Abbie And The Cowboy

by Cathie Linz

  “I’ve got my own high-plains drifter to deal with tonight,” Abigail muttered as she zipped up her denim skirt, the one with the more respectable hemline. She only had one pair of dress boots, so that made that choice easy. The fringe on her hot pink silk shirt rippled as she leaned over to tug her boots on. “And he’s as clever as a coyote,” she tacked on, remembering how Dylan had conned her into accepting his invitation tonight.

  “Don’t forget cuter than a moose,” Raj inserted with a grin.

  “Sure, you can laugh. You’ll be curled up with a bowl of popcorn and Clint tonight.”

  “You know, I’m surprised your uncle had a satellite dish installed out here, considering how run-down the ranch house and all was.”

  “Shem told me he heard that Dylan got it for my uncle a few years back.”

  “That was generous of Dylan.”

  “I never said he couldn’t be generous. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s a cowboy, and I am not getting involved with another cowboy.”

  “For all your complaining, you know you’re going to have a great time tonight.”

  “You know, I’ve decided that it must be inbred in these cowboys to chase after anything that runs. I mean, think about it. They’re used to chasing after cows and calves, rounding them up. Everything is a competition. To see who lasts the longest.”

  “Sounds like that could get real interesting,” Raj stated with a wicked grin.

  Abigail threw a pillow at her. “Stop that! I’m trying to be serious here. Maybe if I stopped running, Dylan would stop chasing. What do you think?”

  “I think that’s him at the door downstairs now. Here, you forgot to put on your left earring.” Raj handed her the sterling-silver-and-turquoise-conch earring.

  “What I really need to put on is a chastity belt,” Abigail muttered.

  “Might come in handy after the way you and Dylan were kissing up a storm in the corral the other day.”

  Abigail stopped short on her way downstairs, causing Raj to bump into her on the way down. “You saw that?”

  “It was kind of hard to miss.”

  “Great. Who else saw? Have Shem or his sons said anything?”

  “They were out fixing fences, remember? At least Shem’s sons were.”

  “Thank heavens. What are you doing?” she demanded as Raj suddenly reached out to undo the top two buttons on Abigail’s shirt.

  “If you’re going to stop running in the hopes of getting Dylan to stop chasing you, then you’d better loosen up a little.”

  “Right.” Reaching around for the collar, Abigail turned it up and tossed her hair back, leaving a shadowy valley of cleavage just barely visible. The silver bear-claw necklace she wore was a personal good-luck charm. She had a feeling she’d need it tonight.

  Another impatient knock on the front door reminded her that she still hadn’t greeted Dylan yet. Belatedly opening the door, she felt her breath actually catch in her throat as she just stood there and stared at Dylan.

  He looked good enough to eat. He’d dressed up, or as much as a cowboy dressed up, wearing crisp jeans and a starched white shirt with a black leather bola tie that had a sterling bear-claw clasp that matched the design of her necklace. How could he have known? She hadn’t worn the necklace in front of him before. Of course, the design was a popular one. But still it was a little unnerving, almost as if it were a sign that this date—or whatever it was—was meant to be.

  “You look good,” Dylan murmured.

  “So do you,” she replied.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, tipping back his hat with the tip of his right thumb. “Are you ready?”

  Ready, willing and able. The wayward thought came to mind before Abigail could squelch it.

  “Now, you kids be good,” Raj teasingly called out after them.

  “I’m always good,” Dylan stated.

  “And you’re even better when you’re bad, right?” Abigail drawled, giving Dylan his first inkling that there was something different about Abbie tonight. He’d noticed the undone buttons on her shirt right away, just as he’d noticed the way the silky fringe drew his attention to her breasts. Not that it took much to get his attention— everything about her seemed to strike a match inside of him, setting him off.

  As he helped her into his pickup, Dylan recalled the last time she’d been in his truck, after he’d saved her that first day. There hadn’t been any other unusual occurrences on the ranch since then, despite Hoss’s warning that they’d better watch themselves. But then, Dylan had taken precautions, including installing a new floodlight for the ranch yard. After all, a man couldn’t be too careful, at least not when he was responsible for a woman’s safety. Especially when that woman was Abbie.

