The Cowboy

by Joan Johnston

  Afterward, she lay enfolded in Trace’s arms, their bodies spooned together once again.

  “I have to pick up some clean clothes at my parents’ house this morning,” Trace said. “Will you come with me?”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “I want to spend time with you, but I’ve got a lot of work to do today. Anything that keeps us together is a good idea.”

  Callie felt a small burst of pleasure inside and squelched it. They hadn’t been making love; they’d been having sex. “I want to check on Hannah.”

  “No problem.”

  With any luck, she could convince Trace to drop her off at Three Oaks. She’d taken a night off to rest. And she’d given him what he’d paid for. Now she had to get back to work.

  “I’ll be glad to come with you,” she said, as she ran a finger down his breastbone. “But I think we’d better get dressed now.”

  Trace captured her mouth in a lingering kiss. “I have no problem with letting you get dressed … later.”

  Chapter 13

  CALLIE REALIZED SHE WAS ACTUALLY NERVOUS at the prospect of entering the legendary, thirty-thousand-square-foot ranch house at Bitter Creek that was better known as the Castle.

  She’d seen photographs of the house in Texas Monthly, when they’d done a feature on famous Southwest Texas ranches. The chandeliers had been made by Tiffany in the late nineteenth century, and the furniture was Chippendale and Hepplewhite. The engraved silver had come from the first Blackthorne’s English estate, and several portraits of Blackthorne ancestors had been done by famous artists, although she couldn’t remember which ancestors or which artists.

  As Trace drove under the crescent of black wrought iron that spelled out BITTER CREEK CATTLE COMPANY, she asked, “Is there any chance we’re going to run into your father?”

  “You can count on it.”

  Callie made a face. “How about your sister?”

  “Summer doesn’t spend much time in the house. She’s usually out riding.”

  “What about your brother Owen?”

  “He visits on occasion. I haven’t seen him since your father’s funeral. I think your sister gave him an earful, and he’s out hunting down your stolen horses.”

  Callie looked at Trace in surprise. “Owen didn’t hold out much chance to me that we’d recover them.”

  “I doubt you will. But my brother seems determined to try.”

  Callie tried not to let herself hope. Hope could turn into disappointment too easily, and she couldn’t stand any more disappointment.

  The road turned from dirt to asphalt about a mile from the ranch house. Trace drove past the magnolias lining the circular drive in front of the house and kept going until he reached the back door, where he parked the convertible in one of several paved spaces.

  Callie hung back, but Trace waited at the kitchen door for her. “Welcome to the Castle,” he said as she took a step inside.

  “It’s certainly as big as a castle,” Callie said in an awed voice.

  Trace grinned. “When I was younger, I kept asking why there were no turrets and what they did with the moat.”

  Callie gawked at the kitchen, which was nearly half the size of the ground floor at Three Oaks. The fourteen-foot ceiling was trimmed in elaborate crown molding, and an antique paddle fan in the center slowly moved the air-conditioned air. She saw two modern ovens and a commercial-size refrigerator-freezer and realized they were probably needed for all the entertaining the Blackthornes did.

  “Come on in, Callie,” Trace said. “It’s just a house.”

  “A castle,” she corrected.

  Trace waited until she took another step inside before he pulled the kitchen door closed behind her.

  Callie felt trapped. She was well and truly in enemy territory.

  Before she could panic and run, an elderly Mexican woman wearing an apron turned from the sink and smiled at her. “Señor Trace,” she said. “Welcome home. Who have you brought to meet Maria?”

  “This is Callie Monroe,” Trace said.

  “Buenos dias, Señora Monroe,” the old woman said. “Can I offer you something to eat? A cup of coffee perhaps?”

  Callie thought of the coffee Trace had made for them at dawn. The cinnamon toast they had fed each other in bed. The cinnamon sugar that had ended up on the sheets when they abandoned the toast, finding the taste of each other much more satisfying.

  She shot a quick glance at Trace, deduced from the gleam of laughter in his eyes that he was remembering the same thing, and blushed.

