Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  "No, thanks. Jack Russell terrors is more like it." He watched the puppies, who had resumed their antics and were hopping desperately around the table in an effort to reach the box of peeping chicks. "Hey, aren't those the ones Glenda was taking around town?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I think it was last week. She had 'em in a basket, all dressed up with ribbons and bows, looking real cute. Tried to palm one off on just about everybody."

  "Everybody?"

  "Yeah, pretty much. But she couldn't find anybody fool enough to take 'em. I mean, anybody, um, kind enough. You know. Like you."

  "Yeah, like me," Libby said. "Stupid. Oh, great."

  "Don't worry. They'll be good pets," he said. "If you like your pets kind of… active. It's just that they're not much good for ranch work or anything. And aren't you afraid they'll eat your chickens?"

  "You're right," she said. She looked down as if she'd just noticed his hand on hers and jerked away like he'd burned her. "I'd better keep an eye on my peeps."

  "Peeps?"

  "It's a technical term." She hopped up and grabbed a pair of scissors from a mug on the counter. Carefully slitting the tape on the box, she lifted the lid. "Aren't they cute, though? And this is just the start. I've got a whole bunch more coming in about a month."

  She snagged a skittering ball of fluff and lifted it gently from the box, looking into its beady little eyes before she set it in a larger wooden box she'd set up with a lightbulb mounted in one corner to provide heat. Luke stood to watch as she transferred the others. The babies staggered toward the warmth, climbing over each other's backs to get close to the bulb, cheeping loudly and unceasingly.

  The sound drove the puppies crazy. They took turns jumping up and down, struggling to get a look inside the madly peeping box. It looked like they were riding invisible pogo sticks.

  Luke picked up a chicken and held it at eye level, feel ing the bony, fragile body warm in his hand. Its peeping increased to a crescendo as it struggled, kicking its legs. He cupped his hand around it and it finally settled down, its shrieking dwindling to a gentler, rhythmic peep. He held it close to his face and gently stroked the soft down with one finger.

  "Big feet for little birds," he commented.

  "They're white Orpingtons," Libby said. "They get pretty big. They're the one breed I could find that seemed hardy enough to survive the winters here."

  "So you know about that."

  He'd wondered if this city girl realized what she was in for. Tourists often opted to settle in Wyoming, lured by the wide-open spaces and endless skies, but they rarely lasted more than a year or two. Once they realized that all that space just gave the biting winter wind more room to work up speed, they planted "For Sale" signs and headed back where they came from.

  "Yeah," Libby said. "I'm going to run electric out to the chicken house for heat and warm water. They should be okay."

  "Orpingtons," he mused. "Sounds like some aristo cratic British breed."

  "You're right. The original Orpingtons were black, and came from County Kent in England. The first ex amples in this country were shown at Madison Square Garden in 1895."

  "You really know your chickens, don't you?"

  "Yes, I do. My chickens are very important to me."

  "You're an odd duck, Libby. Very odd." He set the chick gently into the box and watched it rush into the fray, clambering over its fellows to reach the warm bulb. "So do we get eggs or meat out of these guys? They don't look like much now." He'd be the first to admit baby chicks were cute when they were fluffy and yel low, but a few of these guys were starting to enter the awkward age. Occasional feathers were spiking through the fluff, creating flamboyant Einsteinian hairdos that made them look like tiny homeless men awakened from a long, cold night on the streets.

  "That's what's great about Orpingtons," Libby said. "They're good for both. They'll start laying at four or five months. When they get older—well, we don't want to talk about that." She lowered her voice. "Not where they can hear us."

  "How do you know these are girls?"

  "Don't ask. I could demonstrate, but do you really want to get that intimate with a chicken?"

  "Not with a chicken." He looked straight into her eyes, and her expression was suddenly wary.

  Wary, but hardly hostile.

  Stepping closer, he swept an errant lock of hair gently behind her shoulder. "This is going to be a serious poultry farm, isn't it?" He wondered if she could tell from his tone that he was serious about something far more interesting than chicken farming. He was starting to really like this woman. Like her, want her, and respect her—all at once. It was a new experience for him.

  "Poultry ranch," she insisted, oblivious to the under currents flowing through the conversation. "And I prefer to call it a herd."

  "That's not correct chicken terminology, is it?" he asked. "I thought it was flock."

  "Not out here in Wyoming, where the men are men and the sheep are scared. Here in the West, we call it a herd." She set her hands on her hips and lowered her brows in a schoolmarm squint. "Repeat after me: Libby runs seventy-five head of chickens on her poul try ranch."

  "Sure." He laughed. "You're really getting the hang of Western living, aren't you?"

  "You bet, cowboy." She cocked a hip and grinned, the pose spunky and somehow seductive. Maybe she was catching on to those undercurrents after all.

  "I guess this makes you a chicken wrangler, doesn't it?"

  "It sure does." She tossed her hair. "I'm a top hand."

