Love With a Perfect Cowboy

by Lori Wilde

  Before he could decide if the straightforward approach was the way to go or not, Melody crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Thank you for showing me your condo, but I don’t think this location is going to work for me after all.”

  DESPERATE TO GET to the cute little Holstein pastured across the road from the Rocking N Ranch, a horny Angus bull—­unimaginatively named Ferdinand—­knocked down the barbwire fence that kept him from the object of his affection and proceeded to have his way with her.

  “I know exactly how you feel, old boy,” Luke told the bull, who was docile as a lamb now that he’d gotten what he wanted and was back on his side of the property line. “Those fetching women can drive a fella right out of his gourd, but she’s a dairy cow and you’re from beef cattle stock. Not the best match-­up. Next time consider a pretty Hereford.”

  The bull ran a conciliatory tongue over the block saltlick next to the dried-­up stock tank. The cattle version of a cigarette after sex?

  It had been hours since his encounter with Melody at the condo, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Luke ratcheted the pull bar on the wire stretcher, tugging the fence up tight, his biceps bunching with effort. Sweat trickled down his brow and the afternoon sun burned through the top of his straw Stetson. Sand dusted his everyday cowboy boots, turning them from faded black to washed-­out gray.

  Heat of the day. Granted, not the best time for the chore, but Ferdinand had left him with little choice. Fix the fence pronto or put the dairy herd in a different pasture. Repairing the fence was quicker than a roundup. Although he supposed he could have just moved Ferd to the barn, but the fence would still need fixing and Ferd’s placid mood wouldn’t last long. Soon enough, that old testosterone itch would come over him again and he’d go back to cantankerous. The bull had busted through more than one barn stall.

  Yep. Luke understood. He was feeling a bit grumpy himself. Having Melody withdrawals.

  In the distance, a cloud of dirt swirled around a pickup barreling down the one-­lane road.

  Luke put down the wire stretcher, tugged a red bandana from the back pocket of his Wranglers, and mopped his face. From this distance, he couldn’t yet make out whose truck it was. His ranch hands were back at the house, working on the well pump. He prayed the compressor had simply gone out instead of the well running dry, but he suspected the latter.

  Damn this drought.

  He shaded his eyes with his hand, blocking the sun that managed to filter through the Stetson, and watched the pickup spin closer. White Ford. Blasting Hank Williams through the rolled-­down windows. Luke shook his head. Why didn’t the old man just get the air conditioner fixed?

  The truck skidded to a stop, covering him in a plume of grit.

  Luke spat sand, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Is it true?” his father bellowed, piling out of the pickup without bothering to shut off the engine. Hank was wailing, “Lovesick Blues.”

  The pickup kept on driving by itself.

  “Shit, Dad.” Luke leaped to the truck, grabbed the door his father had left standing open, slapped a hand on the steering wheel, and got a foot inside to slam on the brake.

  He put the truck in park and killed the engine, cutting Hank off in mid-­whine, and turned around to find his father toeing off with him.

  “Is it true?” Gil Nielson demanded, blue veins popping out on his temples. He was unshaven and his blue chambray work shirt was rumpled and stained. Was he off his meds?

  Luke lowered his voice. Keep calm. If Dad was having a manic episode, slow and quiet was the best way to handle him. “Is what true?”

  “You hired Melody Spencer to take over the town?”

  “Dad,” he said. “She’s simply a consultant, trying to help us bring tourist revenue back to Cupid.”

  “So it is true.” His father smacked his forehead with his palm. “You’ve sold us out!”

  “Calm down. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but you’re blowing it all out of proportion.”

  “Are you purposely trying to hurt me, son?”

  “No. As mayor, I’m doing what I think is best for Cupid. Melody Spencer is—­”

  “I don’t care what her last name is, she’s Greenwood-­Fant through and through.”

  Normally, Luke would drop this thread of conversation like a hot biscuit, but a bullet of anger shot through him. Enough was enough.

  “Seriously, Dad, isn’t it time we let go of this stupid family feud?”