  “We’ve had our coffee, Maria,” he said. “Thanks anyway.” He walked to the portal that led to the rest of the house and held out his hand to Callie. “Ready to beard the lion?”

  Callie crossed to Trace, looked down at his outstretched palm, and laid her hand in his.

  He met her gaze and smiled.

  Callie clasped his hand more tightly. She was giving Trace a chance to take care of her. It was the first step down a treacherous, slippery slope. Maybe, if she was careful, she wouldn’t get hurt.

  The house was eerily quiet. She followed Trace up the carpeted wooden staircase to the second floor, noting the family portraits along the wall, which had been featured in the Texas Monthly article. “Which one of these dashing gentlemen is the original Blackthorne?” she asked.

  Trace pointed to a painting of a handsome man standing beside a chair made of horns and cowhide in which a beautiful woman was seated. “The first Blackthorne and his wife, Creighton Creed.”

  Callie stared at the portrait of the two attractive people. “So that’s them. I was hoping this would be one of the paintings featured in the Texas Monthly article, but it wasn’t. I’ve never seen a portrait of my great-great—however many greats—grandmother. Everything was lost when the first Three Oaks burned down.”

  “They made a handsome couple. It’s too bad her son Jake was so opposed to the marriage,” Trace said. “Otherwise, the Blackthornes and Creeds might not still be feuding today.”

  “From the stories I’ve heard, Jake was convinced that Blackthorne forced his mother into the marriage so he could get possession of her land.”

  “She wasn’t coerced,” Trace said. “She was in love with him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve read her diary. You can borrow it, if you like.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful!” Callie smiled ruefully. “I’ll let you know when I have some spare time to read.”

  Which reminded them both that she wasn’t likely to have the time to catch up on family history anytime soon.

  As Trace headed down the hall, Callie followed closely behind him, unwilling to get stranded in the great house.

  “Feel free to take a look around while I pack a few things,” Trace said as he stepped into a bedroom and began rummaging through a chest of drawers.

  “That’s all right. There’s plenty to look at right here.” Even from the doorway, Callie could see that Trace’s room was filled with magnificent antiques. The bed had an eight-foot-tall carved headboard. A dry sink with a flowered pitcher and bowl sat along one wall, and an enormous mirrored clothes press was angled in the corner.

  “Your room is … exquisite.” It was the wrong adjective to describe a man’s bedroom, but she couldn’t think of another word that fit. There wasn’t a single framed photograph, nothing left hanging over a chair or dropped willy-nilly on the floor. Not a pen or pencil or box of Kleenex could she see. Not a piece of Trace Blackthorne, the man, was in evidence. It could have been a room in a museum.

  Callie shivered. Trace’s bedroom felt cold, despite the sunlight streaming in through the window. Perhaps it was simply that she wasn’t used to the air conditioning.

  She thought back to Trace’s room at the cabin, where she’d spent the night, and realized it had all the warmth and charm that this room lacked. It was smaller, for a start. She’d noticed a bridle he’d brought home for repair on the chest of drawers, and a pair
of spurs on the windowsill. He’d left a shirt draped over a ladder-back chair, and his pocket knife and wallet and change had been strewn on the bedside table.

  No wonder he hadn’t wanted to stay in his parents’ home.

  Trace finished stuffing a canvas bag with perfectly pressed and folded clothes—it seemed even his T-shirts had been ironed—and zipped it closed. “Maria takes care of my laundry,” he explained. “I can’t convince her she doesn’t need to put it away in the drawers.”

  But it was obvious to Callie that the woman couldn’t very well leave it sitting on the bed. Not in this room.

  “I need to speak with my mother,” Trace said as he crossed past her and headed down the hall. “Her studio is in the other wing.”

  Callie followed him, curious to see whether Eve Blackthorne could possibly keep her artist’s studio as neat as the rest of the house.

  “She probably won’t answer the door,” Trace said, “but I usually knock anyway.” There was no answer to Trace’s knock, and he slowly, silently eased the door open.

