Then Hank gripped her elbow hard and pulled her toward the truck.
“But, I—” She peered over her shoulder at the men who smiled and waved to her.
“We have to get back to those kids,” he grumbled.
She resisted his pull. “But I—”
“We’re out of time. Need to get home.”
Amy dug in her heels. “We’re here to check out the business. I’m not leaving until we do.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“WHOA, HANK,” Angus called. “Not so fast. If Ms. Graves wants to hang out for a while, we’d be happy to entertain her.” He approached, took Amy’s elbow and led her toward the corral.
Angus’s eyes sparkled when he looked down at Amy. She smiled up at him.
Hank choked. For a peace-loving man, which he most certainly was, he was strongly tempted to rearrange Angus’s charming face.
“I’m about ready to practice my rope tricks,” young Ty Walker yelled from across the yard, his smile wide and hokey. “Amy can watch.”
Someone should tell him he looks goofy when he smiles like that, Hank thought. Like a lovesick moose.
“I can drive her home later if you want, Hank,” Hip said.
Over my dead body, Hank thought, and stood beside Amy.
Ty picked up a rope and tied a honda, then passed the plain end through the honda to make a loop. He started to spin it nice and slow. Like any cowboy worth his salt, he spun and worked the rope to an impressive four-foot loop, which he tossed over his head and down his body until it spun around his waist.
Ty smiled his goofy grin while he watched Amy. She clapped and laughed, her pretty smile sparkling in the sun.
Angus put a hand on her shoulder, a hand that would be broken in about two seconds if he wasn’t careful. Hank’s mind was turning to violence at every turn.
“That’s called a body spin, but the prettier term is wedding ring,” Angus said.
Amy nodded and smiled at him.
Hip ran forward with a rope of his own.
“Watch this, Amy.” Hip started spinning a flat loop in front of his body. When he’d worked the rope to a good-size loop he passed it to his right hand and around his back, picking it up with his other hand and bringing it around front again on the other side.
“That’s a merry-go-round,” Angus said.
Hip threw the loop high over his head and kept spinning it. “Look, Amy,” he shouted.
Hip was a good twenty years older than Amy. Disgusting way for a middle-aged man to behave in front of a young woman.
Show off. Braggart. Good word.
A split second before Hip threw the loop toward Amy, Hank realized his intention and spun Amy around out of the way, then pulled her flush against his chest, but Hip was too fast and his aim too accurate.
The loop settled over Amy, but also caught Hank, the rope tightening around them with the gentle persuasion of a mare nudging her colt home.
Hank heard shouts and whoops of laughter from the men, and heard Angus say, “Nice hoolihan, Hip,” but all Hank saw was Amy.
She’d raised her arms when he’d pulled her toward him and her hands rested high on his chest. They rose and fell with his quick breaths, branding him.
The sounds around him drifted away. He lost himself in Amy’s green eyes.
His hands held the back of her waist, drifted down to her hips. He thought of ripe pears and his blond guitar.
She smelled warm, like the sun, like mango and papaya and coconut.
Her skin looked soft enough to lick.
What if he did what he wanted and rested his head on her golden hair, felt the glide of it across his cheek?
What if he pressed his lips to her eyelids to close them, so she couldn’t see all those handsome cowboys crowding around her? What if he kissed her until she was aware of only plain Hank?
Before he could act on the crazy impulse, she did the oddest thing. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, then smelled him with a delicate sniff.
She opened her eyes and smiled into his. “Soap. Nice.”
When she raised her hands to his shoulders, his arms automatically drew her closer, until her chest was flush against his.
She stiffened. Then, as if he’d doused a roaring fire, she grew icy. Her skin paled. Her lips thinned. The light in her emerald eyes died.
She dropped her gaze to his chest and one cheek burned red, and he could swear she was more than just turning cold on him. She was ashamed about something.
What the heck?
He felt a tug on the rope and realized Hip was gathering it up, forming loops over the fingers of one hand. Hank shook himself out of his stupor and turned to the old ranch hand.
“Hip,” he said, “you could have hurt Amy.”
Hip slowed his approach, his expression sheepish. “Aw, Hank, you know I’d never hurt a woman. Been doing these tricks since I was eight years old.”
He lifted the loop above Hank’s and Amy’s heads as carefully as if she were a skittish horse. Hank felt reluctant contrition about his behavior toward Hip—contrition, great word—but then Amy smiled, rose on tiptoes and kissed Hip’s cheek.
Hank had the urge to rub a little dirt in the guy’s face, even if Hip was an older man.
Hank stalked to the truck, ashamed of his nasty urges. What the heck was wrong with him? He wasn’t a violent man.
“Amy,” he called, his tone brooking no opposition. “We need to go.”
She didn’t reply.
“Now,” he said.
Nothing was going to happen with this woman.
Amy ran to the truck and jumped in, but she didn’t look happy about it. She didn’t say a word about checking out the business.
He steered the truck toward the Sheltering Arms, heading out across fields instead of down the driveway to the road.
