Whitefeather's Woman by Deborah Hale Page B

maybe?”
    John’s brows tightened into a scowl. “Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on the Price boy, Floyd?”
    â€œI’ve been watching him real close, boss.” The words were respectful enough. To John’s ears at least, the tone was anything but. “He’s having hisself a little siesta right now, so I thought I’d stretch my legs.”
    The cowboy turned his attention back to Jane. “Pardon my manners, ma’am. I reckon we haven’t been properly introduced. Name’s Floyd Cobbs. I’ve been working the Kincaid spread for over three years now.”
    â€œPleased to meet you, Mr. Cobbs.” She didn’t sound pleased. In fact, John could have sworn she took a couple of small steps back, until the corral fence prevented her from retreating any farther. “M-my name’s Jane Harris. I’m just here for a short while to give Mrs. Kincaid a hand with the children and the house.”
    She reminded John for all the world of a rabbit doe cornered by a weasel—skin paler than usual, movements twitchy.
    A blaze of rage kindled deep in his belly, but John did his best to ignore it. The lady wasn’t in any real danger. And besides, he couldn’t look after every stray who crossed his path.
    â€œWell, that’s real fine.” The cowboy eyed Jane slowly from the crest of her saucily veiled hat to the tips of her high button boots peeping out from beneath the skirt ofher riding habit. “Maybe you’ll take a fancy to Whitehorn and decide to stay. If there’s one thing wrong with the state of Montana, it’s that we need more women.”
    John fought the urge to scramble down from his horse and pummel the insolent cowboy. What right did he have, though? Miss Jane Harris was nothing to him.
    â€œPerhaps.” She didn’t sound very certain. Was her little Western adventure beginning to pale already?
    â€œWhat do you say, ma’am? Want me to help you into the saddle?” Floyd spoke the words in an innocent tone, but John thought he detected a mocking double meaning.
    â€œT-thank you for the offer.” She eyed Floyd Cobbs as if he was a giant-size bedbug. “But I don’t believe I’ll ride today, after all.”
    â€œGood enough, ma’am.” Floyd grinned and took another step toward her. “Then you and me can keep each other company here while Mr. Whitefeather trots young Kincaid around.”
    Absorbed in watching Jane and the cowboy, and trying to sort out his unduly strong reaction, John didn’t notice Barton dig his fists into the mare’s mane and yank. The horse tossed her head and whinnied. If she’d been a couple of years younger, she might have reared.
    â€œOn second thought,” gasped Jane, “perhaps I’d better stay as close as possible to Barton, in case he gets himself in trouble.” She ducked past Floyd Cobbs and fled into the corral.
    Jane stuck one foot in the gelding’s stirrup—the wrong foot—then grabbed hold of the saddle horn and tried to hoist herself up. She fell back into Floyd’s waiting arms.
    â€œCareful there, little lady, you could hurt yourself.”
    The way Floyd spoke the words little lady, as though they were some kind of endearment, set rage buzzing in John’s head like a swarm of bees.
    â€œSet Miss Harris on her feet, Cobbs,” he rumbled, with all the menace of a death threat. “Then hustle yourself back to the bunkhouse to watch Price.”
    â€œIf she’d have let me help her mount in the first place, she wouldn’t have fell.” The cowboy hoisted Jane upright, his hands lingering on her far too long and far too intimately to suit John.
    â€œPleasure to meet you, ma’am.” With an exaggerated bow and a parting scowl at John, Floyd Cobbs meandered back to the bunkhouse.
    Jane stood pale and tremulous as an aspen leaf.
    â€œAre you hurt?” John edged his