It Takes A Cowboy (Heart Of The West #5)

by Gina Wilkins

  Suddenly self-conscious, Blair tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I finished the other one this morning.”

  Scott nodded toward the abandoned book she’d brought with her. “Not in the mood for political gossip today?”

  “It isn’t gossip,” she felt obliged to argue. “It’s a serious discussion of the current political climate in light of recent—”

  “Blair, I’ve read the book. It’s gossip—phrased in pseudo-intellectual terms, perhaps, but gossip nonetheless. And it’s all bull.”

  She frowned. “You’ve read it?”

  “Every page. I was stuck in an airport in Hong Kong with nothing else to read. And it was a total waste of my time. I’d have been better served if I’d spent those two hours reading something fun and entertaining rather than some overeducated windbag’s interpretation of Washington shenanigans.”

  “But—”

  Growing impatient with the discussion, Jeffrey bounced on his feet. “Aunt Blair, come out to the porch and see what we caught this afternoon. Scott’s going to cook them for dinner.”

  “You caught some fish?” Distracted from the literary argument, she studied the expression on her nephew’s face. It was so rare that Jeffrey looked genuinely excited. She was determined not to dampen his enthusiasm. She set the book aside and rose. “I’d love to see them.”

  Three fat, glistening trout lay in a cooler on the front porch. Blair examined them and nodded gravely. “Oh, yes, these are fine fish. Did you catch them, Jeffrey?”

  “Only one of them,” he admitted, then added proudly, “but it’s the biggest one.”

  “Wow. That is a big one. I wish I’d brought a camera to take your picture with it.”

  “Scott already did.”

  Blair looked at Scott in surprise. He pulled a small, one-time-use camera from one of the many pockets of his khaki fishing vest. “I always pack a camera,” he explained. “Since I release a lot more fish than I keep to eat, I take pictures of my biggest catches to prove my fishing prowess.”

  Whatever his reason, Blair was pleased that he’d made a production of taking Jeffrey’s picture with the fish. That must have made the boy even more proud of his accomplishment.

  “That’s a photograph we’ll definitely have to frame,” she said lightly. “Did you enjoy fishing, Jeffrey? Was it fun?”

  “Yeah, it was cool. It was hard at first because I didn’t know when I had a bite and then I kept letting them get away. But then Scott gave me some advice and I caught a couple that were too little to keep and then I hooked this big sucker. I thought he was going to get away, too, but I hung on and I did what Scott told me to do and I got him close enough so Scott could catch him in the net. It was really cool,” he repeated, speaking so quickly his words nearly tripped over themselves.

  Amused by his enthusiasm, Blair reached out without thinking to smooth his tousled brown hair. “That must have been very exciting.”

  Scott put one hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder and the other on Blair’s, linking them companionably together. “Hope you two like grilled trout. That’s what we’re having for dinner.”

  “I’ve never had grilled trout,” Jeffrey replied. “But it sounds good.”

  “Great. Now all we have to do is convince your aunt to clean the fish.”

  Blair’s eyebrows lifted. She kept her voice purposefully cool when she asked, “I beg your pardon?”

  Scott laughed. “Have I ever mentioned that I like it when you do that?”

  “When I do what?”

  “When you act all snooty and indignant. It’s cute as all get-out. Makes me want to just kiss you silly.”

  While Blair fumbled for a response, Jeffrey gave a muffled laugh.

  Scott grinned, apparently satisfied with their reactions. “I’ll clean the fish. You can make some side dishes, if you want.”

  Still flustered, Blair nodded. “Of course. Jeffrey, go clean up now and change into clean clothes.”

  “Okay, Aunt Blair.” He headed obligingly for the door.

  “If only he were always that agreeable,” she murmured, mostly to herself, as she watched her nephew disappear inside. And then she turned to Scott with a frown. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  He gave her an innocent look. “Do what?”

  “Flirt with me in front of Jeffrey. You’ll confuse him. He’s too young to understand what you’re like.”

