Reclaiming Nick (16 page)

“Is it about Nick?” Cole asked, hating the tremor, even the hope in his voice. Had she found out about Nick’s shenanigans with other girls on campus? Even if she had, well, Nick was still his best friend. Despite Nick’s deceptions, Cole believed in the cowboy code—a cowboy never goes back on his word. He’d never actually promised not to woo Maggy, but it had been implied in his word to watch over her for Nick. And a cowboy never takes unfair advantage, especially of his best friend’s gal. Cole blew out a long breath and loosened his hold on her.

Maggy nodded, and her sobs started again.

What was he supposed to do? Cole held her, soothing. “Don’t cry, Mags.”

She sniffed, wiped her eyes again. “I’m sorry, Cole. I just don’t know what to do.”

He ran his thumb across her wet cheek, wishing he had words for her. But Nick would always be Nick, a charming cowboy, a conqueror of hearts. “I know,” he said feebly.

She looked up at him, her mouth opened slightly. “You do? Can you tell? How?”

“Nick hasn’t ever been very discreet.”

He watched as Maggy’s face drained of color. “He told you.”

Cole held very still. “No . . . I just heard it.”

She gasped and her face crumpled, a low moan issuing from her body.

“Mags, I’m sorry.” Her tears turned him inside out, and for a moment, all he wanted to do was bury his fist in Nick’s face.

She broke free of Cole’s embrace, stood, and stalked out into the icy parking lot, shaking her head as if engaged in some inner argument. Then she whirled, and her expression scared him with its ferocity. “I suppose you think I’m some sort of tramp.”

What?

“I wasn’t planning . . . I mean, we . . . it just happened.” She covered her face with her hands. “Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

Her words froze him. Oh no. Oh no. He felt as if he’d been belly punched, all the wind sucked out of him. “What do you mean?”

She didn’t look at him. “My mother is going to kill me.”

Although he hadn’t gone to college, Cole had been at the top of his class, and it didn’t take a genius to connect the dots. “Mags . . . are you pregnant?”

She lifted her head, and the tortured look on her face made his throat tight.

Somehow he found his feet. “Oh, Mags.” He took a step toward her.

She held out her hands, stopping him. “If I tell him, he’ll hate me. He’ll think I planned it or something.”

Cole ignored her gesture and gripped her shoulders.

She hung her hands on his arms, as if for support. “You can’t tell him, Cole. Okay? Please don’t tell him.”

He ground his teeth, wanting with everything inside him to track down Nick and . . . and . . . but what good would it do? Nick would come home, marry Maggy, and they’d live happily ever after. Just as fate had planned.

“No, I won’t tell, Mags.”

He’d been silent then and for all the years that followed.

Even now, as Cole watched his wife standing barefoot in her worn jeans and one of his old flannel shirts, dolling herself up for the prince of the Silver Buckle, he knew he had to stay silent again.

Nick Noble had finally returned. And if Cole cared for Maggy at all, he couldn’t stand in her way. Nick might be able to give her the future she deserved. At the least, his rekindled feelings for Maggy would keep him from contesting Bishop’s bequest until the land became theirs.

And if . . . if Nick still loved Maggy . . . then at least Maggy and CJ would be provided for, wouldn’t they? And CJ would have a father.

Cole actually thought he might stop breathing.

Maggy finished the second braid and turned to him. “I’ll be back by suppertime.”

He forced a smile. He loved her more than this, more than his insecure dreams, more than his fears and broken heart. “No, I’ll be fine. Stay for supper. Stay as long as you want.”

Nick couldn’t believe how much he enjoyed spending time with their new cook. As he sat beside Piper on the bench seat of the chuck wagon, feeling her arm brush against his now and again, he began to relax. Something about sitting next to her, listening to her hum, as if she might be looking forward to the blistering work of roundup, made the tensions inside him loosen.

“The ribs look good, George. You must have been baking them all night.”

Piper glanced at him, a slight smile on her pretty face. She wore her blonde hair pulled back and up, and it only accentuated her high cheekbones, her perfectly shaped lips, those big blue eyes. The wind stole the wisps from her hair clip and played them around her face. It was all he could do not to push the errant strands back. She didn’t seem to mind the interference and kept her hands folded between her knees, looking about seventeen in her black T-shirt with a buffalo-head imprint and slim-fitting, low-cut jeans.

