2

CLUTCHING THE SHORT STRAPS of the old-fashioned red pocketbook, Jackson stared at Purity through the screen door of her shack. He was doing his level best to hold down the hem of the red-and-orange floral-print jumper, which was blowing wildly in the autumn wind.

“Get out of here!” Purity shrieked.

Her fingernails, long silver-painted talons, were tightly wrapped around a portable phone receiver. As she paced across the leaf-strewn floor, the jingle of her myriad necklaces was punctuated by the metal taps of knee-high, pink patent-leather combat boots. Pink boxer shorts peeked from beneath her denim cutoffs, and she wore a fluffy, pink wool sweater open over a black leather corset. So many pink earrings studded her ear rims that Jackson couldn’t count them all; her lipstick was some shade that resembled black more than plum; and even though the room was illuminated only by a bald overhead bulb, her eyes remained hidden by black, wraparound sunglasses. Jackson had no idea what he thought about her outfit—except that it was very pink and color coordinated.

“Oh, no!” she shrieked. “Get out!”

Jackson still couldn’t move.

Her voice was made to project in a stadium, not a tumbledown three-room shack; it vibrated right through him. He hazarded a quick glance through the screen at the room’s flimsy walls, half expecting them to shudder and crumble. Beneath her ample breasts, he decided, the woman must have lungs the size of Texas. But how could a voice that loud be so soft? The decibel level aside, it was like honey and molasses, and it reminded him of rich, warm things such as the velvety winter coats on wild horses.

“Get out of here already!”

No doubt it was his outfit. Shoot, he wouldn’t hire someone who looked like an aging female version of the Incredible Hulk. Apparently, Purity wasn’t even going to let him in for the interview. Relief swept through him. As much as he wanted to win the bet with Logan, Jackson had certainly been dreading this. Still clutching both the pocketbook and the jumper hem, he turned to go.

“Not you!” With a quick, stabbing motion of a metallic fingernail, Purity gestured toward a couch covered with a clean bedsheet.

Jackson wavered.

Shoving the phone between her jaw and ear, Purity threw up her hands and glared at Jackson through the screen. “Get out of here,” she snapped. “It’s just an expression. It doesn’t mean for you to leave. It means…” She heaved a loud sigh as if he was the most impossible domestic worker on the planet. “Oh, I don’t know what it means! Just come in and sit down!”

Jackson was so stunned, he still couldn’t move. Darla had compared him to the fairy-tale Beast. But Purity was no doe-eyed Beauty; she was more like the hellcat in The Taming of the Shrew. No woman had ever raised her voice to him this way. In his wildest nightmares, he couldn’t imagine sleeping with this she-devil. But thinking of Logan’s land, he forced himself to head inside the cabin. As he seated himself on the couch, a cloud of dust puffed around him, and he loosed a very male-sounding sneeze.

Not that Purity noticed, or much less said, “God bless you.” She was already screaming into the phone again, stalking between the living room’s two windows. Yanking back a tattered, yellowed curtain, she scowled toward the media. “I’m not signing that contract,” she snarled into the phone. “Why? Because I’m about to turn thirty years old, that’s why! And when I’m fifty, I hardly envision myself singing with Abel Rage and a heavy metal band called the Trash Cans!”

For long moments, Purity merely paced, her head bobbing up and down, her pink combat boots clomping. Then she yelled, “What’s wrong with suburbia? I bet I would have been happy in suburbia. Just give me two-point-five kids—” She paused in midsentence, looking stunned. “Oh, the statistic’s down to one-point-four?” Her voice had dropped to a reasonable level, but now it spiked again. “Well, throw in a dog and a station wagon! They should be worth a point!”

Jackson winced at the tirade. No wonder she had boyfriend problems. Should he risk an escape? Unable to decide, he glanced around the dingy room, which opened onto a bedroom and kitchen. His eyes slunk toward the later, when he remembered there was a back door.

Well, no matter how bad an impression she was making, Jackson couldn’t let her stay in this ramshackle dive. The Christian thing would be for him to apologize and then give her money back. Forget the bet, he decided. When she got off the phone, he’d convince her to return to California. Later he’d contact the woman who’d handled the deal, and he’d repurchase the land.

