The Loner by Joan Johnston Page B

mortification.
    “Everything looks fine to me,” he said in a whiskey-rough voice. “But I think you knew that before you asked.”
    His eyes were narrowed in contempt, and his mouth had formed a sneer. At least, that’s what Summer thought it was. She’d never actually seen anyone sneer before, especially not at her. Without another word, he turned and began forking manure again.
    “Just a minute,” she said, dropping the reins and taking the two steps to bring her toe-to-toe with him. She thought about reaching out to grab him, but figured that would be like sticking her arm into a lion’s cage. It was likely to get torn off.
    “I’m speaking to you,” she said.
    He ignored her.
    “Do you know who I am?”
    “A little girl playing grown-up,” he muttered under his breath.
    She was appalled and humiliated. And fascinated.
    Didn’t he care about his job? Wasn’t he worried about losing it? All it would take was one word to her father, and he’d be gone. He must know it. Yet he seemed fearless.
    “What’s your name?” she demanded.
    “Why do you care?”
    She frowned. “I’d like to call you something besides—”
    “It’s not like we’re gonna be friends, Mizz Blackthorne,” he interrupted. He turned his back on her, leaned the pitchfork against a stall, and moved the wheelbarrow farther down the center aisle. Then he retrieved the pitchfork and went into another empty stall.
    “I can be friends with whomever I like,” she said, crossing to stand in the stall doorway, blocking his exit.
    He glanced at her and lifted a dark brow. “Your father might have something to say about that, little girl.”
    “My father doesn’t run my life.”
    He snorted. “Right.”
    “And I’m not a little girl. I’m sixteen.”
    He leaned on the pitchfork with his crossed hands and grinned, revealing a mouthful of straight white teeth. “You don’t say. That old?”
    Her breath caught in her throat as she realized how good-looking he was, his shaggy black hair falling over his brow, his dark eyes filled with humor, his smile revealing twin dimples in his cheeks. “How old are you?” she asked.
    “Old enough to know better,” he said, bending to scoop up another load of manure and crossing toward her. “Move it, kid. I’ve got work to do. I can’t stand here all day jawing with you.”
    “You’re a hired hand. If I want to talk to you, you’ll stop and talk,” she said, angry at being brushed off.
    He dropped the load of manure so close to her boots that she had to resist the urge to jump backward, then threw the pitchfork into the hay and braced his hands on either side of the stall door. He loomed large above her, and she was aware of the dark hair in his armpits and the rivulets of sweat streaming down his throat into his torn T-shirt. He smelled like a hardworking man, musky and… different from any other man she’d ever met.
    His dark eyes looked dangerous and a muscle flexed in his cheek. “Nobody orders me around, little girl. I’ll quit before I let a spoiled brat like you—”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “—order me—”
    “I’m sorry,” she repeated. She felt breathless, her chest tight, her heart pounding. “You’re right. I’m used to getting my own way. And I’m not used to being ignored.” Watching his dark eyes, she saw the danger pass, replaced by suspicion.
    He looked down at the hand she’d extended to ward him off, as though he were a feral beast. She selfconsciously pulled it back and stuck it in the back pocket of her jeans. But that made her breasts jut, and aware of his eyes lowering to look their fill, she yanked her hand out of her back pocket and crossed her arms over her chest.
    “What is it you want from me, kid?”
    “Nothing.” She hesitated, then said, “Just someone to talk with.”
    He shook his head, took a step back, and dropped his arms to his sides. “I’m not your man.”
    “Why not?” she said. “You’re the first person I’ve met on this