He’d waited for her, the medical report in his hand, hoping there had been some mistake. No mistake. She’d had the abortion in New York and never meant for him to know. The clinic had screwed up by accidentally sending the bill to her Montana address. Once Tom understood completely what had happened, it hadn’t been Deidre’s address any longer.
And here he was waiting for another woman who worked in New York. Unfair as it might be, he’d already branded the two as coming from the same herd. Although Deidre made her living in front of the camera and this woman made hers behind it, both of them had chosen a world in which image was everything.
Truth be told, he didn’t much relish the idea of transporting this citified woman who wanted to photograph “authentic” cowboys. Jeeter would tell him he had a sizable chip on his shoulder about it, and Jeeter would be right. Tom had driven the truck through several mud puddles before he hit the main highway leading to the Bozeman airport, and the plastic bag of manure rested right on the dash, where the morning sun could bring out its special aroma. He’d worn his most faded blue work shirt, his most battered hat and the jeans that he’d torn up on the barbed wire the last time he’d been fixing fence.
As the plane carrying his New York guest landed, Tom remembered there was a little trick for notifying off-loading folks that you were their ride home. He ought to be holding a sign, and because he didn’t remember the woman’s name he’d have to write Whispering Winds on it. He glanced around for something to write on, but there was precious little presenting itself.
Finally he noticed a newspaper in the trash. It turned out to be a scandal sheet, and the biggest expanse of light-colored space to write on was that occupied by Loni Anderson’s cleavage in a white sequined dress. Tom borrowed a pen from a businessman working a crossword puzzle and lettered a bold Whispering Winds across Loni’s chest. Then in parentheses he added Run by Authentic Cowboys. Returning the pen, he folded the newspaper so the writing was facing toward the people getting off the plane.
There she was. He’d bet money that was her—a sleek brunette covered with gold jewelry and carrying nothing but one of those dumb little purses that looked as if it would barely hold a credit card and some loose change. Maybe she’d checked her camera equipment along with her luggage. Her outfit, tight jeans and a leather vest with lots of fringe, was exactly what New Yorkers might think they should wear in Montana.
He held up his tabloid sign and gazed at the brunette. She walked right past him, trailing clouds of heavy perfume. He was so surprised, so certain he’d been right, that he called after her, “Whispering Winds, ma’am!”
“I believe you’re looking for me,” said a low voice right beside him.
He turned and looked into her eyes. Montana-sky blue. The ranch hands would laugh themselves silly if they knew he’d thought such a thing, but it was true. He didn’t have to look down very far to see into her eyes, either. She stood at least five-nine or ten, with curly golden hair falling in a jumble past her shoulders. It looked in need of a combing, and Tom had the crazy urge to straighten it out a little by running his fingers through it.
Over a blue work shirt almost as faded as his, she wore a canvas vest with all sorts of pockets, and her slacks were on the baggy side, not designed to show off what he suspected was a decent figure. She carried a heavy-looking camera bag over one shoulder, a backpack over the other, and held a wheeled carry-on by the handle. She was rumpled, appealing, and smelled as if she’d been rolling in wildflowers. She was nothing like what he’d expected.
He remembered the manure on the dash and winced.
“Cleo Griffin.” Her clipped accent gave her away as a New Yorker and brought back memories of Deidre. She hoisted the camera bag more firmly on her shoulder and held out her hand.
He snapped out of his fog and realized that he’d been letting a ranch guest stand there laden down like a pack animal. “Let me take that, ma’am,” he said, reaching for the camera-bag strap instead of accepting her handshake.
“I’ll keep it, thanks.” She made a quick grab for the strap and grabbed his hand instead.
Her grip was warm and firm, her skin smooth against his. As his gaze locked with hers for just an instant, he felt an unexpected rush of pleasure. All his memories of Deidre weren’t bad, and this woman triggered the good ones, too.
She released his hand and took hold of the strap. “I need to be in charge of my equipment.” Her tone was all business, but there was something going on in those blue eyes of hers that looked like more than business. She unhooked the backpack from her other shoulder. “I’d appreciate it if you’d take this, though. It’s full of books, and it’s getting very heavy.”
He swung the backpack to his shoulder. “Is there more?”
She looked startled. “More what?”
“Luggage.”
“Than this?” She gestured toward her rolling suitcase and the backpack. “I should hope not. I’m not planning on attending any fancy-dress balls or—” She paused. “Oh, I get it. I’m a woman, so of course I’ve arrived with fourteen suitcases.”
“Now, ma’am, I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did, but never mind.” She tapped the newspaper he still held in one hand. “Tell me, is this part of the dude treatment?”
He’d forgotten all about the sign he’d printed across Loni Anderson’s cleavage. “I wanted to get your attention.”
“Well, Loni’s chest as an attention-getter is a little off the mark. Next time you’re meeting a woman at the airport, try Matt McConaughey’s chest and see if that doesn’t work better.”
He held back a grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
She looked him up and down, her gaze amused. “From all these ma’ams you’re tossing around, I gather you’re one of the authentic cowboys who runs the Whispering Winds.”