  Callie was assaulted by the strong odors of oil paint and turpentine. His mother’s studio was filled with sunlight, which seemed to be magnified by the bare windows and white walls. But where the rest of the house shouted order and conformity, here everything was chaos.

  Callie heaved an inward sigh of relief. It was obvious somebody used this space. It looked lived in. Debris littered the shelves and counters that lined the edges of the room. Tubes of paint lay uncapped, and dabs of paint splattered the wooden floor. Callie speculated that the rest of the house must be kept like a showplace for the benefit of all their famous guests.

  She watched as Trace screwed the lid on an open can of turpentine, which explained the strong smell of it in the room. Paint rags lay in piles, and canvases were stacked on the floor, with their faces to the wall.

  Mrs. Blackthorne stood before a large canvas set on an easel, a paint-daubed palette perched on the crook of her arm, a paintbrush clenched between her teeth, her eyes narrowed as she perused her work.

  “Mother,” Trace said.

  Callie was a little disconcerted when Trace’s mother ignored him and remained focused on the painting. Callie crossed with Trace to stand beside Mrs. Blackthorne and suddenly realized that she recognized the scene.

  “It’s the Rafter S auction!” Callie exclaimed.

  Trace put a finger to his lips.

  Mrs. Blackthorne didn’t react to the sound of Callie’s voice, merely continued studying her work.

  Callie stared at the painting, impressed by the effort it must have taken to re-create the red-and-white-checked tablecloths in the food tent, delighted by the perfect lazy clouds in the stunning blue sky, fascinated by the magnificent stallion rearing in the foreground, a number 2 painted on his flank.

  The stallion struggled in vain to be free of his handler, every muscle flexed against the taut rope that held him captive. The whites of the animal’s eyes, the bared teeth, the striking hooves, all revealed his fury and frustration.

  He seemed so alive! Callie could almost feel the animal’s pain and fear … and rage.

  Indistinct—incomplete—figures were seated in the stands along the side of the ring and stood beside the corral. Callie wondered who Mrs. Blackthorne would paint there and whether the people would have the same precision of form—and depth of emotion—that Callie had found in the stallion.

  Trace actually had to tap his mother on the shoulder to get her attention. When she turned, her eyes looked dazed for a moment before they focused on him.

  She grabbed the brush from between her teeth and said, “Trace! What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to let you know I won’t be able to stand in for you at the Cancer Society luncheon in Fort Worth next Saturday. There’s a quarter horse auction I have to attend the same day in San Antonio.”

  Eve Blackthorne frowned, then said, “All right,” and turned back to her painting.

  Callie felt Mrs. Blackthorne’s dismissal even though the woman hadn’t said a word to acknowledge her presence. She tried to imagine how Trace must feel. It was hard to believe this distracted woman was anybody’s mother. She certainly hadn’t treated Trace with any kindness or consideration or concern. Or even mild interest, for that matter.

  “Is this the way she always acts?” Callie whispered.

  “It’s hard to get her attention when she’s working,” Trace replied in a low voice. “You get used to it.”

  But Callie was determined to communicate with the other woman. “Your painting is beautiful,” she said.

  To her surprise, Eve Blackthorne turned to her and said with an ironic smile, “I wouldn’t paint an ugly picture.”

  “I never meant to suggest—”

  “It’s not that I think people couldn’t appreciate something less than perfection. It’s simply that I prefer it myself.” She turned away and focused on the painting, her head tilted to one side. “Like this stallion. He wasn’t quite perfect. But I’ve made him perfect.”

  Callie took a second look and realized that the stallion Mrs. Blackthorne had painted, and the one featured at the Rafter S auction, weren’t at all the same animal. She and her father hadn’t bid on the number 2 stud because he was too heavy in the chest, which would have made him too slow getting off his front feet. Mrs. Blackthorne had painted a flawlessly proportioned cutting horse.

  “Yes,” Callie agreed. “He is perfect.”