He just hoped Purity didn’t realize he was a man when she heard his voice. Deciding not to entertain the possibility, he continued looking around. He hadn’t checked on this place for a while. Nature had been encroaching, and leaves and twigs littered the scarred wood floor. To Jackson’s right was a wood-burning stove that probably hadn’t been used for years. Behind him, silver-backed insulation peeked from between beams in an exposed section of the wall. Various items leaned in a corner, among them a broom and an old rifle he couldn’t believe the local kids hadn’t taken. They’d been inside, judging from the empty soda cans and stubs of burned-down candles.

Purity’s belongings stood out like sore thumbs—two spiffy black carry-ons next to the door, and a shiny, white Land Rover off-road vehicle that was parked in the weeds outside, next to a stack of car tires and a junked refrigerator. Jackson’s eyes strayed to the bald lightbulb in the ceiling. At least she’d had the electricity turned on.

As guilty as he felt, he wished she’d quit ignoring him. If he was dressed as a man, would she get off the phone? Jackson made a vow to be more attentive in the future to all women in service occupations. If he happened to be on the phone when one arrived at the ranch office for a job interview, he’d hang up immediately.

Shoot, Jackson, just be grateful she’s not scrutinizing your outfit. Realizing his knees had naturally drifted apart for the umpteenth time, he sighed miserably. As he crossed his ankles in what he hoped was a ladylike fashion, Mrs. Simpson’s mountaineer boots squeezed his toes.

Jackson shook his head. He’d spent hours in the saddle, slept in unheated cow camp shacks up in the mountains during roundups, and pitched hay until he thought his back would break. But in all his born days, he’d never been this uncomfortable. The bra was torturously tight, and the leggings—so baggy at the knees—pinched at the waist and were darn near cutting off his breath. When he’d complained, Darla had merely offered him a garter belt as an alternative to panty hose. He’d said no, of course. Hell, a man had to draw the line somewhere.

Jackson made another vow. From now on, he’d make sure his dates really wanted to go places where they had to wear dresses, uncomfortable bras and panty hose.

At least Purity had turned out to be physically gorgeous—a real vision with pale, poreless skin and hair that looked as soft as finely spun silk. She had well-toned arms and legs, and she moved quickly and gracefully, radiating raw energy. Jackson could have watched her for hours, mesmerized.

At least until she opened her mouth.

“What do I look like?” she shrieked now. “Chopped liver?” She paced, nodded, jingled and clanked some more. Then she bellowed, “I am not leaving here!”

But she had to.

As if to prove the point, a field mouse suddenly darted across the floor. No doubt, if Purity noticed the mouse, she’d hightail it for her Land Rover. Mustering the falsetto voice he’d practiced with Darla, Jackson waved his arms wildly in the air and called out, “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! A mouse! A mouse!”

Purity whirled around. Sensing her attention, the terrified mouse paused, quivering against a baseboard. Purity stalked toward it, then she jumped up and down in her pink combat boots. The mouse fled, and Purity’s sunglass-covered eyes followed until it vanished through a hole in the floorboards.

Slowly turning toward Jackson, Purity shook her head in total disgust. “For God’s sake, lady,” she said, “it’s just a mouse.” And then she turned her back and started pacing and screaming into the phone again.

As if he didn’t know it was just a mouse, Jackson thought disgustedly. He crossed his arms over his chest, completely forgetting about his triple-D chest. Grimacing, he lowered his forearms and settled them uncomfortably across his taut belly. Glancing down, he winced again at the bright fabric that covered his lap.

“You don’t think I should stay here?” Purity burst out now. “You’re the one who paid so much of my hard-earned money for this place!” Her voice rose to a fever pitch. “And when I get my hands on that man Jackson West, he won’t know what hit him!”

Great. She knows I’m the previous owner of the property. Jackson fought the urge to muster his falsetto and put in a good word for Jackson West. But the less he talked, the better. Already, he’d had a bout with terror when he’d conversed with the sheriff. True to the stipulation of the bet, Jackson had entered the property through Purity’s front gate. Fortunately, he’d never met the sheriff from Silver Spoon. Still, the middle-aged man had thoroughly questioned him while the citified news people back at the roadblock had stared on curiously.

Jackson had almost reached Purity’s door when he’d heard a low, loud wolf whistle. For all he knew, the sheriff had been the culprit. He hadn’t turned around, of course. Even now, it made Jackson feel furious. He’d felt so…on display. Like an object. Hell, he fumed now, at least he had the decency to only whistle at young, pretty women.

Lordy, he really had to get out of this dress.

Purity’s voice turned venomous. “Abel is threatening to publish an exposé on me if I don’t sign my contract? That’s blackmail!”