  “Stupid! Stupid!” his father sputtered, his eyes rolling wild. “If it wasn’t for those goddamn Fants your brother would still be alive.”

  Bomb. There it was. The word bomb.

  Luke winced. Fifteen years later and the pain was still sharp as ever. “Holding on to hate isn’t going to bring Jesse back. Besides, Jesse is the one who—­”

  “Don’t you dare say a word against him.” Dad knotted his hands into beefy fists and shook them in the air. “Jesse was protecting you.”

  “It wasn’t Jesse’s battle to fight,” Luke said grimly. “We’ve got to let this thing go before it poisons future generations. It’s already wreaked enough havoc. That’s part of the reason I hired Melody. To help put an end to this nonsense.”

  His father’s lips flattened and his eyes narrowed stubbornly. “I swear to God sometimes I don’t think you’re my son. Nielson blood runs through your veins, boy, and don’t you ever forget it. You can’t go around trusting Fants. Ever. They’ll just screw you over in the end.”

  “Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? Painting every single member of a family for the last ninety years with the same brush.” Why was he even trying? If his father had stopped taking his lithium, there was no talking sense to him.

  “Beyond what happened to Jesse, do I need to remind you all the things that the Fants and Greenwoods have done to us over the generations—­”

  Luke held up his palm. “As if the Nielsons haven’t done anything in retaliation? And if we’re telling it like it is, why don’t we admit that Nielsons were actually the ones who shot the first salvo.”

  Dad shook his head so hard his jowls quivered. “Of course we retaliated after John Fant made a fool of your great-­aunt Elizabeth. We’re not cowards. We don’t take insults lying down.”

  “I’ve hired Melody Spencer,” he said stonily. He’d been listening to this kind of stuff his entire life and enough was enough. “Cupid needs her. I suggest you get used to the idea.”

  His father curled his upper lip in a snarl. “There’s nothing that bitch—­”

  “Don’t!” A furious heat blasted Luke in the stomach, spread out through his body like a virus. Yes, his father suffered from a mental illness, but those words had lit Luke’s own fuse. There was only so much crap a man could take. He took a step forward, knotted his own hands into dangerous fists. “Don’t dare say one word against her.”

  His father’s mouth dropped and his eyes widened. “You’re carrying a torch for her!”

  “Just because I won’t stand for you badmouthing her doesn’t mean I’m carrying a torch,” Luke declared, but he was shaking all over as adrenaline lit up his bloodstream.

  “You can’t be in love with a Fant!” His father slammed a fist in the palm of his other hand. If they’d been inside, Luke had no doubt he would have put it through a wall. The old man was big on wall punching. The sheetrock in the original family farmhouse had been replaced so many times he’d lost count. But hey, at least Dad punched walls and not ­people. For the most part.

  “There’s nothing you could do about it if I were,” Luke said.

  “I won’t stand for you marrying that woman and bringing her to live on the ranch where I raised you kids.”

  “How did we get from me hiring her to do a job to me marrying her?”

  “It’s your fault.” His father shook his finger under Luke’s nose. “You knew better than to take up with a Fant and you did it anyway and your brother is dead because of it. I always sus
pected you carried a torch for her, but I thought you were smart enough to let it die out and here I find out you’re courting her!”

  “I’m not courting her, but it’s got nothing to do with your disapproval. If I wanted to marry her, I would.”

  “But you don’t?” His father’s shoulders slumped and a look of relief passed over his face. “Want to marry her?”

  “No. Melody would never be happy in Cupid. Her dreams are too big for that. She’s not the kind of woman you can tie down. I don’t want to tie her down. It would be like clipping the wings off a butterfly.”

  Dad splayed his hand over his chest. “Well, thank the Lord for that, you just about gave me a heart attack.”

  “It’s time to stop this hatred,” Luke said. “I’m not going to be party to it anymore. I don’t want to hear another bad word against a Greenwood or a Fant ever again. Even if they assassinated the governor of Texas.”

  “You’re dishonoring your brother’s memory. He’s rolling over in his grave.”