Nick tore his attention away from her, disturbed at how often she filled his mind these days. It didn’t help that every time he turned around, he seemed to be rescuing her—from stopping the bull from turning her to mincemeat to the near fire in the dining hall yesterday. It had taken him half the night to dislodge her image—shapely in a charcoal-stained apron and a hint of mascara staining her cheeks—from his thoughts. And her grateful smile only made her seem sweet.

Yes, somehow Piper had gotten under his skin, enough to keep him awake and relish the idea of helping her cook today’s meal.

The barbeque sauce on those ribs smelled like heaven. He couldn’t wait to taste them. Apparently, despite her fiasco with the cast-iron pots, the woman could cook.

“Do you do roundup every year, or is this for my benefit?” Piper asked.

Give her silence and the woman would fill it with questions. Curious George. “We’ve done it every year I can remember. Ages ago, before the ranches had fences dissecting the land, cowhands rounded up the cattle, divided them by brands, and worked on the cattle together. Now it’s a way to bear one another’s burdens.”

He couldn’t help but think of all the roundups he’d missed over
the past decade. Yeah, he’d been great about bearing his family’s burdens. Guilt tasted fresh and acrid in his throat.

“Who else will be there?”

“The hands from the two other ranches and a few day hands Stef hired from town yesterday. And of course Dutch and Old Pete.”

“I met those two hands Stefanie hired. Quint and Andy? They’re cowboys in every sense of the word.”

Nick nodded. Tall and lanky, the pair looked as if they’d been dragged a hundred miles behind a mustang. But they were willing and cheap and knew how to throw a rope. Right now, the Silver Buckle couldn’t afford better. “Yeah, I saw their gear. And their truck. They’re probably fresh from the amateur rodeo circuit, looking for some solid work for the summer.”

“The one looks rough around the edges. He’s got a barbed-wire tattoo.” Piper clamped her upper arm to indicate where.

Nick had seen it too, and it had all his instincts firing. Not that he judged Quint based on a tattoo—good people the world over wore tattoos these days. No, it was his demeanor, his swagger, the way he’d studied Piper as she walked to the lodge last night. Nick had sat on the porch, watching, and made a mental note to keep one eye on blond and shifty Quint Fadden. “If he gives you any trouble, let me know.”

When Piper glanced at him, he couldn’t read her eyes. “Okay. But I can take care of myself. I know self-defense.”

The way she said it, like Tweety rolling up her sleeves, made him smirk.

Her expression darkened. “I can. I’m working on my purple belt.” She looked away from him, apparently piqued.

He tried to stifle a chuckle, but it burst through his teeth.

Piper glared at him.

He forced the smile from his face. “Sorry, George. I can’t imagine you going toe to toe—or rather chin to forehead—with Quint, regardless of what color belt you’re wearing.”

Her glare didn’t ease.

“Fine. If they get in your way, I’ll be looking forward to your roundhouse kick,” Nick said.

That earned him the smallest of smiles. “Good.”

“But seriously, Piper, don’t be a hero.”

“Because you’ll be one for me?”

Her accusation startled him. “No . . . I mean . . . well, if you need one—”

This time she laughed. “I promise, Nick, after I flatten him, I’ll come running straight to you for help.”

“Deal.” He held out his hand and grinned as she shook it.

She stared off at the horizon. “I wish all cowboys thought like you.”

The comment made him pause. He looked at her and wondered if she’d actually said it.

Especially when she turned as if they hadn’t had that segue in their conversation and asked, “Where are we having this roundup?”

“Uh . . . a central pasture between the winter pasture and one of the fields. Stefanie hopes to get a few hundred head branded and tagged today. They’ll also vaccinate them and castrate the steers.”

“But don’t you have three thousand head?”

“Yeah. Pete, Quint, and Andy will spend the next couple of weeks rounding up and branding the rest of the cattle.” He’d probably be out there helping too. When he wasn’t helping CJ throw a rope. He’d been surprised at how much he’d enjoyed getting to know
the kid yesterday and had hated himself a little for his agenda. But he’d discovered some interesting information.

Like CJ was ten years old. If Nick did the math right, he would have been conceived right about the time Nick left. Cole had certainly wasted no time moving in on Nick’s girl.

But the gem of information—the one he’d been plowing for—had surfaced just as CJ was leaving. He’d stopped in the living room, staring at the picture of Bishop. “I miss him,” he said softly.