Jackson guessed a woman like Purity might have a lot of secrets to hide. Not that he wanted to know any specifics. He just wanted out of here. Oh, he’d always thought of himself as attracted to the wild type. To girls like Annie, the accountant, who’d once worn a zebraprint bodysuit when she’d invited him for dinner. But next to this tigress, Annie looked like a mewling kitten.

“Nobody can pull the wool over my eyes!” Purity shrieked.

Jackson’s heart thudded in panic. Had he been found out? No, this statement had ended her phone conversation, which meant he’d have to talk to her. He anxiously watched her stab the off button with a metallic fingernail, then shove the phone into the back pocket of her cutoffs. She strode toward him on those pale well-muscled legs, plopped beside him, then peered in his general direction, through her sunglasses.

“Sorry you had to hear all that,” she said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “It makes me feel so exposed.”

Beneath the pink sweater, her breasts spilled from the black leather top, and her milky skin showed through her silver chain necklaces. Before he caught himself, Jackson wistfully murmured, “You are exposed…”

“Excuse me?”

Darn! Why had he said that? And how could she not realize he was a man? Quickly raising the pitch of his voice, he continued. “Exposed…because things must be so difficult for you right now.” Hoping to sound more housekeeperly, he added, “M’ dear.”

She didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. She merely nodded as if he’d just confirmed all her own private thoughts. Suddenly reaching out, she squeezed his knee. Jackson ventured a glance down at the long-fingered, slender hand that had just gripped him. His mouth went dry.

“I talked to a woman named Darla,” she began.

Sighing shakily as she withdrew her hand, Jackson opened the red pocketbook and withdrew a sheet of paper. Then he panicked. He’d forgotten to take off his watch! It was a man’s watch—gold, with a large round face. Well, judging by her taste in clothes, she’d probably think it was a fashion statement. He cleared his throat, which already burned from practicing talking at high pitch. “I have a paper from Darla you’ll need to sign…”

He’d go ahead and get the autograph for the poor kid in the hospital. After that, he’d convince Purity to leave Montana. Thrusting a blank sheet in her direction, he handed her a pen.

“This paper is blank,” she said.

Jackson’s heart skipped a beat. He wished he didn’t have to risk talking. His voice wavered in what he could only hope was a feminine way. “Darla needs a signature. Proof I came for the interview…”

She barely seemed to notice him. He guessed it was because he was a servant, and his temper rose. But then Purity took the pen. Using the red pocketbook as a desk, she signed the paper, saying, “And what was your name again?”

Out of habit, he almost said Jackson West. Terror shot through him at the near mistake. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to get caught. It would be so embarrassing, he thought, hazarding a glance at the floral jumper. The sheriff was right outside. No doubt there was some law against this ridiculous impersonation.

She sighed. “I just asked for your name.”

“Uh…” Scrutinizing her, Jackson suddenly felt paranoid. Did she really not know he was a man? Was it possible? His mind raced, trying to think of a name. Hadn’t Darla given her one? “Uh…Mrs. Simpson,” he finally said. “Mrs. Jean Simpson.”

“Right,” she said distractedly. “But what am I supposed to call you?”

Jackson was getting darn tired of her tone. “Mrs. Simpson,” he said curtly. “Only my friends are allowed to call me Jean.” Folding her autograph, he made a show of placing it inside the empty pocketbook. But then he couldn’t work the catch.

“Here.” Purity grabbed the pocketbook, snapped it shut and thrust it back at him. “Don’t worry. Everybody gets nervous when they meet celebrities.”

Well, wasn’t she the cat’s meow? Jackson fought not to roll his eyes. Or to tell her that before today he’d never even heard of her or the Trash Cans. Or to say it was no damn wonder she’d wound up paying so much money for this shack. After all, she was awfully liberal with a fountain pen, a blank sheet of paper and her John Hancock.

Whoa, Jackson. He reined in his temper. He guessed what she signed was her business. For a second, he felt torn—should he try to get a corset and follow through on the bet? Or be a good guy and tell her she had to leave?

She said, “I’m so glad you took the job.”

He stared at her. He most certainly had not taken this job. Somehow he kept the irony from his tone. “I’m sure you’ll want to interview the others…”

For the first time, she looked uncertain. “Uh…” Her tongue darted out, and she nervously licked her pouty, plum-black lips. “What others?”

Was this a joke? “You know…” The high pitch of Jackson’s voice was now from sheer panic. “The others.”

