Only in My Arms by Jo Goodman

when she couldn't get a rise out of him. She smoothed the edges of her thick white hair where it had come loose from its combs. Her pale blue eyes sparkled a bit mischievously as she said nonchalantly, "I thought you might be encouraged to take one turn on the floor with the hussy."
    Ryder's lean fingers paused on the axle. "I don't think I heard you correctly."
    Florence rapped the cane on the wagon bed several times. The harsh tattoo made the wood vibrate. "You know you heard very well. There's nothing wrong with your ears. I'm the one who's older than dirt here."
    Ryder stood again and rested one elbow against the side of the wagon. He looked at her consideringly. She was a diminutive woman with pale skin and even whiter hair. Her mouth was too full and wide to ever be severe, but she made an effort to clamp it down hard when she wanted to appear disapproving. In confidence she had once told Ryder that she had seen too much in her lifetime to take anything too seriously. As a result, even at her most critical, most intolerant moments, Ryder saw through the grimly set mouth to the youthful laughter in her heart and in her eyes. Sometimes, when no one else was looking, she even dared a wink in his direction. It was their shared secret.
    "Well?" she demanded with some asperity. "Why aren't you—" Florence broke off as the double doors to the hall opened and closed again. Over Ryder's shoulder she saw the subject of her question come into view. "Don't look now, Ryder, but—"
    He nodded. "I know. I can smell her."
    Florence knew Ryder was referring to Anna Leigh's expensive Paris fragrance, but the fact that he gave it no more due than smelling cattle droppings tickled her fancy. She laughed so hard tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.
    Ryder reached in his back pocket and extended his bandana. The older woman took it gratefully and dabbed at her eyes. She stuffed it back in his hand just as Anna Leigh came upon them.
    "Help me down, Ryder," Florence said. "I'll go back to the ball. Even in this desert, three's a crowd." She smiled serenely at Anna Leigh as she was gently set down. Her parting smile for Ryder was a shade more coquettish. "Behave yourself."
    Not certain for whom the admonishment was meant, both Ryder and Anna Leigh watched her go. When Anna Leigh turned to Ryder he was already engaged in his inspection of the wagon. "Doesn't the Army have people who do that sort of thing?" she asked.
    "Yes," he said shortly. "Me."
    Anna Leigh laughed lightly. It was a trilling sound, sweetly melodious. She couldn't know that it served to remind Ryder McKay of a heartier, healthier laugh. "I thought I would see you this evening," she said.
    He didn't look at her, giving his full attention to his work. "You are."
    She was more intrigued by his rudeness than offended by it. She followed him as he walked around the wagon. "My father thought you'd attend the ball. It's in his honor, you know."
    "I know."
    "You were invited, weren't you?"
    "I was."
    "Then why—"
    "Personal." As far as Ryder was concerned the subject was closed. He had no need to explain his reasons to Anna Leigh Hamilton or her father for that matter.
    Anna Leigh's bow mouth was pulled in an attractive pout. It was a practiced expression, one that she had mastered in front of her vanity mirror. One hundred strokes to her silky, butter yellow hair gave her ample time to rehearse the nuances of expression that ran the entire emotional gamut from melancholia to madness. She had a slender face with high cheekbones, a wide brow, and clear blue eyes that could be both winsome and worldly. Her complexion was creamy. The few freckles on the bridge of her slim nose were due to nightly applications of lemon juice and morning applications of rice powder. Among her other attributes she numbered an hourglass figure, slender well-turned ankles, dainty feet, and delicate bones.
    The attention that Anna Leigh Hamilton accepted as her right was due in no small measure to the