He touched the scar out of habit. “A little filly kicked me years back. She didn’t mean to. Just scared.”
“Tom, what would it take to convince you to be photographed?”
The effect of her smile wore off. “More than you can possibly imagine.” He opened the door and got out of the truck. “How many candy bars?”
“At least thirty.”
He ducked his head down to stare at her. “Thirty?”
“Yes.” She dug in a pocket of her vest “Let me get you some mon—”
“I’ll cover it. I just never figured you wanted thirty candy bars.”
“I told you. I like to snack.”
“Slight understatement” Tom went inside and cleaned out the candy counter. He had to admit it was a refreshing change from most women he knew, who’d scarcely admit they ate candy, let alone send a man they barely knew into a store to buy them thirty bars of it
When he returned with the plastic bag and gave it to her, she thanked him and immediately delved into the assortment.
“You don’t have some sort of condition, do you?” he asked.
She laughed. “Yes. It’s called a high metabolism. I don’t sleep much, but I sure do need to eat a lot to keep my energy level up. My dad’s like that, too. I guess I inherited it.”
As she unwrapped the candy, he pulled back into traffic. He was already tired of driving in it and longed for the lonely roads in the mountains. “I’d say it comes from living in New York City.”
“You would, would you? Have you ever been there?”
“Yep.”
“What for?”
“My ex-wife had an apartment there. Come to think of it, she probably still does.”
“Now that’s a fascinating bit of information.” She took a bite of the candy bar.
He could tell she didn’t want to drop the subject entirely, and sure enough, she brought it up again.
“I realize this is personal, and you don’t have to answer, but would you consider telling me what your wife does in New York? It’s a smaller town than you might think. I might even know her.”
“Oh, I reckon you do. She’s Deidre Anton.”
Cleo sat up straighter. “The model?”
“Yep.” He could almost hear the conclusions forming in her mind.
“And that’s why you won’t pose for me, isn’t it?” she asked.
“That’s the bulk of it. I’ve got nothing against you personally, but that whole world of glamour makes me sick to my stomach. Reality has been airbrushed right out of those pictures, but people think they’re real, and then they try to be like those airbrushed folks, which they can’t be, of course, so they’re frustrated and unhappy with themselves.”
“But I don’t airbrush the men in my calendars. I like the character lines in their faces. If I photographed you, I’d want that little scar to stay in, because it’s part of who you are. I’d want—”
“Cleo, I’m not doing it, so you can talk all day if you want, but it won’t make any difference. I said Deidre was the main reason, but the other part is that I’m a very private man. I wouldn’t want my picture all over the place.”
She sighed and readjusted her knees around the suitcase. “That’s a real shame.”
“I can’t see what the big problem is. I might be the first cowboy you’ve seen out here, but I won’t be the last. Jeeter’s going to love the idea of posing for you, I’ll bet. And Stan’s a pretty good-looking guy, and you might want to consider Jose, if he’ll do it, which he probably will, especially if you give him that pitch about the movies. Is that part for real?”
“It’s for real. I know of three guys I’ve used in calendars who’ve had small parts in movies. One just got his first speaking role.”
Tom shuddered. “I’d rather be staked naked to an anthill.”
“What a cool idea for a shot!”
“Not to a Montana man, it isn’t. We’re not that many generations removed from the pioneers who sometimes ended up that way. Anyway, you shouldn’t have any trouble coming up with cowboys. There are lots of ranches around here. If this is a calendar, you only need twelve, right?”
“Well, I’d like to shoot an extra this time, in case someone doesn’t work out. I don’t want to have to come back.”
“Yeah, that would be terrible.” Tom cast her a sideways glance and was gratified that she had the sensitivity to blush, at least.
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” she said.
“You have some beautiful country here.” As if to prove that she meant it, she glanced out the window. “Really beautiful,” she said with more conviction this time.
