The Cowboy Claims His Lady (4 page)

Her hand slid down his back and pressed his buttock. Groaning, he slid her fingers to his groin, enticing her to feel his arousal. But she knew he was hard and ready without having to verify it. He pressed himself against her, his maleness like a police baton.

She pulled back, suddenly knowing she was in over her head.

The weariness in her eyes seemed to stop him too. His warmth was suddenly gone. She seemed to awaken from a dream, and found herself in the arms of a snowman. He pulled away from her, the eyes still staring, but this time with accusation and censure.

“We've got to go,” he said abruptly, pulling her out of the water as if she were nothing but a rag doll.

“Why?” she gasped, disoriented by his moods and the lash of stinging cold air on her wet body.

“Do what's good for you, girl. Get your clothes on,” he answered gruffly.

She looked at him. Every tight line of his buttocks was visible in the sheer wet cotton of his boxers.

He turned around to scowl at her. She held her breath. If what she saw between his legs was the result of cold shrinkage, she doubted she could handle it, even then.

“You want some now?” he demanded.

She gasped and shook her head.

“Then, get your clothes on.” He turned to scoop up his jeans and shirt.

She fumbled for her jeans. Sodden and shivering, she could hardly pull them on.

“You can put your boots on in the truck.” He led her by the elbow to the pickup and helped her into the cab.

Seated next to her, he flipped the switch for the diesel and started the engine.

“W-w-was it something I did?” she stammered.

He glanced at her, his face a stone mask in the dashboard light.

“I thought we were having fun—”

He stopped her. “Know what a grizzly feels like when it wakes up?”

She shook her head, her eyes wide.

“He's hungry,” he growled. “So hungry he can't think of anything but what it is that he wants.”

“And what do you want?” Her words came out in a frightened whisper.

He took one hard look at her. He didn't have to speak.

Even she heard the word in the silence, the long, echoing word, damning her and praising her in a monosyllabic curse.

You.

“A
dead varmint. Yep. That's what she looks like.” Hazel's words penetrated the fog in Lyndie's mind.

“It's awake! It's awake! Hallelujah!” Ebby, Hazel's longtime cook, a tall raw-boned woman who'd ranched a hundred head of cattle and five sons all on a widow's pension, stood over the bed.

Hazel peered over Ebby's silver tray of coffee and toast. “Yep. There's life in her still. I see her glaring at me.”

Lyndie sat up in bed. Her head pounded. She winced.

“Have a good stomp at the mill, did we?” Ebby tsked while she set down the breakfast tray.

“I'll never drink whiskey again,” Lyndie moaned.

“Is it the whiskey you regret, or the man?” Hazel asked.

“Oh, please say it's the whiskey.” Ebby clucked. “Even old hens like us dream about men like Bruce Everett.”

Lyndie eyed both women woefully. “I was set up. And which one of you did it? Was it—Hazel?” she accused.

Hazel smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Live life to bursting, I always say. But I didn't think you'd go and do it the first minute you were off the yoke, dear. Still, you're a McCallum through and through. You'll find your way. We McCallums always do.”

“Hazel, promise me for the rest of this trip that you'll refrain from mentioning the words
whiskey
and
men.
”

Lyndie wobbled to her feet, clad in pink satin pajamas of her own label. The memory of the night before was coming to her in waves like the water from a gristmill. She recalled the awkward silence in the pickup as Bruce drove her to the Lazy M. It was almost as if Mitch and Katherine had been in the truck cab with them, casting their pall. After a chilly farewell, she'd crawled to her bed, vowing to forget about Bruce Everett forever.

And then the nightmares came.

She'd had them all night long.

She'd be at the grocery store, the accountant's, in line for a movie—then she'd look down and see herself as if in a mirror. Her white T-shirt was wet and transparent, outlining each half-dollar mauve nipple, and her sodden hair was plastered against her forehead like a water nymph.

But what was worse than the rush of self-consciousness and the gasps of the onlookers was the emotional crash that followed.

She'd cover herself, but everywhere she ran to hide, she found Bruce Everett and his chilled gaze drilling into her, and the word that forced her back into feeling, thinking, yearning womanhood.

You.

She clamped her eyes closed and tried to erase it from her mind. Opening them again, she glanced at Ebby and Hazel and announced, “I'd better check work. I've got a lot to do before noon, when we've got to go to that—that—” she shuddered at the thought of seeing Bruce Everett again “—that dude ranch.”