AMY WAS STILL having trouble catching her breath after being crowded against Hank’s big body. His very hard, muscular body.
He’d felt so good she’d wanted to stay there for days, staring into his laughing brown eyes, feeling his heat spread through her.
Then her traitorous arms had slid a path up to his shoulders and he’d pulled her close until her chest hit his. Oh, that horrible moment when she’d wondered if he knew, if he could feel how she differed from a normal woman.
Could the day possibly get any more rocky?
Maybe tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, would be a better time to deal with business.
The truck lurched as Hank swung it around in the yard. Amy fell hard against him. He pushed her upright with a gentle hand. “You should put your seat belt on.”
“Sorry, I forgot,” she mumbled as she slid over to lean against the passenger door, then pulled the harness across her body.
She bumped against the handle as the truck bounced over a rut, and her mind finally registered that they were driving over fields instead of to the small highway leading back to the ranch.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Hank pushed his hat back and wiped his forehead. “I want to see if we can catch sight of the campers.”
“Campers?” Amy asked, curious in spite of herself.
“The little kids you met aren’t the only ones we have at the ranch right now. The five older ones headed out this morning for a camping trip on Hungry Hollow land.”
“Who went with them? More counselors?”
“A bunch of my ranch hands.”
“Why would they camp over here? Why not on Sheltering Arms land?”
“I want them to see what goes on at a real working ranch. Most of these kids have never seen a steer in their lives.”
Suddenly he pointed to a cloud of dust on the horizon and gunned the engine. “There.”
When they flew over a hill and landed in a small gully on the far side of it, Amy’s jaw snapped shut. She braced one hand against the door and one against the dashboard. Her butt hurt from bouncing on the firm seat.
She glanced at Hank. He was
barely aware of the bumps. His mustache curved up at the ends, echoing a smile on his lips. Damp hair stuck out under the brim of his hat, punctuated by the caramel streak at his widow’s peak.
As they approached the cloud, his grin broadened.
Amy watched dust swirl around a small herd of cows, or steers, or whatever they were, thirty yards away. Cowboys on nimble horses raced around the edges, controlling where the cows went. Mooing and yelling and rumbling hooves drowned out everything else. The pickup got close before she realized the ranch hands had children on their saddles in front of them while they herded cattle.
Dear God, were they crazy? Her heart pounded.
“Those children will fall off,” Amy cried.
She unsnapped her seat belt and threw her door open.
“Hey!” Hank yelled. “You can’t go out there.”
She was half out of the truck when Hank wrapped his fingers around her arm and hauled her back in.
“Are you nuts?”
She sucked in a breath and ran a shaky hand over her face.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice trembled.
Hank reached across her, his big chest crushing her against the back of the seat and closed her door.
His dark eyes sparked fire.
“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice boomed in the close interior of the truck. “What were you going to do? Run into a herd of cattle?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, wondering at the strength of his reaction.
She touched his arm with one damp palm. “I’m afraid the children will fall. They’ll get hurt.”
His expression eased. His lips softened. “They’re fine,” he said.
Tears welled in Amy’s eyes and she turned away so he wouldn’t see. “They’ll get hurt. Stop them. Please.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” When she turned to him to object, he raised his hand to stall her. “Those kids are safe with the ranch hands. Most of my workers have been on horses since they were two years old.” He smiled. “Some of them ride better than they walk.”
“But—”
“This isn’t a real roundup, anyway. It’s just a little one staged for the kids.”
“Even so—”
When she reached for the door handle, still foolishly tempted to get out and rescue those children, Hank touched her shoulder to press her back against the seat.
“Sit and watch for a minute.” His quiet tone eased some of her fear.
Hank pointed to the nearest man. “See?”
Sure enough, the cowboy had a forearm as lean and strong as one of Hank’s wrapped around a boy’s waist. As Amy watched, he controlled the horse with his strong thighs and with the reins he held in his other hand.
The boy’s face practically glowed with excitement. He yelled at the horses, at the other cowboys, at the cattle. Directing them. As one of the animals broke out of the pack, he shouted, “Get him!” to the cowboy.
The cowboy laughed and yelled, “Sure, boss.”
The vibration of the herd’s frenetic motion rumbled through the truck. Leaning forward, Amy peered through the dust, trying to spot more children. Each one reflected that same joyous expression.
With her hands pressing hard on her thighs, Amy forced herself to calm down.
She turned to Hank to apologize, but the words froze on her tongue. He was resting his forearms on the steering wheel, his body straining forward. His eyes followed every bit of the action.
He wants to be out there in the thick of it all.
“Do you ever do this with the kids?” she asked.
He fell back against the seat and straightened his hat on his head.
“Yeah. We take turns going on the overnight trips. I’ll do the next batch of kids who come to the ranch. Just the older ones.”
He pinned her with a piercing look. “When you first got here this morning, I thought you didn’t like the kids.”
She didn’t answer. How could she ever make him understand how deeply her fears ran? How hard it was for her to care for people she might lose?
