“Not right now,” she told Ned, sorry to put a damper on his dreams of becoming a studly cover model. “Do you know where Ryder is?”

  “In with Chynna, last I seen him.” Ned started back toward his horse, and she waved goodbye as she made her way toward the stable.

  She found Ryder in a back stall, running his hands over Chynna’s sides and belly. Monica knew Ryder was concerned about the mare. She wasn’t sure it had anything to do with the horse’s health, just that she was close to foaling and Ryder wanted to keep a close eye on her. Of course, she couldn’t help but notice the way he filled out a pair of jeans, bent over and facing away from her like that. The muscles writhing beneath his shirt were nothing to scoff at, either; she knew that from personal experience.

  Forcing her mind back to less erotic thoughts, she cleared her throat and asked, “How is she?”

  Ryder raised his head and straightened. He continued to stroke Chynna’s silky coat while taking in Monica’s attire in one swift up and down glance. She was wearing one of his long-sleeved plaid shirts, tied in a knot at her belly, and another of those skimpy flowered skirts she picked up on their way to Hawaii. They’d fit right in at the beach, but out here amidst barns and horses, dirt and straw, the cute but awfully short swatch of fabric didn’t exactly leave a lot to the imagination.

  And he’d heard her out there talking with Ned. The kid had probably been drooling in his boots. Women in these parts tended to cover up a bit more, if only as protection from any number of outdoor hazards, so when one came into town displaying that much skin, men tended to notice.

  He frowned. He didn’t like the idea of other men getting all worked up over Monica. She was his wife, dammit. Other men shouldn’t even be looking at her. Of course, he really couldn’t fault them. The way Monica acted and dressed could make Gandhi throw in the towel, and if she were some other man’s wife, it would probably take a lightning bolt to the eye sockets to keep him from appreciating her natural beauty.

  With a silent huff of frustration, he patted Chynna’s flank and moved toward the door of the stall. “Seems fine. She’s getting close, though. Any day now.”

  “Really?” An excited smile broke out over her face. “Can you feel the baby and everything?”

  He grinned back at her. Watching a foal being born always gave him that same feeling of wonder and exhilaration. “Yeah, wanna feel?”

  He held out an arm for Monica, who looked at him strangely for a second before putting her hand in his. Leading her to the mare, he cupped her hand and ran it over Chynna’s belly, using his own to guide her to the right spot. A sharp bump appeared under the flesh and Monica sucked in a breath.

  “That’s gotta be a knee or hoof,” he said. The bulge moved, and he helped Monica follow it with her fingers.

  “Ohmigosh,” she whispered. “It’s really in there.” She shook free of his hold and moved to the mare’s head, looping a finger through the horse’s halter and nuzzling her face against Chynna’s. “That’s your baby in there,” she said, as though the horse understood her words and didn’t already know she had a thirty-pound colt or filly moving around in her belly.

  A lump formed in Ryder’s throat, and he had to stop breathing for a minute before he could swallow past it. Something about Monica clutched at him. Her open appreciation of a pregnant mare, her gentleness with the animal. Something. Whatever it was, it made him want to draw her close and hold her, protect her. Which he could do, if she’d just let him dress her in clothes a bit more appropriate to life on a horse and cattle ranch.

  His eyes fell to her feet, and he rolled his eyes. She was wearing those same strappy little sandals she’d worn in Hawaii. And while he had a fair appreciation for strappy anything on Monica at the right time and place, standing next to a twelve-hundred-pound horse with open-toed shoes was just plain stupid. One wrong move and her foot would be broken—or worse.

  “I’m heading into town,” he offered abruptly. “Want to go along?”

  She turned to look at him, surprised by his sudden, slightly off-topic question. “Can I stay here and play with Chynna?” she asked, continuing to stroke the mare’s face and neck.

  In those shoes, he didn’t like the idea. Not one bit.

  “What size shoe do you wear?”

  Her brows knit. “Seven and a half, why?”

  “What size pants?”

  “Six to eight. Why?” she asked again, her confusion even more pronounced.

