The Rancher's Surprise Marriage

by Susan Crosby

  “Later,” she muttered. She wouldn’t sleep tonight, anyway. She headed to the shower, tried to wash off Scott’s betrayal along with the ranch dirt.

  The ranch. She turned off the water, reached for a towel. The cowboy. The cowboy bar.

  That’s what she could do. She could meet the crew at the Red Rock Saloon.

  But how to get herself there? She didn’t want Dino to drive her. He was way too good at reading her, so she needed to stay away from him, at least for tonight. She wanted to just hang out with the crew, figure out how to announce her broken engagement. For tonight, anyway, she could fake that life was still okay, or else she didn’t have the right to call herself an actor.

  Maggie phoned the concierge, generally the most discreet employee in the hotel. After a short discussion, she’d lined up transportation. Then she called Leesa and Dino and told them she didn’t want to be disturbed under any circumstances until 6:00 a.m. Dino grunted assent. Leesa gave her the verbal equivalent of a wink.

  Maggie dressed in her favorite jeans and boots, added a new red Western shirt bought for the trip, stuffed her ID and some bills in her pocket and sneaked out of the room. She felt better wearing the outfit. Stronger, more in control. The boots gave her confidence, too, as if her father was walking beside her. He’d instilled in her his love for John Wayne and the cowboy ideal of standing tall. If her father were here he’d be reminding her she’d survived a whole lot worse than her fiancé falling in love with someone else.

  She left her hair down so that it could fall against her face, hiding her as much as possible. The concierge met her in the parking lot, handed over the keys to his own car and gave her directions to the Red Rock Saloon.

  She was bound to be recognized, no matter where she went, but she hoped for enough time to anesthetize her pain a little first.

  Maggie counted eight vehicles in the saloon parking lot: six pickups, one van and a motorcycle. She parked her borrowed, ridiculously out-of-place Ford Focus next to the van she figured belonged to the film crew.

  Deciding to get the lay of the land first, she stepped over an evening’s worth of cigarette butts on the ground and eased open the back door, wincing as it creaked. She slipped inside. The jukebox played a twangy ballad. Pool balls clacked. Low, male voices drifted down the dark-paneled, rough-hewn hallway, then the higher pitch of a woman’s laugh. The scent of beer filled the air. The bar probably served little else.

  It was her kind of place, a statement that would surprise a whole lot of people. She may have grown up in front of the camera, but behind the scenes she’d been raised simply. She felt ten times more comfortable in a bar like this than a fancy restaurant or trendy club. And tonight, when she was hurting, the whole place seemed to wrap her in a hug.

  Maggie peered into the main room. She counted thirteen people, including the bartender. Four were from her crew, all crowded around the pool table. Only two were women, both in their twenties. The other patrons hung out in small groups, either at the long bar or around tables.

  Absurd disappointment struck her. She’d hoped the cowboy would be there. Why would he? Should he be able to read her mind? Catch her wish drifting through the air that she wanted to see him, the memories he evoked both comforting and exciting? Crazy. It was absolutely crazy to be thinking like that.

  She walked to the pool table, dug into her pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, which she plunked down by a corner pocket. “I’ll take the winner,” she said, getting the attention of the players, cameraman Pete and grip Warren.

  “Hey,” Pete said, grinning. “Thought you were tired.”

  “Got my second wind.”

  “Grab yourself a cold one. Warren here’s gonna be done in a minute.”

  She wandered over to the bar. “I’ll have a glass of what’s on tap,” she said.

  The sixty-something, ponytailed bartender nodded and grabbed an ice-cold mug.

  She put a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. “That’s for me and those four over by the pool table. Let me know when you need more, okay?”

  He eyed her. “Okay.”

  “Aw, Mags. You don’t hafta do that,” Pete called out.

  “You’ll be paying for it one way or another,” she said in return. “I’ll just be using your winnings.”

  Hoots and hollers came from her friends. She grinned. She leaned against the bar and took a sip. As she lowered her mug she saw a photograph of herself on the wall, among a slew of other star photos, male and female. She moved closer to look at them. A few were autographed to a guy named Tex. Most weren’t signed at all.

  A black-and-white drew her closer. It was her cowboy in full rodeo gear, his signature scrawled across one corner. The shot looked to be maybe twenty years old.

  “Are you Tex?” she asked the bartender.

  “Sure am.”

  “These people all been through here?”

  “Most. Some are just particular favorites of mine or my regulars.”

  Which meant she was a particular favorite. She took another long sip, happy to be honored at the Red Rock Saloon, then started toward the pool table.

  “Miss?” Tex said, gesturing with his head to come closer.

  Maybe he didn’t recognize her. After all, she was platinum-blond in the picture and wearing a gold sequined dress—the Oscars ceremony from a few years back, when she was a presenter.

  “I’d be honored if you’d sign your photograph before you leave,” Tex said. “And in case you’re wondering, if anyone here bothers you, I’ll send ’em on their way.”

  She appreciated his concern. “I’d be happy to sign the picture for you. I’d be happier still to send you a new one from this film, in my ranch gear.”

  “That’d be mighty kind of you.”

