The Lone Rancher by Carol Finch Read Free Book Online

Boston.
    His hands curled into fists, itching to put a choke-hold on her lovely neck. Muttering, he rapped on the door—hard. Butler showed up two minutes later. Quin suspected the stoic accountant purposely left him waiting on the veranda.
    â€œHow nice to see you again, Cahill,” Butler said—and didn’t sound the slightest bit sincere.
    â€œSame to you.” Quin glanced over Butler’s dark head. Not a hair was out of place, as usual. “Where is she?”
    â€œWhere is who?” Butler blinked and tried out a mock-innocent stare. Quin didn’t buy it for even a second. Butler was as annoying as his boss.
    â€œYou know perfectly well who I’m talking about,” Quin snapped irritably. “Where’s Boston and what prank is she planning to play on me next?”
    â€œI don’t have the vaguest notion what you mean,” said Butler. “However, if you are asking after Addie K., she is sorting her Herefords. I doubt she has time for you right now. Maybe you could call again next week…or the week after.”
    Quin gnashed his teeth so hard he nearly ground off the enamel. He glared at Butler, who obviously didn’t have much use for him. Not that Quin cared what Boston’s man of affairs thought. The sooner Boston and her entourage left Texas, the happier he’d be. Joyous, in fact.
    Lurching around, Quin strode toward the barn and the surrounding corrals. To his amazement, Rock and the skeleton crew of cowhands had their arms draped over the top rail of the fence, watching Boston wanderaround the white-faced cows that she had shipped from New England. To his amazement—and the fascination of every cowboy—she was wearing the formfitting breeches Ezra mentioned. The tan-colored garment accentuated her small waist, the enticing curve of her hips and the well-defined shape of her legs. The breeches were tucked into her boots and her long chestnut hair lay against her spine in a thick braid.
    And that blouse! Damn, thought Quin. The top two buttons had come undone. Or more likely, she had unbuttoned them to hold the cowboys spellbound and leave them wondering when another button would work loose to expose more cleavage. For certain, the garment was custom-made to display Boston’s full bosom to its best advantage.
    One of Rosa’s designs, Quin suspected. No telling how much Boston had paid Rosa to create garments that diverted male attention away from the fact that she was an annoying little hellion.
    Despite the resentful thoughts chasing one another around Quin’s head, he watched her intently. She carried a stick as she wandered through the herd of Herefords, speaking softly to them. She tapped one and then another on the rump to single them out, then directed them into a separate pen. She seemed to be selecting heifers that carried the characteristics she wanted to breed into her next crop of calves. Quin was unwillingly impressed, though he’d cut out his tongue before he complimented the little vixen for her ability to spot quality beef on the hoof.
    â€œThese heifers will be penned up until my boxcar of shorthorn bulls and cows arrive next week,” she calledover her shoulder. “These heifers are old enough to breed and they are familiar enough with the place to be released into a pasture with the incoming registered bulls.”
    When she fastened the gate, she pivoted around—and halted abruptly. Quin’s narrowed gaze zeroed in on her, revealing none of the masculine appreciation that had bombarded him a few moments earlier. All the resentment that had spurred him during his ride hit him full force.
    He watched her gaze dart to Rocky Rhodes—the six-foot, blond-haired, blue-eyed cowboy about Quin’s age—who stood at a distance. Quin focused his hard glare on his former foreman who suddenly became fascinated with the toes of his boots, just as Skeeter had earlier.
    â€œPlease see that all the