  “Something like this will be great for the barbecue, but you keep running around half naked, in bare feet, and you’re going to get yourself seriously hurt. I thought I’d pick up a few things for you while I’m in town.”

  He moved toward the stall door, resting an arm on its edge while he turned back to her. “If you’re going to stay in here with her, watch your feet. She steps on you and you’re liable to lose a toe.”

  Monica’s eyes widened in alarm, and Ryder nodded in satisfaction. If she was frightened enough of the possibility of severed body parts, she’d be more cautious. After all, she wouldn’t look that good with painted toenails if there were only nine of them on display, now would she?

  Still, he felt the need to warn her further. “If she does clip you, try not to panic. Pat the back of her leg with one hand and lift her foot with the other, she should step right off. And I’ll have Ned stick close to the stables. You need help, just holler.”

  Monica nodded, a little more solemn than before, and Ryder felt better about leaving her alone. If she had a healthy respect for the power of such a large animal, she’d be less likely to get into trouble.

  “Would you mind if I take some pictures of her while you’re gone?” She wrapped an arm around Chynna’s neck, and the mare lowered her head, snuffling her lips against Monica’s shoulder. “I mean, the flash won’t scare her, will it?”

  To be honest, he wasn’t sure. Chynna was as tame a horse as he’d ever run across, but you never knew how an animal would react to something out of the ordinary.

  “Come here,” he said, gesturing for Monica to move closer to him.

  She untangled herself from the mare and moved in his direction. Ryder reached out and turned her away from him, holding her by the shoulders.

  “Take a picture.” Monica craned her neck to look at him and he nodded. “Go ahead. We’re at a safe distance, and I’m right here if Chynna doesn’t like it.”

  From her reluctance, he didn’t think she quite believed or trusted him, but she raised her camera nonetheless and focused.

  He waited several long seconds for her to snap the picture and when she did, he felt her tense. But Chynna stood there, slowly chewing a mouthful of hay, no more bothered by the camera flash than she was by the flies buzzing around her tail.

  “Guess that answers that,” Ryder said. “Think you’ll be okay while I’m gone?”

  She turned to him, her face alight with pleasure. “Oh, yeah.”

  Then she turned back to Chynna, her camera flashing away, Ryder already forgotten.

  …

  “If you don’t hurry up, I’m gonna go out there and tell everyone we can’t attend the party ’cuz you’re too horny and I have to help you use up this twelve-pack of condoms I just bought.” Ryder leaned in the bathroom door and rattled the box of Trojans while his eyebrows did a lascivious little happy dance.

  Monica glowered at his reflection in the mirror and continued brushing her hair up into a high ponytail. “You do, and I’m going to tell them that instead of seeing to your horses and cattle like a good cowboy, you turned the herd over to Ned and spent the afternoon boffing your fake wife. Which is why that twelve-pack is now down to only eight.”

  His brows stopped jiggling with one frozen high above his eye with curiosity. “Care to make it seven? I can run out and tell them you chipped a nail or something and are gonna need a couple more minutes to get ready.”

  With a snap to the last loop of her elastic ponytail holder, Monica turned and leaned her butt against the sink. “Darlin’, with what I have in mind for number five, you’re going to need more than just a couple minutes.”

  He moved into the room, set the packet of condoms down on the edge of the sink, and rested his forehead against hers while his hands drifted over her hips and beneath the knotted underside of her top. Well, technically his top. She was wearing a different floral skirt than earlier in the day, but had opted for one of his western-cut shirts in a nice, mossy green that matched the leaves on her skirt but didn’t clash with her toenails. Pinning the sleeves at her elbows and tying the tails to leave a few inches of midriff bare worked surprisingly well—cute and casual, while still being sexy.

  She was saving the things he’d bought her today for later, to wear in the barn or for walking around the ranch. In addition to a couple pairs of functional denims and women’s tees, Ryder had brought back a pair of shiny black, hand-tooled cowboy boots in town, which she suspected had cost him a pretty penny. They actually didn’t fit too badly with the thick socks he’d also purchased for her—though she’d only gotten to try them on for about five minutes in the barn before he’d swept her into the house for a little afternoon delight. And now she was wearing the sling-back sandals that had gotten her through her entire counterfeit honeymoon because they better showcased her brightly polished toenails—the same Jolly Green Giant color she’d been sporting since she first arrived, which just happened to match one of the flowers in this particular skirt.

