The Rustler's Bride by Tatiana March

was an easy way to take care of that, Victoria told herself, blushing at the thought. And yet, as she settled down in the library with a cup of coffee in front of her and set about perfecting the details of her plan, a good dose of apprehension mixed with the excitement and anticipation that knotted in her belly.

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    Chapter Four
     
    Victoria knelt by the huge traveling trunk in the corner of her bedroom and rummaged in the pile of fabric inside. There it was. She pulled out a length of cotton. All right, so lemon yellow might not the best color for a man, and the fabric was too delicate, but she itched to get started with her project. Instead of wasting time on a trip to the mercantile, she’d make do with the material she had to hand.
    She found one her father’s shirts in the laundry hamper outside his room. In the library, she hunted up a pair of scissors and spread the length of yellow cotton on top of the big oak desk. Frowning, she dug in her memory for the measurements. Was it thirty-one inches around the waist? And forty-two around the chest? Or thirty-two and forty-four?
    Her shoulders rose and fell in an impatient shrug. Declan was nearly as tall as her father but a bit broader in the chest, more powerfully built. She smoothed her father’s shirt on top of the yellow fabric and started cutting, adding another inch all around.
    There. That shape looked pretty good for a sleeve, and the front and back were nothing but big squares, really. It was going to turn out fine. She gathered up the bits of fabric and returned upstairs, where she settled in a chair by the window, threaded a needle, and started sewing.
    ****
     
    It was almost lunchtime when Declan finished mucking out the stables. Hank Smith, the big and steady ranch hand that Declan suspected had not always gone by the name of Smith, stood smoking by the entrance, leaning against the wall in the shade of the eaves.
    “You looking for me?” Declan asked.
    Hank nodded and drew another lungful from his cheroot.
    Declan waited in silence. He was gradually getting to know the men. The two black cowboys liked to spend time with the blacksmith who was a good storyteller. The Mexican vaqueros preferred to speak Spanish and mostly talked to each other. Lenny, the good looking young rascal talked to anyone who would listen. Cookie mostly talked to himself. Stan, the oldest of the lot, was full of good humor and laughed as much as he talked. Hank, on the other hand, hoarded his words like gold nuggets and only spoke when he had something to say, or when good manners required it.
    A few more drags, and Hank was ready to speak. He tossed away the end of his cheroot and ground out the sparks with the sole of his boot. “The boss wants you to join him for dinner tonight.” The message relayed, he’d said everything he had to say. He turned on his heels and strode off toward the cookhouse.
    Declan followed, frowning. It would be no use trying to get more information out of Hank. He would just have to wait and see.  Damn it. He felt his body tighten as the sensations he’d almost managed to banish from his memory stirred again.
    Foolish, foolish Victoria. Didn’t she understand how dangerous it was to tempt a man? Her lips had been soft and yielding, her body warm and supple. His control had come to within an inch of snapping. A few more seconds, and he might have tumbled her down to the hard cement floor and peeled off those tight canvas overalls she’d taken to wearing.
    Declan gritted his teeth. He had to forget that kind of thoughts. He had to make sure it would never happen again. He owed it to Victoria. And it would be unwise to give Andrew Sinclair an excuse to come out and empty both barrels of a scattergun at him. The man would like to do just that, given half a reason, he’d left no doubt of it.
    In fact, Declan told himself, best if he ignored the summons to join them for dinner.
    And that’s what he did. Tense with foreboding, he