Must Love Cowboys

by Cheryl Brooks

  Seated at the end of the table to my immediate left, Joe cleared his throat before aiming a tiny smile somewhere in the vicinity of his plate. “Obviously not you.”

  Sonny nudged Nick. “You kissed her. Must’ve been you.”

  The twinkle in Nick’s eyes suggested he would’ve been pleased to claim responsibility, but in the end, he shook his head. “I only kissed her on the lips, not on the neck.”

  “Guess that leaves Wyatt or Dean,” Dusty said with a chuckle. “My money’s on Dean.”

  “For what?” Wyatt asked as he returned with the biscuits.

  “For giving Tina a hickey,” Bull replied. “Big one too. Must’ve taken him a while.”

  Fortunately, Wyatt had set the pan down before anyone could enlighten him. Otherwise, if his clenched fists were any indication, he might’ve thrown it against the wall. He scowled at me, then at Dean, his satyr-like expression more pronounced than ever.

  A moment later, every trace of anger or annoyance had vanished. “I’m sure it did.” Without another word, he sat down in the chair across from me and took a sip of his coffee.

  “This all looks great, Tina,” Joe said. “Let’s eat while it’s hot.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Dean’s smirk before he snatched two biscuits from the pan, then dropped one of them on my plate. “Hot is good.”

  I bowed my head, pressing my lips together and trying very hard not to laugh. Apparently there weren’t many secrets in a bunkhouse.

  What was I thinking?

  Dusty broke the silence. “Um, if you’ll all pass me your plates, I’ll dish out the eggs.”

  I handed over my plate and simply sat there, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  It didn’t. The bacon platter went around the table, followed by the butter and jam. Pretty soon the men were too busy eating to say much, and they certainly weren’t talking about me.

  Perhaps I’d misjudged them—unless they didn’t intend to gossip about me to my face.

  Great. Actually, I would’ve preferred that to the sort of locker room discussion that was bound to commence as soon as I was out of earshot. We might not have done the deed, but Dean had gotten farther with me than anyone else ever had. Sneaking another peek at Dean, I was relieved to see the surreptitious shake of his head.

  I should’ve known. Despite not having established the need for secrecy, he wasn’t going to kiss and tell.

  At least, not anymore than he already had. I still hadn’t figured out when he’d given me the hickey, or why I hadn’t noticed it when I brushed my hair. Then again, I’d been half asleep at the time.

  I cleaned my plate and hopped up from the table. “Gotta get started on lunch for you guys. Any requests?”

  Bull gazed at me with longing in his eyes. “Apple pie?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “No time for pie, but I could make some cookies today. That way you’d have them for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Better make a big batch,” Sonny advised. “Or else they won’t last that long.”

  I didn’t have to look far to find evidence to back up his statement; there wasn’t a particle of food left on the table. Even the jam jar was empty. I wondered what it would take to actually fill them up to the point of having leftovers.

  Four chickens, Angela had said.

  I glanced at Dusty. “Heard anything from Angela?”

  He shook his head. “She said she’d call if there was any change in Calvin’s condition.”

  Obviously there hadn’t been. “I’ll look through those letters some more today. Hopefully, I’ll find something useful.”

  I headed toward the kitchen, leaving the men to clear the table. So far, the lunch thing was turning out to be the hardest part of the job. Perhaps I needed to start a day ahead.

  In the end, I wound up packing them a lunch that was essentially the same as I’d fixed the day before. I doubted they would complain, especially after I made cookies and chicken salad for Saturday’s lunch.

  I’d found two partially thawed pork roasts in the meat compartment of the fridge that Calvin must have taken out of the freezer at some point, possibly intending to cook them today. After sprinkling them liberally with a couple of dry rub mixtures from the spice rack, I put them in a large slow cooker, set it on low, and went to work on the chicken salad.

  Never having made it using anything but canned chicken before, I opted to cook two chickens and go from there. Fortunately, huge pots were easy to come by in that kitchen and I had the chickens simmering in water seasoned with salt, pepper, and bay leaves before the guys had even left for the day.