“There aren’t any others.” Purity suddenly wrung her hands. “I needed someone discreet, and Darla said you were the best. She said you’re really hard to get because you’re in such high demand, but that you’d agreed, because of the salary I’ll pay. She said you’re the only person she feels I can trust. She said you would never talk to the press. She said…”

He was going to kill Darla. The fury must have shown in his expression.

“It’s me!” she suddenly said. “You just don’t like my personality. The way I was yelling on the phone, I don’t blame you!” Her voice was rising again. “I don’t even like myself anymore!”

Oh, please, don’t get hysterical. Staring at her sunglasses, Jackson wished he could see her eyes, then maybe he could decide what tack to take with her. “Hmm…” he croaked, reaching for the black sunglasses, “let’s take these off…”

He wished he hadn’t. Her eyes were as pink and puffy as her sweater. The barely visible irises were brown and the whites were bloodshot. She’d been on a crying jag or a drinking binge. And Jackson devoutly hoped the culprit was liquor. If there was one thing against which he was powerless, it was a woman’s tears. He quickly shoved the sunglasses back onto her nose.

But she whipped them right back off again. “No, you’re right! I don’t have to hide my eyes—or my feelings, anymore!” Her voice climbed with conviction. “Everybody in New York and Hollywood is so fake. They’re all liars and cheats and…” Her hand slammed down on Jackson’s knee again, the grip of her fingers feeling like steel. “And what I need is to be around good wholesome country people. People like you, Mrs. Simpson.”

Jackson could merely stare. He started to remind her that a wholesome country person had taken her for a ride on this real-estate deal. Staring down at the dress he was wearing, he also wanted to tell her it didn’t get any phonier than this. You’ve really got to get out of here and out of this dress, Jackson. Forget the corset. Forget the land. You’ve got the autograph, which’ll make that poor kid in the hospital happy. He cleared his throat. “Oh, dear, I simply can’t take this job…”

“I’ll double your salary.”

“Oh, no. It’s just—”

“It’s me!” Purity burst out again. “I knew it was me!”

At least she realized she’d made a bad impression, which Jackson guessed was to her credit. “I’m sorry. I—I like you just fine. But I simply can’t…”

“Please!” she begged.

And then she lunged at his chest. Jackson was so shocked, he felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He guessed his ample bosom must have looked maternal, because she locked her arms in a stranglehold around his neck and pressed her head against his heart. Then she started crying. Not little tears, either. But loud, gasping sobs that made her shoulders heave.

“Just don’t cry,” Jackson begged through clenched teeth. “Please. I’ll do anything. Just stop.”

“Please work for me, Mrs. Simpson.”

“Aw, dammit,” Jackson muttered, feeling furious. “When do you want me to start?”

“THERE, THERE, m’dear,” he crooned.

Jackson’s arm had wound up wrapped around her back. Now he surreptitiously tilted his wrist and peeked at his watch. She’d cried for a solid hour now—and he’d felt guiltier by the minute. Even worse, she was still snuggled against him, feeling so warm, soft and heavenly he was in a state of either agony or bliss—he wasn’t sure which. But she was a mess—brokenhearted, ditched by her boyfriend and taken advantage of by countless people. Including by him. Her loudmouthed brassiness was apparently nothing more than a defense mechanism.

It was too bad. It would be a whole lot easier for Jackson to leave a dry-eyed she-devil in the lurch. Should he tell her this was a gag and that he was really a man? After all, she didn’t need a cowboy right now. What she needed was womenfolk. If he could just take her up to the ranch, his ma could give her a decent home-cooked meal, and his sisters could offer warmer clothes and plenty of vengeful advice about how to deal with ex-boyfriends.

He sure couldn’t take much more of this. He stroked and patted her back while, between sobs, she continued to tell him about her horrible day—how she’d packed the wrong clothes, how it had taken three different airplanes to get to this horrible shack. “And here—” she sniffled, digging deep in her pocket “—look at this.”

She tearfully handed him a carefully folded, tiny smudged square, ripped from a newspaper. His heart sank. It was the ad he’d placed in the Los Angeles Times. He could barely stand to read it.

Welcome Californians! Come to Miracle Mountain, Montana, and find yourself! This idyllic waterfront cottage hideout is the perfect artist’s retreat! Fifty-acre property in private community offers woods, pond, scenic views and more, more, more! Close to skiing, hiking and golf.

