The Trouble With Cowboys

by Melissa Cutler

  This new business was Amy’s brainchild, and the consequences if she failed would be devastating. She had a sick mother, two sisters, and a four-year-old nephew counting on her. She had a farm on the line that had been in the family for fifty years. The pressure was enormous, more than enough to make her fold under its weight. Exactly like she had on Ultimate Chef Showdown. Exactly like her mother had after their father died.

  That was the problem with a precedent. Despite all her years of stress management and self-imposed rules, Amy could see the writing on the wall from miles away. Only difference about this time was that, if she sailed off the deep end, it wouldn’t be a national spectacle like Chef Showdown. It would be something far, far worse. She would have become her mother.

  The peal of the phone sent Kellan shooting straight out of bed from a dead sleep. He’d been dreaming of Amy Sorentino, probably because his pillow smelled like her shampoo. The clock read one-thirty in the morning. His heart thumping like crazy, he stared out the window at a layer of ice blanketing the barn’s rooftop before lifting the phone out of the receiver on the fourth ring, not bothering to check the caller ID. He was pretty sure who it’d be.

  “Yeah?”

  “Good morning, Kellan.”

  At the sound of the voice on the line, scratchy with the irreparable damage of a two-pack-a-day habit, his stomach dropped. He’d been right. “Morton. What are you doing waking me up in the middle of the night? We’ve talked about that.”

  “Our company’s encountered a bit of a delicate situation ’round about your parts. Thought I’d give you a heads-up on it.”

  “It’s not our company. I want nothing to do with it.”

  Morton chuckled. Asshole. “Be that as it may, one of my associates is waiting on your porch to deliver a file to you.”

  Kellan squeezed his eyes closed. “At my house, right now? You son of a bitch.”

  “Now, that’s no way to talk to family.”

  “You’re about as far from being my family as a man can get, Morton. You made that choice years ago.”

  “There you go whining about the past again. And here I thought we’d made amends.”

  Kellan opened his nightstand drawer and withdrew his Colt .45. Typical Morton, calling in the middle of the night and giving one of his so-called couriers leave to trespass on Kellan’s property instead of mailing him the information. That was how his uncle operated, manipulating situations and people as a means to control. He seemed to regard Kellan as a rival, probably because Kellan had pegged his game early on and refused to be bullied, and the two had been locked in a clash of wills going on fourteen years now.

  Holding the phone with his shoulder, he loaded rounds into the gun’s magazine. “Why involve me in one of your delicate situations? You know I won’t play along.”

  “Your name came up at a meeting. The board of directors hopes you’ll be willing to convince a Quay County family to sell us their failing farm without involving the courts. I told them you wouldn’t be up for the job, even though it would be a win for both parties.”

  Bullshit. If Amarex was involved, then Kellan had no doubt the family in question would get a raw deal. “And if this family refuses to sell?”

  “Our lawyers are ready to sue for breach of contract, should we be forced to act on such an unsavory choice.”

  Kellan shook his head. “I’m hanging up, Morton. Gotta shoo a pest off my property.” Holding the Colt near the phone, he snapped the magazine in place so Morton got an earful of the metallic clank. “Don’t call me again.”

  “Can’t guarantee that. And son, play nice with my boy downstairs. We wouldn’t want the heir of an oil empire acting like a short-fused, simple-minded cowboy around the help, would we?”

  Morton sure did know which buttons to push. Being a rancher was the only career Kellan wanted in his life. When he’d hitchhiked to his uncle’s Texas ranch after high school graduation, he’d certainly never expected Amarex Petroleum, Bruce Morton’s manipulations, or the slew of battles he’d had to fight over the years.

  Without turning on a light or bothering to slip pants over his boxers, he plodded downstairs and flipped on the porch light. Through the peephole, he saw a scrawny kid probably no older than Kellan had been when he ran shady, middle-of-the-night errands for Morton.

  He didn’t see a weapon on the kid, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t somewhere on his person. Kellan held his gun aloft and swung the door wide. The kid started and jumped back, clutching a manila envelope to his chest. The December night air was frigid, hitting Kellan’s bare chest and legs like a million needles.