“Now I’m thinking maybe you’re afraid of them,” he continued. “Or afraid for them.”
The man saw too much. He leaned against his door and studied her. The cab of the truck became a cocoon, enveloping Amy in a potent blend of fright, compassion and a desire to confess.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. “My father died when I was fourteen. In front of me. Heart attack. I couldn’t save him.”
She stared out the window and swallowed hard. “It left me terrified of bad things happening to people.” She’d never discussed this phobia with anyone before.
“All right,” Hank said. “I can understand that.”
She had no doubt that he could.
The cowboy with the excited boy on his lap rode up to the truck, on Amy’s side. He leaned down from his horse and pressed his hand into Amy’s.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Matt.” He had a smile that could dazzle, and he knew it.
“I’m Amy,” she said.
Hank said, “Matt,” and his dry tone had Matt looking at him then laughing, as if he knew a secret about Hank.
Matt said, “This here’s Davey.”
Amy smiled at the boy. They smelled like hay and horses and a touch of manure. Matt’s horse whinnied, clearly wanting to get back to work, but Matt held him steady.
“You here for the day?” Matt asked.
“No,” Amy said. “I’m here for the rest of the week. At the Sheltering Arms.”
“Well, then, I’ll be seeing you in a couple of days.” He doffed his hat and nodded. “How ’bout we get to know each other better then?”
He turned his horse and rode away.
Matt wasn’t her type at all, but she gave him points for trying.
Putting the truck into gear, Hank headed in a direction Amy guessed would take them to the Sheltering Arms.
The practical accountant in her broke the silence. “You know you’re just asking for a lawsuit if one of those kids gets hurt.”
“They won’t.”
“What if one of them does? Any of those children could get sick again. Are you qualified to deal with that?”
“Uh-huh. We all have first-aid training.”
“I think it should go further than that. Some of those children must still be taking medications. I would almost want to see a nurse living at the ranch.”
“There is a full-time nurse at the ranch,” Hank said, a sly glimmer of humor in his eyes.
“Who?”
“Hannah.” Hank grinned.
“The housekeeper?” Amy spluttered.
“Yup. She offered to train when I decided to bring children to the ranch fifteen years ago.”
Okay, that surprised her. Hannah probably already had a heavy load to carry running that house, yet she cared enough to become a nurse.
Amy had to stop underestimating these people.
“You got to understand what’s important here.” He pulled his gaze away from the field in front of them. “The kids are what’s important, and giving them the fullest experience here they can possibly have.”
He faced forward again. “Because they deserve it after all they’ve lived through.”
With those words, a heaviness hung in the air between them.
“Why did you turn the ranch into a place for cancer survivors?” she asked.
“I—” Hank’s face was suddenly neutral, as unresponsive as Amy had seen it.
She held her breath.
“I had a son. He died of leukemia when he was two.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Dear God, his son. His son. “So sorry.”
He whispered one word, little more than a sigh, but she was pretty sure it was “Jamie.”
She hitched a breath. Knowing his name made the child too real to her.
Swallowing her cowardice, she asked, “Do you want to talk about him?” And prayed that he wouldn’t.
He shook his head.
As they neared the house, she stole a glimpse at him. His jaw was hard, his mouth thin. Then he saw the children on the veranda. The sight smoothed the worry lines from his brow, softened his full lips, turned up the corners of his mouth.
When they parked, the younger children ran across the lawn to greet him. Four of them crowded his door.
“Hey, back up, hooligans,” Hank said, back to his cheerful self, as if the children gave him a deeper perspective on life. It was clear they set everything into place in Hank’s world.
Amy stared at him, amazed by the change.
“How’s a cowboy supposed ta get out of his truck?” he asked, using the fake cowboy accent she’d noticed he put on for the kids.
When Amy stepped out on the passenger side, the solemn young girl stood waiting for her, her eyes big. She placed her hand into one of Amy’s and held on.
As though Amy’s fingers had a mind of their own, they curled around the tiny hand. Amy stared down at her and swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay put. Such honest trust, given so freely.
As they walked around the front of the pickup, Amy wondered what on earth the child saw in her that made her want to get close. Amy had so little to offer others these days.
She wanted to tell the girl not to depend on her, that Amy didn’t get close to people.
She looked away, unable to withstand the child’s intense gaze. And yet she still held her hand.
Hank lifted a small girl and threw her above his head into the air. Amy gasped, but Hank caught the giggling child on the way down.
“Do me, Hank. Do me,” begged a young boy with skin the color of coffee with cream. Hank tossed the boy into the air and his biceps bulged against the plaid cotton of his shirtsleeves.
He threw every child into the air who asked for it, as many times as they asked. Even when the underarms of his shirt showed big damp circles and a sheen of sweat coated his brow, he didn’t stop until the last kid had wheedled for a toss.
Amy wondered at the resiliency of this man and realized that he drew it directly from these children.
No Ordinary Cowboy Page 4