Nick knelt beside him. “You knew my father?”

“Uh-huh.” CJ started again for the door, picking up his hat from the hook. “He let me call him Pops. Probably ’cause my mom was here all the time, taking care of him.”

Nick watched him go, but the questions burned at him until Stefanie returned home. He probably hadn’t picked the best time to pounce on his sister—he should have waited until she’d showered and cleaned off the dirt of the day. But his emotions had played havoc with his thoughts, and he’d followed her upstairs, nearly into her room, asking questions.

Wearily, she’d told him only that Maggy had worked for them, cleaning and cooking and taking care of Bishop until the end.

That didn’t answer the question of why she’d married Cole only two months after they broke up—and according to his recollection, they hadn’t broken up, not officially.

He guessed that now it could be deemed official.

Nick glanced at Piper beside him, watched her scanning the scenery, and remembered the days when Maggy would ride beside him or on her mare while he rode Pecos. Maggy had worn the same look of appreciation for the land under the big sky as Piper did now. Maggy loved the life—training her horses, working
alongside her father at the Kincaid ranch, riding fence with Nick. She belonged here, as if she made up the very breath that caressed the bluffs and draws.

Cole had also loved the land.

Perhaps that was what drew Cole and Maggy together. That and their common hatred for Nick.

The thought stabbed at him. Although he hadn’t had a real girlfriend since Maggy, he thought that wound had scarred over. Evidently not. With Piper sitting beside him, however, it suddenly seemed easier to bear.

“I can’t imagine growing up out here so far from the city and pop culture. Was it lonely?” Piper turned, a slight smile playing on her face. “Or did you spend every moment with your cattle?”

“I was a regular kid. Played football, went to prom, hung out at the local diner on the weekends. But I loved ranch life. Loved roundup and branding and working alongside my father’s ranch hands. I even dabbled in the rodeo circuit for a while—won a roping championship.”

Her eyebrows raised at that. “I saw you roping with a kid yesterday. You looked like you knew what you were doing.”

He shrugged but liked the shine in her eyes. He had to wonder if she saw in him a shade of the old cowboys, the heroes of the Old West.

After all the years of being an outlaw, he didn’t mind that idea at all.

CHAPTER 11

R
OUNDUP WASN’T ANYTHING
like the glamorous events on television. Acrid smoke and the smell of burning hide hung in the air, and the sound of calves bawling for their mamas made Piper want to cry. She’d finally tied a handkerchief around her nose, not only to keep out the smells but to keep herself from coughing at the smoke that watered her eyes as she prepared lunch—or dinner, as they called it in cow country—for the thirty or so workers who’d shown up.

Everywhere she looked there were cowboys in chaps and hats swinging ropes. If it weren’t for Nick’s focus on helping her prepare the food, her journalistic instincts would have taken hold and she’d have been swept up in fascination, dictating into the recorder tucked into her pocket.

It took her about fifteen seconds to figure out that the skills cowboys displayed on the rodeo circuit were honed out here on the range. First, they separated the cows from the babies, moving the calves into a separate pen. Their cries sounded so much like children hollering for their mothers, it pricked the latent nurturer
inside Piper. Then some cowpoke would free a calf, and a header would rope the head while a heeler netted the two hind legs. The calf would fall, and a third cowboy would twist its head into a submissive position while another hand took an iron from the furnace and applied the Silver Buckle brand, an oval with one line passing through it. Piper stood too close the first few times—so close she heard the skin sizzle. That turned her stomach enough to make her back away and watch from afar. After branding, yet another hand would pop the poor animal with a vaccination.

Then, to her horror, came the worst part. Castration. Piper forced herself to watch the first time, her face surely betraying her emotions as a cowboy’s hand turned the bull into a steer. The poor animal struggled to its feet and ran to its mother, crying.

Piper sorta felt like doing the same thing. The entire process took less than five minutes. Stefanie Noble presided over the entire event, separating the cowboys into teams, even pitching in to wrestle a calf into the dirt. Piper would bet that cowboys like Quint didn’t give Stefanie any sass.

“Rocky Mountain oysters,” Nick said, coming up beside Piper as she turned away from the bawling, hot, bloody mess. “Yum.”

