One Fine Cowboy

by Joanne Kennedy

  “Get off,” she said, jiggling her legs.

  “This way you can wake me up easier,” he said, closing his eyes. “’Night.”

  She might have responded, but if she did, he missed it. Exhaustion from the day’s events hit him like a knockout punch. He didn’t just fall asleep. It was more like he blacked out.

  ***

  Charlie braced herself, staring down at the man in her lap. He looked less hard-edged and masculine in sleep—more boyish. His hair was short and lay close to his head except for a stubborn cowlick at the crown. She lifted a hand to smooth it down, then stopped herself.

  No touching. Touching led to kissing, and God knew what that would lead to. Certainly not that “objective perspective” Sadie had cautioned her to maintain.

  In fact, she was feeling less and less objective about Nate Shawcross. She was starting to see him as a human being—not just a cowboy. That was the problem with stereotypes—once you got to know people, those preconceptions were no defense.

  And the stereotype—the “stupid cowboy” label—was all she had to protect herself from the guy. As long as she believed he was a rude, crude, steer-rasslin’ ignoramus, she was safe. But so far, he’d shown compassion for the horse, courage in the face of danger, and a surprising willingness to forgive and move on despite her stupid mistake with the whip.

  Maybe she should wake him up so he could do something to piss her off. He was a man, after all. He was bound to screw up somehow. She tensed her thighs, getting ready to shake him awake, but he mumbled in his sleep and creased his brow, clearly feeling the pain of his head wound even in his dreams.

  Sighing, she muted the sound on the television so as not to wake her patient. He’d been watching Animal Planet. Well, they had that much in common, anyway. Nature documentaries were about all she ever watched.

  She settled down to watch one on Japanese snow monkeys. The monkeys were adorable, frolicking in a hot spring, playing in the snow, grooming each other…

  She felt her eyes drifting shut and blinked herself awake. No sleeping. She had to stay alert so she could wake Nate up in an hour. She didn’t know what happened if you slept too long with a concussion, but she remembered some vague warning. She rubbed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the monkeys. They were showing a mother and baby now, the baby snuggled in its mother’s arms, warm and safe and sleepy… sleepy…

  She flicked the channel to a UFC fight on the Spike network where some neckless behemoth was making mincemeat of a guy covered in tattoos. Who could sleep through that?

  She could, apparently. Her eyes just wouldn’t stay open.

  What she needed was some caffeine. A Coke.

  She put both hands under the pillow and gently lifted Nate’s head. He mumbled a sleepy protest and she froze, then scooted out from under him when he subsided back into sleep. Sliding a second pillow beneath the first to prop his head up, she padded out to the kitchen for a can of Coke from the fridge.

  Perching on the edge of the sofa, she sipped her soda and watched the rest of the fight. Next came a series of commercials for beer, pheromone-laced deodorant, condoms, and energy drinks. The kind of guys who watched the Spike network probably used all four products at once.

  The next fight was between two short, stumpy men who tumbled to the mat and stayed there, flailing around on the floor in an effort to grapple each other into submission like two spiders fighting in a jar.

  Boring. Her eyes drifted shut, and this time, she was too sleepy to stop herself.

  ***

  The birds were just beginning to greet the morning when Nate awoke. The house was quiet, the only sound his own breathing and Butt’s, their sighs alternating in gentle counterpoint. He smiled, feeling the warm body snuggled against him. Butt had to be the homeliest mutt God ever made, and possibly the most useless, but she was his partner, for better or for worse. He reached down to stroke her coarse fur.

  But it wasn’t coarse. It wasn’t even fur.

  It wasn’t Butt.

  He propped himself up on one elbow and opened his eyes. Charlie lay spooned against him, her body curled close to his. She was sleeping, her face gentle in repose, the perfect lips slightly parted, the dark hair tousled into freeform disarray.

  His hand hovered above her hip. He hadn’t meant to touch her. He’d thought he was petting the dog. But now that he realized what he’d done, he wanted to do it again.

