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Oh!” Did he think because she was a fat spinster , she wouldn’t say no?
    Mark frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “I get it. The cripple ain’t good enough.”
    Is that what he thought? As if that would make a difference if she loved— Don’t go there, girl. “Your injury has nothing to do with—”
    â€œSave it, lady. I know how women are.”
    Audrey fumed, wishing she could scream. Why bother arguing with him? “Think what you want. Do what you want. But leave me alone. And I’ll leave you alone, okay?” She spun on her heel, snatched up her cleaning supplies and left the room.
    Mark cursed, and pitched his empty bottle on the floor. Now his room was quiet. But he could hear the vacuum whirring out in the den.
    Yeah. Alone. That’s what he wanted. Wasn’t it? No one judging him? Or expecting more? Then why did his chest ache when she left? Why had he wanted to reach out and apologize and promise her anything if she’d stay? What the hell was wrong with him?
    He straightened his spine. Nothing another beer wouldn’t cure.
    Â 
    Audrey spent the rest of the day grumbling under her breath as she cleaned. She couldn’t stop thinking about how much Mark Malone had changed. Some hero. Maybe the Double M stood for “Mad Malone.” She pictured the headline, with her name underneath.
    Madman Malone Massacres Meddling Magazine Journalist. She giggled, delving deep for more alliterative headlines.
    Lone Cowboy Loser at Life.
    Or how about: Callous Cowboy Casts Off Comfort— Comfort? Since when did she want to comfort him?
    Audrey sighed. Since she’d seen the pain in his eyes.
    Ugh! There was a full spittoon under the card table. How disgusting. What the heck was she supposed to do with that? And the carpet? She didn’t want to think about it. She made a mental note to rent a carpet cleaner in Quitman, the closest town to the Double M.
    Cleaning this mess was her job, but did they have to spit and smoke and drink in here? Couldn’t they go out to the bunkhouse? She was tempted to discuss it with John. They wanted to sell the place, didn’t they?
    But maybe she’d better let it go for now. In just three days, she’d kicked her employer in his bad leg, threatened him with a knife and lectured him about his drinking.
    She heaved a frustrated sigh. Besides, she’d be gone in less than a couple of weeks. She could stand anything for that long. Even rude, ex-rodeo stars.
    As she snatched empty beer bottles off the floor, she glanced across the foyer to the formal living room, bare except for a wet bar with a half-full wine rack and a pile of trophies and gold belt buckles scattered across the floor. His championship buckles.
    Now that her temper was spent, the memory of Mark’s kiss caused a pang of desire. He’d actually kissed her! And called her beautiful. The beer must have blurred his vision. There was no mistaking his aroused state though. He’d admitted that knowing someone had nothing to do with wanting someone. And it must not.
    Because she’d wanted him, too.
    He was her employer. But the thought of suing for sexual harassment never entered her head. Then again, he hadn’t fired her for pouring his beer down the sink, either.
    She cringed thinking about that. And how she’d talked to him. Maybe she’d taken her new “assertive” attitude too far. If he fired her now, she’d never know the whole story. But she just couldn’t stay in this house and watch him drink himself to death.
    He’d obviously let the injury ruin his life. She should have mentioned professional help. She knew it was none of her business, but someone had to care enough to—Care?
    What are you doing, girl, planning his rehabilitation? Where’s your precious objectivity? You’re a journalist, not a social worker. Get over it!
    Unfortunately, that was easier said than done, and