The Rancher

by Julia Justiss

  “Probably not very well,” she admitted.

  “You might as well let me tend it then. Won’t take that long. Then I won’t have to worry about you getting tetanus. It would probably be a good idea to get a booster shot if you haven’t had one recently. You want to make sure it heals quickly. Pretty hard to work a ranch with only one hand.”

  She blew out a breath. “You’re right about that, I guess.”

  “Let’s get to it then.”

  Though he really wanted to open her door and help her down, he held back, letting her open it—awkwardly—and hop down on her own, then followed her into the house, down the hall, and into the kitchen, which he’d not seen before.

  “If you wait here a minute, I’ll get the antiseptic and bandages.”

  Taking off his hat, Duncan took a seat at the long, stone-covered kitchen island. The kitchen, like the exterior, featured hewn-cypress beams in the ceiling with bright whitewashed walls, ochre Mexican tile floors, stainless steel appliances, and a bank of windows in the dining area that flooded the room with light.

  The island separated the kitchen from the family room, where comfortable leather sofas arranged before a tall gas-burning fireplace on one side and a large flat-screen TV on the other created a calm, welcoming space. The hub of the home, the heart of family life.

  He wondered how many weekends and vacation weeks Harrison had spent here with her father . . . and how it must tug at her heart to cook, watch TV, or read in these rooms now, alone.

  She bustled back in, a first aid kit in her good hand. “Everything you need should be in here.”

  “First thing I need is to clean out that cut.”

  She nodded, then followed him to the sink and stood, her jaw clenched and uncomplaining, while he ran warm water over the jagged cut then gently rubbed in soap and rinsed it again. After squeezing a coating of antiseptic ointment over it, he wrapped the hand with sterile gauze.

  “Now for the ant bites. Do you have any Clorox?”

  She angled her head at him. “Why?”

  “Don’t have any scientific studies to back it up, but Isabella, the housekeeper who took over after my stepmother retired to Austin, always swore that pouring Clorox over ant bites, or bee stings, or spider bites, would destroy some of the toxins and help the bite heal faster.”

  She shook her head, smiling faintly. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. The laundry room is around the corner. I’ll grab some.”

  She walked away, returning a moment later with the plastic jug. “How do you treat the bites?”

  “The easiest way is to just pour the Clorox over them. Maybe better to do that on the porch.”

  “Okay.” Picking up the jug with her good hand, she led the way out the kitchen door onto the back porch, walking along it before halting at the table where they’d had coffee on that infamous afternoon two weeks ago.

  The bluebonnets were past their peak now, but a smattering of late blooms added touches of bright blue among the spring meadow grasses growing up to swamp them. “Sure is a pretty view here,” Duncan said.

  “My favorite view from the house. Daddy’s too, which was why he put the table and chairs here.” She sat down and began to tug at her boot. “So I just pour some Clorox over the bites?”

  “Let me. It’s less messy if you pour some into the cap and then dribble it over the bites. Like this.”

  She’d already removed her boot. Duncan took over, pulling off her sock and pushing her jeans up to her knee to reveal her bare leg, where the bites were already raising into angry red pustules. After pouring Clorox into the cap, he cradled her heel in one hand and poured a bit of the liquid over the first several bites. Setting her heel down to pour another capful, he grasped her foot again, repeating the process until he’d doused every bite with Clorox.

  He couldn’t help noticing how soft the skin of her calves and ankles felt, or the warm, smooth round of her heel. A subtle but unmistakable sensual tension built and lingered between them as he touched her, held her, doctored her.

  When all the bites were treated, with no further excuse to hold on to her, he reluctantly set her heel back on the floor.

  If only he could as easily quench the desire touching her aroused in him.

  He looked up at her—at her half-lidded eyes, the slightly parted lips—and knew she felt that physical connection as strongly as he did.

  Then she opened her eyes, caught him watching her, and jerked her foot away. Looking rattled, she said, “Th-thank you. I’ll put some Neosporin on them.”

  Much as he would have liked to linger, she had clearly become uncomfortable about his physical proximity—or maybe about the effect it had on her.

  “A thick coating of Neosporin would be good,” he said, standing and moving away. He wasn’t sure where it came from, but he felt the strongest desire to make sure she never felt anything but easy around him.

  “I’ll lather it on thick. Let me walk you out.”

  One boot off and one boot on, she stood and led him around the porch to the front, where his truck was parked.

  “No need to walk off the porch,” he said. Pointing down at her bare foot, he added, “Don’t want to get any more ant bites.”

  She shuddered. “No. I think I’ve had my quota for the year.”

  “Might be a good idea to take some ibuprofen too. For the hand and the bites.”

  “I will. And I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Sure you’ll feel up to riding around the pastures?”

  “The cows are calving. They have to be tended.”

  She might make a rancher yet, he thought. “They do. Yes, I’ll come around, probably about four.”

  She nodded. “If I don’t answer the door, I’ll be in the barn. I really appreciate your help—just for a few days, until Juan feels better.”