  Dean made a point of being the last to leave, giving me a hug and a kiss before donning his hat and heading out. “Have you thought any more about what I said last night?”

  I didn’t have to ask what he meant. “Yeah. Still not sure I’m ready for that. But I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

  If he was disappointed, he hid it well. His gaze flicked toward the base of my neck. “Sorry about the hickey. Guess I got a little carried away. Of course, if Bull had kept his mouth shut, it wouldn’t have been a problem.”

  Somehow I doubted Bull had been the only one to notice it. “Yeah. Not sure I’ll ever live that one down—not that it’s anyone’s business. Speaking of which, do we really need to keep our, um, ‘fun’ a secret?”

  He paused for a few moments as though weighing the pros and cons. “Might be best,” he finally said. “Especially with the way Wyatt’s been acting.”

  I didn’t need to question him about that, either. “Okay, then. You and the guys have a good day. Be careful out there.”

  “Will do.”

  I spent the rest of the morning making cookies. Unable to find any chocolate chips, I whipped up a double batch of peanut butter cookies, then put together another batch using oatmeal and raisins. I should’ve had plenty of time to read while they were baking, but it wasn’t until the last tray was in the oven that I finally got around to reading the rest of the letter I hadn’t been able to finish the night before.

  Apparently Calvin’s niece, Carla, had been unmarried at the time of her death but had left behind a six-month-old son. Calvin might have lost his own wife and kids, but somewhere out there, he had a great-nephew named Tom.

  The next letter included an account of a custody battle between the boy’s biological father, whom Calvin had only referred to as a “no-good scoundrel,” and Calvin’s sister, Jeannine—a battle Jeannine had lost.

  By the time I’d read through the next ten or twelve letters, I had a pretty good handle on the family’s troubles. A severely depressed Calvin had found his way to Wyoming, vowing never to marry or get close to anyone ever again. Jeannine and her husband, Richard—Calvin had finally mentioned his name—had divorced, the stress of their daughter’s death and losing custody of their grandson having taken its toll on the marriage.

  The boy, Tom, along with his scoundrel of a father, had essentially disappeared.

  This left me with two choices: keep reading, or sign up for one of the genealogy sites. Considering the tiny amount I knew about Calvin’s lineage and background, I decided I would have more luck reading the letters. With a resigned sigh, I opened another envelope.

  I hadn’t been reading long when the bunkhouse phone rang.

  “Figured you’d be the best one to call since the guys are probably out,” Angela said when I answered.

  “Yep. Been all by myself since breakfast.” I shot an apologetic glance at Ophelia, who sat panting quietly by the door. She never seemed to mind being discounted unless there was food involved. “How’s Calvin?”

  “Better, I think,” she replied. “He’s moving around more, and he’s said a few things. Nothing I can make any sense out of, but they’re actual words now, and I’ve managed to get him to eat a little bit. The doctor seems
optimistic.”

  In my experience, doctors usually were, and quite often that optimism was totally unfounded. “That’s good news. We’ve been reading through the letters he sent to my grandfather, trying to find his next of kin. He mentioned some family members, but never included a surname. It’s almost like he was trying to keep his family a secret.”

  “He was never one to reminisce about the past,” Angela agreed. “Probably because most of it wasn’t good.”

  Considering what I’d read so far, I couldn’t argue with that. “No kidding. Apparently he has a sister whose daughter was killed in the accident along with Calvin’s wife and kids.” I went on to relate what I’d learned, including the existence of the great-nephew Calvin had presumably never met.

  “That’s interesting,” she said when I’d finished. “The nurses told me there was a guy here asking questions yesterday. He said he was a friend of the family, but visiting hours were over, so they didn’t let him in. They’re pretty strict about the visiting times here.”

  “Did they get a name?”

