When he looked again at Buck, the foreman was waiting, his elbow parked on Fargo’s rump, his hat low on his forehead, but not low enough to hide what was going on inside his skull. Wyatt didn’t think he’d ever known anyone else who could call him on his bullshit without saying a word.
“There’s a contest, you know.” As if that was going to make a difference. “A reader from the paper wins a long weekend out here, relaxing, seeing what we do.”
“Nothing about what we do here is relaxing,” Buck grumbled.
“It’s being billed as a rustic getaway. Maybe they’ll be women and one of them can help you with that relaxing thing,” Wyatt said, hearing a whole lot of laughter coming from the direction of the house, and his gut tightening up when he realized how much of it was female.
Buck glanced over Wyatt’s shoulder in that direction. “And you? I’m guessing you’ve got four days’ worth of relaxing planned?”
This time Wyatt didn’t respond. Denying that the thought had crossed his mind would make him a liar. Admitting it would cause him no end of grief.
So all he said before he turned to make his way to the house was, “If you don’t get that horse seen to, you won’t be here for the next four days to know whether I’ve got anything planned or not.”
WYATT was only halfway across the yard when the laughter began to die down. One at a time his men noticed his approach. Feet began to shuffle, heads to hang. Throats suddenly needed clearing.
If he hadn’t been so irritated with himself over giving in to her request for four days, he would’ve chuckled and knocked them down a few pegs because goofin’ like that was the kind of relationship he had with them. His fist was more putty than iron, and Silly Putty at that. It was part of what made them family, and was as important to the running of the ranch as was their shared background in rodeo. Every one of them had come from the same place, knew the same hardships of that life, and had chosen this one because it kept them close to a world that ran in their blood.
Bottom line, however, was that he’d seen her first. His men would get their chances to sit down and pour out their hearts. But after whatever it was that had happened between the two of them out there on the road, after that phone call where he’d heard so much longing in her voice, he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to stake his claim in broad daylight.
And, as the thought crossed his mind, he realized Buck had hit the nail. All along in the back of his mind, he’d been making plans.
“Mornin’,” he said, stopping in front of the porch, setting one boot on the bottom step, a hand on his thigh. “I’m thinking there’s a lotta work around here that won’t do itself while you all have your little tea party.”
He didn’t look at Dr. Autrey. At Tess. She didn’t look at him. He stood where he was. She did the same, waiting until Duke, Rusty and Max—the long-winded one of the six—finished up their goodbyes. Only then did she turn and give him one-hundred percent of her attention.
Wyatt thought he’d braced himself, thought he was ready. He hadn’t. He wasn’t. And he didn’t even have a porch rail to grab on to. It was all he could do to swallow the groan that rolled up from his chest when she looked at him. He’d never before had a woman stroke him without touching him at all.
She smiled with both her mouth and her eyes, her lashes long, the corners crinkling with all sorts of fun. Her lips were lightly colored, a soft pink that was not much more than nude, and her eyes…the soft green made him think of fields coming alive after the cold bare winter.
She held out her hand. “I’m Tess Autrey. From the way everyone vanished and the fact that I’d know that voice anywhere, I’d say you’re Mr. Crowe.”
“Wyatt,” he said as his fingers closed around ones that were slender and cool. He held on longer than he should have. “Call me Wyatt.”
“Wyatt.” She made no move to pull away, frowning slightly and cocking her head. Her hair hung below her shoulders in a thick cloud that was either light-brown or dark-blond—he couldn’t decide except to realize it really didn’t matter. He still wanted to touch it, to see if it was as cottony as he thought it would be.
While he was lost in thinking about the texture of her hair, she seemed to come to some conclusion. “That was you, wasn’t it? You were the one on the horse. The one I was watching.”
He let her go instead of tugging her closer. If she wanted to be coy, to flirt, to act like she didn’t know exactly who he was, then he was more than willing—and curious—to see how far she would go.
He nodded. “I was. I don’t often get a break to take Fargo out and let him show me that he’s still got game.”
“He was amazing to watch.”
Wyatt glanced toward the barn. “He does good work. Always has.”
“One more member of the family?” she asked, her voice soft as if she were gentling him the way he gentled Fargo.
He found himself nodding as he thought over her question. “It’s a big one here. Man or beast, doesn’t matter. We all take care of each other.”
She considered him as if she saw through the gaps in his story and knew his ordering his men back to work was all about taking care of himself.
But since she didn’t call him on it, he didn’t say anything to her about how long she’d stared at him out on the road before he’d turned to watch her watching him.
“I would think taking care of your own would be crucial, being as far out here as you are.” She smiled again, but she also crossed her arms over her chest.
He wasn’t sure which was more revealing, or which to believe. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”
“Oh, no. Not at all,” she hurried to assure him. “I was just thinking how spoiled I am. Having everything I need or want just around the corner.”
He liked that she knew the difference between needs and wants. Knowing what he did about her affluent background, he hadn’t been sure if she would arrive complete with a sense of entitlement.
