Must Love Cowboys

by Cheryl Brooks

  “Dusty must be keeping an eye on him then. He’s next on my list of people to call—unless you’ve found any of Calvin’s family.”

  “We found out his sister’s name was Jeannine Caruthers, but she died back in January. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else, unless that guy who tried to visit him really is his long-lost great-nephew, which is doubtful. The best we could tell from Calvin’s letters, even Jeannine didn’t know what happened to the kid.”

  She blew out a sigh. “Calvin and I obviously need to have a talk about what to do the next time something like this happens. It’s been tough trying to figure out what he would want me to do.”

  “Good luck. Getting my grandfather to sign the POA papers wasn’t easy.”

  “Yeah. Most men don’t like the idea of giving up control.”

  In my experience, neither did most women. “After this, I’m guessing he’ll understand the need for some sort of contingency plan.”

  “I sure hope so,” she said. “Guess I’ll give Dad a call. Y’all take care, now.”

  “You too.”

  I hung up the phone, unsure whether to be happy or sad. I was pleased to hear of Calvin’s improvement, but his recovery would ultimately mean my departure. I was already starting to feel at home—cue the guitars and fiddles—on the range, even though I had yet to actually explore the places where the deer and the antelope play. I hadn’t ridden a horse, and I hadn’t seen a cow—not up close, anyway.

  With those omissions in mind, I strolled out beyond the stable and found where the pigs and chickens were housed. I noticed a few eggs in the chicken pen, along with the basket I’d seen Sonny use to carry them into the kitchen. Cooking and debugging computers weren’t the only things I could do. I had no burning desire to tend the hogs, but I could certainly feed chickens and gather eggs. Just because I hadn’t been raised on a ranch didn’t mean I couldn’t learn.

  I had the basket on my arm and was unlatching the gate when movement on the hillside beyond the outbuildings caught my eye. A blink and a stare revealed nothing more than the wind blowing through the tall brown grass. I glanced at Ophelia standing beside me. If she’d seen the same thing, she made no sign.

  “Probably just a bird,” I muttered. Certainly not anyone responsible for cutting fences, especially not in broad daylight.

  As I gathered the eggs, I considered the fence-cutting mystery. As Angela had said, all it did was make more work for the men, forcing them to ride the fence line twice as often as they usually did and spend a great deal of time searching for stray cattle. As far as I knew, no fences had been cut since my arrival, but—

  My thoughts broke off as I racked my brain for any mention of cut fences in the past two days. There had been grumblings about previous episodes, but none that were current.

  What had changed? Calvin was in the hospital. Angela was in Salt Lake City. Mr. Kincaid was alone up at the main house most of the time. Dusty and the hands were out during the day, which, if I hadn’t been there, would have left the bunkhouse unattended.

  If I hadn’t been there. Without my presence, anyone wishing to search the premises and steal anything that wasn’t nailed down would have had ample time to do so. The trouble was, fences were being cut even before my arrival and nothing had been stolen—at least, not that anyone had noticed. Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with anything that would explain everything—or even connect the dots.

  I carried the eggs back to the kitchen and washed them before placing them in one of the cartons stacked in a bin beside the door. After stowing them in the fridge, I took three pounds of hamburger from the freezer and set it out to thaw along with a dozen store-bought buns. The kitchen was equipped with a good-sized deep fryer, but by the time I realized how many potatoes I would have to peel and slice to make fries for nine people, I opted to make potato salad instead. Having packed the balance of the cookies with the men’s lunch, I knew I couldn’t count on there being any left for dessert. So, after eating my own lunch, I dug around in the freezer and found some blackberries.

  As I stared at the label on the package, a wave of nostalgia hit me like a freight train. Grandpa and I had picked blackberries every summer for as long as I could remember, and blackberry cobbler was one of the first things I’d ever baked. I should cherish those kinds of memories and let them crowd out the more recent ones.

