Cowboy Lessons (Harlequin American Romance)

by Pamela Britton

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she admitted with a total honesty that took him by surprise. “My mistake.”

  This woman was apologizing? Was the sky falling?

  “Here,” she said. “Climb aboard. We’ll let them eat what they can and then come back to move the truck later.”

  He’d like to climb on top of her.

  But, of course, that would never happen. Not at his present rate of impressing her.

  She held the horse in place while he slipped a leg over, then settled behind her with an ease that took him by surprise. But the moment his front made contact with her back, he grew instantly hard. Darn, she turned him on. Maybe it was the whole country girl thing, but suddenly he wondered if she’d look good in gingham and pearls.

  “Wrap your arms around my waist.”

  For real? She wanted him to touch her? He didn’t hesitate.

  “Now, hold on.”

  He held on, pulling her up against the front of his chest. Darn. She may have a hard body, but she was all woman beneath.

  “Haven’t you ever watched a western before?” she asked, tilting her head a bit to stare at him out of the corner of her eye.

  It took a moment for her words to penetrate the lust-induced haze he’d sunk into. And even then, he still couldn’t follow what she meant.

  She must have seen his confusion. “Didn’t you ever wonder where those little flakes of hay came from?”

  He had to force himself to swallow before saying, “Sure I’ve watched westerns, but I never paid close enough attention to them to know those little bricks open up.”

  “Bales,” she mumbled, and he could have sworn he heard laughter in her voice. “They’re called bales.”

  Good thing the back of her saddle separated their lower extremities, otherwise she’d figure out fast that the only hay he was thinking about was the hay he wanted to roll her in.

  “I’m not off to a very good start, am I?”

  He felt her stiffen, felt her kind of jerk a bit before saying, “Actually, you’re not doing too bad.”

  They were the first kind words he’d had from her, and they made Scott’s heart pitter-patter.

  “Yeah, well,” he croaked before coughing to dispel the odd crick in his throat. “I’ve decided to hire someone to do the feeding.”

  She was silent a long moment. The horse swayed beneath them. The smell of leather rose up to mingle with her scent. Lemons. She smelled like a giant lemon, and he liked it.

  “It must be nice,” she said.

  “What?”

  “To be able to buy whatever you want.”

  “It is.”

  She turned quiet after that. That was fine, Scott was too busy wondering if she’d mind taking a turn around the pasture. It was a beautiful morning. Very Sound of Music. Off in the distance a chicken clucked. Behind them steers mooed. All he needed was a pair of chaps, some pistols and a rope. And Amanda. John Wayne always got the girl.

  “When I was in high school I had it in my head that I wanted to be the National High School Rodeo Association champion barrel racer,” she broke the silence by saying. “We had a horse that my dad picked up at auction. He was short, but man was he fast.”

  She paused before the gate, but she didn’t move to open it. The horse shifted beneath them, but she seemed lost in another world. “At the beginning of my senior year nobody could touch us, and this girl, Andrea Thomas was her name, must have gotten sick of it because her dad showed up at our house one day. I didn’t know what he wanted, didn’t ask, just watched him go into the house to talk to my dad.” She paused, shaking her head a bit, a strand of her hair tickling his face. “You want to know what he wanted?”

  He nodded, even though he had a feeling where she was going with this.

  “He wanted to buy my horse, only, see, it wasn’t my horse. It was my dad’s. He’d bought it and I guess he felt he had a right to sell it.” He felt her whole body tense just before she said, “He did.”

  If Scott had thought her father a total loser before, he was even more of a loser now. “He didn’t.”

  She nodded. “For a bunch of money. Oh, he gave me some of it…to buy myself a new horse he said, as if the hours I’d spent on Thumper’s back could be bought back.” She shook her head again. “I’ve spent as many hours—more, actually—running this ranch, tending to the cattle, breeding them, selling them, and once again my father went and sold it from under me. Well, not sold, just lost it, which in some ways is even worse.” She tilted her head, and for the first time there was no animosity in her eyes as she said, “If you go back on your word to sell this place back to me if ranching isn’t your thing, Mr. Beringer, I promise I’ll buy the best hit man I can afford. You have my word on that.”

