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successful rancher here in Montana, there are a dozen barely hanging on. There are ranches, many of them in the same family for generations, being auctioned off every month. Do you know what that does to a man whose only dream was to carry on the work of his father and grandfather? I’ve seen proud men reduced to tears because they’ve lost everything. So, if opening their land to hunters, or turning their places into dude ranches so city folk can experience life on a working ranch, helps pay the bills, I say more power to them.”
    Vanessa bit her lip. “You’re very persuasive. You’d probably make a very good trial lawyer.”
    “Just hoping to give you another point of view.”
    “You have. And I intend to take it under advisement.” She shoved away from the table. “Since you cooked, I insist on cleaning up.”
    As she filled the sink with hot water and began washing the dishes, Matt surprised her by walking up beside her and picking up a towel.
    “I said I’d wash them.”
    “I appreciate that. And I’ll dry.” He reached over her head and returned a bowl to the cupboard.
    Vanessa went very still, feeling a tingle along her spine.
    When he returned a second bowl, the back of his hand brushed her hair and she experienced little pinpricks all along her skin.
    It had to be fatigue. And the fact that she was jumpy because of the storm. Still, it had her holding herself stiffly until he’d put away all the dishes.
    “How about a fresh pot of coffee?”
    She merely nodded.
    A short time later she carried two cups of coffee to the footstool positioned between the two rockers in front of the fire.
    Matt followed with a plate of brownies.
    As the storm blew itself out, they sat by the fire, nibbling Yancy’s homemade brownies, sipping coffee, and taking opposing sides in the discussion about wild animals.
    At least, Vanessa thought with a sigh of relief, they were no longer arguing. Rather, they both seemed to be enjoying the give-and-take, and the satisfaction each time one of them made a valid point in their favor.
    As the fire burned low, Vanessa stifled a yawn.
    Matt pointed to the bunk bed in the corner. “Let’s face it. Burke isn’t getting here tonight. If he could get through, he’d have been here hours ago. You can bunk there.”
    “Where will you sleep?”
    He pointed to the pullout sofa bed.
    She needed no coaxing. She barely had the energy to slip out of her shoes and suit jacket before draping the plaid afghan around herself and dropping onto the bunk.
    She’d expected the bunk to be hard, and it was. But she was too tired to care. She was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.
      
    Matt added another log to the fire and filled his cup with coffee before adding a splash of his grandfather’s fine Irish whiskey. Easing off his boots, he settled himself into the rocker and nudged the footstool to a more comfortable position.
    The rain gentled to a steady patter on the roof.
    He leaned his head back, enjoying the sounds of the night and the hiss and snap of the logs on the grate.
    He’d expected to resent this intrusion on his privacy. Always before, he’d treated this alone time in the hills as his sacred right, especially after a long overseas trip. And this cabin was much more to him than a simple range shack. It was his very private domain. His haven. And had been, since the loss of his parents. But he had to admit that he’d enjoyed the spirited debate between himself and this woman. Vanessa Kettering. Nessa.
    His lips curved into a smile. Nessa. The nickname suited her.
    She was bright. Sharp. Quick with a response to every question he’d thrown at her.
    And gorgeous.
    He turned to glance at the woman asleep across the room. She’d drawn the plaid afghan up to her chin. Even with her eyes closed, he could see them. A rich maple-sugar brown that could sharpen with anger or go wide with fear. And when she smiled, they crinkled at the corners. That smile did something to