  He put his hat back on and tipped it to her. “Ranchers always help each other when there’s a need. Until Juan feels better.”

  “Thanks again for your help today.”

  “My pleasure, Cowgirl. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Smiling at the thought of seeing her again, Duncan walked back to his truck, his senses still humming.

  It would be difficult to finish his work in time to stop by the Scott place, but he’d figure a way to do it.

  Noting how quickly his mind had set itself to working out how to spend more time with her, his smile faded.

  The strength of his attraction to her could become a real problem.

  As he jumped into his truck, he thought that it would make things a lot easier if that boyfriend lived much closer than Dallas.

  But somehow, Duncan couldn’t quite make himself feel sorry that he didn’t.

  Chapter Four

  In the afternoon the next day, Harrison led Firefly back into the barn. She’d discovered six new calves on her ride and only hoped the mamas would remain in roughly the same location until Duncan could help her tag them. She’d hate to drag him away from his own chores and then not be able to find the newborns again.

  Still, she had to admit she was relieved he’d agreed to help, she thought as she removed the mare’s saddle and set about grooming her.

  She’d much prefer to hire someone else—someone who wasn’t so handsome and engaging. Someone to whom she wasn’t so attracted. Though she was surprised, given the battering her heart had just taken, that she could be attracted to him, she was too honest to deny that she was.

  But she simply didn’t know anyone else. If Duncan, who’d lived here all his life, couldn’t think of an experienced and available cowhand, she’d just have to deal with having Duncan McAllister work the ranch with her.

  For a few days.

  She refused to think about what she’d do if Juan didn’t heal quickly.

  She was getting marginally more comfortable with Duncan, though he was still too good-looking for her to feel really easy around him. If her experience with Parker had taught her anything, it was that she didn’t have the kind o
f feminine appeal to hold the attention of a man who doubtless made every single woman in Whiskey River gravitate in his direction every time he went into town.

  If it were just his arresting face and lean, sexy body that called to her, she might be able to ignore the siren call he exerted over her senses. But the fact that he’d come to her aid, even after how ugly she’d been to him that day at the ranch, said volumes about his character. She admired the competence with which he had quickly, matter-of-factly, sized up her dilemma and set about resolving it.

  Parker would have directed a stream of profanity at her for being an idiot, walking into fire ants and then getting her hand caught on the fence.

  Nor could she even imagine him tending to her hand or the bites on her leg.

  Parker would have waited impatiently while she doctored herself, probably grumbling that she was going to make them late for Happy Hour at Booze’s Bar & Grill. The only establishment in town he considered lively enough for him to bother going into, though it was too down-home for his taste.

  And the gentleness with which Duncan touched her . . . Awareness swirled in her belly and warmth washed over her skin as she remembered the feel of his fingers on her bare leg, his big hand cupping her heel.

  Unfortunately, he’d noticed her reaction too. Her face flushed again at how she’d opened her eyes, practically purring, to find him watching her.

  How could she keep herself from responding? The old-style courtesy with which he tipped his hat to her, or called her “ma’am,” made her feel respected as well as appreciated. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the deep drawl when he called her “Cowgirl”—making her feel like she really belonged here—tightened her chest and started something warm and feathery swirling in her stomach.

  Still, after the way things ended with Parker, she would do better to swear off men altogether for the foreseeable future.

  Especially a man who frankly acknowledged he wanted her Daddy’s land. Was that why he’d offered to help—to make sure she didn’t run into the ground the ranch he hoped to buy back?

  She would just keep reminding herself to stay wary for the hopefully few days she’d have to rely on the far-too-appealing Duncan’s help.

  Finished with the mare, she turned her into the paddock to graze. She was on her way back to the house when she saw Duncan’s truck coming up the drive.

  Her heart rate spiked and that edgy, prickly warmth started flurrying in her belly.

  Quit it, she muttered under her breath, annoyed. Then walked over to meet him.

  *

  Climbing down from his Chevy, Duncan saw her and tipped his hat. “Afternoon, Cowgirl. How many calves did you find?”

  “Six. How many did you have today?”

  “Twenty. But I have Ralph Maxwell out to help now that the calving has gotten busy. Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes. Let’s take my pickup. Don’t want to put any dents in yours if one of the cows gets feisty.”

  “Want me to drive? I’m guessing that hand is pretty sore.”

  “It is,” she admitted. She’d rather drive herself, but no point aggravating the hand unnecessarily just to save her pride.

  “Not overly red? No signs of infection?”

  “No, thankfully. I think you’re right—it bled enough to clean it out fairly well, and then you gave it a good washing.”

  “Good. Don’t need anything to slow down your recovery.”

  “That’s for sure.” Not only could she not handle a fence stretcher or a crimper at the moment, she’d had to grit her teeth through the pain of just moving her fingers enough to check her email.

  “Thanks again for tending to me, by the way. I could have managed with my left hand, but awkwardly.”

  Opening the truck door for her, he nodded acknowledgement. “How’s the bruise?”

  “Fading, and not so tender. I’ll try to be more watchful of the mamas now.”

