Free The Rancher and the Redhead by Suzannah Davis Page B

hoped to possess, she had to admit the truth.
    It was even better.
    * * *
    Sam Preston was in big trouble, and he knew it.
    A week into his second marriage, after a blistering Texas afternoon of alternately cursing and praying over the Lazy Diamond’s ailing cattle truck, he was hot, tired and dirty. Not to mention raw and bloody across the knuckles from banging into the engine block. Maybe the damn thing would run a little longer. Maybe.
    Sam stomped up the porch steps of the ranch house, mentally calculating the possibilities. If the truck died for good, it would practically put him out of the rodeo stock business, for there was no extra cash to replace the vehicle, and his line of credit down at the local bank was just about nil. In fact, five years after his divorce, he was only beginning to dig the ranch out of the financial morass left over from Shelly’s settlement, and every setback—from a worn-out vehicle to a bull he couldn’t replace—was critical.
    Reaching for the handle of the screen door, Sam came up short as a flutter of bright-colored fabric caught his eye. Mouthing a curse of pure frustration, he glared at the short line strung between two porch posts and the delicate feminine laundry clothes-pinned to it—silky teddies and little scraps of lacy panties and a heart-stopping array of mysterious female undergarments guaranteed to drive a man slap out of his mind. Which is where he was going—fast.
    Good God, who would have ever guessed that Curly hid all that fancy, female livery under her jeans every day? Shaking his head, Sam went inside. Every other problem in his life paled when compared to the fact that he had the hots for his own wife—and there was nothing he could do about it.
    For the moment.
    Setting his hat on a peg, he used the bootjack to shuck out of his boots, ripped open the snaps on his grease-stained work shirt and tugged it free of his waistband. From somewhere in the house, he could hear water running, and there was an aroma coming from the oven that made his empty belly rumble.
    There were other evidences of feminine occupation creeping into his house, too. Ruffled pot holders with cows’ faces on them by the stove. A teal rug at the back door. Some kind of strange-looking modern statue on the coffee table in the parlor, and a pile of art books nestled up beside his stacks of Western Horseman and Hoof and Horn.
    They were finding a routine with Jessie, too, from bathing to naptime to a bout of real restlessness just the night before that had kept Roni hovering to the wee hours. Despite those demands, Roni had already managed to rough out her cover illustration in her new studio. Yeah, his and Roni’s everyday lives were meshing okay. If only they could get this relationship thing figured out as easily.
    What had seemed so sensible when first discussed had turned out to be a Pandora’s box as far as Sam was concerned. He couldn’t quite explain, even to himself, how a couple of kisses—surprising as they were—had changed the way he looked at Roni. All he knew was that she was his now, legally and morally, and—dammit—all he could think about was taking her to bed!
    Too bad Roni wasn’t of the same mind. Every time he’d come near her over the past seven days, she’d shied away from him like a skittish mare scenting a stallion. She wasn’t hard to read—she just wasn’t ready for that step. Maybe she wouldn’t ever be. The thought made Sam groan. Was it too much for a husband to expect conjugal rights? Or was he just an oversexed SOB with gonads for brains and no self-control?
    Grinding his teeth in frustration, Sam opened the refrigerator for a beer, letting the cool air waft over his sweaty chest. At least she’d gotten her wedding flowers out of the food crisper. And as hard as it was for him to reconcile how quickly his thinking about Roni had changed, no doubt she was having the same kind