No Ordinary Cowboy

by Mary Sullivan

  “What are you doing with so much cash in the house?” she asked, staring at him like he’d grown a second head.

  “I pay the ranch hands out of this.”

  “You pay them in cash? Under the table?”

  “What do you mean, under the table?”

  “What about your payroll taxes? Don’t you pay those?”

  “Donna at the bank does all of that for me.”

  “The bank does it for you?”

  Hank smiled. “This is a small town, Amy. They do things like that here. Donna moonlights for a lot of other people, too, when they need help. We’re ranchers, not accountants.”

  Amy studied the piles of cash. “Do your employees know this money is here?”

  Hank shrugged. “Sure.”

  Amy placed a fist on her hip and eyed him sternly. “You are asking to be robbed blind. How do you know they aren’t helping themselves to a few bucks when they walk through here?”

  “You know what you have to understand here, Amy?” He jabbed his index finger toward her.

  She backed away, her movement subtle but unmistakable.

  Hank took a deep breath and evened out his temper. He never intimidated people. What was it about this woman that got under his skin?

  “You have to recognize,” he said, “that this isn’t the city. These people are more than employees. They’re family. I trust every last one of them.”

  She looked into his eyes, then nodded. “Okay, Hank. I understand.” She plowed one hand through her hair, took a deep breath and held it. It did great things to her breasts. He tried not to stare.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “for thinking you were a gambler. I let my emotions overcome my professional judgment.”

  “Aw, hey, that’s okay,” Hank said. He was so damn happy to have her look at him without disappointment.

  She glanced down at their linked hands. He did, too, surprised to realize he hadn’t let go of her hand since he’d taken hold of it outside of her attic door. It felt like it belonged with his.

  He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles.

  Her one cheek turned pink and he wanted to lick it, to turn it redder, then move to the other pale cheek and warm it with a kiss.

  With a short tug, she pulled her hand free. Placed a hand against her chest. Cleared her throat. She looked as rattled as he felt.

  As she stepped past him into the hall, a light floral scent drifted by.

  “You’re going to leave the money there and keep paying the ranch hands in cash, aren’t you?” she asked, her smile rueful.

  “You can’t change a zebra’s stripes,” he said, his tone matching hers.

  Heading upstairs, she mounted a few steps, then glanced at him over her shoulder, her blond hair gilded by a table lamp glowing in the hallway, the curves of her hips and bum lovingly outlined by ivory silk. He just about ran after her to carry her to his bedroom and make love to her on that stack of bills she’d gotten so riled about.

  She smiled and said good-night.

  As he watched her disappear, Hank thought, you can’t change a cowboy’s desire.

  Amy Graves, what are you doing to my heart?

  But he knew there was no hope for him with her.

  He rubbed his chest and turned away.

  ON SATURDAY afternoon, the knock on the door echoed the pounding in Amy’s head. She’d been in the office for hours, updating the accounts with the bills from Hank’s bedroom. Her stomach grumbled. She’d missed lunch. Stretching her arms above her head, she rolled the kinks out of her neck.

  “Come in,” she called.

  Hank opened the door and leaned in. “We opened the pool. Everyone’s going swimming.”

  A small head peeked around the door—Cheryl, with her wide eyes full of hope.

  Hank shrugged, then asked quietly, “Can she stay with you? She won’t go in the pool.”

  Amy nodded. After Hank left, she asked, “Why won’t you go in the pool, Cheryl?”

  “I can’t swim.” Cheryl flicked the nails of her index fingers across each other. She was always calm—fatalistic, almost. Signs of nerves in the child were cause for worry.

  “Are you afraid to go swimming?”

  Cheryl nodded. She pushed the door open all the way and crossed the room to stand beside Amy.

  How unfortunate that Cheryl was going to miss out on one of the great joys in life because of her fear.

  Amy took in all the work she had to do then looked at Cheryl.

  “Cheryl, if I take you into the pool, will you try swimming?”

  The child shrugged. “I’m ’fraid.”

