by Floyd, Susan
“I want you to be as good as your brochure says you are.”
She didn’t know what she expected in response to her outburst, but a deep chuckle wasn’t it.
“Nobody’s as good as brochures says they are. They’re brochures.”
Clem’s stomach knotted up. “I need you to be.”
“I’m retired.”
There was something in his voice, some sort of odd quality that made her not want to believe him. His forearm tightened around her ribs and Clem swallowed her protest. He may think he was retired, but there was some ember in his hazel eyes not yet snuffed out. Clem didn’t know how to fan it, but she knew that she needed to. As she thought, she became very conscious of the rhythm of his body and the horse as they moved across the desert. Riding with him was hypnotic, reminiscent of when she’d ridden with her father.
On cold fall evenings, Jim Wells would zip them both up in his large sheepskin jacket, keeping her warm as they rode to the high ridge of their property to watch the sun set before dinner. She could feel the cold on her nose and ears, the comfort of her father’s heartbeat. Even when she got her own horse, they still rode to watch the sunset, but it wasn’t the same.
She could almost purr with the memory. She didn’t want to like the way this stranger’s arm felt around her waist, acknowledge how secure she felt with him. She’d done that once before. She frowned in displeasure at her own reaction. Apparently, even after the divorce, she hadn’t learned anything at all. She was still waiting for someone to keep her close.
CHAPTER TWO
CLEM JERKED AWAKE as they rode up to Dexter Scott’s ranch, then stiffened when she realized she’d relaxed against him. He obliged her new posture by loosening his arm, though she could still feel his hand on the top of her hip. A dingy, two-story Victorian came into sight, along with dead patches of grass and flower beds long overgrown with wild roses and native plants. Dexter Scott apparently cared more for the comfort of his horses than himself, because three well-placed, well-kept stables and a barn made the old Victorian look more faded.
Clem couldn’t help studying the layout of his training area. She smiled when she saw a corral of horses only a mother or Dexter Scott could love. How different than what she’d anticipated. She’d imagined a ranch rather like an elite racing stable with glossy-coated handsome horses prancing across acres of green lawn.
Glossy coats, yes. Handsome, no. Dexter Scott’s horses sported eyes set too close or ears too big or markings just plain wrong. Rather than giving these horses an endearing quality, the physical imperfections made them look as if they were genetic throw-backs of the worst possible mix. Clementine refused to be disappointed. Now that she’d found him, she was going to make sure Dexter Scott was the legend she needed him to be.
“Guess I must’ve dozed off. I was driving all night,” she apologized, mentally climbing a thicker branch of hope. First impressions were rarely the measure one should use to judge the character of a person or a situation, right? And she shouldn’t judge the horses, either.
A large hand slid under her thigh.
“Off you go,” Dexter said as he boosted her leg over the saddle horn. With his arm still around her waist, Clem was gently set down on the ground. From this perspective, Dexter Scott was enormous. He swung himself out of the saddle and led the horse to one of the stables. The horses in the corral tossed their heads in greeting. Clem stood for a moment, looking around, trying to get her bearings. Then, even though he didn’t invite her, she followed him.
Dexter Scott was sliding the door with one hand, and just as she’d suspected, it opened with a quiet swish perfectly balanced on its rails like a finely made dresser drawer. She followed him as he led the horse to an empty stall. Yes, a man who kept his stables so clean could be an elite cowboy.
“So,” Clem began. She climbed up on the lowest slat of the stall in order to see him better. “I need your help.”
“Grab that hard brush for me, will you?” he asked her as he untied the leather knots of the saddle. He tended to his horse with practiced, methodical movements. With an easy heft, he put the saddle on a stall rail before he folded the horse blanket. Then with complete absorption, he ran his hand up and down the horse’s back, up and down his legs, feeling for small stickers or other irritants.
A moment later Clem got the brush and handed it to him. With even circles, he began to curry the horse, getting rid of the dirt, gravel and bits of desert sand that had worked their way up under the saddle. After a protracted silence, Clem wondered if he’d actually heard her.
