Vern handed her the receipt. Fifty bucks? Holy crap, how much did gas cost? Stupid question, Van, obviously it costs fifty dollars. She reached into her bag for her credit card and then remembered that was part and parcel of the Witte upbringing. Paying with Grandfather’s credit card? Not character building. She pawed through the baby blue Coach bag but only came up with two twenties and some loose change.
Damn.
“Just charge it to the ranch, Vern.” Mat Barnes’s voice echoed under the station’s overhang, chilling Vanessa. “The Double Diamond will cover it.” We always cover her bills, his tone implied.
Vanessa squeezed her eyes closed and swallowed. Her fingers closed over another bill. Please let it be a twenty. Or a ten. She opened her eyes.
Three twenties. Triumph!
“I’ve got it, Mr. Barnes, thank you,” she said, chilling her voice as she handed the cash to Vern. He looked from Mat to Vanessa, obviously confused over what was going on between them. Vanessa held his gaze for a moment. Vern took the cash and hurried inside.
“I think we’re past the ‘Mr. Barnes’ stage, don’t you?” Mat watched her from beneath the tipped-low brim on his cowboy hat, his coal-black eyes boring straight to her soul. Yes, they were past the Mr. or Miss stage, technically, but not calling him Mat helped her keep her distance.
The way her heart raced at the mere sight of him, she desperately needed that space.
She looked away, crossing her arms over her chest. Her gaze caught on the frayed edge of his jeans — which were worn in all the right places, she noted — and today’s tee, tight across his shoulders, read, ‘Chicks Dig Scars’ over his well-muscled chest.
Who was she kidding? Calling him Mr. Barnes didn’t keep her from noticing just how delectable Mat was. Nothing could do that. Not in broad daylight. Certainly not the twinkling fairy lights during Kathleen’s wedding reception.
“I don’t think a night spent in my grandfather’s hayloft makes us best buddies,” she said, hoping against hope he would just leave her alone.
“Ahh, but what we did in that hayloft is another matter.” He lounged against the side of her Porsche as if he might stay there forever.
Her cheeks burned and her stomach clenched. Not from morning sickness this time, from the memory of Mat holding her. Touching her. Of kissing the ridge line of his shoulder and holding on as everything except Mat disappeared into the Texas night. Of falling asleep in his arms and feeling, for the first time in her life, completely safe.
Waking up alone, without so much as a note, showed her exactly what Mat Barnes thought of Mitchum Witte’s granddaughter.
“We don’t need to talk about that night.” Except they did. Badly. Not here, though, she reasoned.
“What should we talk about then?” He cocked one eyebrow and crossed his feet at the ankle as if settling in for a long chat.
The baby. Vanessa opened her mouth to tell him she was pregnant, but stopped. Dropping this kind of news in the middle of a gas station parking lot was so not happening.
“Why talk about anything? You can just go on about your day, I’m sure you have plenty to keep you busy.”
“In fact, I do. What brings you back to town, Vanessa?”
Why wouldn’t he just leave? It wasn’t as if they were friends. Or even lovers, not counting that night.
“The bull sale.”
“For someone who claims to hate Lockhardt and Texas in general, you’re back awfully early. The sale isn’t for another two months.”
“Needed more time to recover did you?”
A conceited grin spread over his face. “I’m doing just fine, thanks.”
“Good. And I’d prefer to keep things businesslike between us leading up to the bull sale.” Vanessa used her most prim and proper voice; the voice lessons from her childhood coming back immediately. “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t your first midnight hayride, and you definitely weren’t mine. So, businesslike?”
The grin widened. “Girls who’ve been around a lot don’t blush like you do at the thought of what we did that night.”
Damn her fair complexion anyway. Vanessa drew herself up to her full height — all five feet seven inches in Alexander McQueen stilettos.
“Blushing is an involuntary response that can be attributed to anger as much as embarrassment. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’re certain of that?”
