Page 9 of September’s Cowboy Travis

“Why not?”

He glanced over at me. “Because I’m asking if you’ll watch me.”

I fought back a smile. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“Me.” His mouth tipped at one corner.

He turned down a barely visible trail before I had to answer that. We stopped next to a pasture. Cattle grazed near a stock tank. A narrow creek ran along one edge beneath the cottonwoods.

“This is it.”

“This is Parcel 17-B?” I asked.

“According to your map.” He killed the engine. “To me, it's just the north pasture.”

We climbed out and walked along the fence line. He was right about my boots getting dirty. Thanks to the rain the night before, the pasture was more mud than grass. I was looking at the map instead of where I was stepping, and my boot slid out from under me.

Travis caught my hand. The quick pull brought me close enough that my other palm landed against his chest. For a second, neither of us moved.

His hand stayed wrapped around mine, rough and warm. My fingers rested against the cotton of his T-shirt, and I could feel his body heat underneath it.

“You okay?” His voice dropped a few notches.

“Yeah.” I should have stepped back. Instead, I looked up.

The teasing had disappeared from his face, and whatever was left in its place didn't fit on a spreadsheet. His thumb moved once against the side of my hand.

That was enough to bring my common sense rushing back. I stepped away. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

I folded the map and turned toward the fence before he could see how much one stupid touch had affected me. This was work. Swooning over Travis Cole wasn’t part of the job description.

The old parcel designation meant nothing to him, but whoever sent that money had known exactly what to call it. That mattered.

I forced my attention back to the questions I could actually answer.

By the time we returned to the office, I had mostly pulled myself together. I packed the lease and my notes into my bag, keeping my focus on the paperwork instead of the man standing a few feet away.

“I've got what I need for now.”

“Anything bad?” Travis asked.

“Not yet.”

“Yet?”

I slipped the strap over my shoulder. “Your Pritchard sales are clean, your lease matches the county copy, and nothing I saw today suggests you knew about that deposit before it hit your account.”

“I'm still following the money,” I said. “But that's where the evidence stands.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

I started toward the door.

“Careful, Harper.”

I turned. “With what?”