  Scott drew himself up a bit straighter and rested his hands on his hips, studying her with a deceptively bland smile. “And what am I like?”

  She frowned at him, reluctant to expand on her accusation. “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I’m not sure I do. Surely you aren’t accusing me of being a compulsive playboy? A woman chaser?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Because if I were that kind of man, I’d have done much more than call you cute and talk about wanting to kiss you. Being alone like this with a beautiful woman would be more temptation than I could resist.”

  Blair felt her cheeks heat. Beautiful? Did he really think so, or was he— She frowned again and shook her head, telling herself he was simply being difficult. Again. “I didn’t say you...”

  He took a step nearer, so close he had only to lift his hand to touch her warm cheek. He seemed suddenly bigger, his shoulders broader. He smelled of fish and fresh air and healthy male, and the combination was surprisingly enticing. Blair couldn’t help thinking of Hal Berkley, the accountant who had been asking her out for the past couple of months. The expensive colognes he wore might appeal to some women, but she found herself suddenly, unexpectedly responding to a more basic, earthy scent.

  Funny. Until this moment, she’d never suspected she had a weakness for charming cowboys. But it was a weakness she refused to indulge. Like her fondness for rich chocolate, this was a craving that had to be resisted because it wasn’t at all good for her.

  “If I were that kind of guy,” Scott continued blandly, his fingertips rising to stroke a strand of hair from her temple, “I would have to take advantage of this opportunity to try to steal a kiss from that soft, pretty mouth...”

  He leaned even closer, his breath warm against her lips, which parted in automatic reaction. His fingers slipped into her hair, exerting just enough pressure behind her head to bring her up on tiptoe. His lips barely brushed hers when he spoke again. “And if I were that type of man, I wouldn’t want to stop with a kiss.”

  Her mouth trembled against his. With every ounce of her being, she wanted to slide her arms around his neck and find out exactly what this man’s kiss could do to her. And maybe it was because she wanted it so badly that she jerked backward, pulling herself away from him. She was terribly worried that just kissing Scott McKay might not be enough for her, either.

  “I, uh, I’ll see what I can find to go with the fish.”

  “Chicken,” Scott murmured, his eyes mocking her.

  “We’re having fish, not chicken.” She held her chin high as she made the bad joke, determined to prove he hadn’t rattled her. He had, of course—seriously—but she saw no need for him to know it.

  She’d bought a mentor for Jeffrey, she reminded herself as she went inside. Not a man for herself. If there was one thing she did not need in her already stressful life, it was a gorgeous, footloose cowboy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JEFFREY DIDN’T seem to notice any awkwardness between Blair and Scott during dinner. Maybe it was because he was too excited about eating the fish he had caught himself, or maybe it was because Scott talked and joked and teased as easily as he had before that odd interlude on the porch. Maybe it was only Blair who felt as though something had changed. Maybe she was only imagining undercurrents of awareness sizzling between her and Scott.

  Maybe too much rest and relaxation were doing strange things to her mind, she thought wryly. Compulsive workaholics simply weren’t cut out for self-indulgent sloth.

  “Don’t you like your trout, Aunt Blair?” Jeffrey asked, looking at
her plate.

  She forced a smile. “It’s delicious. I’m savoring it.”

  He swallowed the last bite of his serving. “You cooked it good, Scott.”

  “Thanks. The vegetables your aunt prepared to go with it are good, too, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, they’re fine. How did you learn to cook fish like this, Scott?”

  Blair wasn’t offended. Jeffrey had been eating her cooking for the past six months. It was only natural that he would be more impressed by Scott’s culinary expertise.

  “Experimentation,” Scott answered humorously. “You wouldn’t have wanted to try some of my earlier efforts.”

  Jeffrey turned to his aunt. “Scott can tie a fly and make it look just like a real bug. He turned over a rock in the stream and showed me a bug and then he tied a little bit of fuzz and feathers and stuff and he made it look just like the bug he found. He’s got this little vise thing in his tackle box to hold the stuff while he ties it. It was so cool. Who taught you to do that, Scott?”

