A Cowboy Summer (Harlequin Super Romance)

by Salonen, Debra

  The idea wasn’t new. Last summer, well before she took ill, Esther had asked Will if he had ever thought about taking over the Silver Rose when she and A.J. retired. He’d blithely replied, “You bet, Esther. Right after I win the title of World Champion.” And while the circumstances had changed with her death, Will’s goal hadn’t. He fully intended to help his grandfather as best he could, but that didn’t include giving up his life’s dream.

  Besides, Will thought, swallowing the bad taste in his mouth, Gramps will never retire. The Silver Rose is his life. Isn’t it?

  At the landing, he turned left and walked the short distance to the master bedroom. The door was ajar; light spilled across the threshold. Although turnabout would have been delightful fair play—the thought of catching Anne in a towel made his heart rate increase and palms sweat—he knocked softly and called out, “Anne?”

  She emerged from the bathroom towel in hand, dabbing her freshly scrubbed face. The rest of her was dressed in sweats. Unfortunately.

  “Hi,” she said, moving toward him. “I wasn’t sure if you were still here or not. Is everything okay?”

  “Pretty much.”

  A small sound from Esther’s former sewing room made her put a finger to her lips. “Come,” she whispered, nudging him back into the hallway. She dropped the towel on the bookcase where her mother kept family photos and led the way to a small settee in the main corridor.

  She sat down, leaving room for Will to join her on the bench seat. The antique looked too dainty—and chummy—for his taste. He leaned against the wall a foot or so away. The overhead light fixture bathed the hallway in a golden hue that made Anne’s freshly washed complexion even more luminous than usual. She peered up at him with an expectant look.

  He wondered if he should say something about their close encounter of the naked kind. “I’m not an exhibitionist. I hope you know that.”

  She put one hand to her cheek and smiled. “That was my fault entirely. How come there aren’t autolocks on the doors of the cabins?”

  Will shrugged. “Gramps hates carrying keys with him. He opted to provide small safes in each room instead of hassling with master keys and whatnot. Haven’t you heard him say that a locked door is an affront to the code of the West?”

  She smiled. “Come to think of it, yes. But I thought that only applied to not locking the front door of this house. Are the guests okay with it?”

  “Seem to be. They keep coming back.”

  Neither spoke for a minute, then Will said, “Gramps wanted me to apologize to you for this morning. For leaving so abruptly. He was especially upset with himself for not waiting until Zoey got up.”

  Anne smiled. “So I gathered. They talked on the phone, and I think everything is okay between them. Zoey included him in her prayers tonight.” She started to add something then seemed to change her mind. Instead, she said, “It’s as much my fault as his. I’m not used to including other people in our lives, and I didn’t expect her to be so upset.”

  “Is she asleep?”

  Anne nodded. “Nothing like a good long soak in a bubble bath. That’s where I’m headed next.” Her gaze dropped to his shoulder. “You know, anytime you want to use the jetted tub, feel free.”

  Will was surprised by the offer. And pleased. “Thanks.”

  His good mood evaporated when she added, “I couldn’t help noticing your scars. Are you in pain?”

  He pushed off from the wall and shoved his hands in his hip pockets. “Not really. I dislocated my left shoulder in Albuquerque when a bull stepped on it, and since I was going under the knife, the surgeon decided to scope the other side to fix an old tear.”

  She winced. “Sounds like a pretty dangerous job.”

  “Bull riding is considered an extreme sport. The higher up you get in the level of competition, the greater the risk.”

  “Extreme,” she repeated. “I hadn’t realized bull riding fell into that category. Makes sense, though. One man taking on a thousand-pound bull.”

  “Actually, professional stock averages around twenty-two hundred pounds,” he said, instantly wishing he hadn’t.

  Her eyes went round and her mouth formed an O.

  To his complete surprise, her next question wasn’t “Why would anyone be crazy enough to do that?” but “What does it feel like?”

  He took his time answering. “You know those kids’ toys with little colored chips that you turn round and round…?”

