The Cowboy Takes A Bride (The Bridal Bid #2)

by Cathleen Galitz

  “Don’t mind him, sweetheart. Come on up,” entreated another. “You can check out my rocks anytime!”

  Grant whipped his head around like a rattlesnake ready to strike. Just what he didn’t need—an audience to observe some saucy college girl bent on undermining his authority. The fact that the crew was enjoying the show only served to strengthen his resolve to get her out of here before all hell broke loose. That and the fact that she was trying to blink back the moisture in her eyes.

  Damn it all to hell! The one thing in the world Grant couldn’t handle was a woman’s tears. A moment ago he was contemplating whether to hoist her over his shoulder. Now suddenly he found himself wanting to enfold the poor little thing in his arms and protect her from the crudity of men who saw but one thing in a woman. Looking at the youthful hope, the unquenchable resolve burning in this girl’s eyes, he realized such chivalry would be as useless as trying to stop a moth from immolating itself on a bare lightbulb.

  “I thought I told you to get back to work!” Grant called out over his shoulder.

  If he were ever able to pinpoint who’d uttered that crude piece of innuendo that had this pretty little thing blushing six unbecoming shades of red, he intended to personally throttle him.

  Pace yourself, he reminded himself. After all, he could only be expected to deal with one emergency at a time.

  “Last chance, lady,” Grant growled, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You can do this with or without dignity, but one thing’s for certain—you’re not staying here. It’s not safe or smart.”

  Caitlin flinched as if she had been branded by his touch. Ignited by womanly indignation, fire snapped in eyes the color of precious emeralds.

  “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?” She punctuated the question by thumping a finger against the middle of his chest.

  Dark clouds turned his blue eyes as gray as gunmetal. Caitlin suspected that had she been a man, he would have snapped her index finger off at the joint.

  “Do you?” he snarled in reply.

  “What’s all the trouble about up there?” bellowed a familiar voice.

  Grant looked down to see Paddy stumbling out of the trailer below. Looking as grumpy as a grizzly awakened from a sound sleep, the older man provided a welcome diversion from the trouble at hand.

  His voice heavy with irony, Grant hollered to his partner over the side of the rig. “You’re just in time. Maybe you can use some of that famous Irish charm to explain to this doll that an oil rig is no place for a woman.”

  Much to Grant’s surprise, Paddy’s mere presence was able to accomplish what all of his stern directives had not. It got the woman moving. In fact she took off down the stairs two at a time, her speed giving her the uncanny appearance of actually flying.

  Her voice rose over the hum of the machinery as she cried out in unrestrained joy, “Daddy!”

  Two

  A moment later Grant watched dumbfounded as the woman who claimed to be their new geologist launched herself into Paddy’s outstretched arms. This time he didn’t bother swearing under his breath. His eloquence colored the air around him blue.

  No wonder she had looked so familiar. Paddy had been sticking cherished photographs of his darling baby girl under Grant’s nose for the better part of a decade. Long ago he had tired of hearing how wonderful the “little princess” was. Paddy’s pride and joy, Caitlin occupied much of her daddy’s thoughts. When Paddy had a couple of beers in him, she dominated most of the conversation as well.

  Grant didn’t have to personally know Caitlin Flynn to dislike her. To hear Paddy talk, she was the toast of Texas, a regular debutante just like her mother—that coldhearted witch who had left him because he lacked “culture” and had spine enough to resist her efforts to turn him into something he could never be. Of course, Grant didn’t claim to know the whole story. Even after ten years, Paddy’s wounds were still so raw he seldom spoke of the woman who had broken his heart. The woman after whom he had named his company. Most people were under the impression that L.L. Drilling stood for Lucky Lady, but once over a six-pack of beer Paddy had shared with Grant the little-known fact that it was actually Laura Leigh who had inspired the name.

  The only thing women had ever inspired in Grant’s life was grief.