  “I’m . . . I’m here on behalf of Mr. Morton,” he stammered.

  Kellan felt for the guy, he did, but it wouldn’t do either of them any good to offer up a mug of hot chocolate and testimony about how he could change his life like Kellan had, before Morton sank his clutches in too deep. Best he could do for the kid was scare him witless. Maybe then he’d rethink his career choice. He snatched the envelope out of the kid’s hands and leveled the .45 at his chest.

  “Get off my property before I shoot you.”

  Gulping, the kid fled the porch and leapt into an old beater of a truck. As soon as he was out of range of a stray bullet, Kellan squeezed a round off into the sky to hammer home his point. Dust flew behind the little truck as it barreled into the distance, its headlights disappearing behind a hill.

  Hugging himself against the cold, Kellan stared at the sprawling acres of ranchland he’d poured his blood and sweat into for fourteen years. Despite Bruce Morton’s needling attempts to throw him off balance, Kellan knew who he was, deep in his bones. Not some crooked oil tycoon like his uncle, not criminals like his parents.

  Everything he loved about his life—his beef business, his honorary family, his standing in the community—he’d created from scratch, from the dregs of a childhood better off forgotten. The rest was background noise, annoying distractions trying to tug him away from the life he deserved.

  After locking the front door, he tossed the folder on top of the refrigerator and let out a long, slow breath. One of his Quay County neighbors needed help, which was just the sort of situation Morton relished. He loved to watch Kellan squirm, loved to jerk his chain, and watch him scramble for footing. And he knew the most effective way to do so was to keep Kellan apprised of his unethical business dealings in New Mexico.

  For Kellan, this amounted to a damned if you do, damned if you don’t way of life. Either he sat on his hands and watched Amarex browbeat his Quay County neighbors and friends, or he risked his uncle’s wrath to aid regular folks while walking the tightrope of anonymity, all the while hoping Morton didn’t publicly reveal Kellan’s ties to the company screwing over the community who’d accepted him with open arms.

  With his morning alarm set to ring in two hours, it was time for Kellan to hightail it to bed. Tomorrow night, he’d study the folder. If the situation warranted action, he’d slip the card of his friend Matt, an oil rights attorney, to the family anonymously. Matt was good at helping folks out of messy situations. Better than Kellan anyway. He didn’t have the patience or desire to deal with other people’s complicated family dramas. God only knew, he had enough of his own.

  He trudged upstairs and fell into bed, tucking the pistol beneath his pillow. Any other morning, he’d reset the alarm, giving himself an extra hour. But today, he wanted to make the eleven o’clock service at First Methodist Church. Never a religious sort, he’d be there to ruffle the feathers of a certain curly-haired brunette with a penchant for celery.

  With a smile of sweet anticipation, he burrowed deeper into the pillow to catch a whiff of Amy’s shampoo.

  Chapter 3

  Kellan was working hard not to appear as uncomfortable as he felt.

  Not that church made him nervous like it did some folks, but because—between his leather bolo tie and the starched collar of the black, embroidered Western-style shirt he picked up in town yesterday—his clothing was cons
piring to strangle him to death. To top it off, his seldom-worn dress boots pinched his toes. Discomfort was a small price to pay, however, if his strategy paid off. And he had a gut-level hunch it would. Big time.

  The first person to notice Kellan when he walked into the packed sanctuary was Chris Binderman, the nicest guy he’d ever met. This morning, Chris looked every inch the family man, with his infant son, Rowen, strapped to his chest in one of those cozy-looking baby slings. With an amused grin on his face, he maneuvered through the gathering parishioners to reach Kellan. The two men shook hands and lightly thumped shoulders, being careful not to squash the baby.

  “Look who the cat dragged in. This is a nice surprise.”

  Kellan brushed a few fingers over Rowen’s soft, wispy-haired head. “What can I say? I was moved to attend.”

  “Is that so? Well, no matter the reason, I’m glad you’re here. That being said, I’m assuming you’re aware this opens you up to a lifetime of nagging by my wife about coming to church every Sunday, now that she sees it’s possible.”