  At that moment, he almost offered to sell the place back to her. Right then and there. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not when it’d always been a dream of his to own a ranch—a real ranch—like this. But if he decided to keep the place, maybe he could work something out with her. He might not be able to give her Thumper back, but he could give her the next best thing.

  “Don’t move,” she said.

  Scott was about to ask why, but she threw a leg over the front of her saddle and slipped from his arms before he could say a word.

  She didn’t get back on, either, just led him through the gate like a child on a pony ride. And she never looked up at him, either. He suspected it was because she didn’t want him to see what was in her eyes. But he knew. Yes, he knew. Right after his parents had died, he’d watched as the State had sold all their personal belongings before placing him in foster care. He’d only been allowed to pack up one box. Granted, he’d never had a lot of toys, but he still remembered the hurt at having to leave some of them behind.

  “Let me down.”

  She must not have heard him at first because she kept leading the horse.

  “Amanda, I need to get down. Now.”

  She stopped then, the horse doing the same. When she looked up at him, Scott saw himself in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer, just mimicked what she’d done a few minutes before. He almost fell flat on his face but clutched at the foot-strap thingies when he landed, which saved him—stirrups, they were called.

  “What is it?” she repeated as he closed the distance between them.

  Scott lifted her chin. “I’d buy you ten Thumpers if I could.”

  He saw her eyes widen, that gaze a splendid mix of blues and greens and grays. Then she blinked and swallowed at the same time. It took him a moment to realize that it was because she’d teared up. Ah, hell.

  He kissed her.

  He’d wanted to do it all morning, and he wasn’t sorry that he did so now. He expected peaches and cream. He got a Fourth of July firecracker, right down to the sparks.

  She gasped in surprise. So did he. But then he was slipping his tongue inside her mouth, tasting her. Wanting her. Lapping her up.

  And she kissed him back. She didn’t protest. Didn’t jerk away from him. She seemed to feel the instant kapow that he did.

  Her hands came up to his head, her fingers entwining the hair at his nape. His hands explored her sides, a part of him calculating the risk it would be to move his hand up and cup a breast…or two. Man, how he wanted that. But he couldn’t.

  Instead he forced himself to draw back. One of his hands lifted to cup her chin again. Her eyes were closed. Freckles dusted her nose, her lashes long against her tanned cheeks.

  Then her eyes suddenly sprang open and she looked a tad bit freaked, so he said, “I hope you don’t mind my doing that, but you seemed like you needed something to turn your mind from Thumper.”

  She stiffened in his arms. “Scott—”

  “No,” he said. “Don’t say a word. You needed a kiss. Don’t make more of it than it is.”

  She didn’t look like she believed him. He didn’t blame her. He
didn’t believe himself.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  A second later she turned toward the house. And Scott just stood there, arms hanging limply at his sides, wondering why it was he felt so weird.

  It was only when he realized she’d left her horse behind that Scott realized he wasn’t the only one thrown.

  Chapter Five

  The thing about living in a small town, Amanda thought, as she came to a halt not three seconds after turning away from Scott, was that everybody knew your business before you did. Amanda would bet if her house caught on fire, her neighbors would be the ones to call 911.

  Such was the case now, for as sure as she wore a C-cup, that was Stephanie Prichart coming up her drive.

  Not now, Amanda thought. Not when she was still trying to come to grips with the fact that Scott Beringer had kissed her, and she’d liked it. Not when her heart had melted at his “I’d buy you ten Thumpers” comment. Not when all she wanted to do was escape to the house and try to figure out just what it was about the man that seemed to get under her skin.

  But there was no mistaking the green Camry pulling to a halt before her house. Nor the wide smile on the face of the blond driver.

  Amanda tried not to groan.

