As soon as his foot hit the first step, she stood. “My name is Mrs. Lacey. I am a wid…” She paused and licked her lips as if trying to get the words out. “My husband is deceased.” He knew who she was and he knew she was a widow. She was part of Mable Smyth’s delivery and nothing came on this ranch without his prior approval. But he wasn’t in the mood for disappointment and even though she came in a nice package, from her air of superiority and refined tones he could tell Mrs. Lacey wasn’t housekeeper material. Mable just wasted my time. I’ll dock her next load for that. He studied the woman in front of him. Mid-twenties, stubborn tilt to her head, determined jawline, smooth, creamy skin—currently flushed from the sun—pale blonde hair and a pair of fine violet eyes mimicking the color of Texas sage. He’d looked her over earlier in the day when he’d checked the shopkeeper’s wagon contents.