  “I can live with that.” He felt a tug on his shirt and looked to see Chris’s daughter, decked out in a poufy pink dress and hair ribbons, smiling at him.

  “Hi, Uncle Kellan.”

  “Daisy dear, you sure look pretty today. But bigger than when I saw you a few days ago.” Squatting, he dropped his cowboy hat on his goddaughter’s head and gave her a tight hug. “My hat almost fits you. Did you grow again?”

  “I think so.”

  “Could you do your uncle Kellan a favor and take a break from that for a little while? Five years old is big enough.”

  The little girl scratched her chin, considering. “I’ll have to work on that.”

  Kellan took his hat in hand and tugged one of her blond pigtails. “Please see that you do.” He stood to find Chris’s wife, Lisa, pointing at his outfit, her face screwed up like she was fixing to laugh.

  “What?” he asked her.

  “Is that the belt buckle you got at our Christmas party? The white elephant gift?”

  Kellan pecked her cheek, then ran a hand over the cool metal ridges of the buckle. “’Bout time I tried it on. Do you like it?”

  She smushed her lips together and shot him an Are you crazy? look. Good thing she wasn’t the one he wanted to impress.

  “What’s so bad about it?”

  She yanked one of the leather straps of his bolo tie. “With this tie, the hat, the buckle, and the boots, you look like a cowboy on Halloween.”

  “I see a dozen other men in this room dressed the same exact way.” He’d been worried about drawing the wrong kind of attention to himself by looking foolish until he took inventory of the other men in attendance and discovered ten bolo ties, twelve belt buckles, and so many boots that he lost count.

  “True, but on you it’s all wrong. This getup isn’t who you are.”

  “It is today.” And if it got him laid again, it would be worth the discomfort and the ribbing by his friends.

  Someone slapped him hard on the back. He twisted to see Vaughn.

  Kellan bumped knuckles with his best friend. “What’s up, Vaughn?”

  “I was across the room when I saw you mosey in, that little bitty belt buckle shining like it was real gold.”

  Kellan rolled his shoulders in a show of mock-indignity. “You all are getting a lot of mileage out of this. Glad I could bring so much joy to your morning. Is this buckle actually small? I think it looks fine.”

  Vaughn let loose with a belly laugh. “You know the saying, you can tell a lot about a man’s goods by the size of his buckle? Well, don’t you worry that pretty-boy head of yours about people getting the wrong impression. There are enough rumors around town to the contrary where you’re concerned.”

  “Vaughn Cooper,” Lisa hissed. “We’re at church. You’re the sheriff.”

  “So?”

  “So act like it.”

  “I came to morning worship, didn’t I? And since I’m here doing my pillar-of-the-community thing, I might as well perpetuate a law-enforcement stereotype and retire to the courtyard for a doughnut. Daisy, you care to join me?”

  Daisy regarded him with soulful eyes. “I have to wait until after church, Uncle Vaughn. And only if I mind my P’s and Q’s. Right, Mommy?”

  Lisa gave her a thumbs-up. “That’s right.”

  Vaughn knelt, his hands on his knees, and winked at her. “Well, sweetie, the trick with P’s and Q’s is to keep them on a short leash. That’s what your mama’s always telling me.”

  He stood and slugged Kellan in the shoulder. “Are we watching the game at your house this afternoon?”

  “Yep. You bring the beer, I’ve got the steaks.”

  “And I’ve got three new cheeses for you to taste test,” Lisa said.

  “Sounds like a party,” Vaughn said. “I’d better see about that doughnut before Pastor Schueller calls us to order.”

  With a wink, he wandered off, shaking hands and greeting parishioners as he went. The guy might act like he didn’t have a care in the world, but Vaughn was the best sheriff Quay County had ever elected and one of the most decent men Kellan was lucky enough to call a friend.

  “Okay, Daisy,” Lisa said. “Let’s use the restroom before the service starts.” She took Daisy’s hand and off they went.

  Kellan scanned the crowd for the pretty face that had been dancing through his mind all weekend. The reason for his attendance and joke-worthy accessories.

