Beautiful Dreamer with Bonus Material by Elizabeth Lowell

flames. With them, plus some cool water from the faucet, she could have a lovely bath.
    Hope picked some pot holders off a nail and reached for the wire handles that stood above the buckets. An instant later the pot holders vanished from her fingers and reappeared in Rio’s big hands. With the easy strength that she envied, he lifted the full buckets off the flames and turned toward her.
    “After you, ma’am,” he drawled.
    “Thank you,” she whispered too softly for Mason to hear.
    Rio nodded slightly, understanding and admiring her desire to protect the old man’s pride.
    While Rio followed her up the stairs, he admired something else. The womanly swing of her hips and the long, graceful line of her legs held his eye. The thought of sharing her bath teased his mind until he forced himself to think of something else.
    Anything else.
    Wanting a woman like Hope was at the top of his list of dumb things he could do. He was supposed to be smarter than to go looking for trouble.
    He waited while she bent over and put the plug in the big, old-fashioned bathtub’s drain. The feminine lines of her back and hips were even more alluring than her walk had been. Beneath the frosted glass globes of the bathroom lights, her hair had a rich satin shimmer that cried out to be stroked by a man’s fingers.
    She turned and looked over her shoulder at him with gold-flecked eyes and a generous mouth made for giving and receiving kisses.
    “Ready?” she asked, wondering why Rio was watching her so intently.
    Heat slammed out from the center of his body, hardening him in a rush of sensation that made his pulse beat heavily. He was more than ready. He was aching. His lips flattened into a line of disgust at his unexpected, unruly sexuality. He was acting like a kid with his first party girl—and God knew that he was no kid and Hope was no party girl.
    Without a word he emptied buckets of scalding water into the tub, turned, and left the steamy room and the woman who watched him with too many dreams in her eyes.
    Drugged by heat and physical exhaustion, Hope dozed in the bath long after she was clean. Her dreams were a tantalizing mixture of water in all its forms—hot, cold, calm, racing, deep, shallow. And through all of it wove a midnight-blue river, deep and sweet, gentle and dangerous, longer than forever and more powerful than any drought. It called to her in Rio’s voice, whispered to her the secrets of his midnight-blue eyes, caressed her flesh, and sank into her thirsty soul.
    The sound of Behemoth rattling through the front yard startled her awake. The bathwater was still warm. She looked out the steamy window and saw the lights of the truck cutting through the night to the pasture where her Angus grazed in the darkness. The cattle bawled uneasily, then accepted the wheeled intruder. With only the moon’s thin, cold smile for company, Rio began filling the stock trough.
    Eager to talk with him even though she had nothing new to say, Hope washed and dried her hair. As she pulled on a clean shirt, the truck grumbled to life again. Hurriedly she yanked on her jeans and stuffed her bare feet into her boots.
    Too late. Rio was already heading off into the night. She didn’t have to ask or wonder where he was going. People and cattle alike needed more water in order to survive.
    When she got downstairs, Mason had already gone to one of the ranch’s two bunkhouses. He and his wife had converted the smaller bunkhouse into a home. But Hope didn’t think Rio would be spending the night under Mason’s roof. It wasn’t that Mason was unfriendly. It was simply that the place was a cozy kind of mess.
    Since Hazel’s death, Mason’s housekeeping had been of the lick-and-promise sort. He ignored Hope’s offers of help. A lot of the bunkhouse hadn’t been touched since the day Hazel had unexpectedly died. Mason had made it clear that he wanted it that way.
    Hope hadn’t argued. It was little enough comfort for the man who was the