Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning Read Online Free

time and a new theater and everyone tired. And then two shows today. “Wildest days of the whole tour,” she concluded.
    He asked more about her time in New York, and she answered readily. When he asked where else the tour had been, she rattled off what felt like a Greyhound bus schedule, ending with “. . . then Omaha, then here. My first time to see the Rocky Mountains, even if it is from a distance.”
    “New theater every week?”
    “Sometimes. Sometimes less, sometimes more. So, tell me about your ranch,” she said. Not the smoothest transition, but a crease had appeared between his strong brows, and she wanted to change the subject to see if it would go away.
    “Ranch is in the same place every day,” he said. She thought that was more of his deadpan humor but wasn’t sure since he was looking around, not meeting her eyes.
    The final group of her fellow company members got up to leave, talking and yawning and waving.
    “Ma’am? May we have our check, please?” Ed asked the waitress. Then he addressed Donna, “You ready?”
    She looked at her plate, barely remembering what she’d eaten, and yet with a sudden, odd emptiness. “I guess I am.”
    “We’ll follow along with your friends, so you’re not feeling like you’re walking alone so late with a stranger,” he said as he paid.
    The emptiness in her disappeared. He wasn’t hurrying their departure for any reason other than consideration.
    He stood, holding her coat.
    It was a courtesy she appreciated. Not because she wasn’t a capable and independent woman, but because getting into a coat could be awkward, what with heavy layers to contend with. Women should help men with their coats, too.
    She slid one arm in, holding the cuff of her sweater with her fingers so it didn’t bunch up.
    That was when she felt the warm wall of his chest behind her. Not touching, but so
there
. He still held her coat while she twisted to insert her second cuff-holding hand into the opposite sleeve, so his arms resembled a ballerina’s in first position with her in the center. Only anything less like a ballerina’s delicacy was hard to imagine. He was solid heat, surrounding her, tempting her.
    She missed the armhole.
    “Sorry,” he murmured, his breath stirring her hair, adding a shiver to the heat transferring from his body deep into hers.
    “My fault.” She bit her lip, concentrating on getting her hand in. She flurried into words. “I love this coat, but it does have narrow sleeves. The price you pay for high fashion.”
    Success. Her arm was in the sleeve.
    “Is it warm?”
    With both arms coated, she continued her motion to pivot, feeling somehow that facing him would remove this sense of sinking into his heat.
    Except he didn’t release her coat, so he still was connected to her and the spotlight sensation returned in full force. As bright, hot and direct as before.
    Warm? Oh, yes, very warm
.
    She sucked in a breath, then let it out on a stream of words.
    “Warm doesn’t matter. I had fantastic luck finding this coat at a thrift store in New York — designer, with hardly any wear, and I got it for a steal. Of course, it needs a belt for the full 007 trench coat effect.”
    “It’s red,” he said, a hand at the small of her back. “Bright red.”
    “I especially love that. It lifts my spirits no matter what.”
    He reached past her to open the door. “Can’t imagine a spy wearing a red coat.”
    She laughed. “Maybe not an ordinary spy. But James Bond doesn’t blend in, so why should I?”
    “You wouldn’t ever blend in.”
    The depth of his voice had a strange effect, threatening her ability to stay upright. A wind from nowhere buffeted her and swung one side of her coat wide, plastering it against his legs.
    “You’ll freeze out here. You should button up.”
    “Can’t. No buttons.”
    He frowned. “Designers make coats with no buttons?”
    “Sure, some do. But in this case, someone apparently cut them off. So, until I find the