Nick looked so tall beside her. With a red handkerchief tied at his neck and wearing gloves and a hat, he looked pure cowboy. Especially with the two-day-old dark beard growth and those look-through-her eyes. Earlier, sitting next to him on the chuck wagon, she’d felt . . . well . . . safe. Like he would step between her and Quint or whoever tried to harass her, regardless of her roundhouse kick.

It had felt so much like Jimmy that she’d had a hard time speaking.

It didn’t help that Nick had spent the last hour helping her build the giant cook fire and hanging the kettles of ribs over the flames.

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she said. “Oysters?”

Nick gestured toward the growing pile in the pot near the branding center. He couldn’t mean . . .

“That is so disgusting!” Piper put her hand over her mouth, then made a face. “Yuck!”

Nick grinned, clearly enjoying her revulsion. “I guess I’m in charge of that entrée.”

She gaped at him. “Gross. We are not making that!”

He raised one eyebrow in amusement. “Yes we are. It’s a tradition.”

“Not over my fire.” Piper shook her head for emphasis.

“Yes, over your fire.” He stared at her a long time, frowning as if not believing that she’d hold her ground. “All right, fine. I’ll build a new fire.” He shook his head, but his grin didn’t vanish. “But trust me, you’ll like them.”

She made a gagging noise and gripped her throat as if she were choking.

Behind her, a truck pulled up towing a horse trailer and parked next to the assembly of other trucks and trailers. As Piper watched, CJ climbed out of the cab and lifted a hand to Nick.

Nick’s smile vanished. He swallowed and returned the wave. “Guess I’ll go get that fire going,” he said more to himself than to Piper.

She watched him nearly run from CJ and the shapely redhead who were now opening their trailer to free their horses.

Who was this woman and what power did she have over Nick? Another question to add to the collection. This one also ignited an annoying quiver of discomfort in Piper’s belly.

The roundup continued over the noon hour and into the afternoon, calves bawling, fire spitting, the sounds of cowboys whooping as they separated the cattle or drove the calves into pens. They broke in early afternoon for dinner. Piper served the ribs and brown biscuits, keeping an eye on the redhead. She hoped for a moment to draw her aside, casually ask her name, maybe even her history with Nick that so clearly bristled him. He’d been pensive all day, frying up the . . . ah, oysters, helping Piper stoke the campfire, and avoiding the redhead as if she had the Ebola virus.

Yes, Piper definitely needed to track down the history on these two.

After dinner the cowboys resumed their terror on the cows. Long shadows filled the gullies and draws by the time they called it quits for the day and rode in for round two of the ribs—supper. Piper served the leftover ribs, beans, potato salad, and biscuits to the exhausted workers.

Stefanie leaned against the retractable shelf at the end of the chuck wagon, balancing her plate while she ate a rib. “Nicely done, Piper. This is an awesome recipe, and you made enough for two meals. That’s the way to think ahead.”

Piper felt a blush creeping into her cheeks, hating the twinge of guilt that hung on her like a burr. Hey, she’d done a decent job of tracking down a meal, and it had cost her that bonus she’d been saving for Cancun—for that she deserved an honest thank-you.

“Delicious potato salad, Cookie,” Quint drawled from his spot nearby.

Piper spied Nick at the other campfire, at the end of a short line of cowpokes dishing themselves up the gourmet range treat he’d prepared. Now and again he gave Piper a reassuring smile.

For a second, she saw herself working here all summer, stoking the fire, actually baking the ribs, enjoying Nick’s attention.

Enjoying Nick’s attention? Clearly her good sense had run off into the horizon, probably with her righteous vendetta at its side.

Someone should remind her that she didn’t want or need a sweet-talking cowboy in her life. She had a career. A future uncovering injustice. A life that included chai and bok choy.

Piper no more fit on the Silver Buckle than Nick fit in a gourmet kitchen, baking scones.

The redhead and her son sat cross-legged on the other side of the fire, talking with Dutch, the big blond cow boss of the Silver Buckle. Piper and he hadn’t exchanged more than ten words, but he seemed nice, if quiet. He wore a white ten-gallon hat, and his shadow took up nearly an acre. He smiled at the boy like a proud uncle.

Nearby the cows and calves, now reunited, grazed happily, the day’s terrors at an end. Horses tethered to their trailers ate a well-deserved meal.

“I hope we have leftovers for tomorrow,” Stefanie said.

Piper scraped the last of the potato salad into a container. “What do you mean?”

“We didn’t get done today. There’s another small herd that needs to be rounded up. We’ll head down to that field first thing in the morning and finish up with this section.”