  Chris sidled up next to him, leaning in conspiratorially. “I know who you’re looking for.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The middle Sorentino sister. Amy.”

  Kellan scowled despite his efforts to mask his irritation. He’d never been the subject of salacious gossip, and the idea didn’t sit well with him. Now that he thought about it, what the hell was he doing chasing a chick who, along with her family, would win the award for Most Whispered About? “They ought to rename this town Gossip Creek. How many sources tipped you off?”

  Chris counted on his fingers. “Nancy Tobarro sent a picture to Lisa’s cell phone of you two talking, then Jillian Dixon and Kate Parrish stopped by the dairy to pick up cheese for their Bunco party and filled me in about Amy holding up the checkout line at the Quick Stand, and how you stepped in to smooth things over.”

  The Catcher Creek information pipeline was as robust as ever. “Nothing’s going on between me and Amy Sorentino.”

  Chris motioned with his head toward the front of the sanctuary. “Then you don’t care that she just walked in.”

  Kellan knew he shouldn’t look. He should walk to his truck and ditch the buckle and the tie. If he ignored Amy for the duration of the service, he’d go a long way toward squelching the rumors about their involvement and keeping his reputation intact. But he couldn’t help himself. Curiosity got the better of him and he turned.

  Sure enough, she stood by the side entrance near the first pew, her coat and a Bible in hand. She wore a long, dark green dress that hugged her curves in exactly the right way and another pair of impractical, high-heel leather boots that were sexy as all get-out. It was easy to picture her standing in nothing but her skin and those boots, with her dark, curly hair kissing the tops of her shoulders and her full, pink lips beckoning him. An image like that almost made the inevitable gossip worth it.

  Her gaze shifted briefly in his direction and he didn’t miss the way her cheeks pinked. Or the way her eyes darted to the nearest door like she might bolt should he take a step nearer. The flush of pink spread to her neck, then her chest. Kellan couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Charlene Delgado and her granddaughter, Sloane, cornered her before she had a chance to run. Maybe she was grateful for the distraction from Kellan because she seemed to throw herself into the conversation a little too enthusiastically, smiling and nodding with exaggerated pep. She should exercise more caution, though, because Kellan knew from experience that Charlene could twist a conversation around like
no one else in Catcher Creek. One minute you’d be discussing the weather, all casual like, and the next you’d find yourself agreeing to repaint the fellowship hall or call bingo every Wednesday for a month. Anyone in the know dove for cover when Charlene came around.

  “Chris?”

  “Hmm?”

  “That is a beautiful woman.”

  “Yes, she is. Too bad you’re not interested in her.” Rowen stirred, stretching one tiny hand upward. Chris slipped his finger into Rowen’s palm. Rowen gripped it tight and brought it to his mouth to gum.

  “I’m not. I swear.” Even Kellan couldn’t believe such a half-hearted denial.

  Amy’s gaze slipped in his direction before darting away once more. Her skin flushed a deeper shade of pink. Oh, man, he wanted to drag his lips over that soft, sweet skin until her body melted against him.

  “Kellan, the Sorentino family and my family go way back in this town. If you’re not sure what you want from her, then you should find someone else to scratch your itch. She’s not the kind you mess with.”

  That threw Kellan for a loop. “Why not?”

  “Delicate constitution like her mother is what people say.”

  Kellan huffed in protest. “What a bunch of B.S. Amy Sorentino does not have a delicate constitution. She’s a firecracker through and through.”

  “Obviously there’s nothing going on between you two. Right.”

  “Nope.” He studied her from across the room, riveted by those juicy curves and big, brown eyes, and knew he’d told Chris one hell of a colossal lie.

  “Hypothetically,” Chris said, “if something were happening between you and Amy Sorentino, what would your plan be today?”

  He straightened his tie and ran a hand over his head, knowing full well the attempt would be futile with his unruly hair. “I’d ask her to my place for dinner. Hypothetically.”

  “Couldn’t you do that over the phone and save all this cowboy costume drama?”

  “Absolutely no drama.” His tone was a bit too earnest, but Chris needed to be clear on that point. “I did ask her, but she wasn’t amenable to the idea.”