determined... than most.”

She lifted a quelling brow but he merely shrugged.

“You’d be more successful, Miss Burnett, if you started behaving more like a lady.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“No? Stop acting as if you wear the trousers.”

Ellie went hot and then cold. For a moment she couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and then her shock gave way to rage. She drew a quick breath, fingers curling into a fist. If he were shorter, she’d slap him, as it was, she’d never reach his face. “What I do, and how I do it, is none of your concern, Mister....”

“Sheenan.”

“So, please continue on, Mr. Sheenan, as neither your assistance or opinions are required. Good day.”

He didn’t go. He stood off to the side watching her.

She was determined to ignore him and so she focused on Oisin, her beloved black stallion given to her for her twenty-first birthday last summer. Oisin wasn’t just her favorite horse, he was one of her best friends and while he was unscathed, her carriage wasn’t so lucky, the axle had snapped in two.

The broken axle meant the carriage couldn’t be moved, but she could unharness Oisin and ride him bareback home. It wouldn’t be the first time, and no matter what this Sheenan thought of her, she was an excellent horsewoman. Her father, Archibald Burnett of Fort Worth, Texas, one of the original cowboys on the Bozeman cattle drive, wouldn’t have it any other way. A single father, he’d made sure she could ride and rope as well as any man, determined his daughter would survive life in Montana’s rugged Paradise Valley.

Aware that Mr. Sheenan was waiting for her to fall apart, she set to work unbuckling the leather harness. She crooned to Oisin as she worked, and gradually her hands stopped trembling, her nerves replaced by indignation as she peeled away the belly band and breastplate, leaving just the driving bit in place.

Mr. Sheenan was not a gentleman. He should have aided her, not simply stood back and watched. Sinclair would have helped her—

She broke off, jaw grinding tight, the ache in her ankle increasing by the second.

She couldn’t focus on the pain, though, and she didn’t want to think about Sinclair Douglas, either, or the fact that she had to have had the shortest engagement in Marietta’s history.

Taking the driving bridle lines in hand, she drew Oisin parallel to the buggy and used the buggy’s high step to seat herself. Oisin didn’t even twitch a muscle or flick his tail as she adjusted her swollen ankle and then settled her gown’s full skirts, giving them an elegant shake.

It was then, and only then, that she looked over at Mr. Sheenan. The late afternoon sun’s bright rays gilded him with light, preventing her from seeing his expression, but she certainly hoped he could see hers because she felt beyond insulted. She was livid. “As I said, there was no need to trouble yourself, Mr. Sheenan. And, for your information, trousers do not make a man. Next time you meet a lady in distress, try some chivalry. Goodbye.”

And then with a flick of the lines, Oisin was off, delighted to be free of the buggy. She let him run, too, even though the canter bounced her ankle, but she was anxious to put distance between her and the arrogant Irishman and she’d suffer a little pain if it meant she could leave him in the dust.

The wind tugged at her hat, loosening the ribbons to the point that she shoved it back, letting it fall behind her head. Her long hair pulled free of the pins and by the time she reached the wood and iron gate marking the entrance to the Burnett Ranch she knew she looked completely disheveled but she also felt completely, gloriously free.

Once inside the impressive gate, she slowed to a walk, letting Oisin cool down. “Well done, my love,” she said, smiling and patting his warm damp neck.