  Perhaps that was why it was so hard for him to understand Paddy’s preoccupation with turning out a daughter in the exact same mold as her mother. It was his understanding that nothing Paddy did was ever good enough for the fragile, city-bred bride who found the open spaces of Wyoming as terrifying as marriage to a man with oil under his fingernails. Grant never put much stock into that old axiom about opposites attracting. Personally he wasn’t sold on the tired, overrated institution of marriage, but as far as he was concerned, the more similar one’s background and interests, the better the chance a relationship had of surviving.

  There was no denying that he had always been fascinated by those photos of Paddy’s dark-haired, green-eyed angel, but the truth of the matter was, even in photos, Caitlin struck him as being a snob. Maybe it was all those little white matching gloves and anklets in her childhood pictures or perhaps the one of her sitting sidesaddle in an English riding competition in her adolescence that gave him the impression early on that this girl was too darned smug for her own good.

  It galled him to think of all the privileges she took for granted.

  For what Paddy had spent on his daughter’s Ivy League college degree Grant could have easily paid his way to a state university many times over. Fate hadn’t been so kind to him as it had been to fresh-faced Little Miss Texas. His chances of ever going to college had gone up in smoke with the explosion that had killed his father. When all was said and done, Grant supposed that he was probably a better man for not having been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Still, it was hard sometimes not to be bitter, but he reminded himself again how useless it was belaboring the past.

  As far as he could tell psychiatrists were the only ones to benefit from such counterproductive thinking, and they had to be paid exorbitant fees to listen to people whine about things that couldn’t be changed. What with his father’s premature death, his mother’s suicide, and his Aunt Edna’s treachery, Grant was sure the modern school of psychology would have a field day with him. He figured he’d warrant an entire chapter entitled, “Real Men with Honorary Degrees from the School of Hard Knocks.” He wanted no more part of such psychological pity patter than he did the kind of superficial chatter he supposed Caitlin had perfected at sorority parties.

  Despite the blood tie connecting Paddy to his daughter, Grant couldn’t bring himself to believe his friend would circumvent his authority by hiring Caitlin without so much as asking him first. Even as softhearted as he was, surely Paddy had sense enough to know that a drilling rig was no place for the daughter he was certain was as pure as virgin falling snow. A likely story, in Grant’s opinion, only if she went to college at a convent. The probability of any woman who looked like that remaining chaste into her twenties was even slimmer than his chance of hitting that deep pocket of oil and salvaging this godforsaken company any time soon.

  Grant wiped the back of his neck with a red bandanna and considered the scene playing on the ground below him. It appeared his hellish day was about to get even hotter. From Caitlin’s animated gesticulations, he imagined she was at this very moment describing to her father just how “beastly” his hired hand had treated her. A smile played upon Grant’s lips. He wondered how she would react to the news that he was more than just some menial hireling. If it weren’t for the fact that her certain histrionics might well drive a wedge between him and the man he had come to think of as a father, Grant would have looked forward to the performance. The Blue Blood and the Redneck.

  No doubt it had a certain Hollywood ring to it.

  Stuffing his bandanna back into his hip pocket, he decided it was pointless postponing the inevitable. As hesitant as he was about breaking up this touching family reunion, i
t was time to officially make the formal acquaintance of Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Petulance.

  Caitlin was so moved by the sight of her father that she momentarily forgot all about those odious men and their Viking leader, Redneck the Terrible. Safe in her daddy’s arms, her only thought was of how glad she was to be with him again. For so many years, distance and her mother’s judgment had kept them apart. Now at last a college graduate, Caitlin was free to do with her life as she wished—and what she wanted more than anything else in the world was to make up for lost time with the father she adored.

  Oh, she had taken Psych 101 and knew that most girls idolized their daddies. She also knew that eventually the harsh light of reality shattered their childish beliefs that their fathers were invincible. But what she could never get her professor to understand was that her father really was that which John Wayne personified in all those wonderful old movies: the most honorable, kindhearted, heroic man who ever lived.

  Tears filled her eyes as she pressed her ear against his heart and took comfort in its steady beat. She felt all of ten years old again in her father’s arms. Safe, secure, and happy. Caitlin was determined not to let anything pull her from the refuge of those arms ever again.

