Cassie McIntyre stood in the back of her Ford F-150, tossing bales of hay to the hard-packed earth. A cold front was moving down from Canada, and she needed to make sure the horses were locked in the barn and fed. They couldn't graze with three feet of snow on the ground.
Her
new ranch hand had materialized the day before, looking for a job. He'd shown
up with only a duffel bag and a hopeful smile. "I'll work hard," he
said, not bothering to introduce himself. "If I don't, you don't have to
pay me."
"What's
your name?" Cassie had asked. "I usually like to know who I'm dealing
with."
The
young man—he couldn't have been more than thirty-two—extended his right hand.
"Tom. The name's Tom Slope."
Cassie
took his hand, noticing its softness. Tom Slope had never done hard work in his
life. No calluses. No toughness deep in the palm of his hand.
"Where
ya from, Tom Slope?" Cassie inquired. "I'm miles from the nearest
town. What brings you out this far?" Cassie gazed in the distance, looking
at the line of blue mountains cutting the horizon. "And why do you want to
work on a ranch?"
"I'm
a schoolteacher," Slope replied. "Or was. Thought I'd do a little
traveling before I got too old."
Against
her better judgment, Cassie had hired the enigmatic Mr. Slope. Today, she had
no regrets. Wearing gloves, Slope grabbed the baling wire and lifted the hay
with ease despite his slender frame.
"Want
some coffee?" Cassie asked when the barn doors had been closed and locked.
The north wind was already starting to howl eerily, lifting her long blond hair
and throwing it across her face. Pearl-gray clouds were growing darker with
each passing moment.
"Sounds
good. If it isn't any trouble, that is." Slope turned up the fur collar of
his denim jacket and slipped his hands inside the pockets of his faded Levi
jeans.
"No
trouble. Follow me."
Inside,
Cassie took off her leather gloves, put a fresh pot on the stove, and sat at
the kitchen table opposite her guest.
"So,
Mr. Slope. What did you teach?"
"Poetry."
Cassie
raised her eyebrows. "Ever write any poems yourself?"
"I
have a few books under my belt," Slope said, grinning. He hadn't bothered
to brush away the light brown hair that had tumbled over his brow while
carrying the bales.
Cassie
nodded slowly. "And you're traveling around the country in order to get
material for another book?"
"Something
like that. Thought I'd put together a collection of love poems."
Cassie
blushed. The snow was already falling hard. In another few hours, it would be
difficult to open the front door. She wondered how long she should extend hospitality
to the cowboy poet sitting a few feet away.
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