  “I know.” Amy hugged her close. “It’s good to try to get over fears to have fun in life, though. We’ll stay in the shallow end and I’ll hold you up every minute, okay?”

  Cheryl let out a small sigh. “’Kay.”

  Amy left Cheryl in her bedroom to get into her bathing suit, then ran upstairs and undressed. Drawing her courage around her, she looked at herself in the mirror. The scar on her chest where her right breast used to be still shocked her. She spun away from the image, then put on the bathing suit Leila had warned her to pack.

  A high-necked red one-piece with a wide ruffle around the top, the suit was more comfortable than any she’d ever owned before. The last time she’d worn one had been more than two years ago. She tucked her prosthesis into the pocket hidden by the ruffle.

  Studying herself in the mirror, she thought she looked all right. Normal. No one would know one of her breasts was fake.

  Impatient with her own shallowness, she turned away from the mirror and grabbed a white terry-cloth robe from the bed. At least she was alive, and finally healthy. She headed down to the second floor to get Cheryl, who appeared in the hall in a silver one-piece suit with fuzzy brown monkeys climbing a coconut tree on the front. It looked brand-new. And cheap.

  “I like your suit, Cheryl. It’s very pretty.”

  Cheryl rubbed her chest and stomach. “Mommy bought it for me.”

  “Let’s get some sunscreen on before we head out.”

  The din filtering through the screen door at the back of the house increased as they approached. They stepped into the sunshine, amid the screams, laughter and sounds of splashing, then through the gate in the chain link fence that surrounded the pool area. The water at the deep end churned with waves, arms and legs, and naked heads.

  Hank held a volleyball above his head in the water while a bunch of kids tried to wrestle it away from him. Judging by the grin on his face, he was in his element.

  Amy smiled, headed to the shallow end with Cheryl and dumped their towels on a deck lounger.

  Matt waved from the other end of the deck, gave her the once-over and wiggled his eyebrows.

  Amy touched her neckline to make sure everything was covered, but Matt had already returned his focus to the kids in the water.

  Leaning down to look Cheryl in the eye, Amy said, “You stand right here on the side of the pool and I’ll lift you into the water after I get in. Okay?”

  Amy went over the side into the water and shivered. Dunking her head under, she came up laughing. “It’s chilly but wonderful. Refreshing.” She patted the side of the pool. “Sit down here.”

  Cheryl sat on the edge of the pool, keeping her feet out of the water.

  Grasping Cheryl under her arms, Amy picked her up and slid her off the side, dipping her feet and legs into the water. Cheryl recoiled, but Amy continued to ease her into the pool.

  Cheryl shivered. “Do you know how to swim, Amy?”

  “Yes.” Amy wrapped her arms around Cheryl. “I used to swim at home for exercise.”

  “Are you really, really good?” Cheryl’s voice shook.

  “I’ll keep you safe,” Amy murmured in her ear.

  She spooned handfuls of water onto Cheryl’s shoulders while holding her closely until she felt the child’s shivers ease. Swirling the girl through the water, Amy continued to hold her beneath the arms, never letting
her fall farther than waist deep. As Cheryl began to relax, she ran her fingers through the water, making small waves on the surface.

  A sharp whistle split the air. Cheryl flung her arms and legs around Amy and clung like a little monkey. Spinning around, Amy saw Matt, who stood at the side of the pool, blow his whistle again. The water churned as swimmers hauled themselves out of the pool, climbing the sides or the steps. She quickly followed suit.

  Once she and Cheryl were on the deck, Amy spied Hank pulling himself out at the far end. The muscles in his arms and large shoulders rippled. Water sluiced from his strong back. He wore a pair of black trunks that fit snugly around a tight behind. His legs were long, well-shaped and covered with brown hair.

  Hank Shelter had a beautiful body. Amy felt a flutter in her chest and the familiar confusion she experienced around Hank.

  “Roll call!” Hank yelled. He held a clipboard and checked off names as the children called them out. Matt peered into the clear water of the pool and nodded, satisfied that it was empty.

