A Cowboy's Temptation

by Barbara Dunlop

  “I’ll live.”

  “Good to hear. But I’m a little busy right now.”

  “Did I say talk? I meant I wanted to listen to your side of the situation.”

  Darby stopped, and Seth stopped, too. She turned to face him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. The old adage that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was, applied in this case.

  “Why?” she asked shortly.

  “I’m interested in your concerns.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Then I’m interested in you.”

  “No,” she repeated with finality. “You’re not.”

  “Go ahead. Let’s hear your pitch.”

  “I’m not going to waste my breath.” If he gave one whit about her concerns, he’d have listened to them long before now.

  “How will you know it’s a waste unless you try?” he challenged.

  “Let me tell you what I know,” she said. “You’re worried I might just pull it off. You know I have a lot of signatures, but you’re not sure exactly how close I am to six hundred. So ‘talking to me’ will accomplish one of two things. Either you’ll slow me down, making me one, two or ten signatures short or, and let me assure you this second one is a very long shot, you’ll talk me out of filing the petition.”

  The expression on his face told her she wasn’t wrong.

  “I said I wanted to listen,” he reminded her.

  “Then I’m guessing you’re trying option number one. Your intent is to slow me down rather than talk me out of filing.”

  “I’m not here to slow you down.”

  “Mr. Mayor—” she canted one hip, resting a hand on her waist “—I believe politicians ought to at least be honest.”

  She detected a hint of a grin.

  “I really do want to listen,” he insisted.

  “In order to understand me? Or in order to change my mind?”

  His expression faltered once more, telling her that seven years of psychology hadn’t gone to waste.

  “Both,” he admitted.

  “I admire your honesty, sir.”

  “You can call me Seth, you know. Everybody does.”

  “Seth,” she repeated, and she saw a slight flare of awareness heat the depths of his eyes.

  Uh-oh. Not good. This situation was complicated enough.

  Then again… She pulled her thoughts together. Maybe it was something she could use. Maybe she could mess with his focus by pursing her lips or batting her eyelashes. Truly, she’d do anything for the mission.

  She tucked her hair behind one ear, moistened her lower lip and subtly pulled her shoulders back, taking on a more provocative pose.

  His eyes flared deep blue again, and she knew she was taking the right tack.

  A petition, if she actually made the deadline, only got her to the point of a general vote. And winning a general vote meant convincing at least half the town to support her. Might it be easier to change the mind of the one man who could single-handedly stop the railway?

  “Okay,” she told him. “I’ll listen to you.”

  “Talk to me,” he corrected.

  “That, too,” she agreed.

  * * *

  Seth couldn’t recall a sexier woman than Darby Carroll. Which was odd, since she was quite plainly dressed—blue jeans, a white top and a navy blazer. She wasn’t wearing a lot of makeup, and she didn’t appear to have paid much attention to her hair, simply pulling it back in a jaunty ponytail. A few wisps of auburn curled softly around her temple, but he’d be willing to bet it wasn’t on purpose. They’d likely worked their way loose in the breeze.

  Her green eyes were clear and intelligent, flecked with gold. Her cheeks were pink, her lips dark and full, and her nose was straight in a perfectly balanced face. She wore a set of tiny blue stones in her ears, but otherwise no jewelry. Not unless he counted her rather large and serviceable watch with its worn leather strap. And he didn’t. She couldn’t have chosen it to make herself attractive.

  They were sitting at a corner table in one of the refreshment tents. She’d surprised him by agreeing to split a syrup-drizzled funnel cake with their coffee, surprised him further by actually tearing off a piece and popping the hot, sticky confection into her mouth.

  He couldn’t take his gaze off the tiny drop of syrup on her lower lip. Her tongue flicked out to remove it, causing a sharp reaction deep in his gut.

  “Decadent,” she breathed with a smile, and the sensation hit him again. “Now, what’s this all about?”

  For a split second, he couldn’t remember. Then he dragged himself back to business. This wasn’t a date. It was a business meeting. He had to stop thinking like a cowboy and start thinking like the mayor.

  “I want to make sure I understand your concerns,” he responded, removing a chunk from his own side of the funnel cake. “Why, exactly, do you object so strongly to the railroad?”

  She swallowed. “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “No.”

  “It seems like you’re making a joke.”

  “If I was making a joke, one of us would be laughing.”

  “So I’ve been white noise for the past three weeks?”

  “Excuse me?” This was going to be harder than he’d expected.

  “You’ve pushed everything I’ve said to the background, ignored me?” She placed the remaining chunk of funnel cake back down to the plate, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “I don’t know why that surprises me.”

  Seth found himself growing impatient. “Do you want to fight with me or talk to me?”

  “I want to collect signatures.”

  “That option wasn’t on the list.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do people really let you get away with being such a jerk?”

  “Usually, yeah,” he admitted, realizing Lisa would be kicking him under the table if she were here. “But give me the benefit of the doubt for a minute. I want to hear what you have to say.”