  An odd thought struck me then. Was that his reason for sending me on this trip? To help me remember the good times and forget the bad? If so, his ploy had worked. In my mind, I could see the glossy berries, rich with color and flavor as they ripened in the sun. I could hear the drone of bees and other insects as I fought them for the berries. Feel the sting of the thorns scratching my arms, leaving battle scars of which I’d actually been proud. Inhale the heavenly scent of blackberry cobbler while it baked in the oven, and see Grandpa’s blissful smile as he took that first bite.

  Those were the things I needed to remember. Episodes I could look back on with fondness and joy rather than regret or despair. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but those few short days in Wyoming had already done more for me than all the months that had passed in the wake of his death.

  So it was with a much lighter heart that I made the most recent in a long line of blackberry cobblers. Neither Grandpa nor his friend Calvin would be there to share it with me, but there were others who would enjoy it just as much as they would have. I was content with that.

  Once the cobbler was in the oven, I chopped up and boiled a mountain of potatoes. After they cooled, I made the potato salad, adding my own flourishes to a recipe I’d found in one of Calvin’s cookbooks.

  I had just reached the point of simply waiting for the guys to show up, when it struck me that while Wyatt had seemed to think there was no longer any reason to contact Jeannine’s family, and there probably wasn’t, something about her obituary bugged me. In searching for other people to contact, I’d overlooked the fact that there had been no mention of the one person we did know who had survived Jeannine.

  Fortunately, I’d bookmarked the page and was able to pull it up without any trouble. Sure enough, Calvin wasn’t mentioned. Only the relatives on the Caruthers side of the family were listed.

  “Still at it?”

  With a gasp, I swiveled around to see Wyatt standing in the doorway. Clad in boots, jeans, and a dusty denim jacket over a dark blue plaid shirt, he might’ve been the template from which every sexy cowboy had been cut.

  “Sorry,” he said, removing his hat. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I shot an admonitory glance at Ophelia, who was supposed to warn me when someone was sneaking up behind me. Apparently Wyatt didn’t rate that response.

  “No problem,” I lied. “C’mere and take a look at this.”

  As much noise as his boots made on the bare wooden floor, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t heard his approach. Sneaky fellow.

  “What’s up?”

  I scooted my chair sideways and gestured at the computer. “Read that.”

  Tossing his hat onto the recliner, he placed a hand on the edge of the desk and leaned toward the screen. The last time I’d been that close to him, he’d kissed me senseless. At the moment, however, his nearness only allowed me to observe his satyr-like frown up close and personal. Crossing my arms, I hugged my chest, doing my best to suppress the inevitable shiver.

  “So?”

  “Notice anything missing?”

  “You mean beyond Calvin’s name?”

  “Nope. That’s my point. Either Jeannine’s break with Calvin was complete to the point of denying the connection altogether, or whoever wrote her obituary didn’t know she had a brother.”

  “So no one would’ve contacted him.” He nodded. “Yeah. Probably not.”

  “Which means he probably doesn’t even know she died.” I tried to move my chair back to put a little more space between
us only to find it was already against the wall. “Not the best news to give a man as soon as he wakes up after nearly dying, is it?”

  “Not really.” Arching a brow, he aimed his unnerving glare at me. “You mean he’s awake?”

  “Yeah. Angela called. She said he seems more coherent—he actually recognized her—but he’s still pretty weak and his speech is slurred.” When I added the part about him acting like someone who’d overdosed, Wyatt’s reaction was similar to what mine had been.

  “Not like him to take too many pills. More like not enough.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I shrugged. “There isn’t any evidence of that, really. Just the opinion of one of the nurses.”

  “As much as nurses see, I wouldn’t discount that suggestion.”

  “Me either.” I shrugged again. “Guess that’s something we can ask him about. Angela said they might release him in the next day or so if he continues to improve.”

  Wyatt took a quick step backward and drew himself up to his full height. His gaze softened for an instant before his usual enigmatic expression slid back into place. “You’ll stay on for a while, won’t you?”