“All of us?” Piper watched a big man, the owner of the Big K, rise and deposit his plate and tin cup in her dishwater. He nodded in her direction, showing a white smile on his tanned face.

“No, just the Buckle crew.”

“You mean, we’re going to spend the night out here?” Piper grimaced at the tremor in her voice. She’d been camping before
plenty of times. But being out here, with the cows and wolves . . . and men . . .

Stefanie laughed. “You can sleep in the chuck wagon if you want.”

“How about I head back to the ranch?”

Stefanie sopped up the last of her sauce with her biscuit. “I can ask Nick to take you back. But you’ll have to get up early in order to meet us out at the field.” She didn’t sound in the least like she might be pulling Piper’s leg.

“How early?”

“Fourish.” Stefanie deposited her plate in the dishwater. “That coffee done?”

“Uh . . . I dunno,” Piper answered. Nick had started the coffee brewing over the fire; she hadn’t the faintest idea when it might be ready. But 4 a.m.?

She’d slept in a culvert, a cattle trailer, and even her Jeep a few times. But never next to manure . . . and in the same airspace as Nick Noble. Even if it was wide-open airspace.

But with the stars scattered above, Nick might offer to take her for a walk or a ride. It wasn’t a good sign that the thought of being alone with him sent tingles through Piper that had nothing to do with fear.

Nick had changed and not only in his appearance. That much Maggy could tell from observing him all day. He had stretched out, become a man. His laughter sounded deeper, his face more solemn when he listened. So much different from the renegade she knew in high school.

The renegade who had stolen a huge chunk of her heart.

And said outlaw knew she was here—by the way he practically ran circles around her, as if she wore an electric fence around her body.

However, he had no problem high-fiving CJ and even showing him a few more roping pointers before supper. CJ simply glowed with the attention. Maggy’s dread burned inside her.

She’d come to the roundup today prepared for all the old emotions to rise from the grave and ravage her, like they had the first time she saw Nick outside his barn. She didn’t exactly expect that she’d swoon at his feet, but she did worry that Nick would send her one smoldering look and she’d feel afresh the wounds he’d left her with.

Instead, as she watched Nick dodge her, she felt a sense of satisfaction. Nick no longer had power over her. The strings that held his memory to her heart had finally, quietly been severed.

In fact, Nick was the one who looked wounded. Instead of leading the teams, he’d stepped aside and let Stefanie take over—or rather, resume her place. She’d been leading roundup for the last three years, since Bishop had gotten too sick to work.

Stefanie had given Maggy a hug, then assigned her to help with roping. Maggy worked as a heeler, then took her turn heating the irons.

All the time, the new cookie watched her as if she might be Calamity Jane come back from the grave. Maggy gave her a small smile when she served her a plate of ribs and received a once-over, along with the obligatory smile.

Maggy finished her supper, listening to Dutch spin a yarn to CJ about the outlaws who used to hide in these hills while watching Nick out of the corner of her eye.

“Mom, Dutch says that their new hand Andy is gonna play his guitar. S’pose we can stay for a bit?”

Maggy sighed, torn by the eagerness on CJ’s face and her desire to return to Cole. She’d come to the roundup against Cole’s wishes, even if he’d said the opposite. “Stay as long as you’d like.” Yeah, sure. He was probably sitting by the window with his binoculars, holding his breath for their return. She knew he’d refused to come because of Nick and not because of his broken leg. Cole didn’t exactly loaf around the house, even with his cast. Yesterday she’d caught him overhauling the carburetor in the truck.

She wasn’t stupid. Something had changed after his doctor’s appointment. Something that put desperation in Cole’s eyes, and it frightened her.

Lord, please, I can’t lose him.

“Please, Mom?” CJ pleaded, bringing her thoughts back to his request.

“For a while, I guess,” Maggy said. He ran off to join a circle of other cowpokes as she leaned back on the grass. The sun had dipped beyond the ragged Bighorns, leaving only splashes of reddish orange along the horizon. The scent of the campfire and the lull of contented Angus soothed her tired bones. This was her life. She never felt more whole and content than when she spent a day on the range.

“How’s Cole?” Dutch asked, gathering their plates.

“Sore. But not complaining. He’ll pry off that cast in a week or two, I’ll bet.”

Dutch gave a wry chuckle. “You call me if you need something.”