  But by then, Eve Blackthorne had already turned back to her work.

  Once the studio door was closed behind them, Trace said, “I hope you’ll forgive my mother. She isn’t rude on purpose. When she’s working on a painting she doesn’t notice much of anything that goes on around her.”

  “Her work is truly incredible,” Callie conceded. “So …” She searched for the right word. “Perfect.”

  Trace smiled ruefully. “It’s sometimes hard even for the critics to find enough superlatives.”

  “I have to admit I can’t wait to see the completed work. How long does it take your mother to finish a painting?”

  “That’s anybody’s guess,” Trace said. “Some are done in a matter of weeks. Some take months. Some she never finishes.”

  “I hope she finishes this one,” Callie said.

  She could feel Trace’s palm against the small of her back, directing her. How many times had he put his hand in that same spot when their bodies were joined to urge her closer? Callie felt the curl of desire in her belly and stepped away from his touch.

  She didn’t realize where they were going until they crossed the threshold of a room lined with shelves that contained hundreds of leather-bound books, and she saw Blackjack sitting behind an oak desk.

  “About time you showed up,” Blackjack said. “Handy came to me for instructions this morning when he couldn’t find you.”

  Trace checked his cell phone. “I guess I had my phone turned off. I trust you managed all right without me.”

  “I told him what needed to be done,” his father said. “How are you, Mizz Monroe?”

  Callie wasn’t prepared for Blackjack’s cordial greeting. “Fine,” she blurted.

  “I hear you and my son are courting,” he said, in a voice that suggested their eventual marriage was a foregone conclusion.

  Before Callie could make a retort, Trace said, “Dusty and I are meeting this morning to work on the infrastructure for the breeding operation. Do you want to come?”

  “Where are you meeting?”

  “At Dusty’s place. He’s moved into one of the manager’s houses—the one Harry Pope lived in.”

  “Why don’t you have the meeting here?” Blackjack asked.

  “Dusty’s already arranged for an architect and a building contractor to meet us at his place.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine sharp,” Trace replied.

  “Count me in,” Blackjack said. He turned back to Callie and asked, “How’s your mother?”

 
Before her mother’s confession last night, Callie might have convinced herself that Blackjack was merely being neighborly. Now she knew the truth. “My mother’s fine,” she said curtly.

  “When is she getting out of the hospital?”

  “In a couple of days.” Callie couldn’t keep the antagonism out of her voice. Blackjack was still too handsome, and her mother had obviously never gotten over him.

  “I’ve got to take Callie by Three Oaks,” Trace said, apparently aware of her agitation. “Then I’ll be back to pick you up.”

  “No hurry,” his father replied, a gleam in his eyes as his gaze shifted from Trace to Callie and back again. “I understand young lovers need their time alone.”

  Callie felt a flush—of anger, or humiliation, or both—creeping up her throat and fled before Blackjack could see it.

  “What an insufferable man,” she muttered.

  And a powerful enemy.

  She felt like circling the wagons, bringing in the children and horses, storing up water, and loading her guns for the fight to come.

  “Take me home,” she told Trace. “I want to go home.”

  Trace wished his father to Hades. Couldn’t the old man let well enough alone? Callie was walking so fast through the house, she was almost running, and she had a panicked look in her eyes.

  “Callie—”

  “I want to go home,” she repeated, cutting him off.

  “No problem,” he said. “You can visit Hannah before I drop you off at the cabin.”

  Her lips pressed flat, and she didn’t say another word until they were out of the house. When she started to get in the hunting car he said, “I’m changing vehicles.” He gestured to a Chevy pickup parked next to the Buick.

  Without a word, she got in and sat facing forward, as though she had a steel rod down her spine. “Take me home,” she said.

  He didn’t argue with her, merely drove her across Blackthorne property to the gate at the boundary of Three Oaks. He stopped and turned to her. “I think we should talk here, where we won’t upset Hannah.”

  “We have nothing to discuss,” Callie said. “I’m going home, and I’m staying there. End of discussion.”