* * *
Clint meant to say more. Speechless. That never happened to him. Not ever. For some reason all he could do was watch Jessie descend the stairs with her soft skirts woven about her legs and her shiny hair bouncing at her shoulders and chest. How could a woman, able to keep up with day-to-day demands of ranch life, look so incredibly feminine? When she had come down those stairs, and shyly scooted past him, he was astounded at her appeal and his own reaction to it. Her sweet scent still filled his nostrils. He twisted to watch her until she disappeared into the kitchen with his heart hammering up his throat. When was the last time that had happened?
He blinked at the far wall, his mind a wheel spinning in mud. He'd come here for . . . something. The lilac fragrance trapped his mind in neutral. He could float here forever—
The raucous sizzle of pan grease sounded from the kitchen and with it the sharp reminder that he was famished. There was cooking to be done. And . . .
The gears in his head finally engaged, caught traction, and propelled him back to reality.
Veronica.
His gaze swung toward the living room and caught on the person in the overstuffed chair near the fireplace. His galloping heart slowed to a crawl. Veronica glared at him, her face dead white. She steepled her fingers, calmly, with such exquisite control, in fact, that he could be sure of only one thing. She was livid.
Clint stuffed his hands in his front pockets, his own fury rising like Yellowstone's Old Faithful. Veronica had witnessed the private moment between him and Jessie, and that alone made him want to wrap his fingers around her wrist and drag her to the Packard to take her home.
The princess rose to her feet, a dazzling smile changing her face. Obviously, she'd decided on charm rather than the anger Clint knew resided just under that smile. She strolled up to him and leaned in, blinking twice before she spoke. "Well, now, don't you look grand, cowboy, all cleaned up and smelling so good?"
He peered down into her upturned face and gave her a half-hearted smile. "You seem happier. That's good. Shall we go see if we can help with supper?"
Her countenance fell. When she frowned, she could look downright vile. He'd never noticed that before.
"Do we have to? Why can't you and I just spend some time together?"
He leaned down near her ear so no one else could hear. "We'll be helping in the kitchen, Ronnie. Like I told you earlier."
"Why?" Her voice sounded in a squeal, carrying to the other room. "So you can spend more time with that homely little girl in there?" She flung a hand toward the kitchen.
Heat rushed through Clint's face and seemed to settle like red-hot branding irons on his ear lobes. He reached out, gripped Veronica by the elbow, and shoved her toward the front door. She stumbled once, but he hardly noticed. Flinging the door open, he practically lifted her over the threshold, slamming the door behind him. Once outside, he pushed her around the corner of the house and freed her to face him.
"If you can't watch what you say, I'll take you home right now."
A hard light shone in her eye. She wrapped slender arms around his waist and wriggled her body into him. "Good idea. I can take care of you right away, then."
He hadn't planned on that. He closed his eyes to the feel of her body, momentarily losing all thought. He fought the response she'd known this action would cause. He silently cursed his own weakness. Finally, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her back at arm's length. "You know the big feed's tonight. You staying or not?"
He studied her, watching whole hosts of emotions dance across her face; anger, disbelief . . . finally acceptance. She'd played all of her cards and lost. He awaited her decision.
She straightened, pulling her arms free of him. "Fine, let's go in."
He held her gaze a moment longer. "You're going to watch what you say around Jessie. Are we clear?"
A fire engine red flush shot into her cheeks. "Why do you care so much about her, anyways? Is she taking care of you too, huh big fellow?" As soon as the words were out, her eyes widened and her mouth gaped. She scrambled forward, trying to take hold of him again.
But that one had lit his fuse. He cupped a palm to her cheek and chin to hold her away from him. "You don't know the first thing about her. She's not like that. She's still pure and she'll stay that way until the proper time!"
The words stunned Clint. His own words. He jerked his hand away from Veronica and went still. Why on God's green earth had he said that? Why was he so protective of Jessie? When had he ever felt even remotely possessive of a woman? That sentiment had always seemed foreign to him, until this very moment.
"Listen, Clint." Veronica sighed. "Let's not—"
But the blood had begun to rush so fast past his ears, he didn't hear the rest. He watched Veronica's lips move—no, flap—without purpose. Like a wall of glass separated him and her. He pushed a hand through that wall and set his fingers on her waist. Her mouth snapped shut. He guided her numbly back through the front door.
Mabel bustled through the kitchen doorway and lit up at the sight of them. "Oh, there you are. Jessica said you wanted to help."
Veronica glided away from his hand. Her cold glance lashed back at him, but he hardly felt it. No, his gaze had already settled on Jessie in the far corner, with her crisp white apron, fetching party dress, and such an expression of concentration as she peeled calf testicles that he wanted to laugh for the sheer joy of the contradiction she was.
The joy transformed into something harder. "Ronnie, come on over here. We'll get you an apron and you can help Jessie separate the testes."
He watched for her reaction and got what he expected. Immediate disgust clouded her face. "You want me to take them out of their wrappers like she's doing?" Her face paled under the film of makeup and ranch dust. "You've got to be kidding!"
A clear description of Veronica came to mind right then—phony. He knew something had been amiss with her, but until now he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He never could abide a woman who faked emotions. Never knew how they really felt about him. Like some big screen actress, making a name for herself. It didn't work with him, and was the main reason he never stayed with them for long. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep from saying something unkind. When he could trust himself, he said, "I wouldn't kid you. It's got to be done. We'll be frying 'em up for the big feed. What did you think it was?"
She glanced into the bucket and went white as a Montana snowstorm. Clint had a bad feeling about this. She started to gag in earnest, so hard he could see her stomach convulse. This, at least, she wasn't faking. Clint ushered her out the back door at a run. Over the back porch railing she let fly. Though he sympathized with her predicament, he knew it was time to cut her loose from his life. Permanently, this time. It wouldn't be easy. He'd have to do it before the guilt slid in and took an irreversible hold. But he'd finally had enough.