“Noon?” Ebby exclaimed, giving Hazel a raise of her eyebrows. “It's two hours past that and then some. We thought maybe you never slept in New Orleans—vampires and all that kind of stuff.”

“What?” Lyndie grabbed the silver alarm clock next to the bed. She nearly screamed in horror at the time. “I had an investors' meeting online at
eleven.” She put her aching head in her hands. “Now I've messed everything up.”

“Dear, cheer up. You're on vacation. Forget about that shop for now. You've got the dude ranch to go to,” Hazel comforted.

“But I might have lost a whole pool of potential investors. There goes my expansion plans. There goes everything.” Lyndie wanted to cry.

“The only expansion plan you should be thinking about is your horizon. Go out there, dear, and have fun at the ranch.”

Lyndie moaned anew. “Even that's gone to hell. According to the Mystery Dude Ranch schedule, we were supposed to have our first trail ride at two. Now I've missed it and I'll be…” She cringed. “…
noticed.
”

Ebby shrugged. “Young people nowadays. You're all just a bunch of flapdoodles.”

Hazel held out her hand to Lyndie. “C'mon, gal. You're a McCallum. And McCallums never know defeat.”

Lyndie got out of bed, but she had the sinking feeling she'd regret it. It was the kind of day that she expected even her horoscope to read: Do not venture beyond the covers for destruction awaits you.

And certainly, after her experience with her father's cheating, and then with Mitch, there was no
greater destruction facing her than a cool-eyed man with hunger in his stare. Hunger that seemed only for her.

 

Hazel drove Lyndie to Mystery Dude Ranch and left her at the bunkhouse, aching head and all. The ranch was deserted. It seemed everyone was on the trail. With nothing else to do, Lyndie checked her e-mail.

She'd received several urgent messages from her accountant. The last was the notice that the investors she had painstakingly courted for months had all declined to be involved. There was no money coming in for the expansion because she hadn't been able to convince anyone she was serious enough.

Nothing was further from the truth.

She ate, drank and breathed All for Milady. The shop was everything to her. Her entire life. Especially since she and Mitch split up.

And now, because of one foolhardy night, she was bound to fail.

Depressed, she turned off her laptop.

She looked at the pine log bed and wanted to throw herself upon it in a fit of tears. But it was no use. She'd cried a flood of tears over Mitch, and they were not the answer. The only thing that was, was diligent hard work.

Clearly, as exhausted as she was, she was still not working hard enough. The only thing left for her was to pack her bags, return to New Orleans and
rededicate herself to her business. It was the only way to find happiness. It was the only thing she could control, and she was doing a poor job of even that.

Her head still feeling as if it was being breached by a ballpeen hammer, she retrieved her suitcase from under the bed and unzipped it.

“You're late.”

She looked up to see Bruce Everett standing in her doorway, a scowl on his handsome face.

He looked wonderful, of course. Dust from the trail clung to his well-worn chaps. His face was hard and unshaven, but it only added to the overall ruggedness of his appearance. His gray stare pinned her down with icicles.

“I know. I'm sorry,” she offered, unable to hate him when she was so busy hating herself right now. “But I've realized I've got to get back to New Orleans today. Business.”

She tried to ignore him and the uncomfortable way he made her feel, by grabbing her clothes from the bureau and stuffing them in the suitcase.

“No planes today. You won't be going. So let's get on the trail. That way you can keep up with the others.” His words brooked no discussion.

She looked up from her packing. “What do you mean there's no plane today? If I can get to Salt Lake City or Denver—”

“There's no plane out from the airport today. It's
Sunday and this is Mystery—a small airport. And if you're thinking Hazel can drive you to the next nearest airport, she can't. It'd take too long, and then you'd miss that flight. So you're stuck here for at least a day. Let's go.”

She stood, dumbfounded. He motioned the way out of the bunkhouse. Numbly, she followed, feeling like a canary in a cage.

“We'll start in the corral today. No time for a trail ride.” His gaze slid to her. “I'll get you through all you need to know for tomorrow's ride.”

“But what's the point of a riding lesson if I'm leaving?” She wondered how he was going to get around that fact.

He stopped and stared at her. “Why do you have to leave?”

“I told you. Business,” she answered coolly.

He lifted one dark eyebrow. “You mean that silent partner stuff? You don't need it.” He took her arm and led her to the corral.

She widened her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Know-It-All, but I really think since it's my store, and my concern, maybe I should be the one to determine that.”

She had such a visceral reaction to his expression, she actually took a step backward.

But it was no use. He took her by the arm and led her to a pretty palomino mare.