  “Duane something,” she replied. “Said he was a tall guy in his late twenties. As far as I know, Calvin doesn’t have any friends other than the guys on the ranch, and I’ve never heard him mention anyone named Duane.”

  “Friend of the family, huh? Tom would be about that age,” I mused. “His father could’ve easily changed his name after gaining custody.”

  “True.” I thought she hesitated. “But even if it was Tom, I can’t figure out how he would’ve known Calvin was here, what with the HIPAA regulations and all. He couldn’t have spotted Calvin’s name on a list of patients—even if he’d known where to look. God knows Calvin didn’t call him up and ask him to drop by. Seems kinda strange.”

  “Very strange,” I agreed. “Guess I’ll keep reading through the letters.”

  “Let me know if you find anything. Who knows? If that guy really is a family friend—or even a long-lost relative—he might know who to contact if Calvin doesn’t pull through. I’m only his employer, and I’d rather not have to deal with those kinds of decisions.”

  “I don’t blame you for that,” I said. “One other thing, though. I found an empty nitroglycerine bottle on the floor under Calvin’s bed. That in itself wasn’t strange—we figured he’d either taken them all that night or had forgotten to refill the prescription—but the cap was on the bottle. Weird, huh?”

  Her sharp laugh contained very little amusement. “We’ve got a monopoly on weird at the Circle Bar K. When I get home, remind me to tell you about all the stuff that’s happened over the past few years.”

  “I will.” If it was any weirder than the current situation, it would probably give me nightmares.

  “So…how’re you getting along with the guys?”

  I couldn’t help rolling my eyes, even though I could’ve predicted she would ask that question. “Okay, I guess. They seem to like the food.”

  This time, her giggle was genuine. “I’ll bet they do. Calvin’s a good cook, but he isn’t terribly creative. You can usually tell what day it is by what’s on the table.”

  That certainly jibed with Nick’s rundown of the weekly breakfast menu. “Hopefully they won’t get too confused.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. They aren’t giving you any trouble, are they?”

  I was so not going to tell her about my adventures with Dean. Or Nick. Or Wyatt. “Not a bit,” I declared, although any number of things they’d done could’ve been construed as troublesome. “They seem quite willing to help me out.”

  “I’ll just bet they are.” Her dry tone spoke volumes. “I guess that’s it for now. I’ll give y’all a call tomorrow. Let me know if you find anything in the letters.”

  “Will do.”

  I hung up the phone, still somewhat bewildered by the idea of any strangers trying to visit Calvin—especially someone claiming to be a friend of the family. Even if Calvin had been in contact with Duane, unless he came to the ranch and found him gone, he wouldn’t have known where to look for him. Granted, any heart attack victims from the surrounding area would probably end up in the same hospital, but still…

  I blew out an exasperated breath. Nothing about this trip had gone according to plan—at least, not once I’d set foot on the Circle Bar K. Prior to that, my journey had been smooth sailing all the way. Perhaps Angela was right about the ranch having a monopoly on weirdness.

  A glance at the clock proved I needed to stop reading and start cooking, otherwise there would only be two pork roasts and a boatload of cookies for dinner, although I doubted anyone would complain. I was beginning to understand why Calvin had adopted a regular menu. It certainly eliminated the guesswork.

  The chicken had cooled by then, so I made the chicken salad, pleased that, if nothing else, I had the next day’s lunch taken care of.

  After rummaging through the pantry, I decided on macaroni and cheese, stewed tomatoes—of which there were enough jars to prove someone liked it—and a spinach salad.

  My, how colorful. I was considering a dessert of blue raspberry Jell-O as a way to include all of the primary colors when a wave of bittersweet nostalgia swept over me.

  Grandpa’s favorite. Funny how the crazy old man he’d become had such a fondness for blue Jell-O. Perhaps there was some truth in the whole “second childhood” adage.

  Shaking off the memory, I went on with my work and had just popped the mac and cheese in the oven when Wyatt came in.

  Alone.

