Song of the West by Nora Roberts

attempt at sternness. “Out of my kitchen. Lunch will be along, and I’ll bring you in some tea to warm you up. Not you,” she said with a scowl as Jake grimaced. “For the little lady. You don’t need any warming up.”
    â€œAnnie runs things,” Jake explained as he led Samantha down a wide hall into the living room.
    â€œI can see she does, even when she’s securely wrapped around your little finger.”
    For a moment, his smile was so boyish and full of mischief, she nearly gave in to the urge to brush the curls from his forehead.
    The paneling in the living room was light. The expanse of wood was broken by a large stone fireplace and wide windows framed with cinnamon-colored sheers. The dark gleaming furniture had been upholstered in gold, burnt sienna and rich browns. There was a comfortable hodgepodge of Hepplewhites and Chippendales with piecrust tilt-top tables and Pembrokes, ladder-back chairs and candlestands. In the center of the hardwood floor lay a wide rug of Indian design, so obviously old and handworked, that Samantha wondered if it had been his great-grandmother’s fingers that had hooked it perhaps nearly a century ago. The room reflected a quiet, understated wealth, a wealth she somehow did not associate with the rangy, brash cowboy side of Jake.
    A Charles Russell painting caught her eye. She turned to study it, attempting to sort out her new impressions of this complex man. Turning back, she found him watching her reaction with unconcealed amusement.
    â€œI have a feeling you were expecting bearskins and oilcloth.”
    Samantha focused her attention on the inviting fire. “I never know what to expect from you,” she muttered.
    â€œNo?” He dropped his lanky form into a wingbacked chair and pulled out a long, thin cigar. “I thought you were pretty bright.”
    Samantha seated herself in the chair across from him, keeping the warmth and hiss of the fire between them. “This is a lovely room, very appealing and very warm.”
    â€œI’m glad you like it.” If he noticed her blatant change of subject, he gave no sign. Lighting his cigar, he stretched out his legs and looked totally relaxed and content.
    â€œI have a weakness for antiques,” she continued, deciding the topic was safe and impersonal.
    He smiled, the smoke curling lazily above his head. “There’s a piece in one of the bedrooms you might like to see. A blanket chest in walnut that was brought over from the East in the 1860s.”
    â€œI’d like that very much.” She returned his smile and settled back as Annie wheeled a small tea cart into the room.
    â€œI brought you coffee,” she said to Jake, and passed him a cup. “I know you won’t take tea unless you douse it with bourbon. Something not quite decent about doing that to a good cup of tea.”
    â€œTea is an old ladies’ drink,” he stated, ignoring her rapidly clucking tongue.
    â€œHow do you think Sabrina looks?” Samantha asked him when Annie had bustled back to the kitchen.
    â€œI think you worry too much about her.”
    She bristled instinctively before replying. “Perhaps you’re right,” she surprised herself by admitting. “Our mother always said Bree and I were mirror images, meaning, I discovered after a while, opposites.”
    â€œRight down to Sabrina being right-handed, and you being left.”
    â€œWhy, yes.” She looked at him in faint surprise. “You don’t miss much, do you?” He merely shook his head and gave her an enigmatic smile. “Well,” she plunged on, not sure she liked his expression, a bit like a cat who already had the mouse between his paws. “I suppose the summary of my discrepancies was that I could never keep the hem in my white organdy party dress. You’d have to know my mother to understand that. She would have Bree and me all decked out in these frilly white organdy