  The dance was held at the community center, a fancy name for a concrete-block building that was the site for everything from bingo games to the Ranchers’ Association meetings. A plaque near the front door proclaimed the fact that in 1947 Hoss Redkins’s father had had the place built for the good of the community. It was just another indication of how powerful the Redkinses were in this county, and had been for decades. They were used to getting whatever they wanted. And in this case, Hoss Redkins wanted her ranch.

  “Hondo and Randy told me they were coming to the festivities tonight,” Dylan told her as he courteously held open the center’s front door for her, keeping one arm around her shoulders while he used his free hand to deal with the tricky door handle. Apparently the Redkinses hadn’t made any improvements on the structure since it had been built right after World War II. “If Hondo dances the way he eats, we’re in trouble,” he added.

  A band was already in full swing, belting out old-fashioned country classics. Abigail hadn’t stepped but four feet inside before Dylan had swept her into a northern version of the Texas two-step.

  The place was crowded, forcing Abigail and Dylan even closer together. Not that Dylan needed any forcing. He was happy having her in his arms. “You’re good,” he said in her ear, needing to lean that close to be heard over the music, which was now a George Strait hit.

  “So are you,” Abigail replied, having to turn her head to do so. Which is how her lips ended up mere millimeters from his. Her steps faltered, and she nearly stepped on his toes.

  “Hang on, there.” Dylan’s voice was rich and it trickled down her spine like warm brandy. “Things should slow down in a minute or two.”

  Things…like her heart? It was racing.

  Sure enough, the band finished up that number and then went into a slow ballad about a man who done a woman wrong.

  Instead of just placing his arm around her shoulder or her waist, as he had for the Western shuffle they’d just finished, Dylan took her firmly into his arms, arms that had no business feeling so much like home. They danced cheek to cheek. The gentle abrasion of his skin against hers was a wondrous thing. She suspected he’d shaved before picking her up, but there was still an intrinsic difference between the texture of his lean jaw and hers. Her fingers clung to his shoulder, appreciating the lanky warmth beneath the crisp cotton shirt. Temptation loomed large. She was tempted to close her eyes, tempted to run her lips along the line of his jaw, tempted to throw his hat over her shoulder and run her fingers through his midnight black hair.

  It took three taps on Dylan’s shoulder for him to notice that Randy was standing there with an expectant look on his face. “Beat it,” Dylan growled.

  “That wasn’t very friendly,” Abigail noted as with a grumble and a frown Randy retreated.

  “Damn right. He can find his own girl.”

  By the time the dance was over, Abigail’s mouth was dry and her heart was doing a two-step of its own. As if taking pity on her overexcited state, the band took a fifteen-minute break. Waving a hand in front of her face, she breathlessly stated, “It’s warm in here.”

  “How about a cold drink?”

  “That sounds great, thanks.”

  “You stay here, and I’ll go face the crowd,�
�� Dylan said with a nod at the people gathered around the metal washtub full of ice and cans of beer and soda.

  As she stood waiting for him, Abigail tuned in to the conversations going on around her, one of the traits of being a writer. As if scanning the channels, Abigail heard and discarded various snatches of dialogue until one sentence caught her attention.

  “I heard he has Gypsy blood,” a bleached blonde standing nearby said.

  When the woman went on to speculate what Dylan would be like as a lover, it was all Abigail could do not to smack her. But then, what else could she expect from a woman who wore no bra under her Girls Go Nuts For Cowboy Butts T-shirt?

  To make matters worse, the hussy strutted on over to Dylan. As Abigail watched, the bleached blonde tugged on his arm. Having gotten Dylan’s attention, the woman batted her lashes at him, not to mention jiggling her unbound breasts.

  Abigail was itching to go over and growl, Hands off, blondie, he’s mine!