  As his hands slipped over her derriere and his enthusiasm pressed against her stomach, he whispered, “You’ve gotta stop saying stuff like that. I won’t be held responsible for my actions if you don’t.”

  She let her head fall back while he nuzzled her ear. “You’re the one who bought every kind of condom you could find. If you expect to finish off the ribbed and move on to the glow-in-the-darks, we have some serious work cut out for us.”

  Ryder gave a laugh, surrounded by a groan so that the sound came out strangled. “I really want to get to those glow-in-the-dark and mint flavored ones,” he said with a lecherous grin.

  Yeah, because—as he’d informed her when he first brought them home—she was going to be the one enjoying the tangy fresh flavor while he enjoyed her oral ministrations. Personally, she wanted to turn out all the lights and try the glow-in-the-dark ones to see what she could see.

  “But I thought we’d use the ribbed ones first—for your pleasure, of course.”

  Although she didn’t know how it was possible, his comical leer turned even more wicked. Sparks of desire and amusement danced in the depths of his ocean blue eyes.

  “I’ve got news for you, cowboy,” she informed him, trying to affect a cocky, hands-on-hips stance while his warm breath blew on the nape of her neck. “Your hands and mouth do a heck of a lot more for me than those tiny little grooves do.”

  A groan was his only response. He pressed a hard kiss to her mouth, then straightened and took a conscious step away from her. His eyes darted to the mirror behind them, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement.

  “As if the toenails aren’t enough, you’re going to give my parents a heart attack when they see that pink streak in your hair, you know.” He didn’t seem overly concerned, just cautioning.

  “It’s magenta, not pink.” Monica touched the back of her head self-consciously, but didn’t move to take out the hairband. Shocking his parents was the idea, after all. Not to the point of causing actual cardiac arrest, but just enough to have them questioning Ryder’s choice of bride.

  From the moment she realized she’d have to face his parents, as well as half the town, at a party in honor of what they thought was a bona fide marriage, Monica had been working on a plan to keep everyone at arm’s length. She liked Ryder’s folks, truly she did, but the fact remained that marriage to their son was only temporary. As soon as she got her money back from Matt, they would be getting a divorce, and she would be on her way back to Chicago. It wasn’t right to let Jordan and Ruth Ann or anyone else think her relationship with Ryder was more than that.

  And if it took shocking them, letting them think she was some chippy from the big city who didn’t have enough stuffing between her ears to fill a pin cushion, then all the better. This way, they would be less heartbroken when she and Ryder split up. They could even save face by saying they’d known all along she wasn’t Ryder’s type, was too strange and flighty, didn’t have what it takes to be a rancher’s wife.

  The bright green toenails and magenta hair were a start. What could only be seen beneath the hem of her shirt when she raised her arms ought to do the rest.

  Ryder brushed a finger over a stray strand of hair at her temple. “Ready?”

  She wasn’t. Her stomach clenched in protest, but she forced herself to take his hand and follow him through the house.

  A cacophony of voices reached them long before they stepped onto the porch. Picnic tables, along with other stray tables and chairs, had been brought into the yard for guests. Sawhorses with boards across them had been arranged as banquet tables, which bowed with the weight of a hundred covered dishes. Only the dining tables had been set up the last time Monica had been out here, then Ruth Ann had insisted she and Ryder go inside to get ready while she took care of the rest. Judging from the amount of food and the number of guests, Ryder’s mother was a one-woman wonder.

  Off to the far side of the barn, a fire blazed. And over that fire was a pig on a spit. The sight made Monica want to cry, so she averted her gaze and focused on the crowd milling about in front of the house. As soon as they spotted Ryder and herself, they began clapping. Before long, all eyes were on them and the applause was almost deafening.