He remained silent and let the view of the mountains work on her some. Each section of Montana had something special about it, but Tom had a fierce love for Gallatin Canyon. A two-lane highway, partnered by the Gallatin River, wound between the Madison and Gallatin ranges and eventually entered Yellowstone Park. Between Bozeman and Yellowstone a person could see some damn fine scenery, in Tom’s opinion.
This part of the state had been treated to some good rain the first couple of weeks of June, decorating the meadows with red Indian paintbrush, purple lupine, yellow bells and bluebells. Tom had always thought that the wildflowers, being temporary and delicate, gave a nice balance to the solid permanence of the mountains. The river flashed in the sun, reminding him of the hours he’d spent fly-fishing in its icy waters.
Cleo mumbled something as she continued to gaze out the window.
“I didn’t catch that,” Tom said.
“Should have brought a large-format,” she said.
“Absolutely. I’m never without one, myself. What the hell is a large-format?”
She continued to be mesmerized by the view outside the truck. “It uses larger film and requires a tripod, so you can’t be as spontaneous with it. I stick with the thirty-five millimeter for my calendar work, but for landscapes like this, a large format would be outstanding.”
“I take it you like the view.”
“I do. I’ve never seen anything like it, except in photos, of course. Too bad it’s so far away from everything.”
Tom smiled to himself. She obviously thought of New York City as the center of the universe. “It’s not so far away,” he said dryly. “Matter of fact, it’s right outside my front door.”
“Well, yeah, but I—oh my God. Stop the truck.”
Tom pulled over to the shoulder as she scrambled to unfasten her seat belt and opened the door.
“Are you feeling sick? I’ll bet it’s all those candy—”
“I’m fine.” She nearly fell out of the truck before she finally managed to climb around her gear and jump to the shoulder of the road. Shading her eyes with her hand, she gazed upward. “Come and look!”
Curious, he obliged, checking to make sure nobody was headed down the road behind them before he opened the door and got out
“There.” She pointed toward the blue sky.
He looked up, squinting a little. The large bird gliding above them was unmistakable, its seven-foot wingspan supported by the upward draft from the mountains, its white head and tail gleaming in the sun. His heart lifted every time he saw one.
“It’s a bald eagle, isn’t it?” she said in a hushed voice.
“Yep.” Then he spotted the second one, the female of the pair, most likely. He touched her shoulder and pointed.
“There’s his mate.”
She clutched his arm. “Oh, Tom. They’re...magnificent.”
The catch in her voice caused him to look down at her, and sure enough, there were tears in her eyes. The sight of the bald eagles had stirred her in a way he understood all too well. For her, this was probably a first-time experience. He liked being around for that, just as he liked the way she’d grabbed his arm when she got excited.
“Well.” She turned loose of his arm as the eagles soared out of sight and glanced at him. “Thanks. I’ve never seen an eagle before, except in the zoo.”
“It’s not quite the same.”
Her smile was gentle “No, it’s not quite the same.”
In that moment Tom had his first premonition that this woman would become more than just another greenhorn visiting the Whispering Winds. He might not be interested in marriage anymore, but that didn’t mean he’d given up on women altogether. An elemental connection tightened his gut. He made a practice of not getting involved with ranch guests, but this might be the time to make an exception.
3
CLEO HAD THOUGHT her decision to create a calendar featuring Montana cowboys had been pure marketing strategy, yet as the spectacular scenery unfolded with each bend in the road, she remembered an old childhood fantasy. She’d totally forgotten that one of her favorite pretend games had involved being a cowgirl living on a ranch surrounded by mountains. As Tom continued the drive to the Whispering Winds Ranch, he presented her with views of mountain meadows, streams and rose-colored bluffs right out of her youthful imagination.
Very few others shared the road with them, which surprised her. “Why is the traffic so light?” she asked finally.
“It’s about normal for around here.”
“But the road’s practically deserted.”
“You take eight hundred thousand people and spread them over a state the size of Montana, and you don’t get much traffic.”