“Waterfront,” she sniffed.

Jackson carefully refolded the ad and handed it back. Feeling awful, he started to say there was a creek out front, but then he thought better of it. Just when he thought he couldn’t feel any worse, she hiccuped and said, “You know why I really bought this—” she glanced around. “Cottage?”

He shook his head.

“Because it was in a place called Miracle Mountain. And I could really use a miracle in my life right now.” Tears welled in eyes that were so liquid brown and soulful that Jackson’s heart hitched. Deep inside him, something hard started to melt. His arm tightened around her back. Damn. The woman had been looking for a miracle and he’d sold her this vermin-ridden shack. Some days he really hated himself.

He learned, between more gasps, that she’d been singing for the Trash Cans for the last five years. Abel Rage, the lead guitar player, had also been her boyfriend until recently. He’d been seeing someone else, and now he was in love and wanted to marry the other woman. Purity was supposed to sign a new contract, and she didn’t want to, but Abel Rage was holding some horrible secret over her head, which he threatened to expose if she didn’t sign.

Finally, she said defensively, “Well, anyway, I have secrets on Abel, too. He had a drinking problem. I know, because I was his enabler.”

Afraid to talk too much, Jackson merely rubbed her back soothingly. The wool of her sweater made his palm itch, making him long to touch her soft-looking skin beneath. But more than that, the sudden exposure of her more sensitive side brought out his protective instincts.

“Enabler?” he prompted.

“You know, I would take care of Abel—get groceries, answer his mail, return his phone calls. It’s absolutely the worst thing you can do if someone’s drinking.”

Jackson frowned. It was? He did all those things for Wyatt Simpson. “Why?”

“It enables them to keep drinking because they don’t have to take care of themselves,” Purity continued guiltily. “But I didn’t know any better at the time. I really thought I was helping.” As Purity burrowed against his chest, Jackson tried not to notice how feminine she smelled—all powder and perfume.

“Of course you didn’t,” Jackson murmured. But he felt terrible. And even guiltier. First, he’d sold this sweet woman a cow camp shack—and now he’d learned that, by trying to help Wyatt, he’d probably been making him even worse.

“Well, I should have known better,” Purity said miserably. “Because my own father died…”

Jackson’s chest squeezed tight. Could this get any worse? “From drinking?”

She nodded. After a long moment, she said, “And my mother died, too. When I was only twelve.”

No wonder she had such a tough, brassy persona. She’d probably fended for herself a lot. And she really must be lonely, to divulge such intimate details to a stranger. He guessed she trusted him because of Darla’s recommendation. But what could he do for her? He couldn’t really come back here, wearing a dress. She needed girlfriends—real girlfriends.

Sitting up bravely, she squared her shoulders and swiped at her tearstained cheeks. “Sorry, I promise that won’t happen again. I’m okay now.”

But she wasn’t. And Jackson didn’t know which touched him more—the sloppy tears or forced bravery. Clearing his throat again, he murmured, “There, m’dear. You just relax and let Mrs. Simpson see what she can do.”

Tugging at the jumper hem, Jackson slunk from the room, feeling as low as an earthworm. Fortunately, the old stove was electric and he managed to hook it up. Then he headed outside, and found a fallen tree limb and an ax. Quickly glancing around, he hiked the jumper to his knees, then chopped enough wood to get her through the night. Within a few minutes, a fire was roaring in the old woodstove. Back in the kitchen, he rifled through the cardboard box of supplies she’d brought up from Bozeman. She’d thought to get toilet paper, dishwashing liquid and Ajax, which was good. Otherwise, he didn’t recognize half the items. It was all city food. Soy curds and bean threads. Couscous and sun-dried vegetables. Rooting around, he found some herbal tea.

He’d never felt so relieved. In his experience, herbal tea always had a calming effect on women. He washed rust out of an old saucepan and found some tin cups. When the tea was ready, he returned to the living room, crooning, “Now sip this.”

And then he stopped in his tracks.

She’d put on round wire-framed granny glasses, and her sincere-looking brown eyes were popping out of her head. No wonder she didn’t know I was a man! She’s got bad eyesight! Jackson tried to still his rapidly beating heart, reminding himself that the sheriff hadn’t guessed.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she finally said. “And it’s not that I don’t like bright prints, Mrs. Simpson. But I truly think you’re tailor-made to wear solids.”