  There wasn’t anything wrong with Stephanie. Amanda had known her since Fisher-Price days. It was just that Stephanie was so…so Carol Brady. Perpetually happy, always giggling—not laughing, but giggling—she was the type of person that you liked, but that you had a hard time tolerating sometimes. Like now. This morning, to be exact, because Amanda knew the moment Stephanie opened her car door that she’d somehow found out about Scott’s presence.

  Well, Amanda supposed it was hard to miss a helicopter.

  “Darn,” she said as the door opened.

  “Amanda,” Stephanie trilled. As clichéd as it was, trilled was the only word one could use to describe the way Stephanie spoke. Like Snow White sucking some serious helium.

  “Amanda, you naughty girl. Why didn’t you tell me you had a houseguest?” Stephanie looked toward Scott as if his presence was a complete surprise. Hah.

  Blond, petite, entirely too Silicon Valley to suit Amanda’s taste, Stephanie approached, her over-bleached teeth smiling as her designer boots sounded as if they were munching the gravel drive. Cruncha, cruncha, cruncha.

  “Stephanie, how nice to see you, too.” It wasn’t really, not now, but Amanda managed to smile. Though she wished she hadn’t because smiling pulled the skin tight around her lips, which were overly sensitive thanks to Scott’s kiss.

  Stephanie had a close-up view of that skin because she came forward and gave her a hug. That was the thing about Stephanie, no matter how nosy and annoying she was, you just had to love her. She gave the best darn hugs.

  “Why haven’t you been by to visit?” she asked upon drawing back, her green eyes darting from Amanda’s eyes, to Scott, then back again.

  “Oh, you know. So many men, so little time.”

  Stephanie lifted her brow, looking back at Scott.

  “I meant bulls, Stephanie, not human men.”

  Stephanie giggled. Amanda tried not to wince.

  “Who’s this?”

  Amanda didn’t want to do it. She really didn’t, but she had no choice but to turn back to Scott, who was holding the reins of the horse she’d abandoned, and said, “Stephanie, this is Scott Beringer.”

  Of course, Stephanie had likely already known that. There’d probably been a APB put out the moment his helicopter had landed. See, that was the thing. Everyone knew everyone’s business, but the trick was to act as if you didn’t know the other person’s business.

  Stephanie echoed, “Scott Beringer,” in a gushing voice. “The Scott Beringer?”

  “Yes, Stephanie,” Amanda said. “The Scott Beringer.” And something about the way Stephanie stared at Scott, as if he were God’s gift to Stephanie’s pet charities—of which there were many—made Amanda say, “You know, corporate raider. Company downsizer. Robber baron.” Which made Scott and Stephanie both swing their gazes around to her, Scott going so far as to lift his brows. Amanda felt her face color like a barbecue with lighter fluid squirted on top.

  “Just kidding,” she said, because it wasn’t like her to be so mean spirited. Man, he’d really rattled her with his kiss.

  Stephanie, however, was oblivious to the sexual undercurrents going around. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Beringer,” she said. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”

  Which made Amanda’s own brows lift. She had? From whom?

  “Amanda, you should have told me Mr. Beringer was a personal friend of yours.”

  Personal friend? Hah. As if. But Amanda didn’t contradict her, because if there was a chance Stephanie didn’t know about Scott stealing her father’s ranch out from under them, Amanda wasn’t going to enlighten her.

  Then Scott came forward, or at least he tried to. He didn’t know anything about horses, Amanda suddenly recalled, because he walked forward as if Fancy—the horse Amanda had abandoned in her kissed-senseless daze—would automatically follow, which she didn’t, and Scott got jerked back to the point he almost fell backward when the reins grew taut.

  He recovered quickly, stopping, shooting Fancy a dogmeat look before smiling at Stephanie and saying, “Nice to meet you, Ms. Prichart.”

  “Oh, it’s Stephanie,” she trilled. “Call me Stephanie.”

  “And you can call me Scott.”

  “Scott,” Stephanie corrected, the two smiling at each other as if they were members of a mutual admiration society.

