Quinn by R.C. Ryan

Quinn before pulling herself into the saddle.
    With snow slapping their faces and the weary cow bawling and fighting every step of the way, they headed into the raw wind once more. If the journey to the hill had been bitterly cold, the return trek facing into the wind was almost unbearable. They were forced to bend low and tuck their heads almost to their chests to escape the stinging bite of icy crystals.
    At last they were back in the safety of the barn. Therethey settled the cow and her newborn into a stall with plenty of hay and water before unsaddling their mounts and tending to their needs, rubbing them down and filling their troughs.
    Quinn stowed the pitchfork and turned toward his gear, lying near the door where he’d dropped it.
    Seeing what he intended, the woman walked over and extended her hand. “I never introduced myself. Cheyenne O’Brien. If you hadn’t goaded me into going back out there, I’d have lost this calf. I never thought I’d be saying this after the way you behaved before, but… thanks for your help.”
    He arched a brow in surprise before giving her a quick, charming grin. “You’re welcome. It’s the least I could do after heaping all that blame on you.”
    She struggled to ignore his unexpected smile and glanced at the blizzard still raging outside the door. “You’re welcome to spend the night before moving on.”
    Quinn didn’t need any coaxing. The thought of a warm, dry bed after such a long time on the trail was irresistible. “Thanks. I’ll take you up on that.”
    She led the way across the snow-covered yard that separated the barn from the house. They stepped into a utility room with a row of hooks along the wall holding a variety of coats, scarves, and work gloves.
    Cheyenne eased off her boots and parka and hung her wide-brimmed hat on a hook before giving her head a shake, revealing a mass of thick, dark, tangled curls that glistened with snowflakes. Without the heavy parka, her body was surprisingly slender.
    Quinn followed her lead, hanging his sodden outerwear and hat beside hers.
    They stepped into a kitchen that was filled with the most mouthwatering fragrances. Bread baking. Stew simmering in a heavy skillet on the stove. Cinnamon coffee cake, fresh from the oven, cooling by the window.
    It was enough to make a grown man weep.
    He glanced at the woman, lifting lids and sniffing the air. “Don’t tell me you threw all this together before heading into that storm.”
    She laughed. A clear, joyous sound that had him relaxing even more.
    “I can’t take credit for anything that goes on in the kitchen. I leave that to Micah.”
    “Your husband?”
    She laughed again. “Micah’s better than any husband. He’s my cook, housekeeper, and all-around caretaker of everything on this ranch.”
    She looked up as a door opened and an old man hobbled in. His hair was the color and texture of cotton—thick, white, and curled around the ruddy face of a gnarled cherub. Despite the pronounced limp and the three-pronged cane held tightly in his right hand, there was a childlike twinkle in his dark eyes. Eyes that were fixed on Quinn with curiosity.
    “Hey, cowboy. What’re you doing so far off the beaten track? The storm blow you off-course?”
    Quinn stuck out a hand. “Quinn Conway. Cheyenne invited me to stay the night.”
    “Micah Horn. I hope you brought your appetite.” The old man began ladling stew into big bowls.
    When they were filled, Cheyenne carried them to the table and indicated the opposite side. “Sit. Enjoy.”
    “I’d be a fool to refuse.” Quinn watched as she removeda square of linen from a basket to reveal a loaf of freshly baked bread still warm to the touch. After slicing several thick slabs and taking one for herself she passed the basket to Quinn.
    He slathered butter on the bread and took a big bite, then closed his eyes. “I didn’t think anybody could outdo Phoebe when it comes to baking bread, but this just might top it.”
    “Your