  She smiled then took herself over to the pool table to let her natural competitiveness dispatch her erstwhile fiancé from her mind for a little while longer.

  Pete handed her a cue stick then lifted the rack away, indicating she should make the break. She chalked the tip and took her position.

  The back door creaked open. Boot steps echoed on the wood floor, strong and steady, but she ignored them, concentrating on her shot.

  “Hey, champ,” Tex called out. “Been a while. What brings you out this way?”

  “Just wonderin’ what the wind blew in,” the newcomer said.

  “Want your usual?” Tex asked.

  “You remember my usual?”

  Maggie aimed, made her shot, scattered the balls. One dropped into a pocket. Oh, yeah, this felt good. Focus, shoot, play. Forget.

  It was just what the get-over-him doctor ordered.

  Chapter Two

  Mug in hand, Tony Young walked over to a corner table where he could watch the whole room, not just the star attraction, Maggie McShane. She was so focused on the game she was playing, she hadn’t noticed him come in, hadn’t looked his way once, which he found interesting. He would’ve thought she’d be aware of everyone in a public place like this.

  She was a good-looking woman, even prettier without all that movie makeup. Seemed to him she hadn’t bothered with any tonight, like maybe people wouldn’t recognize her with a clean-scrubbed face. Hell, he’d known it was her the moment he’d come into the room, without even seeing her face. The woman had a body on her that—Well, it was fine. Why she’d always been billed as the girl-next-door type made him scratch his head. She played those roles, sure, but didn’t anyone factor in her body? Images of red satin sheets came to his mind right away, not country-blue denim.

  America’s Sweetheart, people always pegged her. It was kinda sad they couldn’t be more clever.

  He wondered how she felt about the nickname. Was curious, too, about how big her ego was.

  He watched her line up her next shot, leaning over the pool table, giving him a nice full-on view of her rear, all tight and round in her second-skin jeans. She was friendly with the guys, but not overly, and they were respectful of her, for all that she was wiping
the floor with them at pool.

  Tony kept an eye on the other patrons, too. He didn’t know any of them, as he wasn’t a regular anymore. What drinking he did was usually at home, with trusted friends. His hard-drinking days had ended with his rodeo career. He didn’t miss either of them much.

  The music on the jukebox stopped. He was thinking about choosing some songs when the two other women in the place went over and plunked some quarters in the machine. One of them gave him the eye, smiling a little. Hell, she was young enough to be his…well, his little sister, anyway. He was forty, and she probably hadn’t been legal for long. He looked away, then something made him look back. She was focusing on Maggie McShane with her cell phone camera.

  Tony let his chair drop to all fours. He shoved himself up and moved into her line of vision, then kept going forward, hitching a thumb toward Tex to take care of the woman. Tony kept walking until he came up behind Maggie, still blocking the view.

  Maggie straightened slowly. He didn’t move. Although he wasn’t quite touching her, he was close enough to feel heat, so he knew she could, too.

  “Move back,” she said calmly.

  Her friends descended on him. He stopped them with a look, then waited for Maggie to turn around and face him, which she finally did, blushing slightly when she met his gaze.

  “Unless you want a photograph of your pretty little behind spreading like wildfire around the Internet, you’ll stay right here with me until Tex deals with that amateur paparazzi over by the jukebox. She got a good bead on you when you were chuggin’ your beer, America’s Sweetheart,” he said, continuing to be her personal barricade from photo ops. “And maybe you could call off your posse, too, since I’m just tryin’ to help.”

  “It’s you,” she whispered. “John Wayne.”

  “No,” he said slowly, wondering about her sanity. “The name’s Tony Young.”

  “Oh, I—I know. I asked…”

  She’d asked? About him? When? Why?

  “You own the ranch.”

  “Well, technically, it owns me,” he said, then was bumped from behind by one of her friends.

  “Look, cowboy, you need to give her space. Now.”

  He did. Not because the guy said to, but because he could see Tex escorting the picture taker and her friend out of the bar. Two men followed, swearing the whole way, but whether it was at Tex or the women, Tony didn’t know. Maggie peeked around him, watching the scene.

  Heat. She was all fire and heat. On top of that, up close she was stunning, all bright blue eyes and dark, rich hair and soft, full lips—and freckles, pale and scattered across her nose and cheeks.

  “She’s used to having her picture taken wherever she goes,” her friend said.

  “I don’t doubt that.” He didn’t take his eyes off her, and she was staring right back.

  “I appreciate your running interference, Mr. Young,” she said.

  “Tony.” Her head reached his chin. It was rare for a woman to match him so well in height. “Where’s your entourage?”

  “I ditched them. I…needed to get out. Had something to think over.” She leaned around him again and said to her friends, “I’ve taken enough of your hard-earned dollars tonight.”

  Tony noticed her smile didn’t reach her eyes. He also noticed she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring. Woman like that should be sporting a rock that would blind you. “You know the two-step?” he asked her.

  Her brows arched high. “Actually I just learned it for the movie. Big scene at a barn dance. Why?”

  He tossed his hat onto a nearby table and held out a hand in invitation. “Let’s see if you had a good teacher.”