Jackson wasn’t sure whether he should be relieved or not, but that was exactly what he’d told Darla. This jumper was so bright it could wake the dead. Which, given Mrs. Simpson’s real state, he guessed it had. As he crossed the room and handed Purity her tea, he still couldn’t believe she really thought he was a woman. Was he going to get away with this charade?

“Have you had your colors done?” she asked conversationally.

Jackson had no idea what she was talking about. He shook his head in what could have been a yes or no.

“Well, you should. I bet you’re a summer, which would mean wearing pinks and blues, not reds and oranges.” She ventured an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but I always notice clothes. I love clothes.”

What little you wear of them, Jackson thought, unable to stop his eyes from straying to her black leather corset. “I can see that,” he managed dryly.

A long, somewhat awkward silence fell.

“Ah,” Purity finally said. “Chamomile tea. Thank you.” Suddenly her lower lip trembled and she blinked back fresh tears as if no one had ever done her a kindness. Jackson felt his heart squeeze tight again. Suddenly he wanted to ask her all about herself; about how her parents had died exactly, and about how she’d wound up in a heavy metal band. Not to mention why she needed a miracle in her life.

She glanced around, sighing in shaky relief as she took in the wood-burning stove. “I don’t know what I’d do if you couldn’t take this job.”

Silently Jackson berated himself. The pranks of his youth—stealing from watermelon patches, streaking naked through the town square—had been harmless. This impersonation was not. Purity could be badly hurt. But how was he going to get out of this mess? He watched as she set the tea aside, stood and began pacing again. She looked like her old self. Jackson wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

More to herself than him, she said, “Hmm. I guess we’ll have to chop more wood to heat the place. And it’s a good thing I bought all that food in Bozeman. There was a sign in the store window saying it was the last real grocery store, though I’ve no idea what that meant. Well, I guess I can sweep out these leaves and—” She stopped in midpace and squinted around. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Jackson winced. “I believe there’s just an outhouse.”

She stared at him for a long moment, digesting that information. “I’m going to kill Jackson West,” she muttered, resuming her pacing. “He’s the guy who sold my agent this place.”

As if Jackson didn’t know. His throat ached from the false soprano, but he raised the pitch of his voice once more, trying to sound chipper. “There is a bathtub with running water.”

She frowned. “Yeah, right in the middle of the kitchen. I saw that. Well, maybe we can rig up a curtain around it. And get some mousetraps.” She shuddered. “Sorry, I just didn’t want you to think I was a wimp. But I really do hate mice.”

Her gaze flickered over Jackson, as if really seeing him for the first time, and he felt a rush of adrenaline. If she realized he was a man, what would he do? He couldn’t tell her he was Jackson West. The woman’s opinion of him was already low enough.

He waited, his heart pounding dully. Call it masculine pride, but he half hoped she would realize he was a man. He hated to think it was this easy to convince a gorgeous woman he was a female housekeeper.

“Wait a minute,” she finally said. “How old are you?”

Realizing he’d been holding his breath, Jackson slowly exhaled. He had no idea what she was guessing—fifty or sixty, maybe. “Uh…a woman never tells.”

She glanced around grimly and said, “I don’t know how to chop wood, but I don’t want you to strain yourself. And I guess the walls in here need to be fixed…”

Jackson had to fight not to say “Hallelujah.” Here was his out. “Of course not, m’dear. But I have an able-bodied son…”

Purity shook her head. “No men.” Her expression turned flinty. “Especially not able-bodied ones.”

Jackson didn’t know what compelled him to dig for information—her need to unburden herself or his male curiosity. “Because of what Abel did?”

Purity shrugged, suddenly looking distant. “I guess.”

Well, he could hardly come over with his toolbox and introduce himself as Jackson West. If he did, she’d probably run him off the property with the rifle in the corner. Lifting a wrist, Jackson let it go limp. “But my son, uh, Wyatt…why, he’s harmless as a fly. He can fix insulation, hook up the remaining appliances, check the wiring…”

Purity looked stricken. “Well…how old is he?”

This would work. He could come, introduce himself as Wyatt and make the place habitable. “Thirty-three.”

Purity pulled the open sides of her pink sweater together. “Oh, I don’t know about this.”

Jackson frowned. The woman wore underwear as outerwear, and sang for crowds on a stage. Judging from her phone conversation, she didn’t think twice about delivering tongue-lashings. Surely she could handle a cowpoke with a toolbox. Jackson didn’t understand the problem. Nevertheless he tried to conjure an image of a man who was totally harmless—which meant the complete opposite of himself.