All he’d had to go on was the picture he’d found on the Internet, and the sound of her voice on the phone. He thought back to that night, how listening to her had him leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes and willing her into his lap as she talked.
“You learn to manage. Keep a large stock of non-perishables on hand, meat and bread in the freezer, fruits and vegetables canned or frozen. We make a trip into town for perishables every couple of weeks or so depending on how fast Teddy goes through the milk.” He grinned, shook his head. “Lots of stuff we get delivered, but the milk? We’re a bit far out for that kind of service.”
She took several seconds to glance around the expanse of the place, at least what she could see from the porch before looking at him again. “True bachelor digs, huh?”
“Guess you could say that.”
This time she lifted a brow. “And no local bachelorettes to help out? Do some home-cooking? Add some sparkle to the windows and floors?”
“Woodson cooks. Skeeter cleans. They argue and fight like an old married couple, but they keep everyone fed and turned out in clothes their mommas would be proud to see them wearing to church.”
She looked him up and down. “I’m curious.”
Uh-oh. “About?”
“Whether after your experiences with the buckle bunnies on the circuit, you’ve chosen on purpose to keep women at a distance.”
“You think we do that?” he asked, moving from the first step to the second until he stood only one beneath her on the porch.
“Nice try,” she said with a laugh. “But I’m not buying it. You’ve made this place a refuge. Or a sanctuary. I’m wondering what you saw out there that sent you all retreating.”
He weighed climbing the last step against staying where he was. She was assuming a lot, thinking there were any motives for them being here besides a shared love of the work they did and their history that made them brothers instead of the competitors they’d once been.
Their personal lives, sex lives, love lives…they’d neve
r talked about keeping those things off the ranch but somehow had all come to the same conclusion that doing so was for the best. It had been a few years before Wyatt had noticed the toll that decision had taken.
A man could only chase away his loneliness for so long before he started looking for other ways to dull that potent ache.
But retreat?
He took the last step, moved onto the porch. Towering over her, he met her gaze from beneath the brim of his hat. “Are you sure you’re not just wondering how well you’ll sleep on sheets washed by a man named Skeeter?”
Her mouth quirked, and this close he swore he did indeed smell springtime. “If you show me where I’ll be sleeping, I can put that worry to rest.”
4
HAVING TALKED to Wyatt Crowe on the phone when making plans for her visit had not prepared Tess for Wyatt Crowe in the flesh. He was big and muscled, tall—though she couldn’t be sure how much of his height was his hat.
His hair was dark-brown, shaggy against his neck as if he hadn’t taken time for a cut, and his eyes were sharp, aware, alert. The way he watched her, studied her, left her feeling as if she’d been pinned like a butterfly to a board.
The way his men had shown him deference made her wonder about the type of man he was, the type of boss, made her question his willingness to let her into a world of which he seemed highly protective.
Was there something he was hoping to get from her visit that could impact her plans?
Her suitcase in hand, he walked her into the house, pointed the way through the front room and followed her up the stairs. He didn’t follow too closely. It was, however, just the right distance to put him at eye level with her ass.
She didn’t know whether to hurry so that he didn’t have a lot of time to stare, or to linger so that he did. To take her time, swing her hips, let him wonder and want.
He was gorgeous, he intrigued her, he was nothing like the men her mother kept sending her way. But she didn’t know him; was she being stupid to tempt him without knowing more than she did? For all she did know, he’d sworn off women completely, or had left a long line of ex-Mrs. Crowes.
Before she could make up her mind—to flirt or not to flirt, what a silly thing to ponder—the decision was out of her hands. They had reached the second floor.
“This way,” he said, leading her down the short hallway, his boots thudding on the hardwood floor as he walked, his face expressionless as he stepped around her, giving her no clue as to whether he’d noticed her ass at all.
Tess put a hand to her forehead, pushed her hair away from her face as she followed him, her own steps softer and lighter. She had to get a grip and do it now. The thoughts flitting through her mind were hardly professional, and she was here for reasons that were.
Okay, so he made her heart pitter-patter. If not her heart, then certainly her loins. She could either ignore the impact of seeing him in person, or use it as research for her column, putting herself into the boots of a buckle bunny and walking the proverbial mile.
Except she wasn’t so sure that would work.
Earlier on the porch, she’d met Skeeter and Woodson, Rusty, Teddy and Max. She had yet to meet Buck, the foreman and ranch manager, but she couldn’t imagine her reaction to him would be any different than her response to the hands who’d come to meet her.
They would be able to tell her what it was like living on the road, moving from one dusty small town to the next, finding women waiting, women willing to soothe their aching muscles, their tired minds, their bodies that were still able to perform.
She wanted to hear their stories, to understand what they saw in their sport’s groupies, if anything, beyond the guaranteed sex, the warm, responsive partners who could so easily be won even if just for the night. She wanted to hear their stories because of what the women had told her, but also because of who these men were.
