by Cat Johnson
Her cell phone rang. She looked at the display, frowned, then brought the instrument to her ear. “Hi.”
“No, I haven’t looked at my messages,” she said a moment later. “I was going to do that in a—soon.” As she listened to whatever her caller was saying, her expression became somber. “You’re right,” she said at length. “It sounds like a mess, but I can’t just—you did? Why me? I appreciate—let me call you back, all right?”
Even after ending the call, she continued to stare at her phone. “Bad news?” he asked.
“My editor wants me to go to Nevada. He’s already made plane reservations.”
Nevada. “How long will you be gone?”
“I’m not sure. Three, four days.”
“Don’t,” he blurted. His heart felt as if something was squeezing it. “You should have told him you already had a story you wanted to start working on.”
Her eyes glittered. She cupped her small fingers around his hand and brought it to her chest.
“I want to,” she whispered. “I think my idea started taking form last night when we . . .”
“When we were having sex?”
Her chin trembled. “You called it making love.”
Had he? He didn’t remember. “Trust your reporter’s instincts. It’ll be a better story than the one your boss came up with. Can’t he get someone else to—”
“Mike, I know the difference between a request and an order. He chose me because I’ve been following the issue. You and I . . . a sheep farmer in Nevada was caught illegally grazing his animals on BLM land. Watershed Protectors, the group that’s making a lot of noise about it, I’ve interviewed several of their directors. They want to talk to me about this situation.”
Why was he putting off telling her what he knew? Was it as simple as thinking she might side with Watershed Protectors? Maybe her article would lead to the BLM being pressured to change their policy.
Damn it, he didn’t want to be thinking these thoughts around her. He wanted back last night.
“It sounds as if the organization is trying to put pressure on the publication you work for,” he said.
“I have no doubt they are.”
“Don’t let them get away with it. Kathy, how other ranchers and I operate impacts the whole country.” Determined to get her attention, he stroked the base of her throat. She made a small mewing sound, and her lids started drifting down. “The public deserves and needs to know what it takes to get meat on their tables.”
Her hands gripped his forearm. She swayed. A moment ago, she’d smelled of soap and shampoo. Now he caught a hint of feminine arousal. Damn it, he didn’t want this wonderful woman caught in the middle of something that shouldn’t be her concern.
“Why are you pressing the issue?” she whispered. “I’m thinking either you want to see your name in print or . . . or you don’t want me to leave.”
Groaning, he slipped a finger under the buttons she hadn’t bothered to fasten. The feel of her sweet, soft skin nearly brought him to his knees. His erection fought to break free of his jeans.
“No, I don’t.”
He wasn’t sure how she’d gone from standing on her own two feet to leaning against him, her arms tight around his middle.
“You’re making this so hard,” she muttered into his chest.
“Yeah, I am.”
Her body stiffened and she pushed back, kept up the effort until he had no choice but to release her so he wouldn’t risk hurting her.
“What are you getting at?” she asked.
One moment the kitchen felt cold, the next hot. He had two choices, lying or the truth. Using as few words as possible, he repeated the article Jarred had sent him. “One idiot lets his sheep trespass on public land and suddenly it’s a national crisis,” he finished. “You don’t need to help stir that pot.”
“Who are you to decide whether it needs stirring?”
They were in dangerous territory. Maybe what they said in the next few minutes would end what had begun between them. But this wasn’t just about a bunch of rabble-rousers trying to make a federal case out of an isolated screwup. This was about how he lived his life, his values, his heritage. Livestock on public property was more than politics. It was part of his tie to his ancestors. In some regards, it represented why he called himself a cowboy.
A steward of the land even if he leased instead of owned some of that land.
“Do what you have to,” he said through clenched teeth. “What you want to.”
She pressed the palms of both hands to her forehead. “Do you get it? I pitched the initial idea, the one that got us together in the first place, because I believe it’s important. I didn’t decide to write about someone rounding up a bunch of cattle because I was looking for a sexy cowboy to fall in bed with. If that fool allowed his livestock to damage or destroy what grows there because he believes he’s above the law—sheep’s teeth can pull plants up by the roots—that needs to be covered in detail.”
“You think he’s going to talk to you?”
She shrugged. “That’s his decision to make. I know who will.”
“Yeah, the damn Watershed Protectors extremists. They’ll try to work you, you know they will. Get you to see things from only their side.” He had no intention of trying to intimidate her, so why had he stepped into her space? “You said it yourself. The publication you write for wants controversy.” When he placed his hand on her shoulder, she stiffened but didn’t draw away. “Just do one thing, will you? Don’t hang all of us ranchers along with the one rotten apple.”
She blinked rapidly. “I don’t tell you how to do your job. I wish you trusted me.”
Trust didn’t go far enough with a woman he’d just met, one with the power to sway readers’ opinions of his lifestyle. To maybe jeopardize it.