  Once again, I’d caught a brief glimpse of some indefinable emotion in his eyes. As good as he was at hiding his feelings, it was a wonder I’d seen it at all. “Sure,” I replied, keeping my tone light. “I can stay as long as you need me to.”

  I started to add something about room and board being all I really needed at that point, but he seemed satisfied with my response, giving me a brief nod before a frown once again creased his brow.

  “Look, I’m sorry about yesterday,” he began. “I shouldn’t have done that. Kissed you, I mean.”

  Somehow I doubted he was the type to apologize very often—or even need to. Moistening my lower lip, I caught it in my teeth, completely at a loss for words.

  Should I tell him what that kiss had done to me? Or should I tell him about Dean? I wanted to laugh it off, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. A heated flush crept up my neck to sting my cheeks. “I, um, didn’t mind. Not really.”

  As encouraging responses went, that one was pretty mild. Wyatt, on the other hand, reacted like a horse that simultaneously felt spur and curb, taking a step toward me before stopping short.

  Until our eyes met.

  In seconds, I was in his arms with my back against the wall, his kiss crushing any shred of resistance I might have offered. What he’d done the day before seemed tame in comparison. Thrilled, aroused, and terrified at the same time, I couldn’t fight the emotions; I could only let them flow through me like floodwaters through a broken dam.

  The notion that the door to my room was standing wide open flitted through my mind and was immediately dismissed. I flat-out didn’t care. Wyatt might’ve scared the bejesus out of me.

  But I liked it.

  This time, no door slammed, no boisterous voices broke the silence. My strength and will returned, but instead of pushing him away, I curled my arms up around his neck and clutched the back of his head, a move somehow inherently erotic. My knees sagged. If I’d been against anything less than a wall, I would’ve pulled him down on top of me.

  A moment later, the wall was gone, its solid form replaced by something soft and yielding. My head swam in protest of the sudden shift from vertical to horizontal, but Wyatt’s lips never left mine. His hands gripped my head as though ensuring my continued cooperation, then released me to strip off his jacket. My only wish was that he’d gotten rid of the shirt along with it.

  He pressed a knee between my legs, nudging them apart. Despite being fully clothed, that intimacy made me feel exposed and vulnerable. Searing need knifed through my core, releasing yet another emotional flood, this one of passion and desire. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, pressing his erection hard against the ache between my thighs.

  A deep, gut-wrenching groan emanated from his chest, heralding the sound he’d undoubtedly heard an instant before I did. Booted feet. Slamming doors. Male voices.

  Suddenly, he was on his feet, pulling me upright before practically throwing me into the chair.

  He stood there, staring at me, controlling his rampant breathing with a visible effort. “Next time, remind me to lock the damned door.”

  Chapter 14

  So that’s what it’s like to be manhandled.

  Scary, but exhilarating, and definitely not the sort of thing I’d ever thought I would enjoy—although I wasn’t sure enjoy was the right word to describe the way I felt.

  Oddly enough, the entire situation seemed rather funny. The more I thought about it, the harder I giggled. By the time Dean stuck his head in the door, tears of laughter were streaming down my face. Wyatt had at least had the good sense to pick up his jacket, but my bed was slightly rumpled. God only knew what my hair looked like.

  “What’s the joke?” Dean asked.

  Wyatt shot him a grin. “You kinda had to be here.”

  Thankfully, he hadn’t been.

  When Dean asked about Calvin, I gave him the rundown of the day’s events, ending with the news that Calvin would be coming home soon.

  His reaction was similar to Wyatt’s. “You won’t leave right away, will you?”

  Oh, dear… “Like I told Wyatt, I’ll stick around as long as I’m needed.”

  Nick’s head popped up over Dean’s shoulder. “If that’s the case, you’ll never leave. Calvin’s a great guy, but you’re a better cook.”

  “Thanks, Nick. But for heaven’s sake don’t tell Calvin that.” I rose from the chair, pleased to note that the rubber in my knees had once again been replaced with bone. “Nothing too exciting on tonight’s menu, anyhow. Just hamburgers and potato salad.”