  “Actually, I attended a class to learn how.”

  Jeffrey blinked in surprise. “You went to a fishing school?”

  Scott smiled. “You’d be amazed how many classes you might want to take when you no longer feel that you have to go to school. There are a lot of interesting things to learn out there.”

  Wrinkling his nose, Jeffrey announced, “If I ever get out of school, I’m never going to another class.”

  “That’s what I used to say, until I went to Lost Springs and figured out how to make school work to my advantage.”

  Jeffrey frowned as if he’d forgotten that Scott had once resided at the boys’ ranch. Blair knew Jeffrey had encountered boys from Lost Springs at school; he’d mentioned occasionally that some of them were real troublemakers. He looked curiously at Scott. “How come you lived out at the ranch? Were you one of the orphans with no place else to go?”

  “I was an orphan, but I had grandparents who took me in—until I gave them so much trouble they sent me to Lost Springs to be straightened out,” Scott replied easily.

  “Oh. I thought only serious troublemakers went there. Some of the guys at school say Lost Springs is just a place for the punks to go until they’re old enough for jail.”

  “Jeffrey...”

  With a quick gesture of his hand, Scott signaled to Blair to let him handle this. Since he didn’t look particularly annoyed or offended by Jeffrey’s insensitive remarks, Blair fell silent.

  “The boys at Lost Springs aren’t all punks, Jeff. It’s true that most have been in trouble and that a very few will end up in jail someday, but for the most part, they’re just kids who need some guidance.”

  “Were you in trouble?”

  Blair had to bite her tongue to keep from telling Jeffrey to mind his own business. She didn’t want to encourage him to ask intrusive questions, but she had wanted him to spend time with Scott precisely because of Scott’s troubled background.

  Again, Scott accepted the boy’s blunt question with equanimity. “Yeah. I got into a lot of trouble. After my folks died, I was pretty mad, and I didn’t get along well with my grandparents, so I did some really stupid stuff. It’s like I was trying to punish everyone around me because life hadn’t worked out the way I wanted it to, you know?”

  Jeffrey looked at his empty plate, as if the comment struck just a bit too close to home. “You weren’t a punk,” he said loyally, his rapidly developing hero worship in evidence.

  “Sure I was,” Scott replied with a smile. “And I might have turned into worse if the staff at Lost Springs hadn’t convinced me that I was only punishing myself with my behavior. They made me realize that it was up to me to make something out of myself and to decide what I wanted to do with my future.”

  “And you wanted to climb mountains and race cars and stuff, right?”

  Scott chuckled. “Right. I was lucky enough to have some money—unlike most of the guys, who had to figure out how they were going to make a living when they left the ranch. But I had to learn how to take care of that money, so I went to college and majored in business. Finished in three years, because I didn’t want to spend any more time in classes than necessary.”

  “College?” Jeffrey curled his lip. “More school? Oh, man...”

  “School’s not so bad, once you figure out how to work the system.”

  That captured Jeffrey’s interest. “Work the system? What do you mean?”

  Scott responded with a question of his own. “What do you dislike most about school?”

  The boy practically shuddered. “Everything.”

  Patiently, Scott shook his head. “I know there are some things you must like better than others. But what do you dislike most?”

  After a moment’s thought, Jeffrey answered, “The picky stuff. You know, little things that don’t make any difference, but the teachers still get all worked up about them.”

  “For example?”

  “You got a pencil and paper?”

  “In that drawer behind you.”

  Blair stood and began to clear away the dishes as Jeffrey pulled a pencil and notepad from the drawer Scott had indicated. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he set the pad on the table in front of Scott. Drawing an oval with a slash through the bottom, he asked, “What letter is that?”

  Scott answered cooperatively, “Q.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “Right. It’s my middle initial—my mother named me Jeffrey Quentin, for some dumb reason.”

  “A perfectly good name,” Scott assured him.

  The boy shrugged. “Anyway, my teacher wants me to write a Q like this.” He scrawled something else on the pad. “Isn’t that dorky? It looks like a number two, not a letter.”