“Go,” he said. “There’s just one thing I’d like to know before you leave.”
Her jaw tightened. “What?”
“Your last name? I didn’t catch it.”
She couldn’t have looked any more hurt if he’d slapped her, but he had to hand it to her, she held it together.
“Vinoza. I’m glad you asked. That way you’ll know who to blame when the articles come out.”
9
Mike was on horseback, same as when Kathy had first seen him. Today, despite the brisk wind, he wasn’t wearing a jacket. She hadn’t known whether he’d be at the ranch, but even though she needed to go grocery shopping followed by unpacking her suitcase, she’d come here directly from the airport.
Watching as he took his mount through a series of starts, stops, and turns inside a corral, she surmised he was preparing the horse to work with cattle. As before, his right hand lightly held the reins while the other rested against his thigh. She guessed he was using leg pressure to direct the spirited animal. What made her heart ache was how in tune his body looked with the maybe 1,200-pound horse. He leaned to the side and straightened, bent forward and then back, his every move graceful.
Mike Moss wasn’t just a cowboy, he was one with his mount.
She took out her digital camera and began taking pictures, wondering when he’d notice her. Maybe he’d order her to stop, but she was willing to take the chance. Her initial intention had been to park in front of the ranch house, as she’d done the other time she’d been out here, and ring the doorbell. Then she’d heard hoofbeats and leather squeaking coming from near Mike’s barn and had headed toward it. She now stood in the barn’s shadow with the smell of hay and animal seeping into her pores.
She’d missed Mike so much, more than she’d thought was possible to miss a human being. No matter what happened between them this afternoon, she’d always have these images of the man to carry with her.
The horse was trotting when Mike turned toward her. He let his mount continue at that speed a little longer, then brought it to a graceful stop. She caught no hint of a message between human and animal, yet wasn’t surprised when the two headed her way.
&nbs
p; “What are you doing here?” His voice sounded different, as if he was trying to hold something back.
She placed the camera on the ground. “I finished my assignment, wanted to see you.” Needed more than memory.
He nodded, then dismounted. As he landed, his boots made a faint thudding sound she felt throughout her. She’d forgotten how tall he was, either that or his impact had grown while she’d been away from him.
She was crazy for coming here, crazy and lost in his competent shoulders and dark eyes.
“How did it go?” he asked.
He’d made no move to touch her, which should have made speaking easier but didn’t. Fighting a thousand emotions, she reached out and stroked the horse’s neck. “The sheep rancher, there was no doubt he knew what he allowed his livestock to do was illegal.”
“I know. I’ve been following the story.”
Maybe that, in part, was why she’d felt Mike’s presence the whole time. “I talked to his son. He told me his old man—that’s what he called him—has always done what he damn well wanted to. None of the other area ranchers has anything to do with him. His son is taking over the operation because that’s the only way the feds will let them stay in business.”
“Why did the son agree to talk to you? I read that the family wanted nothing to do with the media.”
Mike could have remounted and gone back to working with his horse. Instead, he was giving her some of his precious time. It had been less than a week since she’d seen him, and yet in some respects she felt as if she was talking to a stranger.
A sexy, amazing stranger.
He studied her while she explained, which made finding the right words difficult. At the same time, the smell and sounds and look of what she could see of his spread comforted her. Only a few nights ago they’d lain naked next to each other. Made love. Maybe it was too late for them, but she’d try.
She’d broken through the son’s reluctance by showing him the pictures she’d taken of Mike and the others as snow fell and four people labored to get the cattle out of the mountains. Once she had the son’s trust, she’d told him about Mike’s operation and the generations of Moss men and women who’d committed their lives to it.
“He envies you,” she said. “In fact, he asked me to tell you he’d like to talk sometime. He . . . I’m going to make him a major part of my story.”
“What about Watershed Protectors?”
Mike’s horse had grown bored with the conversation and her head was drooping. Mike was in jeans, of course, and a flannel shirt open at the throat. He looked tired, as if he hadn’t been getting much sleep. She tried not to think about what lay beneath the denim, failed.
“Nothing’s going to change those people’s minds. They’re convinced a program that’s been in place and has worked for decades is wrong.”
“At least we know where they stand.”
We? Should she make something of his word choice? “I attended a public BLM meeting where several of their members spoke. Their position is that the grazing program must end so the public land can return to its original condition, whatever that was. A BLM official asked if they were willing to have their taxes raised to offset what ranchers add to the federal coffers. In essence, they said hell no.”
“You’re going to quote them?”
Because she’d been unable to sleep, she’d already written both the piece featuring Mike’s roundup and the one that had taken her to Nevada. Her editor’s reaction, in part, was why she’d come here.
As for the other reason . . .
“I did,” she told him, then went on to describe in detail the conversation she’d had with the organization’s spokesman after the meeting. When he learned what publication she wrote for, he’d all but fallen over himself trying to make his case.
