Accidental Cowgirl (3 page)

Kyla fought the little jump in her tummy at his words. As much as her fantasies might have starred a deserted highway, broken-down car, and rugged, handsome cowboy, her reality was a bit smarter. It was one thing to outrun the geezer. The cowboy? Not so much. Was she actually safer with the pseudo-cop?

Roscoe looked doubtful, but rubbed his stomach. “I don’t know, Decker. You sure you can handle her? She’s kind of a pisser.”

Pisser? She’d done everything he’d asked! She’d even called him
sir
, though by the time they’d gotten to jumping jacks, she was pretty sure he was faking the whole cop thing.

“Pissers are my specialty, old buddy.” The cowboy brushed his hand across his mouth like he was trying not to laugh. “You just get in your truck and head back up to town. I’ll take care of her.”

Roscoe turned toward his truck, then back to Kyla. He pointed at her and narrowed his eyes again. “I’ll be watching you, young lady.”

Kyla watched as Roscoe pulled his rattly old truck back onto the pavement, too late realizing she should have asked him to call AAA for her when he got to somewhere with a cell signal. Once he cleared the rise and disappeared, Decker turned back toward Kyla, shaking his head. “Jumping jacks? You let him make you do jumping jacks?”

“You saw that?”

“Why’d he pull you over, anyway?”

“He didn’t. I have a flat tire. I was just sitting here when he came along, thinking maybe he was going to help. Instead, I’ve now had a whole battery of sobriety tests and I still have a flat tire.”

He raised his eyebrows, glancing down at her skirt. “You don’t know how to change a tire?” He shook his head as he peered around the back of the car to check out her wheel.

“I know how to change a tire, thank you. And I would have been perfectly capable of changing
this
one, but there’s no spare.”

“It’s illegal not to have a spare.”

“It’s not my car.”

“Whose is it?”

“A … friend’s.”
Yes, a friend’s. Definitely not a rental. Which means I’m definitely not a deserted tourist, got it?

“Where are you heading?”

Oh, no way she was answering that one. “North.”

His eyes crinkled. “Where your biker-gang buddies are waiting for you, and if you don’t show up in the next three-point-five minutes, they’ll be right down?”

“Exactly.”

“Got it.”

“Are
you
a cop?”

“Nope.”

“Is he?” She pointed up the road where the blue truck had disappeared.

“Was. Trooper Roscoe Dubuque, Montana State Police.”

“Retired?”

“Yup.”

“Does he forget that sometimes?”

“What? That he’s retired?” Decker looked her up and down, then locked his eyes on hers again. Kyla fought to match his stare, though her eyes longed to travel the length of him. It should have been hard, but his irises were such a deep blue that she couldn’t look away. Good Lord, this man belonged in a catalog. “Roscoe believes he’s doing the right thing. He really does. You want me to check out that tire?”

Kyla uncrossed her arms and glanced down, realizing she was still barefoot. She looked for the heels she’d kicked off and headed toward them as she answered. “Depends. Do you have a magic air pump?”

“No, but I’ve got something in my truck that might fix it temporarily.” He crouched down and poked at her tire. “Maybe.” He turned and headed for his truck, shaking his head. “Don’t want to leave you out here for the bears.” Kyla looked around, hardly meaning to, and Decker laughed.

“Not funny.”

“Sorta funny,” he called, head buried in some toolbox in the truck bed.

She tried not to watch as he tossed around some tools, but to her chagrin, she was having trouble
not
following him with her eyes. His soft green shirt tapered into just-worn-enough Levis
that hugged all the right parts in all the right ways. She shook her head.
There is no greater trouble than a too-handsome man
, she could hear Gramma telling her.

And Gramma, as always, had been one hundred and fifty percent right on that one. It was going to be a lo-o-ong time before she’d ever go down that path again. She kicked the flat tire with her toe, then jumped as Decker came around the back of her car.

“Don’t move,” he ordered as he walked slowly toward her, pointing a rifle.

“He had a gun? Omigod!” Hayley bounced down onto a huge leather couch beside Kyla, handing her a glass of white wine as she angled her body to keep one eye on Kyla and one on the rest of the room. Kyla could practically see her turning on her bat-ears so she could listen in on everyone’s conversations. If her vet business ever went south, she’d be a shoo-in for the CIA.