  In fact, she’d taken two steps forward before common sense intervened.

  So what should she do instead? Mosey on over and juggle the woman’s elbow so that she spilled soda all over her cowboy-butts shirtfront? But that wouldn’t be very nice, and Abigail had been raised to be a good girl.

  So what were her options here? To stand there and do nothing? No way!

  What would one of her heroines do? Well, Loretta was hotheaded and she’d most likely…

  “Sugar, the young ‘uns are a’callin for their daddy out in the pickup,” Abigail told Dylan in a drawl as thick as molasses. “Andy and Billy and Cal and Dudley and Eliot and Fred…”

  “You’ve got six kids?” the blonde asked in surprise.

  “Un-by-god-believable, huh?” Abigail said. “You must not be from around these parts, huh?”

  “I’m from Great Falls.”

  “Sugar plum, she’s from your old stomping grounds,” Dylan said with a grin. “I wish we could talk longer, but you heard my woman here, the children are a’crying.” Taking Abigail’s arm, he led her away, having snagged two cans of soda before he did so.

  Once they were alone in a far corner of the room, Dylan said, “Let me guess, that was right out of your book Flame of the West, right?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I read it. Liked it pretty well, too.”

  There might be hope for this man after all, Abigail thought to herself with a smile.

  “But couldn’t you have come up with a better name than Fred?” Dylan demanded.

  “What?”

  “When you listed all our children, all of them boys, I might add. Don’t you want any daughters?”

  “I was just kidding.”

  “About naming our son Fred? That’s reassuring.”

  “I’d name him Ferdinand instead,” she said with a saucy toss of her head.

  “You’re good,” he said with admiration.

  “Come on, folks,” the mustached lead singer of the band shouted into the microphone. “This here’s the local-talent portion of our program. Any budding singers out there tonight, here’s your chance to come on up here and join the band for a number.”

  Afterward Dylan was never quite sure how he ended up on stage, but he had the feeling that Abigail had given him a healthy shove in that direction. And so it was that he found himself singing “Shameless.”

  The lyrics took on a special meaning for Abigail as she listened to them sung in Dylan’s rich and rough voice. The fact that he looked right at her the entire time merely doubled the effect, which left her knees weak.

  By the time the song was over, he’d gained the attention of every woman in the place. The applause was raucous enough, but the cheers were downright rowdy.

  “Thank y’all very much,” Dylan said with a grin that made all the women in the crowd edge a little closer to the makeshift stage. “If my family could only see me now.”

  Abigail was seeing him now and she was having a hard time remembering her vow to avoid cowboys at all costs. Surely there were some things worth the risk—and right at that moment, Dylan looked good enough to be one of them.

  When he hopped down from the stage and hooked her in his arms, she returned his embrace.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered in her ear.

  Moments later, they were outside, kissing under the Milky Way, his tempting tongue sending shooting stars through her body as he tickled the corners of her lips.

  Accepting his invitation to passion, she slid her hands up his chest to his shoulders. The pressure of his mouth on hers was gentle until she tilted his hat out of her way. She wanted to toss his black Stetson over her shoulder and run her fingers through his too-long hair, but knew that cowboys were funny about their hats. Not that Dylan let it get in his way. No, he was actually quite creative about the angle of his kiss.

  The rough moistness of his tongue diverted her thoughts and consumed her senses. Sighing his name, she parted her lips. He had one hand on her waist, his fingers spread widely apart so that his thumb almost brushed her left breast. His other hand cupped her head, his fingers threaded through her hair while his thumb tenderly grazed her cheek.

  One kiss blended into the next, each increasing in intensity, growing with slow hunger and steady anticipation. They were completely wrapped up in each other, and in each other’s arms, when the sound of raucous laughter shattered the moment.

  “Well, looky here, if it ain’t the gimpy Gypsy. Looks like he’s tryin’ to romance his way into getting a piece of old man Turner’s ranch,” Hoss Redkins derided.

  Five

  Abigail felt Dylan tense in her arms before he whirled to face Hoss Redkins and his equally burly son, Hoss Jr.