They were all rodeo cowboys who’d been successful in their events, who hadn’t tired of the sport but had been left physically broken and with no option but to retire, who had chosen to work the Triple RC because it kept them involved in a world that had defined them for most of their lives.
But they weren’t Wyatt.
Only Wyatt had caused her mouth to go dry, the small of her back to perspire. Watching him on the back of his horse, she’d known he’d be something. His command of the animal, of his own movements, his body in the saddle, fluid, swaying…she’d been duly impressed, her breath stolen.
Hearing about him from his men, she’d better grasped the mutual respect she’d sensed in their first conversation. Considering his employees’ welfare made them the loyal hands they were.
Only minutes earlier, she’d felt the power of his approach without seeing him, and by the time she did, her chest had been so tight, the ache to draw a breath so fierce, she wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d passed out at his feet.
It was fortunate that she hadn’t. She would’ve hated to miss out on that time on the porch, that tension, that wondering if he would come up, if she should move down, that sense of pregnant expectation, the waiting for her stomach to settle, her heart to find a less spectacular rhythm…
“Here we are.”
He set her suitcase just inside the door. She brushed against his hip—oh, my, the hardness—as she walked by to place her laptop case and oversized purse on the bed. She looked around the room, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, shivering from the contact and feeling uncomfortably weak in the knees.
“It’s perfect,” she said, caught by the simplicity of the space as much by the color. The paint was an off white, the wood trim a light oak, the only thing on any of the walls a fringed blanket woven in variegated blues, reds and greens that matched the spread on the bed and the throw rugs on the floor. “Very south of the border.”
“The bathroom’s across the hall, the linen closet beside it.” He pointed to the desk that sat next to the door. “The house has WiFi thanks to Max, so you’ll be able to check e-mail or whatever. The kitchen’s at the back of the house on down the hall from the staircase, and Woodson should bring supper over for us around six.”
She stopped herself from asking where his room was, and turned at that. “Bring it over from where?”
He lifted his chin, using it to gesture toward the other side of the house. “There’s a big kitchen in the men’s quarters.”
“And that’s where you all eat?”
He nodded, his jaw set, his lips pressed together, his eyes frowning darkly beneath the brim of his hat, the shadow keeping her from seeing their true color.
“Could we eat there instead of here?” she asked, wondering if he was already having regrets about her invading his space, disrupting his routine. “It would give me a chance to get to know everyone, and maybe see what time would be convenient to talk to your men individually.”
He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor or at his boots; she wasn’t sure. Neither was she sure if he was second-guessing the involvement of his crew in her project. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d been looking forward to the two of them eating together alone.
The first she wasn’t going to let happen. She’d charm, cajole, even coerce if she had to. This project might have started as a ploy to fend off her mother, but having interviewed the women, her interest in the men’s side of the story was piqued.
And the second? If he wanted to get her alone, she was always open for dessert. “Whaddaya say, cowboy?”
He grimaced, grunted, but nodded and said, “I’ll meet you on the back porch at six.”
SUPPER, dinner, whatever the cowboys called it out here on the ranch had been amazing. Homegrown and fresh-canned green beans with onions, potatoes mashed with sour cream and the skins, chicken baked with a crust of cornmeal and sage.
And then dessert. Banana pudding with whipped cream and dozens of soft vanilla wafers.
She was stuffed.
The time she’d spent with the men as a group had been invaluable. It had
also been noisy as hell. She couldn’t remember when she’d laughed so hard she’d nearly snorted food up her nose. She’d also gotten a good feel for who would be open to talking to her one-on-one, and who might need coaxing to open up.
Talking to a woman—her—about how they’d slept with others whose names they’d never known wasn’t something all of them were going to be comfortable with, even though she’d assured them she wasn’t here to judge.
A couple of them seemed as if they’d be more willing to share their tales if she interviewed them together. Counseling was often done similarly and for the same reason: knowing they were not alone in their experiences gave the participants a level of comfort they otherwise lacked. Putting the same tactic to use here might work.
But the one she was most curious about was Wyatt.
He’d sat down the table from her on the opposite side, and hadn’t joined in the dinner conversation at all. He’d grinned to himself—oh, but she loved his smile and his laugh—or chuckled under his breath at the ribbing that had gone on, but he’d waved off personal queries and deftly reflected the digging barbs thrown his way. There was something he didn’t want her to know. She was determined to find out what it was.
The entire group had stayed at the table long past the end of the meal, and when she and Wyatt had finally set off for the main house, the sun was completely down, the moon in its place and shining brightly in the velvet canvas of sky.
Walking beside him now, she made no attempt to hurry, enjoying the brisk air that frosted when she breathed, the scent of that very same cold, of the earth chilling as the temperature fell, of the animals snorting and huddling close in the pasture.
“You cold?” Wyatt asked, looking over at her.
She nodded, shivered, tightened the belt of her sage-green cardigan. “Yes, but it feels wonderful. At home I’d be huddled beneath a lap blanket, drinking hot tea, basking in the warmth of central heating. This is a different kind of cold. Invigorating. Lovely.”
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