“I need your help,” Clem repeated, mesmerized by his movements. His right hand brushed, while his left hand followed behind, lightly. Every so often, he paused to dig through the coarse hair to investigate before continuing. The horse stretched with the care and Clem could see the muscles ripple on its withers. With each stroke, Clem felt even more certain that this was the man she wanted, the man she needed.
After he finished one side, he moved to the other and as if synchronized, Clem picked up a softer finishing brush and went to work. The horse whinnied softly. Dexter Scott just kept brushing and feeling, feeling and brushing. Clem wondered if he paid attention to his wife the same way he paid attention to the horse.
“It’s taken me a month to find you,” Clem remarked, trying another way into the conversation. “I’ve driven all night from Los Banos.”
His hat obscured everything but his mouth. “I know Los Banos.”
Clem took that as an opening. “My dad has a ranch southwest of the city, right up against the Diablo range.”
After another extended silence, Clem tried again. Maybe he was waiting for her to finish her thought.
“We have a few cows roaming up there I need to get down.”
“A few?”
If she could see his face, she’d probably watch one of those dark eyebrows arch up.
“Well, six hundred.”
He didn’t say anything.
Finally, he pushed back the brim of his hat and asked, “What kind?”
His eyes were moss-green now. Clem looked away and brushed her side more vigorously, trying to cover the flush that was working its way up her neck. She muttered, “Don’t really know.”
For the first time, he stopped what he was doing and evaluated her. “How can you not know?” Curiosity tinged his voice.
DEXTER SCOTT HAD TO ADMIT he was interested. By the way she rode and brushed, she knew her way around horses. She also knew her way around gates. Some of his gates were constructed more than a hundred years ago, though the one closest to the property was new. That one he locked.
He took advantage of the fact that she wouldn’t look at him. On closer examination, she didn’t resemble Joanna so much. Her hands, for instance. Joanna’s hands were like a basketball player’s and since she’d never wore gloves, they were as weathered as old leather. But this woman’s hands were smooth, soft, just showing signs of wear. Joanna would also have been able to tell the breed of a cow a hundred yards away. Who was she? Dexter realized he didn’t even know her name.
“Who are you, anyway?” he demanded, appalled that his voice sounded as if it erupted from his belly.
She stopped currying as the flush spread from her slender neck to her ears. “I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself earlier. Clem. Clementine Wells.”
Clementine.
“The song or the orange?”
She made a face, then shrugged slim shoulders and smiled a smile that revealed white, even teeth. “I think the song, but I know my mother is partial to tangerines.”
Dexter couldn’t think of anything to say, but he was grateful that her name wasn’t Joan or Jo or Jess.
Clementine. Clem.
They continued to brush.
“I’d be indebted if you’d just come to the ranch to look at my problem. See if there’s anything you could do. There’s a fortune waiting for anyone who can do this.”
Dexter didn’t need a fortune. He ha
d more than enough money to exist.
“I’d offer you, er, forty percent of what you bring in.”
Dexter, against his will, wanted to laugh. She wasn’t a tough negotiator. In fact, she looked so hopeful Dexter thought that if he was a different kind of man, he’d take the forty percent and then some. But as it was, forty percent, fifty percent, a hundred percent meant nothing. He didn’t need the money. Rather than prolong her misery, he said, his voice as abrupt and definite as he could make it, “I told you, I’m retired.”
She blinked and Dexter noticed her eyes were the same color as the blue horse blanket he’d just removed. He didn’t want to see the hope there dull, but it was necessary. He didn’t work anymore and that was all there was to it.
There was another silence.
Finally, she said, still hopeful, “I have more than six hundred cattle out there, all weighing more than a thousand pounds. You’d have enough money to fix up your house.”