“Well, it turns out I was lucky he did. If he hadn’t, I’d be hooked up to an anti-venom drip right now. At least he got my tire blown up enough for me to make it here. I need to call the rental agency and have it towed back tomorrow. No way am I getting in that thing again.”

“I didn’t even know they had rattlesnakes out here.” Hayley took a deep breath and patted Kyla’s knee. “Okay, so we’ll consider this a minor blip in my master plan. The point is … you met a cowboy! Already!”

Her auburn curls bounced as she shifted on the couch. Ever since they’d met at freshman orientation, Hayley’d been trying to corral those curls while Kyla had envied them. And though Kyla had learned to be content with the fact that her five-foot-three frame would never be able to reach the top shelves at the grocery store, she still wished sometimes for hair that wasn’t a dull, straight brown. Next to Hayley and Jess, she felt like the plain-Jane friend who always got killed off first in horror movies.

She’d made it to the ranch just in time to find their cabin, shower off the hideous day, and change for the first evening’s meet-n-greet at the main lodge. She looked around at the living room, which was three times as big as her apartment. But with the logs crackling in the fieldstone fireplace, flickering wall sconces, and soft brown leather couches arranged in conversational groupings, it was as cozy as could be. The soft lighting and wide pine floors were soothing in a way she couldn’t quite define, and she swore she could smell chocolate chip cookies.

Jess floated down to sit on Kyla’s left, tucking her peasant skirt around her legs. When Jess had arrived in the dorm a week later than the rest of the students, Hayley and Kyla had been wary of her exotic looks and southern upbringing. By second semester, they’d moved Jess into their tiny corner room, turning their double into a triple. The three of them had been inseparable
ever since.

Her cinnamon tea smelled heavenly as she leaned closer to Kyla. “So, sweetie, tell us about the cowboy.”

“There’s nothing to tell, really.”

“Then why are you blushing?”

Kyla pressed her fingers to her flaming cheeks. Oh, to not be so damn Irish. “Seriously, there’s nothing to tell. Car went
screech
, cop went
walk the line, lady
, and cowboy went
bam
!”

Hayley grinned. “I still can’t believe he thought you were drunk. Did he think you’d done shots at the airport bar, or what?”

Jess pulled her legs up under her in a yoga pose Kyla wouldn’t be able to make her body do with ten years of practice. “After the morning she had, I’m surprised she didn’t do them in Boston before she left.”

“I was sorely tempted.” Kyla cringed, remembering the closing moments of the trial earlier that day. She’d been called to the stand one last time, and though she was prepared for the questions—had practiced for hours with her attorney, for God’s sake—she’d still had a panic attack right in the witness box, in front of the jury, the press, and Wes’s family. Only desperation and a nonrefundable ticket had gotten her on the plane afterward. She would have much preferred to stumble back to her apartment and hide for the rest of the foreseeable future.

“Sweetie, I think this place is going to be just what you need.” Jess patted Kyla’s knee. “Just think—no trial, no city, no Wes, no press.”

No real job, either, unfortunately. Her accounting agency had felt it in their best interests to “maintain some distance from her situation,” so despite her MBA from Princeton and her stellar reputation prior to the Wes debacle, they’d given her a six-week severance package and had FedExed her personal belongings to her at home. Now she was doing piecemeal voiceover work for an ad agency she’d interned with during her senior year. Instead of advising multimillion-dollar companies on their investment portfolios, she was recording television commercials for couples-only resorts and antacid.

She rubbed her right thigh in a motion that had become almost automatic over the past year. After six hours on a plane, three in a car, and forty-two jumping jacks, it ached beyond belief, just like it had for almost twelve months now.

If the pain had been just physical, she could have learned to live with it by now.
Unfortunately, every twinge reminded her of the night she’d driven back from Gramps and Gramma’s Vermont farmhouse, panicking because Wes hadn’t shown up as promised and wasn’t answering his cell.

Every ache reminded her of the moment she’d hit a swamped section of Interstate 89 and hydroplaned just shy of a guardrail. She’d landed snug against a tree that had triggered her airbags, trapped her inside, and hidden her whereabouts until the next morning. The same state trooper who’d found her and called the heavy rescue crew to extract her had played good-cop three weeks later at her first interrogation, after she’d finally awakened from her coma.

