Knight in a White Stetson Read Online Free PDF Page B

blond. He tried to imagine any woman he knew hefting that tire down from the back of that dusty pickup, and couldn’t. He smiled. Calla was definitely not willowy. Her chest was strong and wide, with breasts that looked firm and heavy and high, even in those god-awful work shirts. Her hair was the color of rich chestnuts and her eyes were an astonishing shade of hazel, flecked with jade.
    He tried to imagine the color of her nipples. Dark, he decided. Wine-colored, or maybe the blush of soft plums. The swather took a sudden dip sideways and ruined Henry’s perfect row. So much for an engineer’s brain, he reflected.
    There was definition in her slender arms and Henry knew those sleek muscles didn’t come from a weight machine or thrice-weekly aerobics classes. He’d watched her break loose those rusted lug nuts in wonder. How he’d kept himself from running his hand along her strong neck and into the sweaty crease at her elbow, he’d never know.
    He’d like to have seen her legs. They weren’t miles long, like Heidi’s were, but he thought they’d wrap nicely around his back.
    Oh, pull yourself together, Johannsen. He was a highly educated man. He knew a budding obsession when one whacked him over the head.
    He turned the swather again. He’d been right about his dilemma in the kitchen this morning. He had been celibate too long.
    It was the only reasonable explanation for how unreasonably he wanted Calla. He’d wanted her under that pickup yesterday afternoon, on the barn floor later that night, this morning on the kitchen table after her father had stepped outside; would have taken her without a second thought if she’d but crooked a finger in his direction.
    He’d almost kissed her when she slapped him on his back this morning, even though he knew she was laughing at him. He’d almost reached behind him and pulled her hand to his chest and kissed her.
    He’d lain awake all last night, tossing and turning in his sleeping bag, wondering how she tasted, how soft her lips were. He’d spied on her, spied on her! when she walked Dartmouth to his car last night, and grunted in disgust when he saw the bastard lean forward and touch his lips to hers.
    And he’d wondered idly how easily the bones in Dartmouth’s skinny neck would break under his hands.
    Henry looked back at the row he just finished, annoyed by the slight, compensating dip in the alfalfa. Calla’s nipple, he reminded himself. He turned again.
    A swarm of gulls followed the machine, greedily scooping up the mice that ran from their destroyed nests. An old bird dog he’d seen shaded up under a tree on Calla’s front lawn that morning trotted happily beside the swather, row after row, turning when Henry turned. Ah, farming. It was boring, steady, peaceful work. He could have stayed on that swather the rest of his life, he thought.
    He had just made another row when he caught the movement of a horse out of the corner of his eye.
    It was Calla, atop a young sorrel. Two perfectly matched, glossy-coated border collies flanked the horse, keeping their eagle eyes and sharp noses on the wild-looking cow in front of Calla’s horse. Calla kept the cow against the fence line, guiding it slowly toward an open gate at the end of the field next to the one Henry was swathing.
    She looked over at him. He was too far away to see her face, but he knew she was smiling at him. He waved. She raised one slender hand and held it aloft for a moment. Not a wave, really, more like a salute, he thought. He chuckled aloud.
    * * *
    Calla eased the cow through the gate. She looked down at the dogs. They hadn’t taken their eyes off the animal.
    “Take a bite,” she said. They took off in a rush of black and white, silently nipping at the heels of the wild cow. The cow kicked and bucked her way across the empty field.
    “Come back,” she called softly. Instantly, the dogs wheeled and returned to her side. Serves you right, you old biddy, Calla thought. The cow had given