Leftover Love Read Online Free PDF Page A

was tripping over itself in an excited rush of apprehension. Her legs felt like rubber when she stepped from the car.
    She took a moment to button her parka and muster her nerve before she approached the house. Her jeans were tucked inside the tops of her high-fashion cowboy boots, their tall heels designed more for style than serviceability. They definitely weren’t made for easy walking over rough ground. Layne finally reached the shoveled sidewalk that led to the porch steps of the two-story white-frame house.
    The large shepherd dog sidled around her, wagging its tail in an ecstatic fashion and grinning with almost silly delight. Layne rubbed its head and the dog panted with joy, its hot breath turning into great, vapory clouds. Its very friendliness seemed to give her courage, although it didn’t follow her when she climbed the three steps onto the porch.
    At the door she paused to mentally brace herself for this face-to-face meeting. She wanted her emotions securely tucked away where they couldn’t be seen. Finally Layne rapped a mittened hand on the door and waited for several long seconds, but there was no sound of anyone stirring within. She knocked again, louder this time, and still there was only silence. She started to shift to one of the windowsthat fronted the porch to peer inside the house and see if anyone was about.
    “What can I do for you?” The question came from behind her.
    Layne turned with a startled little jump to face the front steps. The voice had the same no-nonsense inflection as that of the woman who had answered the phone. Layne stared at the woman before her.
    An inch or so shorter than Layne, she was firmly packed into a pair of man’s jeans. One of the pockets of her quilted winter jacket was torn at the side. A yellow and brown plaid wool scarf was bundled around her neck and a work-stained hat was jammed low on her head. Red wisps of henna-dyed hair poked out the under sides of the hat. The cold air had reddened her cheeks and nose, but it hadn’t frozen out the collection of freckles that gave the woman a youthful look despite the crowtracks around her eyes and mouth.
    “Was there something you wanted or are you lost?” A pair of faded green eyes studied Layne closely.
    The question prodded Layne out of her tongue-tied silence, subtly making her conscious of her wide-eyed stare. “No … that is … you must be Mattie Gray.” She finally managed to get a complete sentence out.
    “I am. And you are … ?” Mattie waited expectantly for Layne to identify herself.
    There was an earthy directness about the woman that instantly appealed to Layne. It took some of the tension out of her smile when she replied, “I’m Layne MacDonald.”
    Mattie’s expression was mildly speculative, neither friendly nor unfriendly. The keen sweep of her glance took in Layne’s fashionably heeled cowboy boots, her designer jeans, and the pale gray wool of her parka, an impractical color since it showed the smallest smudge of dirt.
    “You’re not from around here, so you must be from the city,” she observed.
    “Omaha,” Layne admitted.
    Inside there was a debate going on whether or not to disclose her identity. Her mother’s cautionary words kept coming back to her. She didn’t want this to be her one and only meeting with Mattie Gray. Yet that was the risk she was taking if she told Mattie who she was.
    “A man in town gave me directions on how to get here to your ranch.” She stalled, taking advantage of the precious extra minutes to observe little details about her natural mother—like the clear and direct way she looked at Layne, and the close way she listened as if weighing each word that was said.
    “I see.” There was a slow nod, as if she finally comprehended the reason behind Layne’s visit. “You heard we were looking for a hired hand.” With a wave of her hand, she staved off the protest Layne was about to make. “I know. You’ve always wanted to work on a ranch. And you