Hard Drivin Man by Cerise DeLand Page B

innuendo that could lead this conversation nowhere she should follow. She strolled over to the ochre leather couch and took a seat. “Years in the war have made you very frank.”
    “Life is precious—and short. You need to say what you want, grab what you want, fast.” He came to stand in front of her, and the angle gave her a full frontal view of the impressive bulge in his jeans.
    She raised her face to admire his earnestness and avoid looking at his striking bodily assets. “We both know that’s true, don’t we?”
    Mulling that for a second, he must’ve decided not to go down that path. Instead, he sighed and rubbed his palms together. “Want a drink? Coffee? I know you love the stuff.
    Made a pot for you.”
    “Really?” She considered his features, the way his lips pursed as he examined her own.
    Shifting in her seat, she felt how her panties were getting soaked at the thought he might find her attractive. Without make-up or perfume, that was a poor bet. She faked a smile. “Sure.
    Coffee.”
    He walked towards the kitchen, his steps quick and hard on the Saltillo tile.
    “Is Lupe not here this morning?” she called to him. His housekeeper lived on the ranch and her presence was almost a cornerstone of the Rocking H for the past forty years. Without HARD DRIVIN’
    her around, Jess felt suddenly vulnerable. Being alone with Trey was a concept she had only dreamt of but never imagined could come true.
    “She had to go into Midland,” Trey called from the kitchen. “I told her to take the day off.”
    “Ah, good.” But it wasn’t. Her tension blossomed like some ugly flower that reached out and stung her resolve. She crossed her legs and drummed her fingers on the cool leather couch. The sounds of him pouring coffee made her twitch. Before she could lasso her thoughts, he was back, standing in front of her again and holding out a cup and a napkin.
    “I know how you like napkins,” he said matter-of–factly.
    But he also knew—or remembered—how she liked cream. “Thank you.” She took it from him and sipped. The brew was hot and strong. Something to devote herself to for a few seconds as she worked up her nerve.
    He had settled himself in the big matching leather chair opposite her. With his long legs stretched out, his sable brown snakeskin boots peeking out from under his form-fitting jeans, and his starched white shirt and fist-sized silver belt buckle, he was the picture of a successful Texas rancher. A successful rich Texas rancher home from the wars. Decorated for bravery. Eligible. Wanted by every girl this side of the Pecos—and maybe the other side as well. And Jess had a favour to ask of him.
    “What’s on your mind, Jess?” he asked in a baritone that soothed every cell in her body and softened her to flimsy tissue paper.
    “I need your help.”
    He lifted his shoulders, a languid action that spoke of his charm and their years of being family. “Anything I can do for you, I’m ready.”
    His words caressed her sore heart like no man had in decades. His tone, soft as sand, filed down any remaining fears so that she could meet his gaze.
    “I’ve culled my cattle. All my calves.”
    “Aunt Marie told me you put them up for auction. Tom Wagner told me, too, because he’s worried about your ranch surviving.” Trey put his coffee cup down on the table beside him. “This drought is awful. Not this bad since the fifties. You did the right thing.”
    “But I’ve still got my bulls. I can’t sell them. You know I can’t.”
    “I do.” He nodded slowly. “You’ve done a helluva job, babe. You have built up that strain of cattle until you’ve got the corner on artificial insemination.”
    “If I have to sell my bulls, I lose everything. That’s why I’ve come to you.”
    His features took on a serious mien. “And?”
    “I want you to let me drive my herd over here and water on your land. At your creeks.”
    His eyes went from wide with shock to narrow with thought. He