“That’s the state’s population? But the city of New York has—”
“About ten times more people than the whole state of Montana. I’m well aware of that. I felt like a bull trapped in a rodeo chute whenever I went back there. Now, thank God, I don’t have to go anymore.”
“Are you kidding? New York is fantastic! Everywhere you look, there’s something exciting to see.”
“Not if you want to see this.”
She had to concede his point. You couldn’t find anything like Montana in Manhattan, but then she hadn’t built her career on pretty pictures of mountain vistas and sparkling rivers, either. She gazed at the profile of the man beside her, and her trigger finger began to itch. She’d love to capture that decisive jawline, the curve of his ear, the aggressive line of his nose.
Her trusty thirty-five millimeter was loaded and ready inside her camera bag. She unzipped the bag slowly and eased the cap off the lens. Glancing down to check her settings, she lifted the camera out of the bag as noiselessly as possible.
“Don’t.” He hadn’t moved his head even a fraction of an inch, yet he apparently knew what she was up to.
She put the lens cap back on. “What if I didn’t use any of the photos for the calendar? What if I just took them for fun?”
“Don’t forget, I was married to a model for five years, and I have some acquaintance with professional photographers. You don’t usually shoot for fun.”
She had to admit he was right Although she enjoyed her work, she never took photos anymore just for the heck of it. No point in wasting time and film on something that wouldn’t sell. “Okay, I wouldn’t be doing it for the fun of it. I just think that if you saw what I could accomplish, you might change your mind about posing.”
“Sorry. You’ll have to find somebody with a bigger ego than mine if you want to succeed with that argument. I only look in the mirror so I won’t nick myself when I shave.”
Immediately she had a new idea for a shot—Tom, shirtless but wearing his Stetson, wielding a straight razor as he stood in front of a crockery washbasin. She’d love to know what he’d look like without a shirt. His open collar revealed a glimpse of chest hair that looked promising. Dammit, she wanted to get this man on film. She was so used to cooperative men that she was having a hard time with this one’s refusal.
“Here we are,” Tom said, swinging off the asphalt onto a dirt road. “Welcome to the Whispering Winds.” He braked the truck to a stop in front of a metal gate and got out to open it. Barbed-wire fencing stretched into the distance on both sides of the gate, and wooden posts rose on either side of it. Suspended from a lodgepole that bridged the posts was a sign with Whispering Winds Ranch carved deep into the wood.
Tom climbed in, pulled the truck through and went back to close the gate, giving Cleo ample time to get the lay of the land. The road angled down to a wide meadow rimmed with evergreens and aspen. Beyond the meadow the terrain sloped upward as hills gave way to jagged, snowcapped mountain peaks.
It would have made a terrific postcard. Centered in the shot, if she were photographing the scene, was a log ranch house nestled against the trees. It reminded her of the Lincoln Log house she’d built as a kid during her cowgirl phase, and it had a weathered look that suggested it had been there for a long time. An aging barn and split-rail corrals occupied the right side of the meadow, and several rustic cabins clustered on the left. A string of riders appeared from among the trees and headed for the corrals, almost as if they’d been cued on stage when she arrived. To make the picture complete, a black-and-white dog ran out to greet the riders.
“This is exactly what I was looking for,” Cleo said as Tom got back into the truck. “You don’t mind if pieces of your ranch show up in my calendar, do you?”
“Pieces of my ranch are fine. Just no pieces of me.” His gaze held no compromise. “And don’t think I haven’t heard of zoom lenses. Take a picture of me and use it without my permission and I’ll haul your fanny into court.”
She was highly insulted. “I wouldn’t dream of it. That’s unethical.”
His answering laugh was short and humorless. “When I was married to Deidre, we had paparazzi on our tail a few times. Don’t preach to me about the ethics of photographers.”
That got to her. She prided herself on her ethics. “Just because you didn’t like being married to a successful model doesn’t give you the right to be so prejudiced against photographers in general.”
