Page 6 of September’s Cowboy Travis

Heat crept up my neck, which was ridiculous. I'd spent years sitting across from people who'd lied about hidden accounts and missing money. One rancher with an overdeveloped sense of confidence wasn't going to throw me off.

“I need your original Kincaid lease, the bills of sale for the cattle you sold Roy Pritchard, and anything else tied to those transactions. I also need to see the leased acreage.”

The teasing dropped out of his voice. “Why?”

“The current records don't use Parcel 17-B. I want to know what that land is now.”

He paused. “All right.”

“I can be there in an hour.”

“I'll be here.”

“Try to contain your excitement.”

“Can't make any promises.”

I hung up before he could say anything else, then checked my reflection in the dark computer screen before I gathered my files. Shouldn’t matter what I looked like. I had to see Travis for work, that was all.

The Cole ranch was about a twenty-five-minute drive outside Mustang Mountain. More than enough time to collect my thoughts before I saw him again.

I passed the Mercantile and the old water tower, then followed the highway until the mountains took up more of the sky. Late-August grass stretched gold along the ditches, and cattle dotted pastures behind fences patched in three different shades of wood.

Finally, I turned to go underneath a metal arch with the Cole brand in the center and followed the gravel drive toward a house, several barns, and the outdoor corrals.

Nothing about the ranch felt staged, and I liked it better that way. A stock trailer had a dent along the side, a tractor sat next to a stack of round bales, and a couple of horses stood with their heads over the rail like they had nothing better to do. It looked like a place where people actually worked.

Travis wasn't waiting for me. I found him at the corrals, moving cattle with another man I didn't recognize.

I watched the two of them through the windshield for a moment. A black steer balked at the gate, and the ranch hand took a quick step toward it. The steer turned sideways, kicking up dust.

“Give him room,” Travis called out. He didn't sound irritated. He just backed off and waited until the steer settled on its own.

So the cowboy wasn't all talk.

I already knew Travis was attractive. I had eyes, and our initial meeting at the office yesterday had made that difficult to miss. But watching him work added a new layer. He wasn't loud or showy. He didn't muscle the cattle around or bark orders just because he could.

He paid attention. Competence was always attractive. Competence in worn jeans and a T-shirt damp between the shoulder blades was sparking heat deep in my belly.

Travis latched the gate and finally looked my way. His gaze landed on me immediately. Then he smiled.

Dammit, I’d been caught looking. I got out before he could enjoy that too much.

He said something to the other man and crossed the yard, dust on his boots and one forearm streaked with dirt.

“Have you been here very long?” he asked.

“Long enough to consider billing you for lost productivity.”

“Looked more like you were busy watching me.”

Before I started blushing like a schoolgirl with a crush, I held up my folder. “Records.”

He laughed and turned toward the barn. “This way.”

A bay horse stretched its nose over the fence as we passed, and I stopped to say hi. Travis caught my elbow before it could get to the papers under my arm.

“That's Bandit. He eats anything he can, including financial documents.”