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broaching the subject with Dora, but he couldn’t understand where the earnings he’d sent home had gone. Surely, it had been enough to pay the crew’s wages. There was always the possibility that Grady had siphoned it off for one of his business ventures.
    The barn door creaked, and they both turned to look. Lacey Jarrell looked brighter to Slade than the sun that haloed her. His breath caught in his throat, as it always did, when he saw her. She was so damn beautiful, it nearly hurt to look at her.
    She’d been making herself scarce. Moping, he assumed. She’d only left her room to help Dora prepare meals. Judging by her attempts at cooking, he figured the kitchen was as alien a territory to her as Colorado.
    "Grady’s got himself a fine, fancy piece there," Dix commented.
    Slade instantly felt his blood boil. His fingers curled into a fist. He doubted he could have controlled his temper if it had been someone other than Dix saying those words.
    Dix lifted his hands in a placating gesture. "Whoa, Slade! I hadn’t realized."
    "Realized what?" Slade heard the resentment in his own voice.
    "That for once in your life, you wish you were in Grady’s shoes."
    Slade, choosing to ignore Dix’s comment, said, "Have the men round up what’s left. I want them all branded in the next few days."
    "You got it, Dalton." Dix gave Lacey an enthusiastic greeting as he approached her. He threw a knowing smile over his shoulder at Slade, as he strode out of the barn.
    Slade threw the oilcloth in a can, swung the saddle on to his hip, and stepped out of the tack room. He planned a long ride around the perimeter of the south pasture to make sure everything was secure. He wasn't going to give the Banyons anymore opportunities. Truth was, there wasn't much left to steal except some four-legged buzzard bait.
    Lacey had stopped at Ransom's stall. Even on tiptoes, her fingers barely grazed the beast's forelock. Slade still hadn’t forgiven himself for making her cry on the day she’d arrived. Amazingly, her tears had actually penetrated the cold wall he'd erected around himself.
    Thinking himself a prime fool, he stood in the middle of the barn, the saddle resting on his hip, staring at her. When she finally noticed him, it was all he could do to tip his hat in greeting. He couldn't remember the last time a woman made him nervous.
    "Mr. Dalton," Lacey addressed him in a voice so indifferent, it made his insides knot up. She seemed to despise him, and if she didn't, then Grady would make sure she did.
    Settling on the soles of her feet, one hand still resting on the stall door, she turned to face him. "I want him."
    "You want him?" he repeated lamely.
    "Yes. I want to ride him."
    Slade looked from her to Ransom, a horse that had been gelded late in life and retained a stallion's high-strung temperament. "Well, as you know, Miss Jarrell...." He gave her a considering look. "... or perhaps you don't," he amended. "We can't always have what we want."
    "I am not as spoiled as you imagine."
    He balanced his saddle atop the adjacent stall's door. "If you say so," he said with little conviction.
    She gave him a syrupy smile, and from the pocket of what she apparently deemed a proper riding outfit, she pulled a pair of kidskin gloves. As she occupied herself with tugging them onto her slender fingers, he allowed his eyes to travel over the fitted black jacket and down the length of her velvet skirt. He swallowed hard before pulling his eyes from her sweet form.
    "Ridden a lot, have you?"
    "Well, no ... Not exactly."
    "Not exactly?" He threw her a questioning glance.
    She paused a moment and gave a sharp jerk on the sleeve of her jacket. "If you must know, I've never actually been on a horse before, but every holiday my maid, Emmie, took me for a ride on a pony in the park."
    Slade threw his head back with a laugh. "Ponies in the park ... every holiday, and now, of course, you're prepared to hop on Ransom, here. Seventeen hands high and so excitable