by Marin Thomas
He scoffed and she stamped her foot. Now Matt knew where Rose got her stubborn streak. He clamped his lips together to keep from grinning at the grown woman’s tantrum.
“If I’m going to keep this farm, I can’t simply board horses. I need a second job that provides a stable source of income.”
“Well, your goal is interfering with mine.”
An unladylike snort echoed through the barn, triggering a symphony of horse whinnies. “Jake claims you’re filthy rich. You can afford to buy a hundred studs. Why not chalk up your thirty-thousand-dollar loss to my husband to experience, bad luck or fate and move on?”
Matt steeled himself against the wobble in her voice. “Let me clear up one thing—” in case Amy got the idea to swindle money out of him like Kayla had “—my father is filthy rich, not me. I pay my own way through life. Always have, always will. Second, I don’t want just any stud for my mares. SOS comes from a long line of award-winning stock. Third, quit changing the subject.” When she opened her mouth, he rushed on. “I am not babysitting the girls again, so you’d better make other arrangements.”
Her teeth worried her lip. “Were they that much trouble?”
What did behaving or misbehaving have to do with his refusing to play nanny? “No more trouble than livestock, which have to be fed, watered and hosed down from time to time.” He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to admit…“Rose was a big help with Lily.” That was as much as he’d say. He didn’t want to give Amy the idea that he’d enjoyed spending time with her daughters even if he did find the pint-size females as amusing as they were exhausting.
The girls had worn him out—physically, emotionally and mentally. Following their thought processes, anticipating their every move and deciphering Lily’s vocabulary had taken more energy than roping steers. For the first time he’d wondered if his mother had abandoned him and his sister because she hadn’t been able to cope with the demands of motherhood. He wasn’t making an excuse for his mother, but accepted that some women weren’t cut out for child rearing.
“Rose said Jake and Helen stopped by.”
“Jake helped me out in the barn for a while.” Then Matt rushed to add, “His wife watched the girls.”
“Are you making progress with SOS?” Her eyes flashed toward the stud’s stall.
“Not as much as I’d hoped to today,” he said, lest she forget what they’d been discussing—his refusal to watch the girls.
“Are you going to ask me about the class?” She offered a shy smile, determined to change the subject.
Shoving aside his irritation, he grumbled, “How was your class?” He walked over to the hay bale he’d popped open in the corner.
Amy followed. “Eight students are taking the class, including me.” She chuckled, the sound more sensuous than humorous, causing a zing of awareness to shoot through Matt’s bloodstream. “I was surprised to discover I wasn’t the oldest.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-eight. Some days I feel like I’m forty.”
He swept an appreciative glance over her body. “You don’t look forty.”
“Thanks. I think.” Then she volleyed the question back to him. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
“You don’t look forty, either.”
He grinned, finding it difficult to remain angry when she teased him. While he forked hay into the stalls, Amy chatted. Her words were lost on him as he concentrated on her voice—the melodiousness of it was a whole lot different from when she bossed the girls around. Did her moans and sighs sound as sweet when she was making love?
“Matt?”
“What?” He set the pitchfork aside.
“You haven’t heard a single word I’ve said, have you?”
“Sorry,” he muttered, brushing his shirtsleeve across his sweaty brow. He’d allowed Amy to chatter long enough. “Listen. Being your nanny wasn’t part of the deal. If my time is cut short with SOS my mares won’t become pregnant and you won’t be able to sell the stud.” He paused and swore under his breath. Tears? Ah, damn.
A drop of moisture escaped one of her chocolate-colored eyes, rolled alongside her nose then dipped into the corner of her mouth.
If he had a lick o’sense, he’d pack up his horses and mosey along. The last time he’d fallen for a woman in distress he’d been made a fool of. The idea that he might repeat the same mistake with Amy had Matt questioning his IQ.
She sniffed. “The class lasts three weeks.”
Damn. His horse-breeding plans were about to take a backseat to helping the widow. “I’ll give you one week to find a babysitter. But that’s it. No more deals.” And no more tears.