“Ooh!” Hayley’s voice lowered dramatically as she looked over Kyla’s shoulder. “Don’t look now, but I think the cowboys have arrived.”

Jess unfolded her legs from the couch and snuck a peek. “Hmm. Rugged, strong, handsome. But they’re definitely not the sunset guys on the brochure. I can’t even believe these two are brothers. They look nothing alike.”

“I bet they’re not as hot as Decker.” Kyla clapped her hand over her mouth as soon as the words were out.

“Decker?” Jess lifted her eyebrows. “Would that be Mr. Cowboy from earlier?”

Kyla shrugged her shoulders as she tried not to smile too widely. “Maybe.”

Hayley elbowed Jess. “Well, if Cowboy Decker is hotter than these two, then I think we need to help Kyla find him again while we’re here. These two must be the ranch hands.” Kyla watched Hayley’s eyes travel down and up the men. “I’m thinking I could easily be convinced to like cowboys.”

Kyla fought the urge to turn around. She wasn’t yet sure whether she was a fan of the cowboy breed. On one hand, they were unfairly gorgeous. On the other, they scared innocent women with their big guns. On the
other
other hand, they saved incompetent tourists who didn’t recognize a poisonous snake warning until it was far too late.

Hayley’s eyes gleamed as she tore them away from the cowboys. “Ladies, should we make a bet?”

“Sounds dangerous.” Jess swirled her tea.

Kyla shook her head. “No bets, Hayls. My only goal is to survive this vacation without breaking any more bones. Men are not in the equation.”

“Even cowboys?”

“
Definitely
not cowboys.”

* * *

“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” Cole coughed on the chicken wing he’d just bitten into. “How the
hell
did Dad get into that big of a mess?” He set his plate on the kitchen counter while he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.

Decker scooped a wing out of the pot on the stove, glancing at the swinging doors into the great room to make sure Ma wasn’t coming back through. Over the top of the doors he could see the ranch hands already holding court by the buffet table. “Same way he got in the first ten-thousand-dollar mess. Only bigger.”

“Jesus, Decker. How in the world are we ever going to be able to repay that?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure his bookie’s hoping we can’t.”

“Because if we can’t, he gets the ranch.” Cole set his plate down. “Shit, Decker. What are we going to do?”

“Marry rich?” Decker forced his voice to stay light as he scooped another wing and cocked his head toward the swinging doors where the new guests were gathering in the great room. “Any prospects out there?”

“Very funny. And no. We’ve got a middle-aged couple on an anniversary vacation, two divorcées, and three late registrations in from Boston.”

“Not very promising.”

“How’d your meeting with the bank go?” Cole peered at the door again. Ma was going to bust them any second and force them to go mingle.

“Same as the last one went.” Decker scrubbed his hand through his hair. “We are—quote—encouraged to seek a second mortgage elsewhere.”

“How long did the bookie give us?”

“Said he’d be back in a month. And that was generous. Said his boss had a soft spot for widows, but with a chunk of change this big, his soft spot could only last thirty days.”

“Thirty days?”
Cole sat down hard on a wooden kitchen chair. “Oh, my God, Decker. What are we going to do? You already maxed out your retirement and life insurance. Ma doesn’t even know that.”

“Well, let’s hope she never has to find out.” He’d used all of his savings already, too, getting the mortgage current enough to avoid foreclosure. “We’ll figure something out. We don’t have a choice.”

Decker put on his Stetson and his cowboy game face, determined to pretend he was confident they’d find a way out of the situation. It at least gave him the chance to try to do something right, after all the damage he’d done. “But we’re not going to figure it out tonight. Suppose we should go out there and meet the guests?”

“Do we have to?”

“Yeah, we do. But I’ll tell you this—if the Boston gals have that twang thing going on where they forget the letter R is a legitimate member of the alphabet, I’m calling in sick for the week. I cannot do another trail ride with that accent. I swear, I’ll shoot off my own toe to get out of it.”

“Ha. Like Ma’d let you off that easy. She’d give you a big-ass Band-Aid and a tetanus shot and heave you on your horse herself.”