  Her green eyes darkened, but her voice went lower, more controlled. “I’ve told you in every way I know how. Trains are noisy, disruptive and dangerous. They will fundamentally change the character of Lyndon Valley forever.”

  “For the better,” he couldn’t help but put in.

  She clenched her jaw.

  “They’ll pass through town, what, three, four, five times a day. For that minor interruption, we’ll see enormous immediate benefit and enormous future potential. Mountain Railway is willing to pour tens of millions of dollars into this project, and we’ll be the ones who win.”

  “Is this what you call listening?”

  He stopped, regretting he’d defaulted to speech mode. “Sorry.” He lifted his cardboard coffee cup and put it to his lips.

  “It won’t just be three times a day.”

  He’d allowed it could be four or five, but he stopped himself from pointing that out to her.

  “It might be a dozen times a day,” she continued. “You know that line is going to eventually link up to Ripple Ridge. They won’t be able to resist that link because it cuts nearly two hundred miles off their northwestern interstate. You don’t think they’ll run their trains over the shortest route possible?”

  There was a very likely possibility she was right. But Seth was surprised she’d dug that deep into the company’s future possibilities.

  “That’s not in their plan,” was the best he could do as a comeback.

  She shot him a look of disbelief. “Please tell me you’re capable of connecting the dots.”

  “Trains run on schedules,” he said. “Can’t you plan your yoga classes and meditation during a quiet time, maybe do scrapbooking or some basket weaving when a train is due?”

  “Gee, I hadn’t thought of that,” she drawl
ed. “I could organize my life around trains. How tough could that be?”

  He stayed silent for a moment, hoping against hope she wasn’t being sarcastic.

  “Your ranchers are profitable without the railway,” she pointed out. “It’s a convenience, not a necessity.”

  “Right back at you,” he responded. “Your hotel will survive with a railway. It’s a convenience to have one hundred percent peace and quiet, not a necessity.”

  “It’s a necessity.”

  “Why?” he challenged.

  “Women come to Sierra Hotel to get away from loud, sudden noises.”

  “It upsets their delicate sensibilities?” He knew he was being snarky, but the conversation was getting away from him. He wasn’t used to that.

  She cracked her first real smile and sat back in her chair. “Yes. My clients have exceedingly delicate sensibilities.”

  “Maybe they should work on that.”

  “I’ll let them know you said so.” She gazed levelly into his eyes.

  He got that he had amused her, that there was something she wasn’t telling him, but he couldn’t for the life of him guess what it was.

  “Bottom line, Darby. The train is good for Lyndon.”

  “Bottom line, Seth. The train is bad for Lyndon.”

  He gauged the confidence in her expression, realizing what it had to mean, and realizing she was as worthy an adversary as he’d come across in a while. “You’ve got enough signatures, haven’t you?”

  “I will have by tomorrow.”

  “I could arrest you, you know. Have the sheriff lock you up. Hold you overnight on suspicion.”

  “Suspicion of what?”

  He could tell she wasn’t taking him seriously.

  “Sedition. Rabble-rousing.”

  She smiled again, shaking her pretty head. “And I could sue you and Lyndon back to the Stone Age.”

  “You probably could.”

  “I absolutely could.” She picked up the last chunk of the funnel cake before looking him in the eyes. “You’re a smart guy, Seth. And you know how to rise to a challenge. You don’t have to cheat to get there.”

  “You’re pandering to my ego?” He couldn’t help but hope she denied it. And that hope made him realize he wanted her to have a decent opinion of him.

  “I’m being honest,” she responded.

  It was ridiculous, but his chest tightened with some kind of silly pride. “I’m not going to cheat.”

  That earned him another smile. “Which means I’m going to win.”

  * * *

  “Five hundred and ninety-seven,” Darby told Marta who was sitting at the computer in the great room at Sierra Hotel. It was eleven-fifty, and they only had ten minutes left to file the petition electronically. “How could we come so close, only to miss?”

  They should have worked a little harder, put up a few more posters, run another radio ad, or somehow made their pitch more compelling.

  Marta swiveled in the desk chair, her gaze calculating. “If it was me,” she began slowly.

  Darby waited.

  “I’d go ahead and add three more signatures.”

  “You mean forge them?”

  “Nobody real, just scrawl something illegible along the line. I’m sure they’d get lost in the crowd.”

  “That’s illegal. Not to mention immoral.”

  Marta gave a little shrug. “Risk-benefit analysis. If they double-check each and every signature, they’ll throw them out. If they don’t, we get a referendum.”

  “I don’t think I could ethically do that.” Darby had experienced too many situations where people claimed the end justified the means. It never did.

  “Okay, how about this. Six hundred is a lot of signatures to manually count. Are you sure we got it right? Could you have been off by one, maybe two?” She glanced at her watch. “We have seven minutes to file the petition. There’s no time for a recount. Are you absolutely, one hundred percent positive on the number?”

  Darby thought about it. Okay, that was plausible. How accurate could the true count be?

  “I’m sure the people at City Hall are going to double-check when they get it,” she cautioned.