Vanessa’s mouth went dry. Any sound she made now would betray her, so she only nodded. He shrugged and straightened from his position on her bumper. Mat reached out a hand and traced the line of her jaw. “You know, not acknowledging that night doesn’t mean it won’t happen again.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself for a guy who didn’t stick around until morning.”
“Is that what this is about? You came home early because your pride was bruised about the morning after?”
Yes. No. Crap, what was this about? And why wasn’t Vern back with her change yet?
“Being a city girl you probably don’t realize we have actual work that starts at dawn on the ranch. Cattle don’t feed themselves.”
“Last I heard you were foreman, not a regular hand.”
“Foreman doesn’t mean nine to five. Or eleven to three for your circle.” His gaze bored into hers for a long moment and this time Vanessa couldn’t look away. She was caught, like a moth to the proverbial flame. “Since you’re out of cash, feel free to use the ranch accounts for anything else you need. We’ll cover it for you.” He turned and swung up into the big truck, tipped his cowboy hat, and started the motor. “You have a nice day now, Miss Witte. Don’t be a stranger.”
This character building thing was going to be harder than she thought.
• • •
Mat handed the feed order over the worn, brown counter at The Feed Lot, still distracted by a little blue Porsche and a sexy woman he hadn’t been ready to see. Again.
Damn her for being right. He did still need time to prepare for her. Damn the bull sale for being held in February. Damn the fact that Vanessa’s college degree was in marketing so she’d been tasked two years before to come up with a website design and press releases. Neither changed much year to year, but the ball following the sale did.
And Vanessa planned that, too.
Why, he’d never really understood.
Check that, he’d never contemplated it because, until that night after Jackson and Kathleen got married, he had never given Vanessa Witte a second thought.
She was the kind of girl he’d left behind in California. The kind of girl he’d sworn to never get involved with again.
Until that night.
“Couple more minutes, Mat. We’re bringing a couple of sacks up from the back.”
He waved a hand at Jonathan, the store manager. “No hurry today.” They could take all day and half the night loading the truck and Mat wouldn’t care. He blew out a breath. A few more minutes spent in town, a few less spent at the ranch. Mat occupied the foreman’s house, but took most of his meals at the main house.
Until this morning, he’d been content to talk cattle with Mitch and Nathaniel over coffee. To listen to Kathleen talk horses or talk about New York with Jackson. Most days he managed not to think of Vanessa, not to picture her gliding down that wide staircase on her way to wherever she spent her time when she was actually in residence. The days he failed were the days he concentrated on getting his own piece of Texas.
The McIntyre spread, one thousand acres of prime Texas land, went on the market early last summer, but it was land no a foreman could ever afford.
He’d gone to see it twice now, with a local agent. Made a few noises about saving money for a down payment. He could buy it outright, but then everyone would know his secret. They’d know he was that Mat Barnes, the trouble-making son of one o
f the wealthiest men in Silicon Valley. They wouldn’t shoot the breeze with him over beef prices or the weather. They’d want to know about life in California. The hot women. The accident. So he made noises about saving. Another year or so and he could make the move without outing himself, but what he wouldn’t give for that place now that Vanessa was back in town.
Jonathan whistled, drawing Mat’s attention to the street outside. “Saw Vanessa pull in a few minutes ago. Damn, she looked good behind the wheel of that Porsche from a distance. From across the street … ”
“Anyone would look good behind that wheel,” Mat cut in, not really wanting to talk about Vanessa. But he always shot the breeze with the guys at The Feed Lot. Until today, that was one of the draws to living in Texas — talking about absolutely nothing with people who didn’t care who he was or how much money he had.
Jonathan snorted. “Anyone, hell. Vanessa Witte looks better behind that wheel than half the women in this town.”
Mat had to agree. Vanessa belonged to that car. She swiveled her long legs onto the pavement, the hem of her silk dress riding up her thigh a bit. He watched the play of muscle beneath her skin as she stood, how the silk pulled across her butt as she leaned into the car to grab her bag. He swallowed. Hard.
