the glint in his eyes and the low rumble of his voice hadn’t dared her to even think about taking another step. Between one heartbeat and the next, she’d had enough…enough of his hostility when she’d done nothing except have the misfortune to be a single female…enough of his flinty looks and distrust. So he’d been hurt by a woman. She could sympathize with that. But he wasn’t the only one who’d ever had the misfortune to be hurt by love. And she wasn’t the one who’d hurt him!
Drawing herself up to her full five foot seven inches, she somehow managed to look down her nose at him in spite of the fact that he towered over her by a good six or more inches. “I wasn’t going to contaminate the place, just look at the bed. But that’s not what you’re worried about, is it, Mr. McBride? You’re afraid I’m going to trip you and beat you to the ground.
“Oh, don’t bother to deny it,” she said quickly when his brows snapped together in a fierce scowl that would have intimidated a lesser woman. “You think I’m some sort of loose floozy from L.A. looking for a little dancing between the sheets while I’m stuck here in the boondocks, and I’ve set my sights on you. Well, just for the record, you can relax. It’s not going to happen. And do you know why? Because I’m not interested. Which is a good thing for you, big guy,” she taunted softly, thumping him on the chest. “Because if I was, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Dismissing him with a toss of her head, she turned and walked out. And never knew that she left him standing there staring after her like a man who had just been hit by a two-by-four.
Tiny’s Pool Hall was the only place in town that came close to passing for a bar, and it was a poor substitute. Granted, there was a jukebox in the corner, and smoke hung like a cloud overhead, rising unrestricted to the bare rafters, but the only alcoholic beverage sold was beer, and that was limited to three per customer. The locals knew the rules and had long since accepted the fact that Tiny was never going to let anyone leave his place drunk, but the Hollywood crowd was something else. Packed shoulder to shoulder in the