  This fight had been a long time coming and he couldn’t help wondering how things would have gone differently between him and Melody if he had the guts to speak his mind to his father back in high school.

  “I prefer to think Jesse wouldn’t hold a grudge. He had a short fuse, but he was a reasonable guy once the anger burned off. We don’t have to keep perpetuating this feud. It can stop. Peace is possible.”

  “Jesse’s dead because of you,” his father declared, decades of suffering dulling the light in his eyes.

  Luke understood where his father was coming from, but the accusation hurt as much now as it had the night his father first slung them at him. He sucked up the pain, held it in like a sponge, stood strong. He was tired of trying to please his family. Tired of hating the Greenwoods and Fants because that’s what he’d been taught since childhood.

  “No,” he said. “Jesse is dead because we Nielsons stubbornly cling to this ridiculous feud and unless we learn how to forgive and forget, the past is going to eat us alive.”

  Chapter 11

  IN the wake of her sexually charged encounter with Luke, the unrealistically high expectation from the community, and the daunting effects of the drought on the land, Melody battled the urge to flee.

  Fought it hard.

  She didn’t have to be here. She left Cupid twelve years ago precisely to escape the fishbowl of small-­town life. Realizing she was back in a place where her every move was observed, cataloged, and discussed made her twitchy and claustrophobic. She thought leaving Manhattan would get rid of the baling-­wire lungs and eye tics?

  Ha! If anything it was worse.

  ­People were counting on her and she’d made a commitment. Leaving wasn’t an option. Not until she’d done everything she could to bring tourist revenue back to her hometown. Besides, she didn’t have any other job opportunities, and her savings wouldn’t last a month in New York.

  Jumpstarting the tourist trade was a tall order considering the gaunt condition of the Trans-­Pecos. She was in for an uphill battle. Good thing she was a fighter.

  In the long run she ended up renting the condo in Luke’s complex. Never mind that all two hundred and six bones in her body were screaming, This is a stupid idea.

  There simply weren’t any other rental properties in Cupid that were affordable, available on a month-­to-­month lease, and came fully furnished. Since Luke only used the condo on those occasions when he didn’t want to drive back to his ranch after late-­night meetings, maybe she wouldn’t run across him much outside of business hours.

  Justifications, she knew, but it was all she had to hang on to.

  She moved in on Monday. She had only the three suitcases she brought from New York, so it hadn’t taken her long to unpack, particularly when Lace and Natalie came over to help and brought a bottle of chardonnay as a housewarming gift. They gossiped and drank wine, ate takeout pizza, and painted the living room a crisp celery color that made her think of salads. Reconnecting with her cousins was one of the best things about coming home. She’d forgotten how much fun they had together.

  Tuesday morning was her first meeting with the Cupid Chamber of Commerce board of directors to introduce herself and tell them in person about the cornbread bake-­off and her other plans for turning the town’s economy around. She was feeling pretty confident about her pitch until she pulled into the parking lot of the restored old train depot that now housed the Chamber of Commerce and she got a call from Teddy.

  “Perfect timing,” she told him. “I was about to go into a meeting with the mayor and board of directors and I’d love to have more dets on the project to share with them.”

  Teddy cleared his throat. “Ah, bad news, lamb chop. I’m afraid it’s a no go.”

  Melody cupped a palm around her ear. “Excuse me. The reception out here is horrible. What did you say?”

  “The cornbread thing. It’s dead in the water. Or in this case, dead in the desert.”

  Melody sucked in a breath and sweat beaded on her brow in spite of the fact she still had the engine running and the air conditioning blasting. “Why? What happened? You were so enthusiastic about it last week.”

  “For one thing,” Teddy said, “you didn’t tell us that the Trans-­Pecos was in the grips of a record-­breaking drought.”

  “It’s not as dire as it sounds,” Melody tried to persuade him even as she surveyed the brittle, desiccated landscape stretching out beyond the train depot. “It is a desert after all. ­People expect things to be dry.”

  “Secondly.” Teddy made a chiding noise. “You didn’t tell us that you were no longer with Tribalgate. I’m disappointed in you, Mel. You’re usually so honest.”