Vanessa glided into the Sack ’n Save, a colorful bird in a sea of gray concrete and dull brick buildings. And what the hell was wrong with him? He was not going to fall back under Vanessa Witte’s spell. Jonathan elbowed him.
“You might want to pick your eyeballs up off the floor and put ’em back in your head, partner.” He shuffled back behind the counter, whistling. “Like any other woman my ass,” he said under his breath.
Well, the man had a point, Mat thought, as Vanessa exited the grocery store with a filled bag and a bouquet of wildflowers. She leaned over to the put the sack on the passenger seat, giving him another view of her derrière.
No, Vanessa Witte was most definitely not like any other woman in Lockhardt, Texas.
Chapter Two
Less than fifteen miles to the turn-off for the Double Diamond, a loud flappa, flappa, flappa intruded on Lady Antebellum’s new song. The steering wheel took a hard turn to the left.
Flat tire.
Vanessa let off the gas and pulled her pretty little Porsche onto the narrow shoulder of the deserted blacktop road. Too far to walk back into Lockhardt or continue to the ranch, even in the mild December weather. Her iPhone let out a fine, strangled bleep and the screen faded to black as she picked it up.
Fan-frikkin-tastic.
She grimaced, thinking of the damage to her feet if she tried walking either direction in the leather-and-ribbon stilettos. Other than her pink-and-black Nikes, buried somewhere in the trunk, not one sensible pair of shoes made this trip. She wasn’t about to make the fashion statement of Nikes-and-Stella McCartney, not even in Texas.
Oh, what did it matter anyway? No one around here cared what she wore — the one strike in favor of this part of Texas. No one knew she was coming early, either. She wasn’t needed for pre-sale updates for another week or so. She could die out here.
Okay, that was a little melodramatic. Mat knew she was here thanks to their run-in at Vern’s. He’d send out a search if she didn’t show by dinner. If not, sooner or later another rancher would head into Lockhardt for something and find her. She didn’t want to be rescued, though. Didn’t want yet another socialite-Vanessa anecdote to be talked about over beers at the Longhorn Bar; there were enough of those from her teenage years when Gillian shipped her here. Everyone in town knew why, although none had talked about it. Gillian’s boyfriend thought Vanessa was the better catch and made a play for her. Gillian, of course, blamed Vanessa and it was so long Miami, hello Texas. Where she’d fit in about as well as she’d sat a horse.
Badly.
She’d survived the stares and wondering looks, but the anecdotes still got to her. There was the bit about Vanessa failing her driver’s test three times, Vanessa unable to finish a sewing project for home ec, Vanessa winning the Lockhardt Fair Queen title three years running because the only requirement was a fancy dress. She’d always had plenty of fancy dresses.
There were three summers and two full school years’ worth of stories, not counting the few times she’d come back in college. Once she had her degree, she’d run to San Antonio and not looked back. Until now.
She could sit here on the side of the road waiting or figure out how to get to the ranch on her own. Could keep whining about the past or get over it all before she screwed up this baby worse than her own childhood had been messed up. She banged her forehead once, twice against the steering wheel. Vanessa didn’t even know if she owned one of those heavy, sort-of-square things that detached tires from cars. Kathleen’s voice echoed in her head. Cowgirl up.
“Shut up.” But she listened to the voice, got out of the Porsche and nearly toppled over as her four-inch heels sank into the dirt shoulder. Vanessa held on to the top of the car as she made her way to the trunk and began pawing through the contents, looking for something appropriate to wear. A single Nike, buried under a pile of silk blouses and a jog bra gave her hope. She kept going, found a wrinkled green tee, black leggings and a pair of athletic socks in another bag. She really had to figure out how to pack before going back to San Antonio. In a third bag, she found the other Nike. At least she’d look semi-put together.