  Laughing softly, Scott nodded. “It is a standard cursive Q. I remember that’s the way it was taught to me, too.”

  “I hate it. I won’t write my initial that way. Miss Greene makes us sign all our papers with our first name, middle initial and last name, and she yells at me and deducts points every time I won’t write the Q the way she wants me to.”

  Blair waited for Scott to explain to Jeffrey—as she had numerous times—that Miss Greene was simply trying to teach the traditionally accepted rules of penmanship. It was her job, and she was performing it conscientiously, if a bit rigidly.

  Instead, Scott commiserated with the boy. “Man, that is picky. Your teacher must be a total hardnose.”

  Blair spun to stare at Scott. That was not what she wanted him to say! “Um...”

  “I can’t blame you for losing patience with her,” Scott continued, still looking at Jeffrey. “Or for wanting to write your initial the way you like it, rather than the way your teacher tells you to.”

  “Exactly.” Jeffrey shot a glittering look at his aunt as he took encouragement from Scott’s input into the familiar argument.

  But Scott wasn’t finished. “This is a great example of what I meant by working the system. You want a good grade, right?”

  Jeffrey scowled and shrugged. “I don’t really care.”

  “Sure you do. Good grades are your ticket to getting what you want out of life. They’re for you, not for anyone else. They’re your proof that you played the system—and you won.”

  Jeffrey looked as confused as Blair was beginning to feel. “Are you saying I should make my Qs the way Miss Greene wants me to?” he demanded.

  “Yeah—but only in her class,” Scott added quickly when it was obvious that Jeffrey was prepared to argue. “When you’re out of class, writing just for yourself, you make your letters any way you want, as long as they’re readable. After all, if no one can read what you’ve written, then what’s the point, right?”

  “Uh...”

  “So, anyway, you’re almost finished school this term, right?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So in the fall, you’ll have a different teacher, and chances are she won’t give a spit about how you make a Q, as long as it’s reasonably neat. Of course,
she’ll have some other dumb rule, but you can play that one, too, as long as it gets you what you want—the grade. It’s like a job, you see. You do what the boss says at work so you’ll get the pay you want, but what you do on your own time is your business.”

  Blair wasn’t at all sure she approved of this conversation. “Now wait a minute—”

  Ignoring his aunt for the moment, Jeffrey concentrated on Scott’s unusual advice. “You’re saying I should do what the teachers want because it will get me what I want?”

  “Exactly.” Scott beamed at the boy as if he was delighted to be so well understood. “You aren’t giving in. You aren’t surrendering. You’re working the system. You get the good grades you can use later, you get your teachers off your back, you stay out of trouble—which keeps everyone else off your back. It’s a win-win situation.”

  “But the teachers think they win.”

  Scott shrugged. “So it makes them happy, too. A happy teacher is a less annoying teacher.”

  Blair definitely did not approve of Scott trying to turn her nephew into some pint-size con artist, even if he thought it was for the boy’s own good. “Scott, that isn’t why students cooperate in school, just to keep the teachers happy and finagle good grades out of them.”

  “No?” Scott looked at her blandly. “Then why?”

  “Well...because the teachers know their subjects. Because being a dedicated student is the right thing to do.”

  “C’mon, Blair.” Scott poked the pad with one finger. “Do you really think it matters diddly whether Jeff makes his Q this way or the other way?”

  Feeling cornered, she bit her lip. She didn’t think it mattered, really, but she didn’t want to encourage her nephew to flout the rules of penmanship—or any other rules, for that matter.

  “You made good grades in school, right? You had to study even when you didn’t want to, and you had to do some things you didn’t necessarily agree with, right?”

  “Well, maybe occasionally, but—”

  “So why’d you do it? Because it was the right thing to do...or because you wanted the grades so you could get into law school? And you had to work your butt off in law school, I’d imagine, but you did it because you’d decided you wanted to be a lawyer and you weren’t going to let anything hold you back, right?”