Heart of Winter by Diana Palmer

makeshift corral just away from the barn and the stables, and Winthrop was on his horse, helping to drive cattle into a holding pen where they were apparently being vetted and vaccinated and examined and treated for diseases or infestation by grubs.
    That weak leg didn’t seem to bother the big man one bit on horseback. He could cut and rope with the best of them, and the wilder the horse, the better he seemed to enjoy himself. He laughed deeply and with obvious pleasure the whole time. She imagined that when he was in the saddle he could forget how ungraceful he was on the ground.
    Not that a limp made him any less a man. He bristled with masculine sensuality. She could see quite easily how he’d gained a reputation in his youth as a playboy. He was devastating physically, and he had a voice that even in memory could make her flush with pleasure. Her heart hadn’t been the same since that unexpected embrace on the porch. She could close her eyes and hear his voice all over again, as it had been that evening, and she could almost imagine it in a dark room, coaxing, deliberately seductive….
    Warmth coursed through her and she forced herself to watch the men and the cattle. Winthrop had climbed off the horse to help catch a calf, apparently one that needed doctoring. He looped his rope and undid it, lazily coiling it while one of the other cowboys threw the calf and began to do something to it. Winthrop was rubbing his leg, and the limp was even more pronounced when he turned, leading his horse by the reins.
    He saw Nicole at the fence, and he stood very still for an instant. She could feel his anger even at the distance, and made a discreet and quick withdrawal. He was headed in her direction, so she changed it and walked quickly into the forest that encircled the house.
    Why she should have been embarrassed, she didn’t know. But she knew he was angry, even before he caught up with her minutes later.
    She stopped, catching her breath. He was right behind her, still leading the horse. As he walked, he favored that right leg.
    â€œRunning away?” he taunted. “Why?”
    She stared at him. It was silly to be so ill at ease with him, but his expression wasn’t at all welcoming. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved yellow sweater. He had on a shirt the same shade of yellow and brown as his jeans, and she thought illogically how well they matched.
    He lifted his dark head. “Don’t you? What are you doing—spying? Did you want to see if the cripple could still throw a calf?”
    She went forward without thinking and put her soft hand over his mouth. “Don’t,” she said softly. “Don’t do that to yourself. You’re not a cripple. You’re a man with a limp.”
    The feel of her fingers shocked him. The gesture was unexpected and it threw him off balance. He caught her smooth hand, holding it near his cheek as if he couldn’t quite decide what to do with it.
    He stood over her, breathing roughly, his eyes dark with pain and anger as they searched hers. His fingers contracted absently around hers, bruising a little, but she didn’t protest.
    â€œI don’t want you here,” he said quietly, his eyes narrow, piercing.
    â€œYes, I know.” She moved her fingers experimentally, and he let them go. She touched his cheek, tracing the long scar down his jaw, into the dimple in his chin. It was incredible how secure she felt with him, and not the least bit afraid. She sensed something in him, something vulnerable and tender, and she wanted to reach it. She needed to reach it, although she didn’t understand why. “You don’t talk about it, do you? Not ever.”
    His broad chest rose and fell. He was very close. Too close. She could feel the muscles ripple when he moved, feel him breathing, feel the warmth of him in the chill air.
    His fingers slid into her hair, hesitantly,