“Swell,” he muttered.

Mari wheeled on him, eyes flashing. “Thank you for your kind condolences. It means so much to know people care.”

“I won’t pretend I liked her,” he growled.

“Fine. Then I won’t pretend I like you either.”

She started to walk away from him, but his hand snaked out and caught hold of her upper arm. Furious, she twisted around and glared at him. “Get your hand off me, Rafferty. I’m sick of being manhandled by you. And I’m sick of your snide remarks about Lucy. I don’t give a shit what she did to you. She was my friend. I didn’t always like her. I didn’t always agree with her. But she was my friend, and I’ll be damned if I’ll put up with your smart-ass remarks. If you can’t manage to master any of the greater social graces, you can at least show a little respect.”

J.D. let her go, watching pensively as she stalked to the gatepost and took down a big tin Mr. Peanut. She stood with her back to him, holding the thing against her. Guilt gnawed on his conscience. She was right. He should have had better manners than to speak his mind about Lucy. Especially with the woman who had just inherited her property.

The addendum sat about as well as a gallstone in his gut. His personal code didn’t allow for ulterior motives. A man conducted himself accordingly, regardless of circumstance; it was a matter of honor. Well, he thought, chagrined, Lucy had always managed to bring out the worst in him. Seemed she was still doing it, manipulating him from the next dimension.

He blew out a heavy breath and jammed his hands at the waist of his jeans. Women. They were more trouble than they were worth, that was for damn sure. His mouth twisted as he stared at the back of Mary Lee Jennings. She was crying. He could tell by the jerky movements of her shoulders. She was trying valiantly not to. He could tell by the halting breaths she snatched. A sliver of panic shot through him. He didn’t know what to do with a crying woman. The only things he knew to do with women were avoid them or have sex with them. Neither option applied.

Feeling awkward and oversize, he walked up behind her and debated the issue of touching her. An apology lodged in his throat like a chicken bone, and he wished fervently that the world would just leave him alone to tend his ranch and train his horses. And people like Mary Lee Jennings and Lucy MacAdam and Evan Bryce would just stay down in California where they belonged.

“I-a-um-I’m-a-sorry.”

He practically spat the word out of his mouth. Mari would have laughed if she hadn’t felt so miserable. She suspected words didn’t come easily to a man like Rafferty. He didn’t need an emotional vocabulary to deal with horses and cattle.

Clutching the peanut tin to her chest, she sniffed and tried to swallow her tears, embarrassed to shed them in front of a man who was embarrassed to see them. But they pushed back hard, slamming up against the backs of her eyes, swimming up over the rim of her lashes. Lucy’s dead. Lucy’s dead. Lucy’s dead. The line chanted over and over in her mind, and echoing back were words that made her feel selfish and frightened. I’m all alone. I’m all alone. I’m all alone.

The shoulder she would have cried on had been reduced to ashes. She felt bombarded-by the decisions she had made about her own life in the past week and by the shocks that had been delivered since her arrival in Montana. All mental circuits overloaded and blew up.

Sobbing, she turned and fell against Rafferty. Any port in a storm. It didn’t matter that he was a jerk. He was something big and solid and warm to lean against. And he owed her, dammit. After all his insults, the least he could do was hold her while she cried.

She buried her face against his shoulder and pinned the peanut tin between them, heedless of the thing’s edges. For a moment, J.D. was motionless and dumb-founded, panic bolting through him. Then, almost of their own volition, his hands came up and settled on her shaking shoulders.

She was small and fragile. Fragile. The word reverberated as he listened to her cry. He couldn’t imagine Lucy crying over anything; she had been too tough, too cynical. But little Mary Lee cried as if the world were coming to an end. Because he’d hurt her feelings. Because she’d lost a friend.

“Hush,” he whispered, his fingers stealing upward into the baby-fine hair at the nape of her neck. The soft, fresh scent of her hooked his nose and lured his head down. “Shh. I’m sorry. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

The peanut tin was poking him in the stomach. J.D. ignored it. Dormant instincts stirred to life inside him-the desire to protect, the need to comfort. They slipped through the wall of his defenses in a spot made soft by this woman’s tears. She cried as though she had lost everything in the world. He told himself a man had to be made out of stone not to feel sympathy.

She turned her face and shuddered out a breath, and his head dropped another fraction. His cheek pressed against hers.

“Shhh. Hush,” he whispered, his lips moving against her skin. Soft as a peach. Warm. Damp and salty with tears. His fingers slid deeper into her tangled mane, cupping her head, tipping it. “Hush now,” he murmured.

Mari stared up at him. His eyes were the warm gray of old pewter, the pupils dilated and locked on her mouth. He seemed to be breathing hard. They both were. His lips were slightly parted. She remembered the feel of them, the taste of him. He wanted to kiss her now. The message vibrated in the air between them. She wanted to kiss him back.

Would he blame her for it afterward?

She stepped back as J.D. started to lower his mouth toward hers. He didn’t like her. She ripped herself up one side and down the other for wanting to kiss a man who had treated her so badly. She may have done a great many stupid things in her life, but falling for Neanderthals was not among her faults.

“I need to blow my nose,” she said. “Have you got a tissue?”

J.D. fished a clean handkerchief out of his hip pocket and handed it to her.

Mari blew her nose and tried to ignore the adolescent surge of embarrassment at her body functions. “I never mastered the art of crying delicately,” she said, folding the handkerchief and stuffing it into her pocket. “My sisters can do it. I’m pretty sure they don’t have any sinuses.”

She wiped away the last tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt and shot a sheepish glance at Rafferty. “Thanks for letting me cry all over you.”

He shrugged, feeling awkward and hating it. Annoyance pulled his brows down. “You didn’t give me much choice.”

“God, you’re so gracious.”

The big sorrel horse he had charged in on and then abandoned stepped toward her, his big liquid eyes soft with what looked for all the world like concern mixed with curiosity. He was a handsome animal, his coat a dark, glossy copper, a big white star between his eyes. He inched toward her, his reins dragging the ground. Slowly, he stretched his head out and blew on her gently, then stepped a little closer and bussed her cheek with his muzzle. The gesture struck Mari as being sweet and comforting, and a fresh hot wave of tears rose inside her along with a weak laugh.

“Your horse has better manners than you do.”

“I reckon that’s true enough,” J.D. said softly. Sarge caught his subtle hand signal and stepped back from Mari, nodding his head enthusiastically. She laughed, and J.D. ignored the fact that the husky sound pleased him. He hadn’t done the trick to impress her, just to stop her from crying again, that was all.

“What’s his name?”

“Sarge.”

He gave her the information almost grudgingly, as if he thought admitting he had given the animal a name showed some kind of hidden weakness. Mari bit down on a smile. “He’s beautiful,” she said. One arm still clutching her peanut tin, she reached up and stroked the gelding’s face, indulging his begging for an ear-scratching. He closed his eyes and groaned in appreciation.