  “A kaleidoscope,” Anne supplied. “Zoey has one at home.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes a ride is like that. All you see is a rush of color and crazy impressions. The crowd noises blend together. You don’t even feel the bull. Everything happens so fast it’s a blur.

  “Other times, every second is slow-mo. Each image is as clear as a photograph. Valley, peak, twist right, spin left, airborne, dirt.” He slapped imaginary dust from his thigh. “Either way, afterward, you get up, grab your rope and starting thinking about the next ride.”

  “How does a person get started down that road? You don’t just wake up one day and say I think I’ll ride giant beasts for a living. Do you?” Her tone was curious not condemning.

  “I began riding calves when I was six years old. Any more, I think you have to be older, but my dad busted broncs, did team roping and rode bulls at rodeos all over the state, and my mother was a barrel racer. Rodeo was a way of life. After they died and I moved to the Silver Rose, Gramps rigged up a bucking barrel to keep me out of my grandma’s hair. After she passed away, A.J. started taking me to rodeos.”

  She nodded. “I remember. I went to visit my grandparents in Maine shortly before you left for the Nationals.”

  Will shook his head. “Where I came in second in my age group. I had the most points going into the competition, but scored a zero on my last ride for touching the bull with my free hand.” The disappointment of that heartbreaking loss had been the driving force behind Will’s decision to turn pro instead of taking four years off to go to college.

  Her eyes widened in a way that told Will she was recalling something from the past. “That’s right. Mom said you were inconsolable, but I wasn’t so sure. I heard rumors about nonstop parties.”

  Parties to hide the anger, booze to dull the pain. “At the time, I felt cheated,” he said, chuckling at the enormity of his youthful pride. “I was absolutely positive I was the best bull rider in the country and I’d been robbed of my rightful title by a fluke.”

  “Nothing wrong with your ego,” she said with a grin.

  “Nothing that time and experience didn’t cure. I was so sure I had what it took to be champ, I decided college would be a waste of time. So I went directly into the circuit so I could qualify for the pro tour.”

  Anne looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “I…um…checked the national standings on the Internet,” she said. “You were right up there at the top. Until you got hurt.”

  Will was too shocked at first to reply. More from habit than pain, he rubbed his shoulder. Finally, he spoke. “I started off thinking it was just a matter of time before I made my fortune and won the title. But here I am still in the running for the gold ring—only the pack of contenders has gotten bigger, better and younger. And while I’m on medical leave, they’re earning the points I need to stay on top.”

  Anne rose and stretched. She rolled her neck as if she’d been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. It took all his willpower not to touch her. Just a friendly massage. That’s all. He stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets.

  “I know what you mean. I’m this close to getting the key to the executive washroom,” she said, illustrating her point with a quarter inch between her thumb and index finger. “But instead of making career points, I’m hanging out in Nevada for three months.”

  He was curious about her life, her goals. “Do you like your job?”

  “Does anybody?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “I like parts of it, but overall it’s not exactly wha
t I’d planned.” She gave a wry chuckle. “In college I pictured this fabulous career in hotel management. I’d travel extensively, save my money and eventually buy an exclusive little inn in Greece or Bermuda. Instead, I’m caught in the corporate eddy, fighting my way to the top of the food chain.”

  “If the feeding frenzy is getting to you, you could always stay here and run the Silver Rose for A.J.,” Will said.

  Her shocked expression made him feel like an idiot. He knew nothing about her world. His suggestion was probably on par with suggesting Donald Trump run a McDonald’s franchise.

  She straightened the framed Frederic Remington reproduction on the wall behind the settee. “A.J. might be putting the property on the market this fall. Even if my promotion comes through, it’ll be years before I can afford to buy a place of my own.”

  Hiring a manager was one thing, but selling the place…?

  Will frowned. “I’m hoping that was just the grief talking, but if he did sell, I’m sure Gramps would let you buy on contract to deed, so you could pay him over time.”

  Anne’s forehead crinkled. “That would hardly be fair to you.”