  Attendance completed, Hank picked up an oversize tube of sunscreen, and applied it to the kids in the lineup. Once lathered, they each chose a toy from a large plastic hamper, then jumped into the pool. A couple of boys started diving for hockey pucks. Others grabbed pool noodles to float. An older girl sat on the lip of the pool, inflating something large and green. As it grew and took shape, Cheryl pointed. “Look. It’s a alligator.”

  Her fascination with the alligator allowed Amy to get her back in the water with no shivers or fears.

  The girl who blew the toy was the same one who had rubbed noses with Cheryl. Melissa. Amy was slowly learning their names. She’d noticed that Hank never forgot or mixed them up.

  Melissa slid into the pool and swam over to Cheryl, pushing the inflated alligator ahead of her.

  “Want to go for a ride, Cheryl? Get on.”

  The alligator had an indentation just about the right size for a child’s bum. Amy lifted Cheryl into it and she rested her head on the back of the ’gator’s head and her feet along his tail. Melissa propelled Cheryl gently around the water. Another girl joined her and drifted on the other side of the float. Cheryl lay on the crocodile like a little princess.

  Amy’s chest tightened. How had Cheryl survived the ravages of cancer? The chemotherapy? The dread? Was she afraid of death? Did she even understand the concept? With what she’d been through Cheryl deserved every speck of pampering she got here on the ranch.

  Amy pulled herself out of the pool to sit on the side, adjusting the neckline of her bathing suit, making sure it didn’t dip too low. Hank and Matt weren’t the only men around the pool. Two more stood on the other side, keeping eagle eyes on the children.

  Keep them safe.

  A boy suddenly jostled the alligator, tossing Cheryl into the water.

  “Hey!” Melissa yelled.

  Amy was in the water like a cannon shot, swimming for Cheryl and grabbing her, pushing her head above water.

  “Cheryl,” she cried. “Cheryl.”

  Cheryl came up coughing and choking.

  “Are you all right, honey?” Amy’s heart rate shot through the stratosphere as she held Cheryl’s head forward and patted the child’s back.

  Holding Cheryl’s shaking body close brought memories of clasping other trembling limbs, the bent head…it all felt bone-chillingly familiar.

  She could swear she could smell cabbage rolls.

  Of course. That was the meal Mother had put in the oven an hour before Dad died. That horrid day Dad lay on the floor of the living room, unmoving, his head on Amy’s knees.

  Mother had opened the front door. Three firefighters ran in.

  When the younger one crouched beside Amy and eased Dad’s head to the floor, she smelled smoke on the man’s boots and sweet cologne on his neck. She wanted to tell him it was too strong.

  They began to work on her dad, attempting to revive him but their actions seemed rushed, almost brutal.

  “Be careful,” she cried.

  “Shh, it’s okay. She’s okay.”

  She?

  Warm arms wrapped around Amy from behind. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw that it was Hank. Instead of cabbage rolls, she smelled chlorine. She was in the swimming pool at the Sheltering Arms with Cheryl clutching her as kids laughed and yelled nearby.

  She inhaled and found a warm strength in Hank’s arms that she desperately needed.

  He propelled them toward the ladder at the corner of the pool. Once they were settled there, he asked, “What happened?”

  “Someone knocked Cheryl off the alligator.” Amy’s voice shook. “She could have drowned.”

  “I don’t think so,” Hank answered, his smile grim. He gestured with his head toward Cheryl. Amy understood right away. He didn’t want Cheryl upset.

  “Do you want to go back on the alligator?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound normal.

  Cheryl cuddled into Amy’s shoulder and shook her head. Amy could kick herself for transmitting her own fear to the girl.

  She glanced at Hank and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug.

  He pulled himself out of the pool, shoulder and back muscles rippling with the effort, then turned and took Cheryl from Amy’s arms. He stretched a hand to help Amy out. Pausing only to grab towels for each of them, he held on to her hand while he led them into the house and up the stairs.

  Was there no end to this man’s strength?

  He gestured for Amy to enter the attic room ahead of him then handed Cheryl to her.

  “Take her suit off and get her dry.”

