He stared at her, his eyes hard and searching. “Who the hell are you?”
“What kind of fool question is that?”
“If you have any sense at all, you won’t push me, O’Malley, not tonight,” he warned quietly.
Her chin came up and she looked him in the eye. “My name is Alex O’Malley.”
Before Alex could react,
She clenched her hand and swung. “Bastard,”
“Let go of me,” she groundout, rubbing her aching knuckles.
“Who are you?” His voice was ragged.
Alex spat out, “Alexandria O’Malley.”
He abruptly removed his hand.
Alex grabbed the torn poncho and wrapped it around her.
“How old are you, Alexandria O’Malley?”
“Why the masquerade and why my trail drive,” he asked in a grim voice.
“If I had realized those four-hoofed horrors were your particular longhorns Mr. Wade,” she snarled, “you can be damn sure I would have kept riding.”
“And the masquerade?” he demanded.
Alexandra glared mutely at him then turned away.
As the silence between them grew, the foreman watched his wrangler. He bit back a grin as the light from the moon revealed the determined jut of her jaw.
“Okay, forget it for now. But make no mistake, O’Malley, someday you will tell me and of your own free will.” He dropped the subject. “We’d better turn in. It’s been a long day. Lay down and I’ll share my blanket with you. You’re chilled to the bone.”
“Not in this lifetime or the next,” Alex said grimly, trying to ignore his bare chest.
Wade’s eyes traveled over her. “You’re perfectly safe with me, O’Malley. To me you are just one of the boys.” And I’m hell bound for lying.
Silverhills can be purchased at Cerridwenpress.com