  Slowly, he lowered his hand and traced the tuck of her waist, the swell of her hip. He drew back when she shifted her weight and let out a tiny moan—or maybe it was more of a purr. She settled back into sleep and he stroked her again, savoring the graceful curve of her body.

  He shouldn’t be doing this. She wouldn’t let him touch her if she was awake.

  Would she?

  She’d let him kiss her. More than that—she’d kissed him back, giving him a taste of a need that matched his own before she’d caught herself and pulled away.

  He stroked a lock of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear, then stroked his fingers through the thick dark strands at the nape of her neck.

  Oh, no. This was so wrong. He savored the feel of her hair running through his fingers one last time, then clutched the armrest to avoid temptation. Lifting his other hand from her hip, he clenched it on his own thigh and looked down at her, stretched across his couch, so quiet, so peaceful.

  Watching her sleep was almost as good as touching her.

  ***

  Charlie rolled onto her back and opened her eyes.

  Nate.

  Uh-oh. He was staring at her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again.

  Still Nate. But now he was watching a documentary on penguins as if he was thinking of breeding the damn things.

  Too late. She’d seen how he was looking at her: softly, gently, but most of all, intently, as if he was memorizing her features. It was a look as intimate as a touch—and just as unsettling.

  He might as well have kissed her again.

  She jerked upright and bounced off the sofa as if the cushions had suddenly burst into flames, then glanced around the room in search of an excuse for her sudden flight.

  “Uh—hungry,” she said.

  Nate kept his eyes on the screen but the corner of his mouth tipped up, the same way it had when he first saw her at her car, stomping around in a temper tantrum in those ridiculous cowgirl clothes.

  “For food,” she blurted out. “Breakfast.” She practically ran for the kitchen.

  Ten minutes later, she was standing at the sink scooping the last spoonful of cereal out of a plastic Pebbles and Bam-Bam bowl she’d found in the cupboard. Lifting it to her face, she tipped the bowl up and slurped the milk from the bottom. Let him look at her now. This was the real Charlie. This one.

  Not the one he’d seen on his sofa just now.

  Judging from the look he’d given her, she must have relaxed in her sleep. She’d probably had her mouth open, maybe even snored a little. And for some reason, that had charmed him—probably because she looked totally, utterly defenseless. He’d caught her with her guard down, and now he thought he knew the real Charlie.

  She never should have let him catch her like that.

  She looked down at her distorted reflection in the steel faucet and narrowed her lips into a thin line. The curved steel emphasized her jutting jaw, making her look like a cartoon thug. Now that was the real Charlie.

  She heard a rustle behind her and turned to see Nate standing in the doorway. How long had he been there? Had he seen her slurping up her breakfast, rivaling Butt for sheer piggishness?

  She hoped so.

  He strode into the room, making a beeline for the fridge. Swinging it open, he grabbed the milk carton and upended it, tilting back his head and downing what was left in three long swallows. She watched his throat convulse, once, twice, three times.

  Setting the empty carton on the counter, he wiped his mouth on his forearm and grinned, his eyes
teasing.

  “Cretin,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face. “Try using a glass next time.”

  “Yeah,” he said, still grinning. “And why don’t you just lick that cereal bowl while you’re at it? You’ve got worse table manners than Butt.”

  He gave her arm a gentle punch and swung out the front door, heading out to the barn.

  Charlie was smiling in spite of herself as she turned to the window and watched him go, the long vista of sage-strewn prairie dwarfing his departing figure in spite of his confident cowboy swagger. It was amazing how he transformed the minute he stepped out of the house. Inside, he seemed a little lost, clumsy, out of place. Outside, he was in his element.

  He disappeared into the barn and she scanned the ranchland spreading out around the outbuildings, admiring the way the sage receded into a misty blue-green blur toward the horizon. It was so quiet out here, so serene. So empty, except for—what was that?

  A dust cloud appeared in the distance, moving steadily closer. Charlie squinted and leaned toward the window. It had to be a vehicle. Someone was coming. Ray? Or a new student? With her luck, it would be another cowboy to join forces with Nate. She’d be surrounded by them. And men in packs were always exponentially more annoying than individuals.