  “As much as I hate to interrupt this touching moment, we really do have work to do around here.”

  Grant’s voice sounded like the gravel crunching beneath his feet as he approached. He moved slowly, hoping to give them enough time to disengage from the tearful embrace that twisted his guts into a tight, tangled knot.

  God above, what he would give to hug his own father one more time!

  Taking the pained look on his face for disapproval, Caitlin gave him a disdainful once-over. Her voice was laced with righteous indignation when she turned back to her father. “Daddy, I’d appreciate it if you would tell this, this…two-bit tool pusher just who is in charge around here.”

  The self-satisfied smirk she tossed Grant’s direction indicated a little groveling to keep his job was in order.

  “Yeah, Daddy,” Grant mimicked, disregarding her haughtiness with a sarcastic grin that deepened the dimple in his chin. Crossing his muscled arms across his chest, he continued as if she weren’t there at all. “Since your daughter isn’t inclined to listen to me, would you mind telling her exactly who is responsible for the hiring and firing of personnel in this company?”

  Paddy was grinning as he shook his head. “If you two kids would stop fighting long enough, I’d like to introduce you to one another. Maybe then we can go about getting things squared up to everybody’s satisfaction.”

  Though that seemed highly unlikely, both Caitlin and Grant felt duly chastised by Paddy’s use of the word kids. Instead of grown-up men and women, independent and capable in their own right, they may as well have been errant siblings squabbling in the back of the family vehicle on one of those interminable vacations that tests a parent’s sanity.

  Eager to be the first to appear reasonable and adult, Caitlin patted her father’s arm soothingly. “You’re right, of course. And if somebody would just calm down for a minute, I’m sure you can straighten him out in no time flat.”

  Ignoring Grant’s pointed glare, Caitlin focused her attention upon her father’s pallor. He looked older than she remembered. It was no secret that Paddy scorned diets devoid of meat and potatoes, and according to him, exercise was just for people who didn’t have real jobs that demanded physical exertion. Winding her arm through his, Caitlin scrutinized his features more closely. The broken blood vessels in his nose and the sweat on his brow made her nervous. Excessive heat and stress was a bad combination for a man of his age and temperament.

  “Are you trying to give my father a heart attack with all your theatrics?” she hissed at Grant.

  “Me?” he gasped in disbelief. “You come flouncing onto this rig like the Queen of the Nile, prancing around in front of the crew in those tight jeans acting like you own the place, and I’m the one who’s upset your father?”

  Caitlin’s mouth flew open. “Flounced!” she repeated, taking obvious exception to his choice of words. “Pranced!”

  Grant cupped a hand to his ear. “Do I hear an echo?”

  “Now, now, children…” Paddy’s sigh bespoke a weariness that was bone deep. “It wouldn’t do to have us airing out our family laundry in front of the crew, now would it? I suggest we take our differences inside the trailer away from prying eyes, and sift this all out over a nice, cold beer.”

  Caitlin pressed her lips together in a disapproving line. “You know what the doctor said about your triglycerides.”

  “You’re not about to start that nonsense again, are you?” Paddy asked. He glanced toward Grant and explained in a note of exasperation. “She likes to nag me about my diet. Says my cholesterol, triglycerides, and conglomerates are all too high.”

  The misapplication of his words brought a smile to Caitlin’s face. Despite his grumbling, she knew that her father loved the way she fussed over him.

  “You know it’s for your own good,” she persisted.

  “Piss-h, posh.” Paddy quickly amended the intended oath and shot Grant a warning glance. Clearly he didn’t want his lily-white princess discovering her daddy had the vernacular of a seasoned drill sergeant.

  Grant rolled his eyes. As far as he could tell, this little gal’s power was nothing short of amazing. In less than fifteen minutes, she had his crew acting like wild, hormone-imbalanced adolescents and Paddy like a sainted father straight off some serial from the early days of television. It was sickening to watch and reason enough to reinforce Grant’s resolve to harden his heart against all women. Those like Paddy’s Laura Leigh and his own mother only desert you when times get tough. Those like Aunt Edna use trickery and guile to get what they want. Suspecting that Caitlin straddled both categories, Grant wanted nothing more from her than distance.