She flung herself at him, knocking the pitchfork from his hands. He caught her around the waist and stumbled, but managed to keep them from tumbling to the ground.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou.”
With her breasts flattened against his chest, and his nose buried in the soft curls bobbing around her head, Matt prayed for the strength to resist this woman. Then Amy tilted her head. Her cheek rubbed his whiskers. Her breath caressed his ear.
He froze.
She froze.
They locked eyes.
Matt wasn’t sure who inched forward first—not that it mattered. Mouths touched. Rubbed. Opened. Soon he was lost in the sweet taste of Amy Olson.
Chapter Seven
Matt entered Pebble Creek Feed & Tack Tuesday morning with a plan he hoped would enable him to work with SOS in the corral while keeping an eye on the girls.
The store was spotless and smelled of lemon cleaner—a far cry from the mercantiles he’d strolled through over the years. The shelves were neatly organized, the items pulled forward to the edge. Bright blue signs hung from the ceiling advertising popular products. The register sat smack-dab in the center of the store.
“May I help you?”
Matt spun. A middle-aged man wearing jeans, a Western shirt and a bolo tie materialized out of thin air. He offered his hand. “Clifford Burns. My granddaddy opened the store in 1949.”
“Matt Cartwright.” After the handshake, he said, “Got a few things to pick up today. First on the list is soft fencing.”
“Aisle six. What are you intending to keep in or out?” Clifford asked.
“Kids.” At the man’s frown, Matt rushed on, “Do you carry walkie-talkies?”
“Yes, sir.” He pointed to the glass case in front of the register. “Got a pair of Motorola T8500 Talkabouts.”
“I’ll check them out.” Matt glanced up at the signs. “Live traps?”
“What size animal?”
“A barn rat.”
Clifford scratched the bald spot in the middle of his head. “You want to relocate a rat?”
“Yeah, it’s a long story.”
“Anything else?”
“A bell. Like those old-fashioned ones mothers rang to call the kids in at suppertime.”
“That it?”
“For now.”
“Traps are in the storeroom. Got a couple of bells over there.” Clifford pointed to an aisle behind Matt. “Be back in a minute.”
Once the store owner vanished, Matt browsed the fencing supplies. He settled on an orange barrier fence, then selected two rolls of the four feet by a hundred feet plastic mesh and several mounting posts. He carried the fencing to the register and noticed that Clifford had placed the walkie-talkies on the counter for Matt to examine. The two-way radios had a twenty-five-mile range and came with a weather alert system, rechargeable batteries and a carrying belt that went around the waist.
Clifford had yet to emerge from the stockroom with the trap so Matt hunted for the bell. He found two—the style reminding him of a miniature Liberty Bell. He carried the box to the counter and examined the contents, making sure the hardware to install the bell was included.
The squeaking front door alerted Matt that another customer had entered the store.
“Well, well. The widow’s handyman.�
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Matt’s shoulders tensed. He recognized the voice even before he turned—the weasel-headed banker.
Dressed in a suit and tie, Payton Scott strutted across the floor, eyeing the items on the counter. “What’s all that for?”
None of your business. “I’d planned to stop by the bank with a check for Amy’s June mortgage payment. Thanks for saving me the trouble.” Matt pulled the draft he’d written earlier from his wallet and stuffed it inside Scott’s suit pocket.
“You’re delaying the inevitable. Amy’s too far in the hole to dig herself out.” The banker squinted. “You’re not really staying at her place to work with that stallion, are you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You want that farm for yourself,” he accused.
“You’re nuts, Scott.” Or was he? Matt pretended interest in the walkie-talkies, but his mind raced. Amy Olson’s farm was a prime piece of real estate. Fertile land for grazing, two wells and a creek that ran through the middle. He’d never find land like that in Oklahoma. “I don’t want the Broken Wheel.” Then he added, “You seem intent on causing Amy a lot of grief.”
“The way I see it, we’re both using Amy.”