  It took her a few seconds but she finally stepped into his arms, where she fit perfectly. Tony liked the two-step. It was one of those dances where the closer you got, the better you did together. Man leads, woman follows. Simple. Could be a sexy dance, depending, but didn’t have to be. Given the heat flowing from both of them, though, he figured it was going to knock sexy into the next territory.

  He was right. The heat was combustible as he drew her a little closer every so often, until he could feel her breasts touch his chest. He heard her suck in a breath, but she didn’t try to move back. Their thighs glided against each other—

  “How am I doing?” she asked, a little breathless, her gaze not leaving his.

  The music stopped, leaving only the sound of their boots against the old wood-plank floor. He didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to let go of her.

  “One more dance, and you’re probably good to go,” he said as another song started.

  She moved herself even closer and stared at his mouth. “You’re easy to follow.”

  “That’s my job. I’m easy about other things, too.”

  Her lips parted. “Yeah? Like what?”

  “For one, listening when a pretty lady has a problem.”

  “What makes you think I have a problem?” she asked, her gaze lifting to meet his again.

  “Intuition.” He had a problem, too. A physical one, especially when she angled her body differently, pressing against his pelvis, a sparkle of something he couldn’t quite define in her eyes.

  “You’re making me forget everything,” she said.

  “Is that good?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Time passed. Fire burned. Need intensified. “What was with the John Wayne deal?” he asked, changing subjects.

  She looked away, as if deciding what to say. He waited. Patience was something he had plenty of, too. Plus, he was enjoying the hell out of dancing with her, her body close to him, all curves and temptation, his body painfully aroused as they moved around the floor, the rhythm of the music powerful and enticing. He wanted to find the nearest bed, and dance skin to skin.

  “When I spotted you on the set today,” she said, “I thought you looked like him. John Wayne.”

  “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

  “You should. He’s my all-time favorite cowboy.”

  “Okay. Except I’m a cattleman. Bit of a difference. Not taking into account that he was just an actor playing a part.”

  The front door burst open, and a young man with a big, fancy camera came in, snapping as he went. “Look this way, Miss McShane!”

  “Maybe I should get you out of here,” Tony said, intending to take her out the back way.

  Her fingers dug into his arms. “No,” she said, almost a whisper, then louder, “no.”

  He tried to be her barricade again but the photographer was moving fast to get them in his frame, bypassing the men going after him.

  “I’ll do whatever you want, but you have to tell me,” he said, more than a little curious at her wild-eyed look, like she was about to go over the edge.

  “Kiss me,” she said, harsh and low.

  “What?” He couldn’t have heard her right.

  “Kiss me. Let’s give them something to talk about.”

  “Them who?”

  “Everyone. The vultures. I’m so sick of it all. So sick of always doing the right thing. Please.”

  Hell, he was only a man. How could he pass up an opportunity like that?

  So he kissed her, a bare brush of lips, knowing it was the wrong thing to do, having seen in her eyes it was the wrong thing to do, for the wrong reasons. But reason flew out the window when his lips touched hers. He pulled her closer, looked deeper, and kissed her the way he’d wanted to since first laying eyes on her.

  He heard her friends grapple with the photographer, then the door open and close. And then everything went quiet. No music. No conversation. No pool balls.

  She put her hand to her mouth. “Get me out of here. Please,” she whispered, panic in her voice. She must have finally realized her mistake.

  Tony didn’t ask questions, but pushed her ahead of him, scooping up his hat on the way. When they reached the back parking lot, he urged her toward his truck.

  “I have a car,” she said, pointing. “I’ll be fine.”
<
br />   “Are you going back to your hotel?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, do you know your way around?”

  “I can stop for directions…”

  Even as she said it, he saw her realize she probably couldn’t do that, either. It must be hell sometimes, being famous. He took over, taking her keys from her, maneuvering his big body into the driver’s seat, motioning to her to get in, his knees hitting the steering wheel, even with the seat all the way back. “You can trust me. I’ll take you where you want to go.”

  “How will you get back to get your truck?” she asked after she slammed the passenger door shut.

  “Walk. Hitch. Hell, that’s the least of it, don’t you think?” He revved the engine and took off, heading nowhere in particular. “Who do you think that was with the camera?”

  “Who knows? Someone trying to make a fast buck. Lots of people have professional cameras these days. Maybe one of those women had called someone.”

  So, he hadn’t been her hero, after all, hadn’t noticed anyone making a call, alerting someone to come and take shots—if that’s what had happened.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” she said, looking straight out the windshield.

  “What? Kissed me on purpose for the camera?”

  “I don’t do things like that.”

  He knew that much about her, too, even without really knowing her. Was more than a little curious himself, but she didn’t elaborate. After a few blocks with no one following, he said, “Where to?”

  Her hands were clenched in her lap.

  “Where’re you staying?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to go there.”

  “Okay. Then where?”

  “Someplace quiet.”

  “Not sure there are too many places where you wouldn’t be recognized. And I don’t have connections for private rooms and such at restaurants.” He pretty much kept to himself, but he didn’t tell her that. She might think he was dangerous or something.