  Honesty was what had gotten her fired. Now not being forthcoming had put her in a jam. “My leave-­taking from Tribalgate is very recent.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word “fired.” Not to him. “Teddy, I—­”

  “It’s fine that you left, but seriously, you should have told us. You’ve made the executives nervous and you know how that goes. It leaves a bad taste in their mouths, and once they get nervous they run like jackrabbits. Sorry, but there’s nothing I can do to change minds.”

  She let her forehead fall forward against the steering wheel. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t. “Thanks anyway, Teddy.”

  “Chin up. You’ll pull through this. You’re the scrappiest woman I know.”

  “That and five bucks won’t even get me a venti frap at Starbucks. Not that there are any Starbucks within two hundred miles of here.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself,” he said. “You’ll be back. Just keep your head down and keep working.”

  “You’re sounding dangerously like a fortune cookie.”

  “Listen, I gotta go.”

  “Thanks for trying,” she said, but he’d already hung up.

  Oh joy. Now instead of bringing the board members a basketful of hope, she’d be handing them empty pipe dreams.

  For a brief moment, she contemplated putting the Corvette on the highway and simply driving away as far as a tank of gas would get her, but she’d never been the type to run from her problems. She’d made promises, she would have to find a way to make good on them.

  Reluctantly, she got out of the car, picked her way over the abandoned train tracks, gravel crunching beneath her heels. Crisis management was one of her strengths. She’d always been able to think fast on her feet, but right now, her mind was a big fat question mark.

  When she walked into the building, the receptionist, a round-­faced redhead who looked like she was still in high school, hopped up from the front desk.

  The girl grabbed hold of Melody’s hand—­she had a tattoo of a blue dolphin on her wrist—­and started pumping it as if she could extract water from her if she kept at it long enough.

  “Oh my goodness, Cousin Melody. I am so excited you’ve come home. I loved that commercial where those families were feuding over the last box of Frosty Bites cereal. We al
l know where you got the inspiration from.” She gave an exaggerated wink. “You surely deserved that Clio.”

  “Remind me again how we’re related?”

  “I’m the great-­granddaughter of Millie Greenwood’s youngest sister, Jenny. I was raised in North Carolina, but my folks moved back home to Cupid a few years ago. You were already living in New York by then.”

  Melody cocked her head. “You’re Emma Lee Gossett.”

  “Did my hair give me away?” She fluffed her curly locks. “I’m the only redheaded Greenwood in five generations. The carrot top comes from my daddy’s side.”

  “Last time I saw you—­”

  “I was small enough to jump rope with a grasshopper.” Emma Lee’s grin showed a wide gap between her two front teeth.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you now?”

  “I’m sixteen. This is my first job ’sides babysittin’ and I jest love it.”

  “Aren’t you still in school?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m in the work-­study program. I work here eight to ten, Monday through Friday mornings, and then take classes the rest of the day.”

  “Clever girl.”

  Emma Lee beamed. “I am so in awe of you. I want to be jest like you someday. Livin’ in New York City. Makin’ a livin’ doin’ somethin’ glamorous like thinkin’ up commercials.”

  “Advertising sounds glamorous, but in all honesty, it’s a lot of hard work.”

  The girl thrust out her chest. “I’m not scared of hard work. You’ll learn that ’bout me. If you need anythin’, anythin’ at all, just whistle and I’ll fetch it for you.” She let loose with a long, loud whistle to demonstrate.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “The board of directors are waitin’ for you. Jest go in.” Emma Lee fluttered a hand.

  Melody glanced at the clock, five minutes to nine. “I thought the meeting didn’t start until nine.”

  “Oh, they were so excited to hear about this cornbread bake-­off thingamabob that they showed up early. Well, except for the mayor.” She leaned in to whisper behind her hand. “That man is gorgeous, but he does have a tendency to run late. Then again, he is a Nielson after all and they’re the tardiest ­people on God’s green earth. At least that’s what my mama says, but I don’t get the big deal ’bout why we’re supposed to hate Nielsons.”