  “Did you want to come inside, Stephanie?” Amanda asked. “I was just about to make breakfast.”

  “Are you in town to escort Amanda to the barn dance tomorrow night?” Stephanie asked as if she hadn’t heard her. But Amanda knew she had. What was more, Amanda knew the question was a ploy to lead the conversation toward said barn dance.

  “Stephanie, no—”

  “Barn dance?” Scott asked, his brows lifting again.

  Amanda almost groaned. She almost grabbed the well-meaning Stephanie by the arm and dragged her inside. But she couldn’t. Not without being a wee bit obvious. And not without Scott realizing she didn’t want Stephanie to talk about the barn dance, which in turn meant Scott knowing about it. Which in turn would indicate that she was scared he’d come to it. Which would make her seem a coward—

  “Yeah,” Stephanie said brightly. “A barn dance. It’s tomorrow, at the Los Molina Hall. Everyone’s invited. The whole town usually comes, even the kids.”

  “Stephanie, I’m sure Scott doesn’t want to go to our little get-together.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  Which made Amanda groan. Inwardly, of course.

  “Great,” Stephanie said. “There’s a silent auction. And it’s a potluck, but I’m sure Amanda was planning to bring something, weren’t you, Amanda.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure I can go—”

  “Of course you can, Amanda. Why you just told me last night that you were going. Don’t tell me you changed your mind because you have a houseguest; not when he can come, too.”

  Scott had to admit, Amanda didn’t look like she wanted to go, but she would. He’d make sure of it. Heck, he’d never been to a barn dance before. He’d never been to any kind of dance. Well, he’d gone to charity balls, but not with any kind of date. This would be a first for him, even if his “date” didn’t look too terribly enthusiastic about the whole thing.

  “What time does it start?” he asked Amanda’s friend.

  “At eight.”

  He nodded. “We’ll be there.”

  “Terrific.” Stephanie turned to Amanda. “You and I can catch up then.”

  “Great,” Amanda said, but in a tone of voice that indicated she thought it was anything but great.

  Stephanie didn’t seem to notice. Instead she smiled brightly, turned and headed back to her car. She paused by the door, her blond hair swishing
over one shoulder as she said, “Nice meeting you, Scott.”

  “You, too,” he said, raising a hand.

  She got in, the car door popping closed, while Scott and Amanda stood side by side as Stephanie started the car and drove off.

  “We’re not going,” Amanda said the minute Stephanie drove away.

  “Oh, yes, we are.”

  “No, we’re not,” Amanda said, turning to him.

  It was time, Scott realized, that Amanda realized he was no pushover, that he made a habit out of going after what he wanted. And what he wanted, he suddenly realized, was Amanda.

  “We’re going, Amanda, because if we don’t go, there’s not a chance in hell that I’ll sell this place back to you.”

  Her mouth dropped open, those sexy lips of hers still red from their kiss.

  Don’t make more of it than it is, he’d said. But he intended to make more of it. A lot more.

  “Why, you blackmailing fiend.”

  “Fiend?” he couldn’t help but say on a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called a fiend before.”

  “Jerk. Butthead. Either of those ring a bell?” She crossed her arms in front of her, her jaw stiffening as she glared up at him.

  “No, but there’s always a first.”

  To which she said nothing, continuing to glower, the horse he held the reins to chomp-chomp-chomping at the bit, as if angry, too.

  “Why?” she suddenly asked. “Why do you want to take me to a barn dance? Have you any idea how silly they are? They square dance. Have you ever seen people square dance?”

  “On Hee Haw once or twice.”

  “Hee Haw? You’ve watched Hee Haw?”

  “One of my foster parents loved it.”

  That made her stiffen, made her look at him with sudden intensity. “Foster parents?” she asked with a tilt of her head.

  It was more than he’d intended to reveal, but after her Thumper story, he supposed he owed her a little honesty, too. “When my folks died, I was sent to live with foster parents.”