“People like him won’t ever change their minds. They want public land to remain pristine, untouched, except when they want to make use of it.”
“Are you making a point of that?”
She shook her head. “I let his and his fellow members’ words speak for themselves. There a lot of people like that in the world. No matter what the government does, it’s wrong.”
His frown prompted her to continue. “It isn’t my job to try to sway people’s beliefs or opinions. If I did, I wouldn’t be any different from that group. My editor isn’t crazy about what I delivered because—”
“Because it’s objective.”
For the first time since she’d come here, she sensed they were on the same wavelength. Maybe the truth was she’d just now opened herself to that possibility.
“Yes, it is.” Stroking the mare had relaxed and centered her. Some of the tension that had followed her back from Nevada eased out of her. Only one thing remained, learning how things stood between Mike and her. “Objectivity’s vital. People are smart enough to come to their own conclusions. All they need are the facts.”
He wiped his hands on his thighs and extended them toward her. “I’m sorry.”
Surrounded by this moment, by him, she placed her hands in his. Warmth and more spread from his body to hers. “For what?”
“For not trusting you.” He brought her right hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. “The leasing program is important to me, but I had no right trying to convince you not to write about it.”
The forecast for tonight was for rain and wind, maybe snow after midnight. Today she embraced everything nature threw at them. Mike had spent most of his life dealing with the weather. He’d built the oversized barn to protect the vulnerable members of his herd, knew to the day when to bring his cattle down from the mountains. Maybe his rhythm could become hers.
“You adjust and adapt,” she said. “That’s why you’re successful.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence. Does that mean you’re willing to forgive me?”
“Forgive?”
“For acting like a bossy and overprotective male the other day.” He again touched his lips to her fingers. “I didn’t want you caught in the middle of something volatile and controversial, not because I thought you might be in over your head, but because I wanted to shield you.”
“Shield?”
“Yes,” he whispered as he drew her against him. “We’d just begun and yet I felt, not responsible, but . . . invested in you.”
Darn him. She’d shed more tears since meeting him than she had in years. Of course, there were perks like how he was in bed, but there was a lot more to Mike Moss than masculinity and sex appeal.
He cared.
For her.
And she was falling in love with him.
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” she told him. “But if I did, I’d make sure you got the job.”
He nodded and began running his hands over her back. “A thousand times I wanted to call and apologize, but I didn’t because you had a job to do. I didn’t want to get in the way of you doing it.”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “And now?” “Now we talk about tomorrow. And tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
As her tears dried and her body responded, she spread her hands over his buttocks and pulled him close.
“My suitcase is in my car.”
Hours and hours later, she opened her suitcase and pulled out her one clean outfit. By then it was morning, rain pelted down, and Mike was waiting for her to join him in the shower. They’d talked a little about how she’d tailor her article about modern ranching, but for now the details were unimportant.
Only the wet and naked cowboy mattered.
Trouble in Boots
LYNN LAFLEUR
A big thank you to my friend and fellow author, Titania Ladley, for answering all my medical questions. I appreciate your time and help so much.
1
It should be against the law for a man to look so sinful in a pair of jeans.
Keely Sheridan waited at the end of the bar for her drink order and watched
Nicholas Fallon talking and laughing with the other three guys at his table. He sat with his chair half-turned toward the bar, giving her an excellent view of the enticing bulge behind his fly. The mild, late autumn temperatures meant he wore a simple T-shirt that showed off his forearms. He had the tall, lean body of a man used to physical labor. His muscles came from working on his cattle ranch, not from a gym.
She admired the way his dark brown hair curled over his ears and nape. Olive skin that came from his mother’s Italian heritage, a straight nose, high cheekbones, perfect white teeth, and smoky gray eyes made him one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen.
Her heart clenched every time she saw him . . . as well as other, lower parts of her anatomy.
“You’re staring, honey,” Dolly said with humor in her voice.
“I know.” Keely answered Dolly Mabery, the woman who owned Boot Scootin’, without taking her gaze off Nick. “I can’t help it. Nick is just so gorgeous.”
“Yes, he is.” Dolly placed the last bottle of beer in Keely’s order on the round tray. “Why are you staring at him instead of dragging him off to your bed?”
Keely released an unladylike snort. “Yeah, right, like that’s ever going to happen. Nick doesn’t know I’m alive except when it’s time for another beer.”
“You might be surprised. I’ve seen him watching you while you wait on tables.”
Keely studied the woman who had been her boss and second mother for the last two years. With her poofy, dyed blond hair, false eyelashes, and heavy eye makeup, she looked like a throwback to the go-go girls of the ’60s.
Keely adored her.
Dolly didn’t know about the one time Keely had been with Nick eleven years ago. Having loved him since her freshman year in high school, Keely took advantage of his less-than-sober state the night of their graduation and had freely given him her virginity. He’d never acknowledged what happened between them. He’d been completely wasted, so she doubted if he even remembered it.