  “True,” Marta agreed. “But if we don’t file, it’s a definite no. If we do file—” she hovered a finger over the computer keyboard “—we could get lucky. A long shot is better than no shot at all.”

  “You’ve scanned all the pages?” Darby asked.

  “A few are a bit blurry, making it, you know, maybe a little hard to get an accurate count.” Marta gave her a conspiratorial smile.

  “This’ll never work,” said Darby, even though she was reluctantly smiling back. Could they possibly fudge their way through? Their subterfuge wouldn’t make the final decision. It would only give people a chance to vote.

  “As a fallback, we’ll try for a dozen more signatures tomorrow. I double-checked. The exact wording on the regulation is: ‘A petition filed at least twenty-four hours before permit implementation. The petition must be endorsed by at least six hundred residents of Lyndon City.’ It doesn’t say the six hundred residents must have endorsed it prior to the initial petition filing.”

  “That has to have been the spirit of the rule,” Darby said, coming to her feet to read the screen. Had Marta found a loophole?

  “It’ll take a judge to say for certain,” said Marta. “And, in the meantime, if the railway gets bad press, they might rethink their commitment to the Lyndon Valley route.”

  Darby moved up behind Marta’s chair. “You’re frighteningly devious.”

  “Just thinking things through.”

  “I’m glad you’re on my side.”

  “I’m always on your side. Here goes nothing.” Marta clicked Send on the screen.

  They both watched as the cursor flashed across the screen. At eleven fifty-eight, it flashed “Sent.”

  “Do you suppose he’s still up?” asked Darby, picturing Seth in the mayor’s mansion. In her imagination, he was in blue jeans and a plaid shirt. She liked him better that way, relaxed and laid-back. When he dressed up in his suit, he seemed to get more uptight.

  “I’m sure he’s still up,” said Marta. “I’m guessing he’s swearing a blue streak about now.”

  Darby found she could easily picture that. “Wine?” she asked, breathing a sigh of temporary relief.

  They’d done all they could do for tonight, and she definitely needed to wind down before she tried to sleep.

  “Sounds easier than making margaritas,” Marta agreed, naming their favorite drink. “You want to do a swim first? I’ve been either sitting or standing still most of the day. I need to stretch my muscles.”

  “Sure,” Darby easily agreed. She’d sleep even better if she got some exercise.

  Early in the summer, she’d tethered a floating dock half a mile out in the lake for guests to use. Floodlights from the yard would illuminate their way, and it was a full moon tonight, which would give them even more light.

  “Three miles?” she asked.

  “That’ll do it,” Marta agreed. “Then wine. We get to celebrate this.”

  “Celebrate what? Not quite getting enough signatures?”

  “Celebrate still having a chance, even though we experienced a setback.”

  “You’re a true optimist.”

  “I find it helps.”

  As they’d done several times in the past, they decided to push a small dinghy out to the floater. The dinghy was stocked with towels, the wine, warm-up clothes and life jackets. It was also a means for them to paddle back to shore without getting wet again.

  After swimming several laps, they pulled up onto the floater and changed out of the suits into sweatpants and jackets, rubbing their hair dry before openin
g the bottle of wine.

  “This is paradise,” Marta observed, settling onto one of the towels.

  The moon was high in the sky, surrounded by pinpricks of stars. A soft breeze wafted the scent of pine from the hillsides, and the lake water lapped softly against the floater, little more than ripples on the calm surface.

  “Can you imagine a freight train chugging past, spewing out diesel smoke and shaking the ground?” Darby pointed to a rise behind the Sierra Hotel building. It would travel the length of the lowest ridge, crossing Wren Road, where it would have to blow its whistle. They’d have to put a bridge across the creek, and the reverberation would carry across the lake for miles.

  “What was it like?” Marta asked as she poured herself a glass of wine. “Being in a war zone?”

  “I was mostly behind the wire,” said Darby, taking the bottle from Marta and pouring her own glass. She didn’t mind talking about her time overseas. She knew Marta wanted to understand her passion for keeping Sierra Hotel open.

  She took a sip of her wine. “It’s the uncertainty that gets to you. No matter how calm things might feel in the moment, at any second all hell can break loose.”

  “That’s the problem with the trains.” Marta nodded.

  “The women who stay here might have just been in a war zone, maybe even a military firefight, or maybe they’ve chased gang members down the streets of Chicago. I can’t imagine telling them that all will be calm and quiet, well, except for the sudden blasts and clattering from the freight trains. Can you imagine having that wake you up in the middle of the night? They’d be lunging for their firearms. They need a complete break,” Darby ended. “A complete break from the stress.”

  Marta held up her glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to defeating the mayor.”

  Darby saluted in return, wondering just how difficult that was going to be. “How long have you known him?” she asked.

  “All my life. I used to have a crush on his brother, Travis. Most of the girls in my age group had a crush on one or the other. Or on Caleb Terrell, at least until he moved away.”

  “I can see it,” Darby allowed. She’d seen both Travis Jacobs and Caleb Terrell around over the past three years.

  “Forgetting for a second that Travis and Caleb are both married,” Marta continued. “Which one do you find attractive?”