Matt didn’t immediately respond. Was he using Amy? No. He was spending his own cash to feed the livestock, himself, Amy and the girls. He’d made a second mortgage payment for her. And if that wasn’t enough he’d been trumped into playing babysitter for a week. To his way of thinking, Amy had the better end of the deal. Or did she?
Because of her husband’s reckless disregard for his family’s future, Amy had been left in a lurch when he’d died. She had no choice but to train for a job she didn’t want to do in order to support herself and the girls. Matt admitted he’d never known that kind of insecurity and probably never would. When his father’s oil wells ran dry and had to be capped, there would still be an endless supply of money invested in stocks, funds and various portfolios for generations to come.
Even if Amy managed to keep up with the mortgage and taxes there would be little or no money left to pay off her debts, unless she was able to sell SOS, and Matt was determined to make that possible. “Why are you harassing Amy? Thought all you small-town folk stuck together.”
“Listen, big shot. I know who you are.”
He’d guessed Scott would investigate him—probably the same afternoon he’d stopped by Amy’s. “Then you should know I don’t give small-town bankers the time of day.”
“If that’s true, what do you want with a small-town hussy like Amy?”
“Better watch how you speak about the lady.”
“So it’s that way between you two? Had Amy let on she was horny, I’d have volunteered to scratch her—”
Matt’s fist connected with the banker’s nose and the sound of crunching bone reverberated through the quiet store. Blood sprayed the front of Matt’s shirt and dripped off Scott’s chin.
“You broke my nose!” the banker wailed, stumbling sideways. He pinched his nostrils and glared.
Clifford burst from the storeroom, hauling a wire trap.
“What happened?”
“What do you think, Cliff? Cartwright punched me.”
“Want me to call Nathan?” Clifford’s eyes swung between the two men.
Who the hell was Nathan?
As if the store owner read Matt’s mind, he explained, “Nathan’s the local veterinarian.” Then he added, “The nearest medical clinic is forty miles away.”
“I ought to call the sheriff and have him throw your carcass in jail.”
Matt held out his cell phone. “Go ahead. I’m sure the sheriff would be interested in hearing how you slandered Amy.”
Scott glared, his eyes narrowing to slits before stalking out the door.
Relieved to have the banker out of his hair, Matt apologized. “Sorry for the disturbance. I don’t make a habit of punching people, but Scott had it coming.” When Clifford’s expression remained tight, Matt decided to end the chitchat. “What do I owe you for this?”
After he loaded his purchases into the truck, Matt was too agitated by his tussle with the banker to return to the farm. Instead, he headed to Pearl’s, hoping a strong cup of coffee would settle his nerves.
When he entered the café, he noticed a few stragglers remained from the breakfast rush. “Kind of early for lunch, ain’t it?” Pearl called out.
“Time to refuel.” Matt slid onto a stool at the counter. “Give me a cup of leaded, would you?”
“Gottcha covered, cowboy.” Pearl grabbed a white ceramic cup from beneath the counter, snagged the coffeepot from the warming plate and poured. “Who’s DNA you wearing on the front of your shirt?”
“Payton Scott’s.” He flexed his right hand and winced. Pearl caught the movement and retreated to the kitchen. A minute later she placed a baggie of crushed ice across his knuckles.
“Thanks, Pearl.”
“Anyone who smacks Payton Scott upside the head is a hero in my book.” In no hurry to top off the other patrons’ cups, she said, “Payton ain’t much of a fighter. He’s a talker.”
“Yep. Shooting off at the mouth is what did him in.”
Resting her forearms on the counter, Pearl smacked her gum. “What’d the sissy pot say?”
Gossip. Matt detested hearsay—he’d been the recipient of his fair share most of his life. But if he didn’t speak up first, Scott would likely stretch the truth and make himself out to be the good guy. “He insulted Amy’s character and insinuated that I’m sleeping with her.”
Pearl’s jaw dropped, then a moment later she snapped it shut. “Ain’t none of Payton’s beeswax, who Amy sleeps with. But the girl’s got a screw loose if she’s shut the bedroom door in your face.”