  I tried to seem nonchalant, but I had no idea how successful I was at hiding my dismay. “Where’s the rest of the gang?”

  “They’ll be here in a bit.” He shrugged his right shoulder, wincing. “This shoulder was killing me, so I came on ahead.”

  “You really ought to have that looked at,” I advised. “Might be a torn rotator cuff.”

  “Maybe.” He stood there, staring at me for a long moment. “Feels more like a pulled muscle.”

  If I’d ever known how to tell the difference, that knowledge escaped me. I cleared my throat. “You could take some ibuprofen.”

  He nodded. “That’s the plan—unless you wouldn’t mind working on it some more.” His piercing gaze sought mine from beneath a raised brow. “Or do you think Dean would object?”

  There was no mistaking the challenge in his tone—a challenge a more confident woman would’ve met with a serene smile and a witty rejoinder. Completely inexperienced in banter between the sexes, I had no idea how to respond. As always, Wyatt had managed to get under my skin, sending my heart skittering into overdrive and tying my tongue in knots. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”

  He took a step closer, reminding me of the way Dean had pinned me against the car. Lifting a hand, he brushed my neck with his knuckles, triggering a swarm of goose bumps. “I mean, anyone who would do that to a woman might not like it if she put her hands on another man.”

  Ah, yes. The infamous hickey. Dean and I had agreed not to get too involved, but should I tell Wyatt that or let him believe ours was a more serious attachment? Did it matter? In desperation, I glanced at the clock.

  Five fifteen. The other men probably wouldn’t be back for at least another half hour. “I can spare you twenty minutes.”

  A tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth, making me wonder which of us had won that round. “I’ll take it.”

  This time I was watching as he stripped off his shirt—or rather, he was watching me. I’d seen Dean completely naked, and I’d seen Wyatt in his underwear. The sight of him peeling back his shirt to reveal his bare chest shouldn’t have affected me.

  But it did. My mouth went dry and the pulse pounding in my chest moved farther down to center on my clitoris. I doubted he had any motive beyond relief for a sore shoulder—certainly nothing sexual—but having recently gotten a tiny taste of what could happen between a man and a w
oman, my body had other ideas.

  Fortunately, if I didn’t tell him, Wyatt would never know—and somehow, I couldn’t imagine myself ever putting those feelings into words. Not with him, anyway.

  Not with anyone, come to think of it.

  With a look that said he knew exactly what I was thinking—and feeling—he took a seat much the same as he had the day before.

  I stared at his bare back. “I don’t suppose you found any liniment, did you?”

  “Horse liniment, you mean?” he asked. “No. That stuff smells terrible.”

  Somehow, I doubted the smell was the only drawback. “It might help, though.”

  He shook his head. “Stings too much. The olive oil was fine.”

  A man in pain shouldn’t be critical of horse liniment. Once again, I wondered if he was toying with me—faking the pain simply to gain attention.

  Despite knowing there was one other man on the ranch interested in spending time in my bed, the same argument I’d used before won out.

  Twenty minutes. Surely I could handle anything for that long.

  But with my hands on his skin rapidly turning a therapeutic massage into a more erotic one, I didn’t think twenty minutes was anywhere near enough. Dry-mouthed no longer, I was practically drooling with the need to lick the side of his neck before sinking my teeth into it.

  My latent vampire instincts must be surfacing.

  Yeah, right. The thought of him recoiling in pain and glaring at me as though I’d lost my mind was quite enough to stop me.

  “Oh, yeah,” he groaned. “Right there.”

  His muscles knotted beneath my fingers. He wasn’t faking.

  Doggone it.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “Some,” he replied. “It’s a good kind of pain, though.”

  “Like a bite on the neck, you mean?”

  I blinked. Who said that? Certainly not me. I never said such things. I rarely even thought them—until now—nor could I explain my reasoning for comparing a pulled muscle to being bitten.

  “Maybe.” Turning his head, he peered up at me from the corner of his eye, a sly smile curving his lips. “Why don’t you give it a try?”