“My Wyatt never drinks, gambles or womanizes. He’s a good, Christian boy. And he could come right up tonight, in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“In two shakes of a lamb’s tail?” Purity said nervously.

“Why, that’s just country talk for in a hurry.”

“I don’t mean to be rude—but he’d leave me alone?”

Jackson’s gaze drifted over her. Probably not. “Of course.”

“But you’ll come in the morning?” she said quickly.

“Oh, you won’t need me again. Wyatt can take care of everything…” Jackson’s voice trailed off. Those damnable tears were clinging in her eyelashes again. Shoot, he’d sold her this horrible shack. He guessed it wouldn’t kill him to come back dressed this way, just once more. By tomorrow she’d be settled and he could resign as Mrs. Simpson. “All right.” Even as he said it, Jackson wished the floor would open and swallow him.

“I still don’t feel entirely comfortable about having your son come. You see…” Purity sat next to Jackson and took his hand, as if she meant to make a serious confession. For a second he felt breathless. Was she going to divulge the horrible secret with which Abel Rage was blackmailing her?

Jackson never found out, because touching his hands derailed Purity’s thought and she said, “Oh, Mrs. Simpson, your hands are so rough!” She darted across the room, and urgently rifled through her bags as if rough skin were a malady akin to the plague. Returning with a black-and-gold jar, she said, “Here. We’d better try this cream. It’s Chanel. It’s very good.”

Having no choice but to appear grateful, Jackson dutifully unscrewed the dainty canister and slapped cream onto his hands.

“Oh, no,” Purity protested, her voice still throaty from crying. “You need to rub it in much more gently. Here, let me show you.”

Jackson had never known hand-holding could be so sensual. Purity lathered the lotion all over his left hand. Making a fist, she lightly pounded the back of the hand, then she threaded her fingers through his, working them outward. After that, she turned his hand over. Holding it palm up, she massaged with her thumbs. When she was done, she placed his left hand on her bare knee and then started on his other hand.

“Your hands are incredibly strong,” she murmured.

Jackson could barely find his voice. His hands were nowhere near as strong as the dreamy sensual feelings aroused by her massage. “Oh, I work in the garden, m’dear,” he managed to say faintly. He could hardly tell her he spent ten hours a day on horseback, with his hands threaded through leather reins.

“And these calluses,” she murmured. “We’ll have to work on these.”

Jackson sighed. Why did she have to be so sweet? And smell like a basket of flowers? He wanted to tug off his wig, draw her gently into his arms and kiss her senseless. He wanted to feel her crushed against his chest—his real chest.

“We’ll start every morning with a hand massage,” she promised. “I bet we can get rid of these calluses.” She sighed and her eyes settled on his. “And maybe we can paint your nails.”

“No!” Jackson said in a voice deeper than he’d intended.

“Sorry, Mrs. Simpson. I…” Her gaze drifted guiltily over him. “Of course you wouldn’t want painted nails. You’re so practical and sensible. I bet you never even wear high heels.” Her cheeks colored. “You must think I look…garish, huh?”

Jackson shook his head in quick denial.

“C’mon. Be honest. Woman to woman.”

Everything in her eyes demanded his response. “Uh…that black lipstick might be a little harsh,” he finally offered.

She squinted back, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “Hmm,” she finally said, “I bet your son really is a good Christian man.”

Jackson winced. He hadn’t seen the inside of the local church since his father’s funeral fifteen years ago. And Wyatt Simpson, the real Wyatt Simpson, was a no-account drunk—one Jackson now knew he’d probably enabled and made worse. Somehow Jackson nodded. “Oh, yes. A very good Christian.”

She looked almost convinced.

Jackson bit back a sigh. If he didn’t figure out a way to come up here and make the place habitable, she’d stay in it just the way it was—mice and all. And he could hardly fix the insulation wearing calf-length jumpers. Clearing his aching throat once more, he said, “I’m Wyatt’s mother, so I’m no judge. But I don’t think he’s—” Jackson forced himself to wince sadly “—considered too handsome. Oh, of course, he’s handsome to me, since I’m his mama…”

“And he can spend tonight here?”

Jackson’s breath caught. Was she afraid to stay here alone? Did she want company? “All night?” “No, just this evening! Of course not all night!” Disappointment flooded him, but trying to sound scandalized, Jackson gasped, “My Wyatt would never think of such a thing!”