“Get on up there,” he ordered. “Here, I'll give you a leg up.”

Before she could utter another word, his arm went around her waist. She was reminded of their kiss at the gristmill and a strange electricity crackled through her. Their gazes met for a millisecond—too quick to even measure—but the current between them increased to unbearable wattage.

He drew his hand down her thigh until he gripped her shin, then he hoisted her on top of a solid palomino. Her leg still felt the heat of his touch even through the thick denim of her jeans.

“Name's Girlie. Fitting for you, I think,” he mumbled, glancing at her with those cold eyes.

The male-to-female reaction was only heightened by his words. She didn't want to feel feminine or “girlie” with him around. She wanted to be neutral, invisible, sexless, particularly around this swaggering tall cowboy who seemed to sniff out a woman's vulnerability to the opposite sex like a bloodhound on the trail of an escapee.

Shaken and discombobulated, Lyndie petted the pretty animal's flowing yellow mane in an attempt to ignore him. The palomino tossed her head, rattling her rider.

Frightened, Lyndie lashed out at her keeper. “Hey, I really don't need a riding lesson when I'll be taking off tomorrow—”

He ignored her. “The Western horse has five gaits—a walk, a jog…” he rambled.

Lyndie hardly listened. Her head still pounded, and now she was seeing red.

The man was a lout.

First he tried to seduce her by taking her skinny-dipping, then he rejected her, now he was bossing her around as if she were the employee, not him.

The nerve.

“Got it?” he demanded when his speech was through.

“Got it,” she spat, eyeing him balefully.

“Then, walk.” He bit out his words like a Marine commander. His lips twisted in a taunt. “Just squeeze your thighs. Both horses and men respond to that command.”

Her breath caught in her throat by the innuendo. Unable to deal with him anymore, she squeezed Girlie as hard as she could, choosing to focus on her rather than him. The mare went forward with a jolt. She nearly got tossed on her backside as the mare began to jog.

Lyndie tossed Bruce a baleful stare. Inside she was steaming.

He laughed. His white teeth flashed. “Just like a city slicker, wanting to lope before she can walk.”

He went to the mare and tugged on her bridle to slow her down.

The animal went down to a manageable walk. Lyndie caught her breath and renewed her nerve.

In the lull, she studied him as he stood watching from the center of the ring.

It's as if he's running from something—and I just want to see him stop and turn around, is all.
Lyndie recalled Hazel's words describing Bruce.

She looked down at the golden horse beneath her. Instinctively, she trusted the mare. The animal was responsive and gentle. Lyndie thought she could actually get used to being on her back, but that wouldn't be a luxury she would allow right now.

Hazel may think Bruce needed to quit running, but as she rode round and round the ring, his piercing icicle gaze heating her, she knew she was the one who wanted to run.

And just like the domineering male he was, all he would let her do right now was walk.

 

Okay, so she fell off a few times.

Big whoop, Lyndie thought as she limped back to her bunkhouse. The whole experience racked up to zero, anyway, since all she was going to do was pack up her bags and leave.

However, she had to admit she did like Girlie.

The quarter horse had shown the patience of Job during the lesson. While Lyndie had bounced and shifted, desperate to gain her equilibrium, the palomino had been steadfast.

Even Lyndie knew the reasons she'd fallen off: her own thick head and her inability to take instruction from Mr. Bruce Everett.

Exhausted, she flung herself onto the pine bed and booted up her computer, oblivious to the dust on her jeans and boots. Going online, she checked her e-mail to see how her accountant was faring in her absence.

There was an urgent message from him, and she knew the man had to be panicking since there was no cash to pay off the new orders.

She was surprised to read his message:

Lyndie read the message twice. She had a thousand questions for Rick Johnstone, CPA, so she quickly picked up her cell phone.

“Rick, this is Lyndie,” she said when he answered. “Tell me, tell me,” she pleaded.

He laughed. “We got a faxed letter practically begging us to take MDR as a silent partner.”

“But who are they?” she asked.

“We'll look the gift horse in the mouth when you get back.” He chuckled. “I only know you must have converted someone out west, because the corporation's address is there in Mystery.”

She stared at the phone as if she were hearing things.

“Lyndie?”

“Uh-huh.” She frowned. She knew exactly who had bailed her out.

Great-aunt Hazel. The woman owned most of Mystery. She had plenty of ready cash on hand to become a silent partner in a business.

But Lyndie couldn't accept it. Hazel was family. She couldn't take the risk with the money if there was family involved. Her mother had been too proud for charity, and Lyndie was, too.