Free Rustler's Moon by Jodi Thomas Page B

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    O VER THE REST of the week, the museum drew her in like a magic time machine to a period in history that she’d loved since she’d discovered Little House on the Prairie as a girl. Yet somehow, she felt she belonged in this place. To her knowledge no one in her family had ever come west. She was the first pioneer, even if she was over a hundred years late.
    Friday morning, Angela was deep in paperwork when she glanced up from her records to find Wilkes Wagner standing at her office door. He seemed to be blocking the entire entrance with his tall frame and wide shoulders. She had no idea how long he’d been lurking there.
    “If you’ve come to assault me or ask for my hand, Mr. Wagner, I’m sorry, I’m busy. You’ll have to come back later.”
    The cowboy had the nerve to smile and walk in as if he’d been invited. “I haven’t recovered from the last beating you gave me, Angie. I’ve still got a bruise on my rib.” He towered over her. “You want to see?” He tugged at his shirt.
    “No.” She decided the sheriff must have left out dumb when he mentioned the Wagner family traits. Only, he wasn’t dumb. Arrogant. Rude. Sexy as hell, but not dumb.
    “Well, if stripping is out—” he winked, telling her he’d been teasing “—then I’m here to do some research. You store county records under this roof. I’m looking for details about an old house that may have been one of the first in Crossroads. A friend of mine, Yancy Grey, claims it haunts him.”
    She stood, trying to look her most professional, but it was hard to pull it off in the baggy trousers and bulky sweater she’d worn for a workday behind the dusty display cases. Any hope that he wouldn’t notice vanished when she saw him studying her from the knot of wild hair on the top of her head to her tennis shoes.
    “Please follow me,” she ordered, her chin high.
    He did just that, though she guessed he knew exactly where the museum records were kept. It was a beautiful room in the heart of the building. Although windowless, the walls between file cabinets and bookshelves had been painted sunset yellow. The tall room’s lighting had been expertly crafted with low-hanging wrought-iron chandeliers. Local cattle brands were laser cut into the dark iron giving the room a warm, Western glow. The Double K for the Kirklands, The Bar W for the Collins’ ranch and many others including the Devil’s Fork. Wilkes’s family brand looked like the branches of a winter tree that nature had shaped into the lines of a three-tine fork.
    She started when Wilkes overtook her a moment before she reached for the doorknob. He held it open for her and then followed her in. For the first time, she noticed a leather backpack slung over one of his shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t show you around. I haven’t had a chance yet to explore all the wonderful records in this room.”
    He dropped his pack on the nearest chair and sat on the end of the long oak table that sliced down the middle of the room. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve explored these stacks. My mother used to volunteer here on Saturdays, and I always tagged along. I think this place is why I majored in American history in college.”
    “You went to college?” The words were out before she could stop them. Somehow with his worn boots and old jeans she’d formed the idea that he’d never left the ranch for more than a few hours.
    He grinned, that wicked grin she’d seen her first day. “Much as I tried to goof off, I ended up with a degree in history and a minor in math.” Sitting on the table, he was eye level with her, which made him impossible to ignore. Men shouldn’t be that rugged and that good-looking at the same time.
    The memory of their kiss warmed her and she licked her lips. His smile faded, but his eyes darkened slightly, telling her he knew exactly what she was thinking.
    Wilkes folded his arms and looked away. One kiss might have been an accident, a part of a game