  He scanned her from her bare feet to her ragged cut offs, then moved his gaze up to the skimpy tank top that peaked over her breasts.

  "You certainly are," he agreed. "But we need to outfit you accordingly. Chaps, I think. And a cowboy hat." His eyes worked their way back down her body, taking their time and pausing to linger on every curve. "Nothing else," he said softly.

  ***

  Libby could feel her body warming under Luke's gaze, her breasts straining against the thin fabric as if they were determined to announce just how scanty the top re ally was. She reached up to tug at the neckline, and one of the spaghetti straps slid down her shoulder, exposing a delicate swatch of pale skin.

  Maybe a man really could undress you with his eyes.

  She was starting to hope so. The heat of his gaze, and the not-so-subtle hints scattered through his conversation, had awakened an answering warmth in the pit of her stomach—or maybe a little lower.

  He reached out, and for a moment she thought he was going to dislodge the other strap, but he gently pushed the fallen one back into place. His hand lingered on her bare shoulder, sending a heating flush down her back, then moved to the nape of her neck. His fingers gathered a handful of curls as he bent to kiss her.

  Their lips touched, softly at first, but she let out a little moan—in pleasure or protest, she wasn't sure which— and his lips grew instantly harder and hotter. He swept one arm around her waist and pulled her close, pressing her body to his. When his tongue found hers, a flush of warmth flooded her veins and turned her muscles to mush. Her knees gave way and he cupped the seat of her shorts.

  Suddenly, all her barriers collapsed like Troy under siege and she knew what she wanted, what she needed, and it was Luke—his lips, his tongue, his hands. She wanted him to taste her, touch her, run his hands over her, kiss every inch of her body. Twice. Maybe three times.

  What she didn't want was a dog jumping onto the table and knocking the box of chickens onto the floor.

  But that's what she got.

  "Grab the puppies!" She jerked out of Luke's arms and grabbed Rooster and Rotgut by their collars. "Penny, stay!"

  The dog stayed, but just barely, trembling while the chicks skittered around on the kitchen floor, peeping in panic. Penny wanted those chicks so badly she could barely control herself.

  Libby knew just how she felt.

  Luke grabbed the other two puppies and looked to Libby for instructions as they squirmed in his ar
ms.

  "The pantry," she said.

  They pitched the puppies in, then slammed the door and fell against it side by side, panting.

  "You're a good man in a crisis," she said.

  "I know. You should thank me." Luke lifted one eye brow and she felt her body warming again, softening, readying for his touch.

  "You're right," she said.

  He turned and faced her, smiling expectantly, his eyes half-closed.

  "Thank you," she said. She dropped to the floor and scuttled after the nearest chick. "Now can you help me pick up the chickens?"

  "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind," Luke said, but he knelt and helped her herd the chicks, who had gathered in a peeping mass under the kitchen table, back into their box. Their hands touched as they steered the last fluffy renegade home, and Luke gave her a hopeful glance, but Libby pulled away and pretended absorption in the chickens.

  "Hey," he said.

  Libby kept her attention firmly on the chickens. "Mm-hm?"

  "I was wondering…"

  She was wondering too. She was wondering what the hell she was thinking, letting a man she barely knew kiss her like that. And she didn't really want to know what Luke was wondering. Maybe he wanted to know if she'd kiss him again. Maybe he wanted to adjourn to the bedroom and finish what they'd started. She wanted that too, but she wasn't going to give in to the primal urges coursing through her nether parts. She'd come to her senses.

  Sort of.

  Maybe.

  Chapter 11

  LUKE CLEARED HIS THROAT. "I WAS WONDERING IF YOU wanted to go for a drive. I need to go to Laramie, and I thought you might like to come."

  A drive. He wanted to go for a drive. Libby felt the heat leave her body in a rush. Suddenly she was cool, calm, collected, and horrified by her total lack of self-control.

  She knew she should say no. She didn't want her life complicated by romance, even if said romance came with red-hot, soul-stirring kisses and sex to match. And she wasn't sure she could sit beside Luke in his truck for an entire hour without giving in to the temptation to reach over and fondle whatever part of him was closest.

  But she really wanted to go, and she could rational ize just about anything. She reminded herself that Della McCarthy had been headed for the college too. Maybe she could pick up the missing girl's trail there. See if she'd enrolled in any classes.

  But she needed to make sure he understood that the kiss was a mistake. A freak accident. Something that would never be repeated. She ignored the stab of regret that pierced her chest and nodded.

  "I'd like to go along," she said. "But I think we need to talk first."

  "Oh, no." Luke backed away as if she'd suggested they take him over to the veterinary clinic for neutering. "It's okay. We don't need to talk."

  "But…"

  He lifted one hand in a "stop" gesture and contin ued to backpedal until he slammed into the wall. "I'm sorry, okay? I was way out of line. I shouldn't have kissed you. I just—I just got kind of—well—excited. Sorry. I'll behave, I promise." He raised two fingers. "Scout's honor."