  He liked it that fairness was important to her, but he decided to be blunt. “I’ve done all right for myself, Anne. I took A.J.’s advice and invested my winnings in land. No houses, just land. All rented. The income makes up for times like this, when I’m not riding.”

  “Smart.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, but it doesn’t change the fact that A.J. is your grandfather by birth. I’m merely an interloper by marriage. The Silver Rose is your heritage.” She said the last with a hint of reverence. He wondered why but decided to leave such weighty talk for another time. Their first day in business together had been a long one.

  “My heritage is in need of one heck of a lot of work. A.J. should have kept a couple more hands on duty during the off-season, but he tends to try to do too much himself. Now, we’re playing catch-up. The toolshed collapsed from the snow last winter. Part of the barn’s roof blew off in a storm. The horses all need to be shod. And the dogs have worms. Don’t ask how I know that.”

  She made a face and backed away from him. “Don’t worry. I won’t. And I’ll keep Zoey away from them.”

  He snickered. “I already gave them deworming medicine. They’ll be fine in a day or two. Also, I discovered two new litters of kittens if you want a house cat.”

  Anne looked horrified at the prospect. “Cat dander is one of Zoey’s worst allergies. No indoor animals. Ever.”

  Another dumb idea, dufus. “Got it.”

  She looked at him with a questioning tilt to her chin. “I didn’t mean to sound quite so dogmatic. Zoey can be around outdoor animals as long as she remembers not to rub her face after touching them, but cats seem to believe any space belongs to them, including beds and pillows. That would be very counterproductive to Zoey’s breathing.”

  “I understand. I’m glad you told me. Like I said before, if I knew more about what triggers an attack, I’d feel more comfortable around her.”

  “I plan to update the Silver Rose’s Web page tomorrow. I’ll print some asthma articles for you while I’m online.”

  “Thanks.” He started to leave.

  “Will, do you have a Web page? You know, for your riding?”

  He paused at the top of the stairs. “No. I’m a Stone Age relic. Never got into computers. But some of my friends have wwws. I’ll make a list of their names if you want to check them out.”

  He touched the brim of an imaginary hat then left. On the walk back to his cabin, he rehashed their conversation in his head. He figured he’d won a couple of points and lost a few others. Such was life, but what really confused him was why he cared. One quick summer, two people with really different lives. Not a favorable combination at all. No matter what her blush did to his libido.

  ANNE SPENT the following morning in the office. A bush that had yet to leaf out blocked the room’s only window. The ugly brown stalks reminded Anne of prison bars, and the heavy velvet drapes, while classy, contributed to the gloom. What would A.J. say if they accidentally appeared in the burn barrel? What if she painted the walls a warm yellow and boxed up all of the rustic knickknacks? Would he accuse Anne of defiling her mother’s decorating legacy?

  Maybe, she thought. Or maybe a fresh look would encourage him to spend more time in the office. She planned to ask Will his opinion as soon as she saw him. At least, paint was a nice safe subject, unlike the highly personal topics they’d covered the night before.

  What on earth had possessed her to blurt out her dream? An exclusive little inn in Greece or Bermuda. Get real. That fantasy went down the tubes along with her marriage. Although her new job would mean a salary hike, Anne wasn’t in a position to buy a home, let alone a hotel. Unlike Will, who could casually claim to own property—“land, no houses”— Anne was the stereotypical renter. That was something she desperately wanted to change, once her job allowed her to stay in one place longer than a year or two.

  Thinking about Will brought to mind the image of his accidental nudity. He hadn’t seemed overly embarrassed about the incident when they talked in the hallway. And Anne hadn’t given it much thought, either, until she woke up in a wild tangle of covers, caressing her pillow like a lover. Even now, she could detect a distinctive tingle in places she could have sworn had lost the ability to tingle.

  “I’m bored.”

  Anne looked across the room. Zoey stood in the doorway, Game Boy in hand.

  “I’m just about done here, honey,” Anne said, saving the changes she’d made to the Silver Rose Web page. She’d freshened up its look and streamlined the booking process. Although the current season was filled solid, cancellations had been known to occur. Now there would be a way to announce immediate vacancies and to contact people on a waiting list.