  Remembering the last time that Dylan and Hoss had faced off, Abigail hung on to Dylan’s arm for all she was worth. “Ignore him,” she whispered to Dylan. “He’s just an old windbag looking for trouble.”

  “And he’s found it,” Dylan growled.

  “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  “What about my satisfaction?”

  “You’re better than he is. You have the willpower to walk away.”

  “You need permission from your boss lady before you talk?” Hoss taunted Dylan, who took another step toward him with menace in his eyes. “And don’t you go thinking you can practice any more of that black magic— I’m not riding a horse and I’ve got protection this time.” Hoss nodded at his son and two ranch hands who’d materialized nearby. “We don’t want your kind around here.”

  Furious, Abigail yelled at Hoss, “There’s no protection for what ails you—a bigoted, small-minded idiot who gives ranchers everywhere a bad name!”

  “Now who’s trying to start a fight?” Dylan murmured with dry humor.

  “That’s why women don’t make good ranchers,” Hoss stated. “Because they’re so emotional. They take things personally. Why don’t you do us both a favor and stop this nonsense now, before things get sticky? I’ve made you a generous offer for your uncle’s run-down ranch. You’d be well-advised to accept it. Your daddy thinks it’s the right thing to do—”

  “You talked to my father?” Abigail said in disbelief.

  “Of course I did,” Hoss confirmed. “I thought maybe he could talk some sense into you.”

  “My father doesn’t own the Tumbling T Ranch. I do. And there’s no way I’d sell it to you!”

  “Now don’t go making hysterical statements you might later regret,” Hoss said. “You don’t want to make an enemy out of me. And I think that you’ll soon find out that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew here. Your daddy did the smart thing selling his half of the ranch off to me all those years ago. You’ll do the same in the end.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “I won’t have to. All I have to do is hold the water. The irrigation lines from the river go through my land, you know.”

  She hadn’t.

  “One word from me and you won’t be able to boil a cup of water, ta
ke any of those fancy baths or water your cattle. Unless you plan on coming into town and buying bottles of that fancy bottled water for them,” Hoss added before laughing heartily at his own humor. “I hear them cows like fancy foreign water—the one with all the bubbles.” His guffaw could be heard clear over the border to Canada. “So you think long and hard before you say no to my offer again. And you be mighty careful out on that ranch, I wouldn’t want anything happening to you or them strange foreign friends of yours.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to them,” Dylan said, his voice as hard as his expression. “Because if it does, I’ll come looking for you before you can even haul your carcass down off your horse.”

  “Ooooh, boys, did you hear that? Lord, I’m just about shivering in my boots,” Hoss mocked.

  “Or I could just call down a Gypsy curse on you right now,” Dylan reflected. “Preventative medicine, so to speak.”

  Hoss looked disconcerted before blustering on, “I’m wearing garlic. You can’t touch me!”

  “I don’t need to touch you. And garlic only works on vampires.”

  “I’ve heard it’s also useful in preventing you from getting a cold,” Abigail inserted, trying to keep a straight face.

  “I don’t get colds,” Hoss bragged.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Enjoy your good health while you can,” Dylan drawled. “A man in your condition can’t be too careful.” Lowering his eyebrows, Dylan fixed Hoss with a deadly glare. “You ever heard of the evil eye, Redkins?”

  Hoss clutched his garlic and took a step backward, bumping into his burly son.

  “Dad, you stepped on my foot!” Hoss Jr. yowled, hopping on one foot and grabbing his other in his hands. “I think you broke it!”

  “It’s his fault! He gave me the evil eye,” Hoss exclaimed, pointing a shaking finger at Dylan. “You’re witnesses, boys. I’m going to the sheriff with this,” he warned before helping his son into the community center. “Don’t just stand there!” he yelled at his ranch hands. “Get a move on and help my son inside.” At the doorway, he turned to shout one final warning, “You’ve gone too far this time, Janos! You’re going to pay for this!”