  He certainly did not want to be trapped in close quarters with her. Those cat-green eyes studying him as if he were her next meal made him way too nervous. Grant suspected that if she were to ever train those phenomenal eyes on him the way she did her father, as if he were the best thing God ever created, he would crumble into pieces like the proverbial Gingerbread Man. And like that desperate little cookie in his favorite children’s story, Grant was determined to run, run as fast he could from this cunning little fox.

  “Your daughter’s not the only one worried about your health,” he said slowly as if measuring his words into a beaker. “I don’t think you need a beer either, and considering the fact that Harry just got canned for drinking on the job, I can hardly show up on the drilling floor with beer on my breath.”

  Much to Grant’s surprise, Paddy conceded with an affable nod of his head.

  “Good point. You and Caitlin can have sodas instead.” Without waiting to hear any argument, he put an arm affectionately around his daughter’s shoulders and directed her toward the trailer. To the delight of the crew, he called out over his shoulder, “Take a break, boys!”

  Trailing miserably behind them, Grant couldn’t help recalling that old adage about blood being thicker than water. It fit like a fist in his throat.

  He tried not to focus on the tight fit of those designer jeans across her trim backside as she sashayed through the sagebrush in front of him. Grant knew he shouldn’t resent Paddy focusing all his attention on the daughter he’d seen so infrequently over the years, but knowing and feeling were two completely different things. Jealousy reared its ugly head. With the return of the prodigal child, Grant expected Paddy to ask him to kill the fatted calf any minute now.

  “Don’t worry,” he heard Caitlin reassure Paddy. “Before you know it, my cooking will replace that petroleum in your veins with healthy red and white blood cells.”

  “More’n likely you mean blue blood,” Grant mumbled stepping around them to open the door. Despite his personal feelings toward this hellcat, he was bound to give courtesy its due.

  “Such a gentleman,” Caitlin qui
pped with a deprecating little moue.

  Certain that one good kiss would be all it would take to wipe that smirk off those pouty lips, Grant imagined bending her swanlike neck back, pressing his lips against hers, and taming that fiery temper with a single mind-numbing kiss. A mere taste of his potency was sure to leave this pretty little princess limp and willing in his arms. After hanging around with college boys, Grant very much doubted whether Caitlin could handle a real man.

  As if trying to shut out such disturbing thoughts, Grant slammed the door behind him. He blamed lack of sleep for the wayward turn his thoughts had taken. Lack of sleep and a decided lack of female companionship. The next time he got to town, Grant vowed to remedy that situation. Even if he liked Caitlin Flynn, which he decidedly did not, he valued his relationship with Paddy far too much to screw things up by even thinking of becoming involved with his precious daughter. Not that Caitlin would risk a nosebleed to look down from her pedestal upon mere oil field trash such as himself.

  Stepping in from the intense sunlight outside, Caitlin needed a moment to adjust to the relative dimness of the trailer. Dust motes danced before her eyes. She was surprised to see that the trailer was relatively tidy, though hardly luxurious. Dishes were washed and drying in the wire rack over the sink, clothes were picked up, magazines were stacked neatly beside a sturdy couch of blotchy tweed blends, and an afghan she had lovingly made for her father for Christmas several years ago was draped neatly over the back of a black vinyl recliner. Considering the gritty conditions of the location, Caitlin was impressed. Her father had never struck her as being a particularly fastidious housekeeper.

  “Have a seat, darlin’,” Paddy said, pointing to a small kitchenette table and two chairs.

  Caitlin obliged, and Grant took an extra folding chair from the closet and set it up directly across the table from her. They exchanged cold glances while Paddy drew an old metal tray of ice cubes from the refrigerator and unceremoniously cracked it on the counter. A minute later he set two glasses of pop and a bottle of ice-cold beer on a table so flimsy that it wobbled beneath the elbows he propped there an instant later.