  “And blackberry fuckin’ cobbler,” Bull added as he joined the crowd at my door.

  The way things were going, I was glad Wyatt had moved as fast as he had. Otherwise, we would’ve had quite an audience. I glared at Bull, forcing myself to keep a straight face. “Bull, if you so much as touch that cobbler before dinner, I’m gonna knock knots all over your bald head.”

  “Damn if you don’t sound just like my mother,” Bull declared. “You’ll be telling me to watch my language next.”

  “I might,” I snapped. “It’s about time someone did.” I wasn’t sure what to make of sounding like Bull’s mother. Seemed a little weird. Even weirder was the fact that I sounded a lot like my mother.

  Bull chuckled, obviously enjoying the banter. “Good luck. If I didn’t cuss, I probably couldn’t talk at all.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think she’d see that as a problem,” Wyatt drawled.

  Once again, I was overcome with helpless laughter. “You guys are killing me.”

  “Well now, we can’t have that,” Wyatt said, his drawl still quite pronounced. “You’re the best cook we’ve got.” Snatching a tissue from the box on my desk, he used it to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

  I was still giggling when it struck me just how intimate that gesture was. On top of that, he was smiling at me in a very disturbing manner—a smile quite unlike that of a casual acquaintance.

  I stole a glance at Dean just as he muttered, “Aw, hell,” turned on his heel, and stomped off, clearly displaying his annoyance—and also the fact that he’d recognized both intimacies for what they were.

  He was being replaced, ousted, and bested—something I’d never intended and certainly never expected. Hurting Dean’s feelings was the last thing I wanted to do. He’d been so sweet, so understanding.

  If you hadn’t kissed him, you wouldn’t be in this…situation. I couldn’t call it a mess. Not yet.

  “What was that all about?” Bull demanded.

  “Oh, shut up, Bull,” Nick growled. “For once in your life, just shut the fuck up.”

  Either Bull was too dense to pick up on the vibes between Dean and me or he�
�d forgotten about the hickey he’d so graciously brought to everyone’s attention. Then again, perhaps he’d assumed Wyatt had been the culprit. Or not. As befuddled as I was, I couldn’t remember.

  I had only myself to blame. Well, no. That wasn’t completely true. Dean and Wyatt had both initiated everything. At least I thought they had. I certainly hadn’t been the one to kiss either of them first. Granted, I’d bitten Wyatt, but—

  But what? I’d bitten him and he’d kissed me. What was that? Some sort of mating ritual I knew nothing about?

  Oh, bloody hell!

  Bull would have undoubtedly said something far more colorful, but that expletive was as profane as I ever got, and I rarely said it aloud.

  If I’d had to guess, I’d have said Wyatt knew exactly what he was doing, and also what Dean and I had been up to. Case in point, his irritable reactions when Dean and I started getting chummy.

  I wasn’t sure “chummy” was the right word, either.

  I’m so confused…

  Heaving a sigh, I strode from the room, bypassing Nick and Bull and leaving Wyatt to make his own explanations. Before anything else happened, I needed to have a talk with Dean.

  I hurried through the kitchen and into the mess hall. Sonny and Joe were both in the process of hanging up their hats and jackets, but there was no sign of Dean.

  The door to the men’s sleeping quarters stood ajar. Peeking inside, I spotted Dean sitting on a bunk, picking out a melody on a guitar like he knew what he was doing.

  “Hey, you,” I said softly. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure. Why the hell not?”

  I thought it best to ignore the question and take him at his word.

  I’d never been in that section of the building before and was a little surprised at how nice it was. Laid out like a dormitory with windows at regular intervals, the long, narrow room had rows of beds arranged along both exterior walls. The amount of space between each man’s “room” suggested the bunkhouse had been built to accommodate a lot more men than it currently housed. A hodgepodge of patterns, colors, and mismatched furniture reflected a variety of personal tastes. A doorway at the far end presumably led to the showers, while another appeared to open out toward the stable yard.