Dex flinched at her insinuation that he was struggling financially. He had plenty of money to fix up the house. The cans of paint that Joanna had bought for the exterior were still in the basement, dusty, untouched. He was glad the pick in his hand didn’t falter as he used quick, short movements to clean New Horse’s back right hoof.
“It’s a beautiful house.”
He ignored her, wondering why this woman didn’t seem put off.
“It’s a shame that it should be so run-down. I imagine it was quite a showpiece in its day.”
She stopped talking, but the barn wasn’t silent to Dexter. He could hear the blood rushing through his head, New Horse’s breathing, the woman’s movements as she put away the brushes. He worked his way through the other three hooves, concentrating on a grooming ritual that he’d completed a thousand times.
CLEM WATCHED THE MAN straighten from his chore.
“No.” The single word bit into the stillness.
“What?” Clem asked, pretending to play dumb. Maybe it had been wrong to make a remark about his house, but it was the truth. And she just couldn’t accept “no” for an answer.
“No,” he enunciated, and straightened. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m retired. You have a safe drive back, ma’am.”
She watched him look around as if he’d suddenly realized he’d finished the grooming, then stride out of the stall, having to wait impatiently for Clem to exit before he could shut the door. He walked out of the barn, heading for the house.
Clem stood there, her mind whirling as she sought a solution. It wasn’t going to end this way. It wasn’t. There must be something that he wanted that she could give him. She hadn’t driven all night to be flicked away like a fly on the potato salad. His long stride had already taken him to the Victorian, where he climbed up the creaking steps, his arm extended to open the screen door.
“Hey!” she called in desperation. “Can I at least use your bathroom? It’s a heck of a drive back.”
She didn’t think he heard her, but he stopped with his hand on the screen. He moved it back and forth, back and forth. Finally, without turning, he gave a quick nod and then disappeared into the house, the door banging behind him.
Clem smiled. If she got in the house, she would at least have another shot at convincing him.
When she stepped into the house, two things struck her; the darkness and the aroma of frying sausage and pancakes. Her stomach rumbled. She was starving. She’d driven all night and the only thing she’d eaten that morning was a quick sandwich and a cup of coffee at a fast-food restaurant in Barstow. What she wouldn’t give for some of those pancakes and sausages.
“Hello?” she inquired, peering into the shadows, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness.
No answer.
She supposed Dexter Scott figured she’d find her own way to the bathroom and then her own way out. She walked down the hall, looking at pictures that were covered in more than a layer of dust. Cobwebs strung the frames together, and Clementine frowned. What a sad, gloomy house. If she didn’t know that he lived here, she would have thought it was abandoned. Any happiness that it had once known had long since leached out, leaving just a shell of a house. Maybe that was what was wrong with Dexter Scott—the fun, the adventure had leached out of him.
Clementine took a deep breath. All the more reason he should help her. It’d probably do him good not to have to live in this house, day in, day out.
She heard the clattering of dishes and the pleasant rumble of male voices. Surely that couldn’t be Dexter Scott.
With a deep breath, she walked in to find him and two other cowboys seated at the rickety dining table, elbows up as they talked, washing their food down with dark coffee.
“Hi,” she said.
Her words had the effect of a pause button on the VCR. All activity stopped; forks poised in the air, a cup of coffee stopped at a mouth. She felt as if they were watching her every move, but she didn’t let that deter her.
“Hey, there.” She greeted them. “That looks really good.”
The motion started up, as the two cowboys—obviously related—exchanged glances. Forks came down, coffee was sipped, then white teeth gleamed.
“Ma’am,” the one closest to her said with a nod.
“Hi, I’m Clementine Wells.” She stuck out her hand to the one who had addressed her.
“Randy. Randy Miller.” A big hand, slightly sticky, engulfed hers, but the grip was very gentle.
“Miller?” Clem felt some hope flare. They were part of the Dexter Scott package. They were the rough ones who’d done jail time that she should steer clear of. “Of the Russell Saloon fame?”
The brothers exchanged glances. Randy grinned and poked a thumb in the other cowboy’s direction. “That was Ryan’s fault.”