  “You need to be. Though most of them get anxious, they’re usually content to look on. But I’ve had them jump into the back of the truck where we were working with the calf, or try to run me off. Easier to leave the calves of mamas like that for the spring branding. A full-grown cow can do you some damage.”

  Duncan shut her door, then walked around to climb into the driver’s seat. “Where to first?”

  “The south pasture, down by the creek.” She shook her head wryly. Had she really almost said “your south pasture?”

  Mine and Daddy’s, she silently repeated.

  Meanwhile, Duncan drove the truck down the cattle trail through the meadow, the fading bluebonnets now almost engulfed by green spring grasses. She couldn’t help noticing that he drove like her Daddy—guiding the truck over the uneven ground at a steady pace, not at a showy, hell-bent-for-leather speed that would jolt the truck over bumps and bang it into potholes.

  He was careful of his equipment. Probably had to be, with the Triple A having gone through lean times when there wasn’t money to replace something as expensive as a truck.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted the mama cow and her baby still down by the stream where she’d discovered them this morning. “There’s the first one, over by the creek.”

  He pulled up a comfortable distance away from the pair and walked behind the truck to fetch the tagging gear from the bed while Harrison picked up the satchel with the hoof circumference tape.

  “Hey, Mama, that’s a handsome boy you have there,” Duncan said as he approached them. With one quick, smooth motion, he seized the calf and took him to the ground, then knelt on him while Harrison handed him the tagging gun, then the tape. In little more than a minute, he had the tag in place and called out the hoof circumference that gave an estimation of birth weight.

  He helped the calf clamber to its feet, bawling, and pushed him toward the cow. “Go back to your mama now.”

  Putting the equipment down, Harrison walked over and stroked the calf’s head. “Welcome to the world, little man. Your mama and I will both watch out for you.”

  After scratching the calf’s back, she picked up the supplies and walked beside Duncan back to the truck.

  “Do you try to handle all the newborns?”

  She nodded. “Daddy always thought it was good to accustom them to a human’s touch from the very beginning. On my last trip, he showed me an Ag Extension article that backed him up, reporting statistics that cows who’ve been acclimated to humans have better temperaments, are easier to handle, and even have improved pregnancy rates. Of course, we only have a small herd. It probably wouldn’t be practical to do that on a large spread.”

  Duncan nodded. “Then too, you run a seed stock operation, so you keep your bulls and your prime mamas around for years.”

  “Yes. Daddy always named the bulls and would visit them several times a week. We now have Nimitz III, Halsey III, Mahan II, and Perry I.”

  Duncan raised an eyebrow. “Named after naval heroes?”

  She chuckled. “Of course. What other names would a retired Navy man choose?”

  They dropped the gear off in the back of the pickup and climbed back into the truck. After waiting for her to record information about the mama, the new calf, and its birth weight in her Red Book, Duncan said, “Where to next?”

  *

  Two hours later, Duncan pulled the pickup back into the shed by the barn. Fortunately, they’d located all six babies, encountered tolerant mama cows, and successfully tagged and circumference-measured their calves.

  She’d admired Juan and her Daddy at work. But she had to admit Duncan performed all the necessary tasks even better. He seemed to have a sixth sense for approaching the cows at just the right angle and speed that set the mamas at ease—although he did have to lope after one two-day-old calf who’d almost been able to outrun him. He could tag and tape the calves faster than either Juan or Daddy.

  He sure looked good while he did it—his strong, muscled body in snug-fitting faded jeans, his competent hands wor
king with practiced ease and his voice husky and soothing as he sweet-talked the mama and her baby while he handled the calf.

  And the grin he flashed her after they finished and he released each calf . . . Despite her firmest intentions to give up men, her stomach still fluttered and she couldn’t help smiling back.

  He helped her return the equipment to its place in the shed and prepare the tags they’d use tomorrow, then walked with her back toward the truck.

  It was almost dinnertime. After he’d done so much to help her—and promised to come back for the next several days to help again—she probably ought to at least offer to feed him.

  She had to admit, if he were trying to win her over so he might persuade her to sell, he was at least working hard for the privilege.

  She knew he had a housekeeper who came in occasionally and maybe cooked for him. He might enjoy cooking himself.

  She could do the polite thing and offer. Most likely he’d politely refuse.

  She told herself she wouldn’t be disappointed when he did. Since she wasn’t doing such a hot job of resisting him, the less time she spent around him, the better.

  Even if it would be nice to stave off the grief and sense of isolation that overcame her every evening as she ate dinner alone in Daddy’s house.

  By now, they’d reached his truck. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Would you like to stay for dinner? I fixed a pot of my mama’s famous chicken stew last night, and I’ve got some white wine to go with it.”

  She held her breath, willing him to turn her down. Tilting his head, he looked down at her. “Are you sure you want to invite me in?”

  “Sure,” she lied. “I really am grateful for your help.”

  “You don’t need to feel obligated.”

  “I don’t.” Before she realized what she was saying, she blurted out, “I’d appreciate the company. It’s . . . lonely, eating by myself every night.”