  “It looks like a nice day. How ’bout some fresh air and exercise?”

  “Horseback riding?” Zoey said, brightening.

  “Gardening.”

  “Mom.” The multi-syllable word was accompanied by a loud sigh.

  Anne turned off the computer, jumped to her feet and charged around the desk. “Come on, lazybones. I bet I can plant more peas than you can.”

  Zoey never passed up a challenge. She pitched her hand-held game toward the couch and pivoted, her thick-soled shoes screeching against the oak flooring. “Nuh-uh,” she cried and took off like one of the young colts Anne had seen frolicking in the pasture.

  Anne had been thinking about the garden ever since Will mentioned it on their way home from town. He said Esther had left behind a how-to list. Anne didn’t know the first thing about gardening. The only greenery in her apartment was silk—easy maintenance, no allergens. But Will’s casual remark about Esther’s “creamed peas and new potatoes” had triggered a memory: her mother teaching Anne how to make white sauce.

  If she closed her eyes, Anne could almost inhale the fragrant steam from the butter and milk thickening in the pan. She recalled the shared sense of urgency as they’d stirred the mixture nonstop so it wouldn’t get lumpy. Then, when the glistening white sauce was the desired consistency, Esther let Anne add the fat green jewels they’d picked from the garden that very morning.

  Anne wanted to give Zoey that kind of from-scratch memory. And that meant planting a garden. The dirt and pollen were problematic, but if they worked early in the morning, Zoey might be able to handle the exposure. Anne had to try. Peas would be her first stab at a generational legacy.

  With a chorus of “eeks” and “eouws” echoing in the rafters of the little shed, the two city girls battled past spiderwebs and dead bugs to load a garden cart with what Anne hoped were the proper tools of the trade—a rake, two hand trowels, an assortment of seed packages and the laminated instruction sheet written in her mother’s clean, spare printing. Anne even found her mother’s sun hat hanging on a post. After giving it a thorough shaking, she tied the faded scarf material und
er her chin. The straw crown sported several mice holes, but the brim was solid, if crooked.

  “Oh, Mommy, that hat is too funny,” Zoey said with a laugh.

  “It beats age spots. I choose function over fashion.”

  “I’ll say.”

  On the potting bench Anne found two sets of brand-new gloves, which she recognized as part of the Christmas gift she’d sent her mother. She blinked back tears as she pulled on a pair, then backed out of the shed, towing the wagon.

  The sun was directly overhead. Around the Silver Rose compound the forest loomed—stately Jeffrey pines sharing space with various deciduous hardwoods just starting to leaf out. In the distance, a trail of silvery-barked aspens with iridescent-green buds marked the path of the creek that fed A.J.’s personal fishing hole.

  The bright spring sunshine made Anne regret not going upstairs for her sunglasses, but she didn’t want to risk losing Zoey’s enthusiasm. “Isn’t it a glorious day?” she said, pausing to take a deep breath of the clean, pine-scented air.

  “Uh-huh. Can I plant carrots?” Zoey asked, examining an open seed packet. “I like carrots best.”

  Anne consulted the garden bible. On one side was a hand-drawn map with a list of what fruits and vegetables went where. Adjacent to the A-frame greenhouse where someone had started a dozen flats of flower and vegetable seedlings were three raised beds about three feet wide and eight feet long separated by spongy, bark-lined corridors. Two hillocks were positioned at either corner, and a designated border with lattice for climbing plants followed the extra tall, deerproof fence.

  As Anne looked around to get her bearings, she saw that her mother had prepared for winter by covering several of the raised beds with straw. Metal stakes proclaimed the intended usage. She spotted the word zucchini atop one mound and melon on the other.

  Consulting the map, she said, “I think carrots belong in that small box beside the gate.”

  They headed there together, the wheels on the wagon making a cheerful squeaking sound. A moment later, they stood side by side assessing the box. Delicate green fronds poked through a layer of mottled straw. Zoey used her hands to brush aside the mulch. “These are pretty. Are they weeds?”