The Cowboy and the Angel by T. J. Kline

intensity of her gaze.
    She lifted her chin in defiance, as if daring him to challenge her. “Is it really that hard for you to believe that I just want to do my job?”
    “When you look at me that way, it is.” Derek laughed quietly at the blush that crept over her cheeks.
    “Don’t flatter yourself.” He arched a brow in disbelief as she played with her necklace a moment longer before tucking her fingers into her pockets. “What are you so worried about anyway? You keep saying that you take good care of your animals. If that’s true, then that’s what I’ll report.”
    There it was, the ice-cold reporter he’d seen when he’d turned her away at the rodeo. He wondered which woman was the real Angela: the emotionless ice queen he saw now or the blushing temptress he’d pinned against the wall earlier. Derek tossed the pitchfork into the wheelbarrow and moved it toward her, forcing her to exit the doorway and stand in the aisle of the barn.
    “I seriously doubt you’re concerned at all with the truth.” He shut the door to the stall and stood in front of her with his arms crossed. “You’re looking for something, but it’s not the truth. And I’m not going to let you use my family for ratings.”
    She cocked a hip to the side and looked thoughtful. “You know, you protest an awful lot for someone with nothing to hide.”
    “Who me? I’m an open book.” He shrugged. “Ask me anything you want.” He pushed the wheelbarrow to the back of the barn and reached for his t-shirt, which lay across a nearby bale of straw. He slapped it against his thigh to knock off the bits of straw, slid his arms through the holes, and slipped the material over his head. “You wanted an interview? Now’s your chance.”
    “Open book, huh? Okay, I’ll call your bluff.” A flash of curiosity lit her green eyes and she gave him a slight smile.
    His mouth felt like he’d swallowed cotton balls, and he clenched his fists to keep from burying his fingers into her hair and taking her mouth hostage. Derek shrugged, pretending that her nearness wasn’t tying his stomach in knots, and sat on a bale of alfalfa stacked in the aisle of the barn. “Give it your best shot.”
    She arched a brow and stepped in front of him, immediately falling into her reporter persona. “Tell me about yourself.”
    “That’s not a question,” he pointed out with a lopsided grin. “What do you want to know? I’m the youngest of three. You met Jen and her husband, Clay. She’s the oldest, then Scott.”
    “He and Sydney are newlyweds, right?”
    Derek nodded. “They were married about seven months ago.” He wasn’t sure where her questions were leading, but so far they seemed harmless.
    “What about Mike’s wife?” She tipped her head to the side and crossed her arms in front of her.
    Derek narrowed his eyes and wondered at her defensive gesture. He was the one under the barrage of questions, yet she felt the need to put up barriers? “She died when I was just a baby. I never knew her. Silvie has never married, but she’s worked for Mike as long as I’ve been here. Anyone we’ve forgotten?”
    She reached for the necklace again; her other arm stayed wound around her waist and twirled the ring between her fingers. “What about you?”
    “What about me?” He shrugged again but leaned back against the wall and crossed his ankles in front of him. “You applying for the open position?”
    He was teasing, but she glared at him. “Again, you flatter yourself. I mean, what about your parents? Mike mentioned that he started the company about twenty-five years ago with a partner. I’m assuming he meant your parents?”
    Derek nodded. “My dad. He and Mike were traveling partners and rodeoed together. They passed this property several times before they earned enough prize money to pool it together to get this place and go into business. They went from being rough stock riders to stock contractors.”
    “Silvie said they were killed in a