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Reagan Dawes flatly refuses to wed and bed a man she doesn't love, a fact than incenses her step father. But when she finds herself sold at auction high in the Rockies, her attitude toward men and marriage undergoes a swift and startling change.
Standing beside her, looking windblown and fierce, Jackson Broussard lay a hand on her shoulder, doubtless an attempt to comfort her. Yet Reagan's nerves, stretched to their limits, could endure no softness, no sympathy, especially from him. "keep your paws to your ownself, dammit! I ain't no prize goat, to be poked and prodded at whim!"
Her tone was cutting and his expression darkened. "I've seen goats with more amiable dispositions than mademoiselle, but few that were more fragrant. You smell like a sump hole."
Reagan was well aware of her indelicate condition, and she did not need this handsome rake to point it out to her. "it ain't no fragrance of my choosin'. Those jackanapes thought it a fine joke to roll me in the buffalo dung after they caught me, and I ain't had time to indulge in a bath, unlike some folks I know!" The tears came now in earnest. She groaned as the trickle of moisture became a ragin torrent. Then, she was being turned, her cheek pressed to a hard, muscular shoulder.
"Come," he said, "don't cry. You'll wear yourself out, and it isn't as bad as all that. Though it may appear otherwise now, you haven't quite fallen afoul of the Devil."