  Ryder pulled her against him, grinned from ear to ear, and waved to his longtime friends. Monica blushed, all but burying her face in his shoulder. She’d known this would be difficult, but lord! Any hopes she’d had of getting through the evening with a minimum of effort and agony were shot straight to hell. The night was going to be a disaster.

  And not one person seemed to notice her toes.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It don’t take a genius to spot a goat in a flock of sheep.

  “Monica, darling, I want you to meet some of our friends.” Taking her arm, Ruth Ann led her away from Ryder and down the porch steps into the waiting crowd. Monica curled and uncurled her fingers, wondering if she could pull an I Dream of Jeannie and blink herself into a wine bottle somewhere. Spotting a man with a bottle of beer, she actually gave it a shot. When it didn’t work, she lamely swatted at an imaginary fly to explain her squinting and strangely wrinkled nose to anyone who’d been looking.

  Fine, so blinking didn’t work. She doubted a nose wiggle a la Bewitched would do her any good, either. So she was stuck. Thrust into the welcoming arms of Ryder’s friends and family. What could be worse?

  With a motherly arm around her shoulders, Ruth Ann introduced her to a bridge partner, a town councilman, two of Ryder’s old school teachers—one from elementary, one from high school—and about three of his old girlfriends. The myriad names jumbled in her mind, leaving her smiling like an idiot and praying she wouldn’t have to remember them all later like the unfortunate contestant in some nightmare of a game show.

  Ryder’s old girlfriends seemed nice. And judging from their natural, down-home appearances, she wondered what commandment Ryder had broken to end up with her. The three women—all the women in the crowd for that matter—wore either demure sundresses or jeans and comfortable tops. The younger ones seemed to prefer low-cut tees with lots of glitter or rhinestones, but none of them were flashing too much boob or thigh. Their makeup, if any, was applied out of necessity and not necessarily to doll themselves up, and hairstyles ranged from short, nondescript pixie-like cuts to long, curly, and big, as in teased and sprayed to stay that way. And they all seemed very sweet and earthy and Midwest proper.

  Monica felt like the polar opposite of every single one of the women Ryder used to date—not just on the outside, but inside, too. Getting his parents to hate her was not going to be a problem if these were the types of girls they liked their son to hook up with.

  She was just thinking what a breeze this alienation bit was going to be when a tall woman with a too-many-hours-in-a-tanning-bed complexion and hair so blonde it could only come out of a peroxide bottle sauntered up to them on the arm of a boy about Ned’s age. Half the blonde’s age, that was for sure. Although Monica was still using the spray-on lotion to give herself a bit more color than usual, she was glad she’d taken it down a few notches since returning from Hawaii. She wanted to keep Josie from recognizing her as the much paler woman who’d crashed her wedding reception, not walk around looking like an old sweet potato.

  The woman’s white suede dress had fringe at the arms and hem, and was eons flashier than anyone else’s attire. It put Monica in mind of something Dolly Parton would wear. But then, Dolly could pull it off; this lady couldn’t. That didn’t keep her from reveling in her supposed superiority, however, and Monica disliked her on sight. Slaughtered creature carcass aside, the unnatural blonde was sending off vibes of hostility wide enough to wipe out half of Wrigley Field.

  The Coppertone Queen smiled and her bleached white teeth were almost fluorescent against her pumpkin-brown skin. Monica resisted the urge to throw a hand up to protect her eyes from the glare.

  “This must be Ryder’s new little wife,” she preened, and Monica nearly looked down to see if the woman’s snipe had put a hole in her shirt.

  Ruth Ann’s hold on her shoulders tensed a fraction. “That’s right. Monica, this is an old friend of Ryder’s, Stephanie Phillips.”

  Score one for Ryder’s mom, Monica thought as Ruth Ann’s double entendre about Stephanie’s age hit home, and the blonde bombshell-wannabe’s mouth tightened. Monica was pleased to note the crevices that lined her lips as she frowned. Miss Snotty Pants ought to spend less time in tanning beds and more time suctioning cellulite from her ass to be put into those crater-like wrinkles.