She had a smart mouth on her, but he was kind of enjoying the exchange. She might be more fun to have around than he’d thought. “Montana born and bred.”
“Good. That’s exactly what I’m looking for. Shall we leave?”
Tom touched the brim of his hat. “At your service, ma’am.” This time when he thought about the manure on the dash, he smiled.
2
GOD, he was magnificent, Cleo thought, lengthening her stride to keep up with the lean cowboy beside her. She had to have him, chauvinism and all. Montana born and bred, indeed, unflappable as the rugged Rockies. His self-confidence would come across when she photographed him, making him a perfect cover model for the calendar.
Choosing him for the cover would eliminate him from the husband hunt, but he wouldn’t have made the cut, anyway. He wasn’t tame enough, which made him perfect cover material. The idea of capturing this man on film commanded her complete attention.
She’d begin with a full-length shot, maybe pose him leaning against a weathered fence with a coiled rope in one hand. She wanted to reach beneath the veneer of nonchalance he presented to the world and hint at the intensity simmering below the surface. The lens would love those broad shoulders and slim hips. Then she’d move in for some close-ups to bring out the flinty cast of his eyes and capture that mocking look he’d given her when she’d asked if he was an authentic cowboy.
As they crossed the parking lot in bright sunshine, she glanced over to see how the light affected the contours of his face. His battered hat shadowed most of it, but the sun found its way to the squared-off angle of his chin. Just below his lower lip a scar formed a white crescent against his tan. Beneath his hat, the hair at his temples and his nape was warm brown streaked with sun. The creases in his cheeks and the crinkle lines at the corners of his eyes revealed that he found life amusing a good deal of the time.
“Checking to see if I washed behind my ears this morning?” he asked without turning his head.
“No, I’m thinking of exactly how I’d like to photograph you.”
He stopped abruptly and swung to face her. “No way, Ms. Griffin.”
She backed up a step, amaz
ed at the sudden hostility in his expression. “Let me put it this way. I pay really well, and it could easily be the best thing that ever happened to you. Men who’ve been in my calendars have been swamped with all sorts of offers, from movie contracts to marriage.”
That mocking look reappeared in his gray eyes. “I have no desire to be in the movies, or to get married again. As for the money, you couldn’t pay me enough to gallivant around in front of a camera and hang on the wall like some centerfold.”
“My subject’s don’t gallivant, and they’re not centerfolds, either. I shoot in black and white, and although the calendars are extremely commercial, I consider them art, a celebration of the beauty of the male body at work.” Startled by her own outburst, she realized she’d never said those words out loud, and she was embarrassed to have spilled her creative guts in front of this cowboy. God knows why she had.
His tone gentled, and so did the look in his eyes. “Look, there are lots of men around here who will be overjoyed to pose for you. I’m just not in the market”
With every nuance of expression on his face, she became more sure that he could be one of the best subjects she’d ever photographed. Toughness and compassion didn’t often go together, and her instincts told her that if she could portray that, she’d have done something worth the admiration of anyone...including her father.
She cleared her throat and tried again. “I don’t think you understand. My calendars sell astronomically. The one I’m shooting now, Montana Men, promises to be the biggest seller of them all. I want to put you on the cover. It would literally change your life.”
“Thank you, but I like my life just fine the way it is. Now I think we need to get going.” He turned and started down a line of parked cars. “I have an errand to run before we head back to the ranch, and a pile of paperwork to do this afternoon.”
The statement didn’t sound like the kind usually made by a ranch hand. Cleo caught up with him, her suitcase wheels rattling over the asphalt. “You never did tell me your name.”
“McBride. Tom McBride.”
The owner of the Whispering Winds. That would explain the character she’d seen etched in his face and his uncommon poise. Putting him on the cover of the calendar would be more of a coup than she’d thought. The bio would practically compose itself and be the linchpin of her work. Tom McBride didn’t know it yet, but she would have him for the cover.
What she needed was more information so she could plan her campaign. “I’m surprised that the owner of Whispering Winds is providing airport shuttle service,” she said.
“The guy who usually does it is away on personal business, and I had an errand in Bozeman, anyway. We’ll be taking a little detour back toward town before we start down to the ranch.”
“That’s fine.” She was a little reluctant to leave civilization, anyway. On the plane ride out here, she’d realized how much she depended on the amenities of the city to sustain her erratic eating and sleeping habits. She’d probably be expected to get up at cockcrow if she wanted breakfast at the Whispering Winds, and she doubted there was a corner deli within walking distance if she happened to oversleep.
Considering that Tom wasn’t used to picking up guests at the airport, his story about finding the tabloid at the last minute so that he could make a sign to signal to her might be absolutely true. Maybe scrawling the message across Loni Anderson’s chest hadn’t been a chauvinistic gesture, after all. But she shouldn’t forget that he’d added the words Run by Authentic Cowboys, which was a deliberate dig. And one he’d expected to get away with. He was one cool customer.
She watched as he approached the passenger side of a pickup truck so spattered with mud she wasn’t sure what color it was. A person would have to deliberately hit puddles to get a truck that dirty, she thought.
After surveying the truck, his raggedy jeans and well-used cowboy hat, she came to a conclusion. “You know what I think, Tom?”
