Pulled out the thickest wool blanket he owned.
A heavy red-and-brown Navajo weave purchased years earlier from a trader passing through New Mexico.
He unfolded it.
Carried it to the bed.
Then stopped.
This was absurd.
Vincent Costa had faced armed cattle thieves without hesitation.
Had crossed flooded rivers.
Had fought men larger than himself.
Had once stitched part of his own thigh because the nearest doctor was two days away.
Yet somehow placing a blanket over a sleeping bookkeeper made him hesitate.
He almost laughed at himself.
Then Khloe shivered again.
Vincent spread the blanket across her.
Carefully.
She made a quiet sound.
He froze.
Khloe shifted deeper beneath the wool.
Her breathing softened.
Vincent stood over her.
For perhaps ten seconds longer than necessary.
Then another ten.
His gaze moved over her face.
There was something strange about seeing Khloe without worry written across it.
During the day she always seemed one interruption away from apologizing.
Even when she had done nothing wrong.
Especially when she had done nothing wrong.
Vincent wondered who had taught her that.
He disliked the person without knowing them.
He moved toward the leather chair beside the window.
Sat.
Removed his boots.
Then leaned back.
He had slept in worse places.
Much worse.
The chair would do.
He closed his eyes.
Three seconds later Khloe whispered his name.
“Vincent.”
His eyes opened immediately.
She remained asleep.
He waited.
Then she whispered something else.
“Don’t sign them.”
Vincent sat forward.
Khloe moved beneath the blanket.
“Please…”
He stood.
Walked toward the bed.
“Khloe.”
Her eyes opened.
Confusion.
Then terror.
She saw him standing beside the bed.
Her face drained.
Khloe jerked upright.
The blanket fell to her waist.
“Oh God.”
Vincent held up one hand.
“Easy.”
“This is your room.”
“I noticed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Khloe.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.”
“I thought Paulie said upstairs office and I—”
“Breathe.”
She stopped.
Her chest rose and fell quickly.
Vincent looked toward the wet clothes by the fire.
“You changed.”
Khloe’s face turned scarlet.
“Mrs. Bell found me.”
The housekeeper.
“She said my clothes were soaked.”
“Good.”
“She told me to wait until they dried.”
“Good.”
“I sat on the bed.”
Vincent’s mouth almost curved.
“And then?”
Khloe closed her eyes.
“I apparently lost consciousness.”
“You slept.”
“That sounds less criminal.”
“It is.”
She opened her eyes.
Then noticed the blanket.
Her fingers touched the wool.
“You covered me.”
“Yes.”
Khloe looked toward the chair.
“You were going to sleep there?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Vincent frowned.
“Because you were sleeping here.”
“This is your bed.”
“I know.”
“You could have woken me.”
“I could have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
Her expression changed.
Something quieter.
More dangerous.
Vincent recognized it because he felt the same shift.
For two years, Khloe Evans had barely looked directly into his eyes.
Now she did.
“Why?”
Vincent considered several answers.
None safe.
Finally he said:
“You looked tired.”
Her gaze dropped.
“I am.”
“You work too much.”
Khloe almost laughed.
“You own the ranch.”
“That doesn’t make seventy-hour weeks reasonable.”
“You work more than that.”
“I own the ranch.”