The Quiet Seduction by Dixie Browning Page A

could hear Ellen raising hell with one of the hands. If it was the one he’d already met, the jerk probably deserved it.
    â€œI don’t care who did it, it wasn’t done properly, so you’ll just have to do it over.”
    â€œIt was done good enough. If it didn’t hold, it’s ’cause yer posts is too rotted to hold a fencing nail. That ain’t my fault. You didn’t say nothin’ ’bout replacin’ no posts.”
    Storm felt his hands curling into fists. Should he step in and back her up? He was almost up to fighting trim. He outweighed the bastard by a good fifty pounds. On the other hand, Ellen could probably take him if he didn’t interfere. Any woman who could manage to haul a full-grown man up out of that ditch and get him to her house with only the aid of a wheelbarrow and a skinny kid could easily handle a whining runt like—
    â€œWhere’s Clyde?” she demanded.
    Okay, so this must be the other one. Buster? Booker. And she was steaming, all right. Without raising her voice, she managed to get her point across.
    â€œGone to the feed store. Reck’n he’ll stop by the diner after that.”
    â€œThe bar, you mean. He can drink on his own time. I want that fence back up by dark today. If it’s not—“
    Storm figured if there was ever a time to interfere, this was it. He might not know his own name, but even he could recognize the hollowness behind her threat. She could fire the pair of them and then do all the work herself. That insolent jackass knew it, too. He was sprawled across a bale of hay, smirking openly.
    About to stride through the barn door—at least he could stride now without hobbling—he was ready to jerk a knot in Booker’s scrawny neck when he heard the sound of a car turning into the lane.
    He could also hear Ellen, still loaded for bear, moving to the door to see who was headed up the driveway. Catching sight of Storm in the doorway, she shook her head in a signal he had no trouble reading. Butt out. I can handle this.
    Ellen Wagner might be a lot of things, he thought, somewhat amused, mostly concerned. Superwoman, she wasn’t. The insolent bastard with the greasy pony-tail hadn’t made the first move to round up any fencing tools. Just as she turned to go meet whoever was headed up her lane, he’d spat a stream of tobacco juice that landed not six inches from where she’d been standing.
    The slimeball grinned openly. When Ellen marched past Storm, he heard her mutter something like, “Damn it, what now?”
    Striding into the barn, he reached down, grabbed a fistful of dirty shirt and lifted the jerk up onto his toes.
    Booker’s grin wavered and disappeared. “Hey, put me down! You can’t do that!”
    â€œListen closely, you creep, I’ll say this once. Thenext time you feel the urge to spit, you swallow instead, you got that?” Storm leaned in close, then backed off as the stench of bad teeth and an unwashed body struck him. Still holding on to a fistful of filthy, faded flannel, he said, “Did that register? Good. Now pay careful attention. You will mend that fence. Those staples will hold, do I make myself clear?”
    â€œMan, it ain’t my fault her posts is rotten,” Booker whined.
    Storm released him suddenly and dusted off his hands. Looking aggrieved, the hired man staggered, sputtering his outrage. Storm shut him up with a single look, a talent he hadn’t known he possessed.
    Had Ellen known her fence needed replacing and not just repairing? If so, she should have had supplies on hand. The fact that she hadn’t was one more indication that the lady was hanging on by a shoestring.
    The trouble was, there wasn’t much he could do to help her, short of recovering his memory, learning that he could afford it and ordering a truckload of fencing material and sufficient labor to utilize it. Two dozen roses and a bottle of good