Man of Her Dreams by Tami Hoag

not a bull elk in rut. If he acted on his rampaging lust, he’d only be proving he was indeed too crude for an admiral’s daughter.
    When they emerged from the woods, Maggie was surprised to find they had looped around the farm and were now at the entrance gate. Horses in the fenced pastures raised their heads from grazing to look at them. A scruffy little brown-spotted dog sat by the gate post as if he had been waiting for them. Ry took one look at the animal and started scowling.
    â€œWell, hell,” he muttered.
    â€œOne of yours?” Maggie asked, pulling Killer to a halt beside Ry’s horse.
    â€œHe is now.”
    Ry dismounted. Handing Maggie his reins, he approached the little mutt with his eye on the dog’s wounded left front paw. The dog dropped its ears and whined pathetically as Ry squatted down in front of it. The animal was in terrible health, thin and dull-eyed. Ry shook his head. “You aren’t nothing more than a scrap of hair and some bones, are you?”
    â€œDo you think somebody left him off?” Maggie asked as she watched him carefully examine the dog’s paw. She knew it wasn’t at all unusual for people to leave unwanted pets at the end of the Quaid Farm driveway. One of the few things that was well known about Ry was that he never turned away an animal in need of his help. His farm buildings were populated with dogs and cats he had nursed back to health. He made an effort to find homes for the animals, but many ended up staying on. Katie had told her once his feed bill was horrendous.
    â€œHard to say. He’s not wearing a collar, but he doesn’t seem wild.” Anger bumped his blood pressure up a notch. “Gosh almighty, people who don’t take care of an animal any better than this ought to be strung up.”
    Maggie’s heart ached with love at the gentle way Ry handled the frightened dog. He picked it up and carried it in the crook of one strong arm, talking to it in a soothing tone of voice. She was dead-on right about Rylan Quaid; there was a man full of tenderness under that cactus hide of his. If she was half as successful in bringing it out as this little dog was, she would consider her plan a major triumph.
    She could see it now, playing out on the stage of her imagination: the look in his eyes as he realized she was the one person who could see the tenderness and sensitivity inside him. Their gazes would meet, silent understanding binding them together, soul to soul. Then he’d whisper her name and say—
    â€œY’all don’t have a dog out at Poplar Grove, do you?” Ry shifted the terrier on his arm as they rode up the long tree-lined drive toward the stables.
    â€œHmm? What?” Maggie dragged her attention away from her dreams and pulled her gaze off the patchwork of pastures squared off by dark plank fences to focus on Ry.
    â€œI said, I’m glad you volunteered to adopt this dog and take it home to Poplar Grove.”
    Maggie shook her head. “Oh, no, no, no. No dogs at Poplar Grove. Don’t try to foist that little fleabag off on me, Rylan. I have Miss Emma and Mrs. Claiborne to consider.”
    â€œI bet they’d love a dog. Junior here is the perfect size for them.”
    â€œRylan,” she said sternly. Plan or no plan, she was going to have to put her foot down. “You cannot turn a dog loose in a house full of museum-quality antiques. Imagine the damage he could do.”
    Ry looked from the dog to Maggie. “I ask you, Mary Margaret, is this the face of a dog who would wreak havoc?”
    Floppy ears perked up above woeful brown eyes as the dog gazed at Maggie. He had the potential to be adorable. It was impossible to say anything mean to his face.
    â€œMust have taken acting lessons from Benji,” she muttered.
    â€œA
friend
would take this animal off my hands,” Ry said with a meaningful lift of his dark eyebrows.
    So he was going to play dirty, was he?