  As she watched, the wind swept the dust away, parting it like a stage curtain to reveal a mud-caked white Ford pickup bouncing up the drive. It sure looked like a cowboy truck. Sighing, Charlie wiped her hands on a ragged dish towel and stepped out onto the porch as the truck lurched to a stop and its lone occupant slid down from the driver’s seat.

  It wasn’t a cowboy. It was a woman. Her pouf of gray hair, dry and fine as cotton candy, fluttered in the wind as she strode up to Charlie and offered a ringless, calloused hand. Her arms were tanned and sinewy, the muscles ropy from hard work, and there wasn’t an extra ounce of flesh on her anywhere. She was skinny as a soup chicken, with sharp, bird-like eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “You Sandi?” she asked. Her voice cracked on the upturn of the question. She sounded like a boy hitting puberty.

  “No.” Charlie took the proffered hand and had her own crushed in a steel-hard grip. “I’m Charlie Banks,” she said through teeth gritted in pain.

  “Doris.” The woman grinned and released her grip. “Doris Pedersen. Rocky Head Ranch.” She looked Charlie up and down. “Danged if you don’t look like a city girl, honey. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Charlie said. “I am a city girl. A grad student at Rutgers.”

  Doris looked left and right, then peered over Charlie’s shoulder toward the house.

  “Nice to meetcha,” she said. “But hey, this place looks like a dump. And where’s the staff? I’m looking forward to getting some cowboy time here.” She winked. “I put my luggage toward the front of the compartment so they’ll put on a show gettin’ to it.”

  Charlie furrowed her brow. “A show?”

  Doris cocked her hips and grinned. “They’ll have to bend over and scrabble around a while to reach it. I like those Wrangler butts, don’t you?”

  Charlie thought of Nate’s neat, compact backside and grinned. “Well, yeah,” she said. “But I’m afraid there’s not much of a staff here.”

  She explained how Sandi had sent out the brochures, collected the deposits, and left. Doris chuckled.

  “That’s one way to get a man moving,” she said. “So are we out of luck here, or is he gonna live up to the hype?” She pulled a Latigo Ranch brochure out of her back pocket and held it up, glancing from the glossy photos of rustic ranch buildings to the sorry shacks that surrounded them.

  “If he’s as much of a disappointment as the ranch, he’d have to be one ugly son of a buffalo,” she said.

  “No, he’s—he’s not ugly,” Charlie said.

  Doris narrowed her eyes, a teasing grin plumping her cheeks.

  “You think he’s cute,” she said.

  Charlie swallowed hard, hoping she could somehow choke back the blush she felt rising to her own cheeks.

  “Only looks-wise,” she said, trying to sound casual. “That Wrangler butt seems to have taken over his entire personality.”

  “Just a big ass, huh?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “So where is he?”

  Charlie gestured toward the barn, her mouth tightening.

  “He’s out there, taking care of the morning chores, I guess. He hurt himself, so I offered to help, but he doesn’t seem to think a woman can handle anything more challenging than a broom and dustpan.”

  “I’d say that girlfriend of his handled his money and his ranch for him, wouldn’t you? Left him in a world-class mess.” Doris glanced around at the ramshackle buildings. “I’m thinking maybe I ought to just head home.”

  Charlie felt a surge of panic. She had to get Doris to stay. Nate needed the money.

  “It’ll be okay,” she said. “I’ve planned dinner, and there’s a bunkhouse we can fix up just fine, if you don’t mind a little rustic atmosphere.”

  We? What was this we stuff? And why did she care if Nate needed money? For some bizarre reason she’d just allied herself with a cowboy.

  What was she thinking?

  She knew the answer to that. She was thinking the same thing she’d been thinking ever since she’d woken up. Her mind kept drifting back to the morning, remembering the warmth of Nate’s hand on her hip, the tender look she’d caught in his eyes before he’d realized she was awake. What would it be like to wake up to that look every morning? To know, first thing every day, that somebody…

  No. There was nothing behind that look. They’d both been half asleep. He was probably just trying to figure out who the hell she was.

