It was the man she'd seen in the ring, dressed in denim pants and
a worn denim shirt. He was walking toward them. She became
conscious of her tousled hair, and tried to remember whether or
not she had brushed her teeth. Yet she did not fully connect
these concerns with the materialization of this stranger.
"You must be the fortunate owner of this magnificent beast," the
smiling man said. His lean, strong jaw and powerful physique were
matched by a robust, accented voice.
"Yes," Greta said with evident pride.
He was taller than he had first appeared when she spotted him in
the ring, a hair over six feet, she estimated. He had hazel eyes,
and his dark brown hair was long and thick and pulled back into a
neat ponytail. She guessed he was in his mid-thirties.
"Jennifer?" the man said, turning to the ranch's owner.
"Oh! I'm sorry." The older woman placed a casual hand on Greta's
shoulder. "Jean-Pierre Poitras, this is Mrs. Greta Locke." At the
"Mrs." part, her voice had risen ever so slightly.
Greta offered her right hand, then realized her mistake. He
laughed, and with his left hand he gestured at his slung arm.
Staring at it, she saw that there was no cast. "We can use this
hand," Jean-Pierre said. Before she had a chance to realize what
was happening, he had her left hand in his own.
She gasped, recoiling her hand like a viper.
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