Because he was a rodeo cowboy most women believed all he was after was a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. That’s why he’d been taken in by Kayla. Kayla had played hard-to-get. Not until it was too late and he’d lost his heart to the woman had he discovered that her good-girl role had been an act.
“Amy and I are not having an affair.” Matt wasn’t certain who he was trying to convince, the café owner or himself. He and Amy might not have had sex, but he’d sure as heck fantasized about mattress dancing with her after the kiss they’d shared yesterday.
Her mouth had set his lips on fire. He hadn’t expected the mother of two to use her tongue in such wicked ways. She’d left him with a big ol’ ache in his groin when she’d walked out of the barn. He’d gone to bed too preoccupied reliving their kiss to worry whether Sophie came out of hiding and bit him.
The woman tied Matt in knots. He admitted he was surprised that he was attracted to her. She wasn’t knock-a-man-off-his-feet gorgeous. Or take-your-breath-away stunning. She was Amy. Her beauty was soft and subtle. A man had to study her face to see its charm and sweetness. And if he cared enough to gaze deep into her eyes, he’d notice the ordinary brown color changed with her moods—lighter when she laughed or smiled. Darker when she scowled. And almost black when she fretted.
Until Amy, he hadn’t known subtle to be sexy.
Matt feared all Amy had to do was crook her finger and he’d come running. He’d awoken this morning thankful at having been saddled with Rose and Lily the remainder of the week. Their little faces reminded him that Amy had too much baggage attached to her—the girls, a dead husband and a defunct horse-boarding business. Kayla had had baggage, too. She hadn’t bothered to mention her son or her struggling hair salon until after he’d fallen in love with her. He might have forgiven her if not for having discovered her ex-boyfriend had been warming Kayla’s bed when Matt had been on the road. Greed made people do inexcusable things.
“Once my mares conceive I’m heading home to Oklahoma,” he told Pearl. He snatched the menu from between the ketchup bottle and sugar shaker and refreshed his memory on the café’s offerings. “I’ll take two orders of macaroni-and-cheese with franks and a Rueben sandwich.” Then he added, “To go, please.”
; Pearl opened her mouth to comment, but a customer called her name and she walked off without a word. The bell above the café door clanged and Matt recognized the customer.
Jake helped himself to the stool next to Matt. “Thought I spotted your rig in the lot.”
“What’s up, Jake?”
“You watchin’ the princesses again today?”
“Yep.” Amy probably believed all she had to do now was kiss him to enlist his cooperation.
“Want me to stop by later with Helen?”
“Appreciate the offer, but I’ve got things under control.” Pearl waltzed by, set a mug on the counter for Jake, filled it with coffee, then departed for the kitchen.
“Heard you had a run-in with Payton Scott at the feed store.”
“I’m sure everyone in town knows by now.” Matt wondered if he’d have a chance to explain what had happened to Amy before the news reached her.
“Judgin’ by the condition of your shirt, looks like you got the best of him.”
“Scott had a few words to say about Amy that I took exception to.”
“Glad to hear that gal’s got a man stickin’ up for her.”
Matt was saved from discussing his relationship with Amy when Pearl placed a carryout bag on the counter. “Here you go, cowboy.”
“Thanks.” He added a ten-dollar tip to the bill, hoping the money would persuade the waitress from blabbing his food order across the county line. He didn’t want Amy discovering that he intended to feed the girls takeout tonight instead of another one of her casseroles.
“Take this with you.” Pearl handed him a laminated menu, then called over her shoulder as she walked off. “We deliver.”
Before Matt left, he asked Jake the one question that had been on his mind the past couple of days. “Do you have any idea why Payton Scott’s so interested in Amy’s farm?”
“I suspect ’cause it’s prime horse property and wealthy folk from the city’s always searchin’ for a place in the country.”
If Payton expected Amy to give up her farm without a fuss, the man was in for a big surprise. Whether Matt liked it or not, his fight with the banker proved Matt had done what he’d sworn not to—he’d become Amy’s champion.