  Libby tried to breathe a sigh of relief, but what came out was a shuddering heave of unfulfilled lust. Didn't he like kissing her? Didn't he want to try again?

  Apparently not.

  She didn't want to either, but she was never one to turn down a challenge. The mere fact that Luke didn't want to kiss her made her want to seduce him into stut tering oblivion.

  Maybe she needed to dress for success. Chaps, he'd said, and a hat. Nothing else. She visualized the outfit.

  Yeah. That would probably get her kissed—and then some. She tried to remember where the nearest Western wear store was.

  "Libby?" he said.

  She gave herself a mental slap. She didn't want Luke to kiss her. Not at all. She was glad he'd promised to behave. Glad.

  "Okay," she said. "But you have to drive slow. I have a family now." She gestured toward the dogs. "I wasn't sure I'd survive that trip to the Roundup."

  "I'll drive like an old, old man, I promise. Thirty miles an hour."

  "Works for me. You mind if I take Penny? She needs to get used to leaving the puppies. We can put them in the barn." Libby figured Penny would make a good chaperone. She could hold the dog in her lap and stroke her soft ears instead of petting the driver.

  "Penny? The ferocious watchdog?" Luke's eyes gleamed with humor. "Won't she attack me?"

  "Oh, just forget that. I didn't know you. I thought it was safer to let you think I had a big mean dog. Just in case you started hanging around the place, or something."

  Luke grinned. "Or something."

  "Right." Libby looked down at Penny, who was still trembling from her thrilling encounter with the chick ens. Libby was shaking too, but it had nothing to do with chickens.

  "She's actually a pretty good guard dog," Luke said. "She didn't bite me. She just sicced a herd of vicious chickens on me."

  "You were lucky to survive." Libby smiled and found herself looking straight into those green eyes again. Something thrilled through her that felt a lot like the kiss—hot, hard, and hungry. She steeled herself against it, but it ricocheted around inside her for a while before she managed to tamp it down.

  Obviously, Luke's driving wasn't the only thing that was dangerous.

  ***

  Between Lackaduck and Laramie, the interstate weaves like a wide gray ribbon through an undulating landscape of golden hills and dark ravines. Occasional antelope break the monotony, and the long stretches of sage strewn pastureland are mottled with black and brown cattle. There are few trees, and the mountains are just a misty outline on the horizon. The sheer vastness of the prairie always made Luke want to gallop through the sagebrush on a palomino, singing some corny Gene Autry song about big skies and no fences.

  He'd gotten the truck fixed since he rolled it—sort of. The cab was still dented and battered, and the bed and one door were a different color than the rest of the truck, but that only added to the authentic cowboy look. The metallic rattle that clattered from somewhere behind the dash was an authentic cowboy sound, too, along with the clanging of the tailgate every time they hit a pothole.

  He reached toward Libby and she sucked in a quick breath, glancing toward him with wide eyes. Good. She was still feeling it too. There was definitely something between them—something inevitable. But she was skit tish as those hyper little chicks, and it would take time to gentle her down.

  He watched her relax as his hand stopped at the radio dial. Spinning it past the static, he settled on a scratchy rendition of a Lawrence Welk tune, complete with oompah backup.

  "You a big polka fan?" Libby asked.

  "You have to be if you live in Lackaduck. It's the only station we get."

  "Great," she said sarcastically.

  "It's not so bad," Luke responded. "Ike Rasmussen runs it out of his basement. What Ike likes is what you get. And Ike likes polkas. It grows on you after a while."

  Just out of Lackaduck they turned onto Latigo Road. Latigo wound through a long stretch of rural Wyoming, passing dwellings that ranged from upscale log homes to broken-down trailers. Lots of people lived out there because they loved the beauty of the wide-open spaces, but just as many chose it for its total lack of zoning regulations. You could have as many rusted-out cars as you wanted in your front yard. And when the siding started to peel off your trailer and the screen door hung crooked, you didn't have to fix it. There was something slapdash and casual about rural living that Luke loved, even if the aesthetics weren't always great.

  The university offered even less in the way of architec tural interest. They passed a series of dull concrete dorms, each crouching on a yellowed lawn scorched by summer drought. Whatever the quality of its faculty, the place was a long way from the Ivy League in atmosphere. Any ivy planted there would undoubtedly wither and die.

  Young minds, however, thrived—or so the univer sity brochures would have people believe. Luke, whose mind wasn't really all tha
t young anymore, was signing up for MBA courses in the fall.

  "A cowboy with an MBA?" Libby cocked her head and studied Luke, whose long legs bracketed the truck's steering wheel. "You barely fit in a truck. How are you going to squeeze yourself behind a desk?"

  He wondered about that himself sometimes, but it was a sad necessity. "These days, you have to be a busi nessman to run a ranch," he explained. "Knowing stock science isn't enough anymore."

  "What are you taking?"