out, thinking about visiting the saloon before he left town, the old man had loaded the bicycle on the wagon and climbed onto the wagon bench, ready to start for home. Instead of sitting on the bench beside him, River sat in the bed of the wagon with her back turned to the bench. She immediately called to him and he had the distinct feeling she’d been waiting for him to emerge from the store.
“Mr. Grayson, since you know how to work on a bicycle, perhaps you’d have Sunday dinner with us tomorrow. After, our meal, I’d appreciate it if you’d inspect my Rover and determine if it can be repaired.”
Amos Butler’s shoulders were stiff and Edge didn’t need to see his face to know the invitation didn’t come from him. But considering the beans he’d be eating tomorrow if he stayed at home—home being a cookstove in front of a barn—he ignored the old man’s dislike.
“That would be the spread on the other side of the willow tree?” He drawled his question, enjoying the way a blush crawled up her neck. Nevertheless, it didn’t prevent her from having the last word in their secret exchange.
“Come through the back gate. You know the way. When you’re invited, it’s not trespass.”
“I’d be pleased to stop by, Miss Prescott. About what time?”
“Meal’s served at two. Don’t be late,” the old man growled, giving a gentle twitch of the lines, urging the horse into slow motion—real slow motion.
Edge stood, sack of nails in hand, watching Miss Prescott’s journey out of town. With the wagon moving at the pace it was traveling, he figured even climbing off Sandy and walking backward, he still might beat River to her house for Sunday dinner.
* * * * *
All dressed up in Sunday finery though she was, Miss Prescott knelt in the dirt by her porch when Edge rode into her ranch yard the next afternoon. Before he’d reined Sandy to a stop, Amos Butler came out of the barn and pointed at the hitching post downwind from the house and in the shade of a tree.
Edge dismounted, loosened the saddle, slipped on a halter, and left Sandy munching oats from a feedbag.
“Mind if I take a look?” Edge crossed the tidy yard to where she inspected her machine.
He could already see she didn’t have the strength to straighten the crumpled metal. She tilted the frame his way, signaling her consent and he hefted it, making sure it was as heavy as it looked.
“Want me to have a go at it?”
“Yes.”
Edge set the two-wheeler on the ground and retrieved a hammer and a cloth from his saddle bags. She cringed when he found a block of wood, slipping it between the bent frame and the wheel.
He thought she might cry when he struck the first blow, but by the time he’d pounded out the dent and straightened the metal so it didn’t scrape the back tire any longer, she was smiling.
He sat back on his heels, gazing up at her. He figured it would be neighborly to tighten, grease, and oil her contraption while he was at it.
“Do you have wrenches for it?”
She handed him a leather tool kit, looking sheepish. “I don’t know exactly how to use these.”
He squatted next to the bicycle and began his lecture. “A machine is made up of a bunch of moving parts.”
She leaned over his shoulder, staring where he pointed. Yep, she wore the scent of lilac flowers. Now he knew for certain it had been her perfume he’d smelled the first day. He wasn’t sure she should be leaning that close since her aroma acted like fingers, massaging his groin.
Instead of backing off, Miss Prescott squatted next to him, her narrow skirt molding to her hips and her thigh molding to his leg. Jesus. No, no, no… Edge tensed as his cock twitched. His hand slipped off the pedal, the force of the thrust sending the back wheel spinning.
“Guess I got it freed up.” Overwhelmed by lilac scent and green eyes, Edge swallowed back lust as the wheel stopped spinning. He stood up. That was a mistake. She remained on the ground next to her
“Mr. Grayson, since you know how to work on a bicycle, perhaps you’d have Sunday dinner with us tomorrow. After, our meal, I’d appreciate it if you’d inspect my Rover and determine if it can be repaired.”
Amos Butler’s shoulders were stiff and Edge didn’t need to see his face to know the invitation didn’t come from him. But considering the beans he’d be eating tomorrow if he stayed at home—home being a cookstove in front of a barn—he ignored the old man’s dislike.
“That would be the spread on the other side of the willow tree?” He drawled his question, enjoying the way a blush crawled up her neck. Nevertheless, it didn’t prevent her from having the last word in their secret exchange.
“Come through the back gate. You know the way. When you’re invited, it’s not trespass.”
“I’d be pleased to stop by, Miss Prescott. About what time?”
“Meal’s served at two. Don’t be late,” the old man growled, giving a gentle twitch of the lines, urging the horse into slow motion—real slow motion.
Edge stood, sack of nails in hand, watching Miss Prescott’s journey out of town. With the wagon moving at the pace it was traveling, he figured even climbing off Sandy and walking backward, he still might beat River to her house for Sunday dinner.
* * * * *
All dressed up in Sunday finery though she was, Miss Prescott knelt in the dirt by her porch when Edge rode into her ranch yard the next afternoon. Before he’d reined Sandy to a stop, Amos Butler came out of the barn and pointed at the hitching post downwind from the house and in the shade of a tree.
Edge dismounted, loosened the saddle, slipped on a halter, and left Sandy munching oats from a feedbag.
“Mind if I take a look?” Edge crossed the tidy yard to where she inspected her machine.
He could already see she didn’t have the strength to straighten the crumpled metal. She tilted the frame his way, signaling her consent and he hefted it, making sure it was as heavy as it looked.
“Want me to have a go at it?”
“Yes.”
Edge set the two-wheeler on the ground and retrieved a hammer and a cloth from his saddle bags. She cringed when he found a block of wood, slipping it between the bent frame and the wheel.
He thought she might cry when he struck the first blow, but by the time he’d pounded out the dent and straightened the metal so it didn’t scrape the back tire any longer, she was smiling.
He sat back on his heels, gazing up at her. He figured it would be neighborly to tighten, grease, and oil her contraption while he was at it.
“Do you have wrenches for it?”
She handed him a leather tool kit, looking sheepish. “I don’t know exactly how to use these.”
He squatted next to the bicycle and began his lecture. “A machine is made up of a bunch of moving parts.”
She leaned over his shoulder, staring where he pointed. Yep, she wore the scent of lilac flowers. Now he knew for certain it had been her perfume he’d smelled the first day. He wasn’t sure she should be leaning that close since her aroma acted like fingers, massaging his groin.
Instead of backing off, Miss Prescott squatted next to him, her narrow skirt molding to her hips and her thigh molding to his leg. Jesus. No, no, no… Edge tensed as his cock twitched. His hand slipped off the pedal, the force of the thrust sending the back wheel spinning.
“Guess I got it freed up.” Overwhelmed by lilac scent and green eyes, Edge swallowed back lust as the wheel stopped spinning. He stood up. That was a mistake. She remained on the ground next to her
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