  And if she was going to start making the situation into something more, she’d better get out of here and head home—the sooner, the better. She had The Plan, after all, and hooking up with a cowboy was definitely not on the agenda. In fact, hooking up with anybody was a bad idea. The course of her relationships was always a rocky road—one that generally led both parties off a cliff. That was okay when the guy deserved a long fall with a hard landing, but Nate seemed like a good guy.

  Maybe Doris would pay the rest of her portion in cash, and Charlie could get her deposit back and skedaddle back to Jersey before she made some stupid mistake and hurt somebody.

  “Rustic’s fine,” Doris said, interrupting Charlie’s reverie. “That’s the way I like it. But I’m not just here for dinner and digs. Can the guy handle horses? Or did I waste my money?”

  “He’s good, I think,” Charlie mused. “Really, I wouldn’t know. I’m a psych student, not a cowgirl. I’m here to study inter-species nonverbal communication.”

  Doris chuckled. “That’s the fanciest way to say horse handling I ever heard,” she said. “But it’s good we’ve got a trained professional on the premises. With all his troubles, it sounds like Mr. Broke-heart’s going to need a lot of counseling.”

  Charlie laughed. “I’m not really a psychologist yet, though,” she protested. “I’m just studying—”

  “I know,” Doris interrupted. “Nonverbal communication. That’s probably exactly the kind of counseling our lonesome cowpoke needs.”

  Charlie looked down at the ground, suddenly shy. The verbal contact she’d had with Nate had mostly consisted of arguing, but the nonverbal moments they’d shared had been infinitely more successful—if having your insides turned into a throbbing mass of warm, gooey pudding was any gauge of success.

  Doris put a motherly arm around Charlie’s shoulder.

  “So that’s how it is,” she said. “I thought so. We’re not just going to be training horses here.” She gave Charlie’s shoulder a squeeze. “We’re going to be doing some cowboy whispering, too.”

  Chapter 11

  Nate stepped out of the dimly lit barn and blinked in the sunlight. His eyes didn’t seem to be adjusting to the bright light like they should, so he could barely see the outline of a big
white truck, with Charlie and someone else standing beside it. Maybe another one of Sandi’s so-called customers had turned up. Either that, or Charlie had gotten somebody to pick her up and get her out of here.

  Both possibilities gave him a sinking feeling in his gut.

  “Nate.” Charlie trotted toward him, that crazy hair flaring out, then settling, over and over like a candle in a stiff breeze. It made him want to reach out and muss it up. ’Course, she’d probably hit him if he did. For some reason, that realization made him smile.

  “You’ve got company,” she announced.

  She grabbed his arm and towed him toward a little old lady who had parked one foot on the running board of a customized F-450 Super Duty that looked like it could take on anything the West could dish out. The bumpers were cast steel, the headlights and side windows were protected with metal grills, and half of Wyoming seemed to be spattered over the sides and rear window.

  It was some truck. Almost hot enough to distract him from the warmth of Charlie’s hand on his arm.

  Almost, but not quite.

  “Doris Pedersen.” The lady stepped up to him, hand extended. Nate took it, and she squeezed his hand so hard he thought she’d break it. She wasn’t very big, but she had a grip like a WWE wrestler.

  “From Rocky Head Ranch,” she said, pumping his hand up and down. “I’m here for your clinic. Hope you don’t mind I came a day early, so I can rest these old bones. That Ford’s been bouncing my butt for six hours, and I feel like I just got off a shit-kickin’ bronc.” She put a hand on her back and grimaced. “So what’s the schedule?”

  “I, uh, yeah.” He sounded like a real smooth operator, he was sure. “We’ll start tomorrow, I think.”

  “You think?” The lady’s eyebrows were so light you could hardly tell when she raised them, except her eyes got bigger and her forehead wrinkled up even more than usual.