  He rummaged in the dresser and pulled out one of Amy’s T-shirts. Expensive silk. Amy didn’t care—simply put it on Cheryl, then nestled her under the quilt.

  “Nap now, okay?”

  Cheryl nodded. “You, too?”

  Amy nodded. Cheryl’s eyes drifted closed.

  She felt the heat of Hank behind her and slowly turned. If she was getting into the bed with Cheryl, she had to change.

  “You okay?” Hank asked. “You look pale.”

  “I’m fine.” The tremor in her voice betrayed her. “It…it brought back memories of Dad’s death. I don’t know why.”

  She seemed to be living a life of heightened emotions these days and they left her baffled. Unsettled.

  “I urged her to go in the pool. I told her it was good to face down fears.”

  Her throat tightened. She put her hand on Hank’s chest, her remorse needing release. “Oh, Hank, I told her I would keep her safe.”

  “Poor Amy,” Hank said, and ran a thumb across her cheek. It drifted to her mouth while he stared at her lips, his eyes dark as roasted hazelnuts in the dim room. The sun had drifted around to the other side of the house. Hank’s big body blocked the light from the window.

  He became a mass of shadows and contours, scents—lemon, spice and chlorine—and his ever-present, all-surrounding heat.

  He grabbed her hand, tugged her from the bedroom and closed the door with a restrained click. A barely controlled burn emanated from him.

  “Amy,” he said, his rough voice reverberating with need and desire. “I have to do this.”

  He cradled the back of her head and pressed her against the wall. She grabbed his shoulders, the skin smooth and hot under her palms.

  He swooped down, pressed his full lips to hers, then washed her mouth with his tongue, invaded every corner, and all Amy could think was, yes!

  A powerful arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her against his body. Amy’s head swam.

  She pressed against him, the moisture in their wet suits warming. She felt the bloom of long-gone desire, felt a swell of hard warmth at her belly, and exulted. Images of his body under her hands flew through her and she wanted everything: Hank’s generosity of spirit and the massive strength and weight of him on top of her, and the burgeoning wonder, full and thick, she knew she would find under his black suit, and the sheer delight of caressing him while she sent him
spinning higher with desire. Making love with him would be nothing short of spectacular.

  A dizzying maelstrom of colored stars burst through her mind. Unsteady, she grasped him around the neck, leaned into him to obliterate every atom of space between them, and grabbed a handful of thick, wet hair.

  He moaned.

  Oh, Hank.

  She knew that she’d needed to put her hands on him since the first time she’d seen him covered with children and laughing.

  His hand touched her breast and her nipple peaked. She fell away from his kiss and closed her eyes. His lips wrapped around her nipple and her eyes flew open. He’d pulled her suit down off her left shoulder. She looked down at the head of the man suckling at her naked breast and threaded her fingers through his chestnut hair. She lifted the streak of caramel, soft between her fingers.

  Electricity shot from her breast through her belly to her groin and she reveled in it, all of it new, powerful, profound.

  Oh, Hank.

  His hand caressed her other breast through the damp fabric. She felt nothing. Nothing.

  Oh, God. The wrong breast. She gasped and pulled away. No! She couldn’t let him touch her, let him find out, have him look at her with disgust.

  She grasped the fabric over her prosthesis, held fast and hard so he wouldn’t move it.

  He looked at her with his dark eyes glazed with desire. For her. No, not for her. For a whole woman.

  “I can’t.” Her voice cracked with disappointment in the destruction of her femininity, her life, her dreams.

  She knew what men thought of scarred women.

  Hank shook his head, still looking dazed.

  “What?” he asked, his breath hot on her face.

  “I can’t do this.” She ached, wept, tried to step away. He wouldn’t let her.

  “You want this as much as I do.” His thumb rubbed across the aroused nipple of her bare breast, her good one.

  She slammed her hand over his and removed it from her body.

  “Why not?” He bent toward her to kiss her again.

  She pushed him away.

  “I don’t understand you,” Hank murmured. “Do you want me or don’t you?”