He negotiated around a puddle in the road. “It does give me the right. I earned it the hard way.”
“For your information, I always get permission from my subjects before using the photographs. So do all the photographers I know.”
“Good. You can be sure I won’t give it.”
“I’ve never met someone so phobic in my life.”
He didn’t respond.
Cleo sighed. If she had any sense, she’d give up on him, but that cover-shot possibility was seared into her brain. Now she wouldn’t be satisfied with the calendar until she’d nailed down her concept. Maybe she’d find another cowboy who would project the image she wanted, but probably not. Tom was a rare find, and she’d photographed enough men to realize it.
Tom stopped the truck as the string of five riders crossed the road in front of them.
The lead rider, a lanky cowboy Cleo estimated to be in his mid-twenties, changed direction and headed for the truck. “Just take them on into the corral, folks,” he called out to the riders—a man, woman and two kids. “I’ll be right there.”
Tom rolled down the window as the cowboy drew alongside. “How’s it going, Jeeter?”
“Saw some cat tracks up along Settlers Creek. Looks like a big one, maybe looking to pick off a calf or two.”
Cleo gasped. “A cougar?”
The cowboy named Jeeter leaned down to peer into the cab. He touched the brim of his hat in salute. “A cougar for sure, ma’am.”
“Jeeter Neff, meet Cleo Griffin, our photographer from New York City,” Tom said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Jeeter said. “Listen, Tom, maybe somebody oughta go after that cat before something happens.”
Tom rested his forearms on the steering wheel and frowned.
“That’s what your dad would have done,” Jeeter said.
Tom sighed. “I know. But in his day we had more of those cats. We planned to rotate the herd to a different pasture next month, anyway. Let’s do it earlier, and see if we can get them out of range.”
“You’re the boss.”
“We can take some of the dudes, give them a cattle-drive experience.” Tom turned to Cleo. “Maybe you’d l
ike to go along and take this cat’s picture if it shows up.”
She had no desire to come face-to-face with predatory wildlife, but going on a cattle drive might give her valuable background for the calendar. “Sounds like an interesting idea,” she said, assessing Jeeter with a practiced eye. He didn’t have Tom’s seasoned ruggedness, but his blond good looks and mustache would definitely satisfy some woman’s fantasy. “I’m doing a calendar called Montana Men, and I’m here to photograph cowboys. Are you interested, Jeeter? ”
“No joke?” Jeeter asked, pushing his hat back on his head. “You mean, I’d be like Mr. November or something?”
Cleo laughed. “I can’t guarantee what month, but yes, something like that.”
“Would I have to take off my clothes? I’m not saying I wouldn’t do it, but I’d like to know beforehand.”
“At the most, you’d only have to take off your shirt. I visualize the jeans as being part of the sex appeal.”
‘Yes, ma’am!” Jeeter grinned. “Just tell me where and when.” He glanced at Tom. “That’s if it’s okay with you, Tom, and it fits into the schedule and everything.”
“I’m sure we can work something out,” Tom said, his tone dry.
“Are you gonna pose, Tom? I think you’d be—”
“No.”
Jeeter gazed at his boss, then leaned down to look at Cleo again. “There’s no catch to this, is there? Like I have to pay you, or something?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ll pay you,” Cleo said.
“If that don’t beat all,” Jeeter said. “I get to hang on somebody’s wall and be paid for the privilege. Well, I’d better go check on the dudes.” He touched his hat brim again. “Just let me know when you want me, ma’am.” He cantered away.
“You sure put a swash in his buckle,” Tom said as he lifted his foot from the brake.
“I hate to tell you, but that’s the reaction I usually get. You’re the only man who’s ever refused to pose for me.”
“And I intend to hold on to that distinction.”
“You don’t think you’re being just a little stubborn?
A little prejudiced? A little pigheaded?”
Manhunting in Montana Page 3