As he rose and placed the chair against the wall, he saw the door open. A young woman with light brown hair, slightly curly around her oval face, walked in. All his acute senses focused on her. She was wearing a black baseball cap, a blue chambray shirt like the one he wore, a heavy Levi’s jacket, and a pair of loose-fitting jeans that indicated she had a lush figure hidden beneath them. His heart jolted as their eyes met briefly. She had sky-blue eyes, just this side of turquoise, wide set and intelligent. She was attractive, wore no makeup, but her high cheekbones were flushed, as if she’d been running or working out hard.
His stomach clenched, and suddenly, Reese worried that if she was the owner of the Bar C, he might not get the job. That she’d be afraid of him like so many other women were, once they saw him. In the Corps, wearing his uniform or utilities, women had always given him a pleasing look, scoping him out, their gazes telling him they’d like to know him a lot better. He almost laughed as he struggled to get his anxiety corralled. Since he’d fallen from grace, his scruffy, bearded, homeless look scared the hell out of females. Reese knew he wasn’t a bad-looking man, but somehow, no woman could see the real him in his present state of dishevelment. He would never hurt a woman or child. But the look in their eyes spoke of exactly that: fear that he was capable of violence against them. It was a bitter pill to swallow to be judged by what he wore on the outside instead of who he really was inside.
“Hey,” Charlie called, twisting his head in Reese’s direction, “Miss Shay is here. Come on up and meet her, Reese.”
God, this was like a firing squad. All his life, he’d drawn straight A’s in school and in college. Always a winner. He was first in everything he’d ever tried. And now, he was last. Dead last.
Squaring his shoulders, Reese walked toward the counter and watched as the young woman who was about a head shorter than him, maybe around five foot eight or nine inches tall, assessed him critically. Reese could feel the heat of her blue gaze stripping him from his uncovered head down to his boots as he rounded the corner of the counter.
“Shay, meet Reese Lockhart,” Charlie said. “Reese, this is Shay Crawford, owner of the Bar C.”
Reese saw a shadow flit across her eyes for just a moment, and then it was gone. Her mouth was full, lush, just like her breasts and hips. A hum started low in his body, appreciating her purely as a woman. When she extended her slender hand, he engulfed it gently within his. Reese tried to keep the surprise out of his face as he felt the calluses along her palm and the roughness of her fingers, indicating she worked hard.
“Ma’am,” he murmured, “nice to meet you. I asked Charlie about a job, and he said you needed a wrangler.” Reese released her hand, albeit reluctantly. To his surprise, she stood her ground even though he was a good six inches taller than she was. He didn’t scare her, and that made Reese sag inwardly with relief. Those fearless-looking blue eyes of hers were direct and he held her gaze, understanding she was forming an impression of him on an instinctual level. In the kind of black ops work he had done, instinct had saved his life often. Reese sensed strongly she possessed the same powerful intuition herself.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Lockhart.” She glanced over at the store owner. “Charlie said you were a vet. That you are a Marine?”
“Yes, ma’am. Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
Her lips pulled faintly at the corners. “You’re right. You’re still a Marine even if you’re now a civilian. Call me Shay, Mr. Lockhart. I was in the service, too. I’m fine with less protocol.”
Reese nodded. “Habits are hard to erase,” he noted, a slight, teasing note in his voice. “But I’ll try.”
She leaned against the counter, hands on the edge of the smooth oak. “What kind of work are you looking for?”
“Anything outdoors, for the most part.”
“You’re a Marine, so you probably have some skill sets?”
“I ran a company, ma—I mean, Shay, of 120 men and women.”
Nodding, she assessed him more closely. “What was your rank?”
“Captain.” Reese couldn’t translate what he saw in her expression and whether it was good or bad news for him. He wondered if she was enlisted or an officer. Now was not the time to ask.
“I need a wrangler who is good slinging a hammer and nails, Mr. Lockhart. I’ve got an indoor arena I’m trying to build with too few men to do it, and it has to be roofed before the first snow flies, which is usually mid-September around here.” She gauged him for a moment, her voice husky. “I make a point of hiring military vets who are down on their luck. The Bar C is more than just a place to work. Much more.”
“Okay,” he murmured, “my skill sets are in construction work and also vehicle repair. My father is a mechanic and I grew up learning how to fix anything that had an engine attached to it.”
“That’s even better news,” she murmured, brightening a little. Looking relieved.