Vanessa looked in either direction, saw no dust trail or mid-day stars signaling sunlight bouncing off a windshield and whipped off the pants and blouse. She pulled the tee on first — no need to get caught on the side of the road in her bra and panties — and then sat on the hood to take off the McQueens. She jumped when her bare feet hit rough, hot pavement and hurried to pull socks over her feet. A few seconds later, fully dressed, she was ready for the walk back to town.
In the distance, sunlight glinted off a windshield and a few minutes later a large, black truck with the Witte brand emblazoned on the side pulled to a stop, dwarfing her sports car. Vanessa sighed. Just her luck, she’d been found helpless on the side of the road by Mat.
She pasted a smile on her face, and wished for her armor back. She could deal with Mat in heels and silk. In capri-leggings and Nikes? Coal-black eyes that seemed to see right through her looked from Vanessa to the flat-as-a-pancake tire and he smiled. Mat ran one hand through his hair and put on his cowboy hat.
She really shouldn’t be this attracted to a man in a cowboy hat. Suits were more her type. Pin-striped. Wing-backs. Starched shirts and cuff links. But, oh, that long-sleeved tee fit Mat better than any suit could.
“Do you at least have a jack and tire iron?”
She snapped back to reality. Tire iron, she knew those things had a proper name. Did she have one?
“Vanessa?” Mat’s husky voice shivered over her spine and Vanessa ordered herself to treat him like any other employee. Even if he didn’t technically work for her.
Even if he’d seen her naked just a couple of months before.
“I was just going to grab it.” She gestured toward the trunk. Please, God, let there be a tire iron and whatever else Mat needed in there.
Mat pushed past her, golden skin glinting in the sunlight. Why couldn’t his summer tan have faded like the rest of the residents in the Northern Hemisphere? He opened the trunk and sighed. Too late, Vanessa remembered her clothes thrown haphazardly inside from her quick-change on the roadside. One flimsy sandal hung from his index finger.
“This is not a tire iron.” Was that laughter under the words? Or disgust?
“Sorry.” She pushed the clothes back into their cases. “I was kind of in a hurry.”
“Mmhmmm.” He held up a lacy bra she’d missed, the twin to the one she wore now, and her body went on point. “You missed this one.”
Vanessa snatched it from his hand and stuffed it into one of the cases. Mat put he
r bags on the pavement and lifted the hold. Empty. No tire iron. No spare. Why hadn’t she had her tires checked before leaving San Antonio?
Because that was a job for the servants she no longer had, Vanessa realized. God, she was incompetent.
“Phone?” Mat’s voice interrupted her.
She clenched her jaw. “Dead.” And didn’t she look just brilliant now.
Mat shook his head, again. “And your plan was?”
His voice said she couldn’t have had a plan. That she was impetuous and self-indulgent. He wasn’t all that wrong. She did think after she acted 90 percent of the time — just look what a mess her marriage to Paul had turned out to be — and until a few hours ago her biggest problem was finding a satisfactory date for the New Year’s Ball at The McNay Museum. Mat didn’t have to be so superior about it, though.
“Walk back to town, grab Vern at the service station, and have it changed.”
“You were going to walk more than ten miles?”
She shrugged. “Ten miles in mild December weather isn’t exactly the Bataan Death March.”
“It’s dusk and you’re wearing black. Do you have a flashlight?”
Damn, yet another safety item she’d neglected to keep handy. “No,” she said, frosting her voice. God, if I can’t manage a simple trip to Lockhardt without help, how can I raise a child on my own? Vanessa set her shoulders. No, she didn’t have a flashlight. Yes, she’d gone off without having her car checked by a mechanic. No, those things didn’t make her an incompetent.
Mat shook his head — an action she was beginning to loathe — and punched a few numbers on his perfectly charged cell, grumbling about ill-prepared tourists. He asked Vern to come pick up her car and hung up. “I’ll drive you back to the ranch.”
“I’ll wait for Vern.” She might need rescuing, technically speaking, but not by Mat Barnes.
“Just get in the truck, Vanessa,” he said, as if driving her anywhere was a fate worse than death.
Texas Wishes: The Complete Series Page 18