He paused in the act of opening the door of the unlocked truck and glanced at her. “I haven’t the foggiest.”
“I think you’ve got a wee bit of attitude.”
His mouth twitched, and eventually a grin appeared. “Is that a fact?”
She approached the truck and turned over the handle of her suitcase to him so he could put it in the back. In the process, she looked directly into his, eyes and smiled. “The thing is, I’m a New York chick. I was weaned on attitude, and I refuse to take B.S. from anybody. I...” She paused and wrinkled her nose at an unpleasant smell coming from the cab. “What is that?”
Tom seemed to be working hard not to laugh. “That would be B.S., ma’am.”
She looked inside and noticed a plastic bag on the dashboard that held a substance she vaguely recognized as appearing on the pavement after parades. The smell filled the cab, but it might all be coming from that bag, which was sitting in the sun.
She faced him again. “Is this your idea of cowboy humor?”
“No, ma’am.” His voice was thick with repressed laughter. “It’s my idea of a lab test to see if my cows have worms. That’s my errand.”
She stared at him dispassionately. “I don’t believe you for a minute. You planted that there to see how I’d react.”
“I’ll prove my story by driving straight to the lab and taking the bag of manure inside.”
“That won’t prove a damn thing. Why is it in the cab instead of in the back?”
“Doesn’t bother me to have it in the cab.”
“I see.” So it was a test, she thought. “If I ride all the way to the lab with this thing smelling up the atmosphere, will you let me take your picture for my calendar?”
“Nope.”
“Then I see no need to make the sacrifice.” She stepped around him, reached into the cab and took the bag by two fingers. Then she marched to the back and dropped the bag into the truck bed. Finally she climbed into the passenger seat. “I’ll take my backpack and suitcase up here with me.”
“You’ll be mighty crowded.”
“I’d rather be crowded than have my belongings shift around on that slippery truck bed and possibly smash into your bag of B.S.”
“I’d hate that, too.”
“Oh, sure you would.”
“I would. I need that sample for the lab.” He lifted her suitcase into the cab.
As she wedged it between her knees, she breathed in the woodsy scent of his aftershave, which was a welcome relief from eau de manure. “I’m surprised you didn’t slap a little of the contents of that bag on yourself, for added effect.”
He handed her the backpack. “That might have been taking things a little far.”
“So you have limits to how much you tease the greenhorns?” She balanced the backpack on her suitcase and held her camera bag on her lap.
“To be honest, we don’t usually tease them unless they specifically ask to meet some authentic cowboys.” He dosed the door and walked around to the driver’s side.
“But my assistant had to ask!” she said once he got in. “Otherwise I might have ended up at some touristy place with a lot of rhinestone cowboys hanging around. I wanted the real thing.”
Tom started the truck. “Well, I reckon that’s what you’ll get at the Whispering Winds, ma’am,” he said, his voice an exaggerated drawl.
Not if I don’t get you, she thought. And Cleo always got her man.
THEY WERE PACKED so tight into the cab that Tom kept brushing Cleo’s knee when he shifted gears. She seemed totally unconcerned about it, but he found the constant contact unnerving because, fight it though he tried, he was attracted to her.
In fact, the evidence was mounting that he had a thing for city gals, possibly because they were different and brought variety to his country life. He remembered taking Deidre camping once, and making love to her under the stars. Just knowing the level of her sophistication, and that he’d stripped it all away along with her clothes, was a turn-on.
At Cleo’s request he stopped for some fast-food
hamburgers after he dropped the manure sample at the lab. From the way she tucked into hers as they started out of town, he figured she hadn’t had much to eat on the plane ride.
He was a regular fool for beauty in a woman, and he couldn’t help the enjoyment he felt watching Cleo do such a simple thing as unwrap her hamburger and take a bite of it with those even white teeth of hers. Her mouth was full and wide, a generous mouth, the kind that tempted a man to nibble and taste.
She took a napkin from the sack and wiped a dab of catsup from the comer of her mouth. “I need to ask about kitchen privileges,” she said.
“Kitchen privileges? You fixing to cook while you’re there?”
“Not cook, exactly, but I like to eat at odd times. I guess you could say I’m a snacker. I was wondering if I’d be allowed in the kitchen to fix myself something to eat.”
Tom thought about Juanita’s reign in the ranch kitchen. “I doubt it, but if you’re real good to our cook, she might feed you between meals.”
“I’d rather take care of myself, thanks. If you’ll pull into that convenience store, I’ll pick up some candy bars.”
Tom swung the truck into the parking lot of the store and she began to untangle herself from her luggage.
“Hey, I’ll get what you need,” he said as he unbuckled his seat belt. “Don’t go disturbing the balance there. Just tell me what you like.”
“Okay.” For the first time, she presented him with a genuine smile. “Anything with chocolate and nuts.”
The result of that open smile was pretty impressive.
He totally forgot what she’d just told him about her candy-bar preferences. “Sorry, you’ll have to repeat that.”
“Chocolate and nuts.” She gazed at him. “How did you get that scar on your chin?”
Manhunting in Montana Page 2