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his brain to straw. When did he ever bother to notice a woman’s eyes? And what kind of man compares a lovely woman’s hair to a mane. She gured in his life in only one way—the sale of a horse. What did he care if some rich spoiled beauty fought with her ancé? If she had a problem with the captain, she could always run to her powerful father. She didn’t need him to protect her. But something in the man’s countenance toward her rankled Tobin. He wanted to protect her.
    Tobin needed to forget about Miss Liberty Mayeld and he planned to, even if he could stil feel the softness of her skin against the tips of his ngers.
    He swore and covered his face with his hat. Sleep was hard to nd, even on a good night; tonight bordered on impossible.
    It would take the Grand Canyon to hold al he didn’t know about women. Especial y this one. This beautiful one was sophisticated. Something he was not and never would be. He knew his family owned one of the nest ranches in Texas, but they’d never played the society game. To her, he was no more than a cowhand who’d brought a horse that she had no intention of riding. Whispering Mountain was a working ranch.
    From what he’d seen when he rode onto the Mayeld spread, al the senator’s land was for show. Even the stable boy had said the Mayeld family was rarely in residence.
    Like counting sheep, Tobin listed just how different Liberty was from him. He didn’t even know how to dance, and she owned at least one bal gown just for that purpose.
    Her father was probably one of the richest men in the state, with plans, some say, to go al the way to the White House. Tobin worked a family ranch and never planned even to see Washington, D.C. She was al re and ght. He’d seen it in her eyes when she’d looked at the man she cal ed Captain. Tobin avoided arguments even with his little sister.
    They were no match, he knew that, but then why had he touched her and held her against him like he had some kind of right. Why had the feel of her branded itself into his esh, his thought, as if the nearness of her were a promise unfull ed.
    If she hadn’t pul ed away, he probably would have kissed her.
    Tobin swore again and mumbled. “She’s afraid of horses. What kind of woman fears horses?” Then, just for good measure, he answered his own question, “Not any woman I’d ever want.”
    “Mr. McMurray?” an Irish avored voice came from the other side of his stal . “Mr.
    McMurray, ye in here?”
    Tobin stood, brushing hay off as he walked to the stal gate. “I’m here,” he answered, wondering what anyone would want with him this time of night.
    A wiry man in his fties stood in the center of the barn. His dark red hair had turned white at the temples, but his smile was genuine. “Pleased to meet ye, Mr. McMurray.
    Dermot is me name. I hope ye found al ye needed to make ye and that gorgeous horse, I seen in the rst stal , comfortable. The senator told me to be on the lookout for ye, but I got busy with al the carriages coming and going.”
    Tobin offered his hand, deciding he liked the Irishman.
    Dermot didn’t seem to notice Tobin hadn’t said a word. He continued, “Worked for the senator, I have, since I stepped off the boat in New York. Finer man never lived. Me and the missus come with him every year when he sails down to Texas. The senator may be al spit and polish in the city, but his roots plant themselves in the West.”
    Tobin nodded agreement even though he’d never met the senator.
    Dermot lifted a lantern. “I met your brother Teagen when he came a few weeks ago, and your other brother, Travis, once when he was a Texas Ranger.” The Irishman came closer. “Ye don’t look like him, but I see the kin in your build. Ranger Travis McMurray saved the senator’s and me hide back in ’forty-eight, and we’l never forget it. Far as me own judgment, his kin is family. Have ye had supper?”
    Tobin shook his head answering the