Knight in a White Stetson by Claire King

she got herself into that one?
    That’s right, she remembered. It was Lester.
    She looked at the clock on her bedside table. Two-thirty. She stripped down and stretched out on her bed, exhausted. She worked hard during haying, sometimes rising in the middle of the night to catch the hay with dew still on it. Henry had made it easier and faster this year, but she still felt the strain. She dozed lightly, letting her mind drift. And as it had for weeks, it stubbornly, inevitably, drifted toward her hired man.
    Henry had gone up to camp with Lester. She always took the riders to camp, to show them around and talk about the fence lines and the schedule for moving the herd from field to field. But she let Lester do it this time, to his grumbled dismay.
    If nothing happened, she wouldn’t see Henry again until the weekend, and maybe not even then. She’d send Helen to town to buy supplies—groceries, milk, calf vaccine—and she’d leave them in the bunkhouse for Henry to retrieve. Standard operating procedure. And since Henry was looking after her herd, she’d have time to get some things done around the place. Things she’d put off too long. It was very likely she wouldn’t see him for weeks. If nothing happened.
    She’d miss being at camp. She spent a lot of time there in the summer, even when she had a full-time fence rider. It was a second home. There was nothing like riding the hills all day and sleeping in the deep, warm canvas tents that Calla set up every June. It was the part of her job she loved best.
    No, Henry would likely pick up his supplies and grab a shower, go to town for a beer or two and a restaurant meal, and head back to camp. If nothing happened.
    But something always happened. A cow got caught in the cattle guard or mice got in and ate all the bread or a horse came up lame and needed a vet.
    Calla found herself perversely hoping for any of those things. She grudgingly levered herself off her bed, went into her bathroom and turned on the taps to her old tub.
    An hour later, dressed in her go-to-the-bank-have-dinner-with-Clark clothes, and somewhat refreshed despite the high-desert heat, she headed to her battered pickup and hoisted herself in. Her father was nowhere to be found, nor, strangely, was Lester or Aunt Helen. Lester should have returned from the camp by now.
    If nothing happened.
    No. Nothing had happened, and she was vexed by the stab of panic she’d felt. She was hardly in a position to worry about Henry, as anything more than an employee anyway. One kiss did not a husband make.
    It was more than a kiss.
    His words came back to her, and she was surprised to see the image come back to her, too. If she could just get rid of the mental picture of him kneeling at her feet, his mouth greedy and damp and, really, sinfully skilled…
    She felt her body heat rise and a sudden, tight moisture between her legs. Marvelous. Just what I need. Going to see the banker and all I can think about is … that. Fat lot of good that bath did me, she thought as she turned the key and gratefully heard the old truck roar to life.
    She’d have to take Dupree on her own today, she thought. No matter. Her father was just window dressing in these situations anyway. His masculine presence made Dupree feel a little better about dealing with a mere girl of twenty-four. The idiot.
    Thirty minutes later she pulled to the curb of Paradise Savings and Loan, ignoring the co-op next door and her overdue account there. After Dupree, she rationalized. After I figure out what’s going on.
    “Well, Calla, honey. You here to see Dick?” Ruby Watchell’s wide smile practically lit up the tiny space behind her teller’s counter as Calla walked through the door of the bank. Before Calla could answer, Ruby shouted over her shoulder to the open glass door two steps behind her. “Dick, Calla Bishop’s here. She’s got a dress on and she looks awful pretty. You best get on out here.”
    Dick Dupree, nondescript as only a