She didn’t know how she could have refused.

She only knew she would have had to!

Gabe McBride set off all the bells and whistles of attraction that Freddie was certain had well and truly died with Mark. It had been four years since Mark’s death, and she hadn’t once looked at another man.

But she had looked at Gabe McBride today.

Then she’d have handed him a key and sent him on his way. She wished she could have sent him clear back to America!

The feelings were all too familiar. The attraction all too strong. It was the same thing she’d felt for Mark.

And the very last thing she needed.

A cowboy, for heaven’s sake!

She’d already proved her susceptibility to one handsome devil-may-care man-Mark had been wild and dashing and reckless. It didn’t take much imagination to see that Gabe McBride, however much blue Stanton blood ran in his veins, was another red-blooded, risk-taking man.

She’d read his belt buckle, hadn’t she? It had proclaimed him a Salinas bull-riding champion.

Freddie wasn’t sure exactly what being a bull-riding champion was, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t anything safe.

No, sorry. No matter how much she owed the earl, she wasn’t offering hospitality to the likes of Gabe McBride.

Not a chance.

Gabe had always thought himself hale and hearty-resilient, capable of withstanding great extremes of weather. He was, after all, Montana born-and-bred.

He damn near froze his ass off in one night in Stanton Abbey!

“Get a good night’s sleep,” Earl had told him cheerfully when Gabe had rung before bedtime.

Sleep? Gabe doubted he slept a wink. He spent the whole day reacquainting himself with the Abbey and all night prowling the cupboards, looking for more blankets, piling them on, trying to sleep, shivering, then rising to go look for more.