“I was defending your honor.” Ryan stood up and extended his hand. “Ryan Miller. Glad to meet you.”
Less sticky but just as gentle. Clem felt a whole lot lighter. She ventured a quick glance in Dexter’s direction. He was stirring milk into a cup of coffee, hard enough to create a racket with his spoon.
“The bathroom’s down the hall. Second door to your right.” He stopped stirring.
Randy grinned and Clem realized she did have to use the facilities. “Thank you. I’ll be right back.”
“Then you’ll be on your way,” Dexter said, his voice rough.
“Mmm-hmm.” Clem hedged her bets. Maybe she could get a breakfast out of this. And another opportunity to convince him.
“SO WHERE DID SHE COME FROM?” Randy asked as he leaned over the table.
Dexter stuffed a forkful of pancakes in his mouth even though they tasted like straw. He swigged some of the coffee and then added more syrup to the stack and took another bite.
One trait that this woman, Clementine, and Joanna had in common was the fact they couldn’t take “no” for an answer. Even when he’d said “no” to Joanna, she’d thought it meant “maybe,” and then through sheer persistence made him change the “maybe” to an “I’ll think about it,” eventually ending up with an “okay, with stipulations,” which Joanna had ignored, anyway.
He didn’t want to smile, but he couldn’t help it. Joanna had been the only person who really knew him, who could see past his dark moods, who could make him laugh at the most dire of times. Seven years older, he’d taken care of her forever, shielding her from their father’s abuse, telling her stories about their long-gone mother. Those stories were lies. Their mother had left them when Joanna was just a baby. Their father had never been the same. And when he’d taken an unnatural interest in Joanna’s ten-year-old body, Dexter had left with Joanna in tow. They’d ridden three buses to get to Las Vegas, where Uncle Grubb, their father’s older brother, had met them at the bus station and brought them here. For the first time ever, Dexter and Joanna had known what it was to live in a real home, the same Victorian their father had grown up in. Dex had slept in the attic Grubb had remodeled, because he believed a teenage boy needed his privacy, while Joanna had li
ved in a fairy-tale alcove.
Since Grubb didn’t have children, he showered a lifetime of love on his newly acquired niece and nephew. When he died, he’d made Joanna and Dexter equal partners in the ranch. At the time, Dex and Ben Thorton were getting their business together. Joanna met Randy and Ryan and talked them into joining. Convincing Randy had been easy. Soon he and Joanna were inseparable.
After Joanna’s death, the ranch had become as desolate and bleak as Dex felt. He certainly didn’t need some woman with a stubborn chin and big blue eyes lighting up a room that he’d dimmed on purpose. He’d hoped she’d gotten the message and would be gone as soon as possible.
No such luck.
Before he could think to protest, Randy had invited her for some pancakes, which she accepted, seating herself right next to him.
He stared at the nicks in the table.
“I’m starving,” she confessed, with a shy glance toward him, which he tried to ignore as well. That didn’t seem to daunt her at all. She just held out a plate toward Ryan, who heaped it full with sausage, scrambled eggs and pancakes.
“Enough!” Clem protested with a giggle. “I’ll waddle my way home.”
It almost hurt to hear feminine laughter.
“You’re leaving after you eat those,” Dexter told her.
She stared at him with those large eyes fringed with dark lashes, and then nodded, her eyes cast down in acquiescence.
Dexter didn’t believe it for a second. To make sure that she left after she ate, he would escort her out to her vehicle himself and watch until he couldn’t see her taillights any more.
“And where is home?” Randy asked her.
“Los Banos.”
“Pretty country,” Ryan commented.
Clem nodded. “I’ve just moved back to my father’s ranch. He and my mother retired to Arizona last summer.”
“And what brings you way out here?”
There was a long pause, and Dexter found that he’d stopped eating, because even though he knew what she had to say, he liked the way she spoke, as if she had to force herself to speak louder to be heard.