Rough Diamonds: Wyoming ToughDiamond in the Rough

by Diana Palmer

  “Mallory,” she sobbed, arching, shuddering.

  “Now, baby,” he whispered, and the rhythm increased and his body became demanding, as control slipped away. “Now, now, now!”

  She cried out, clutching him as she moved, too, desperate to twist up and meet that hard thrust, make it deeper, make it harder, make it, make it, make it…blaze up…like a furnace!

  Her teeth bit into him as she climaxed, her body convulsing in a tense arch as she drowned in pleasure she’d never dreamed could exist. She was barely aware of his own rough movement, the hoarse cries of pleasure at her ears as he went over the edge with her. They clung together in ecstasy, as passion spent itself over a space of heated, mad seconds.

  And even then, they couldn’t stop moving. She ground her hips up against his, pleading for more.

  “Oh, don’t stop,” she pleaded.

  “I can’t,” he whispered in a hoarse chuckle. “Sweet. So damned sweet. I thought I was going to die of it!”

  “Me, too!”

  He lifted his head as he moved down against her, watching her pleasure grow all over again. Her response delighted him, made him feel ten feet tall. She showed no sign of wanting to stop at all.

  “Go ahead, gloat,” she whispered unsteadily.

  “I love you,” he whispered back, and kissed her hungrily. “My brave, beautiful, unbelievably sexy wife. I’d die for you.”

  She hugged him close. “I’d die for you.”

  His mouth crushed down over hers. “I’m spent, baby,” he whispered against her lips. “But I can last a little longer. I’ll pleasure you as long as I can, okay?”

  She wasn’t hearing him, or understanding him. She was in the grip of a fever so hot she thought she would burn to death. But finally, finally, she shuddered one last time and the tension snapped. She collapsed under him with a trembling sigh.

  He rolled over beside her and gathered her close. “Satisfied?”

  “Yes. I don’t understand,” she whispered into his throat.

  “Women take longer than men do,” he explained. “But a man spends himself and it takes time for him to be able to go again. Women last a lot longer in passion.”

  “Oh.”

  He lifted his head and searched her eyes. “You were right.”

  “I was? About what?”

  He kissed her eyelids. “About waiting.” He looked at her solemnly. “Right now, I’m sorry that I ever had a woman in my life before I met you.”

  She touched his mouth gently. “I’m not sure I’m sorry,” she whispered drily.

  He lifted both eyebrows.

  “You are very, very good in bed,” she mused. “From a beginner’s standpoint, I mean. I was afraid,” she confessed. “I’d heard some horror stories from other women about wedding nights. Especially about men losing control and hurting them badly.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t hurt you,” he replied softly and kissed her again. “I love you too much. It had to be good for you, or it wouldn’t have been good for me at all.”

  She smiled lazily and moved against him, but suddenly she winced.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Sore?”

  She flushed.

  He laughed indulgently. “It’s a side effect of headlong passion and abstinence. Not to worry, a couple of days’ rest and we’ll be back to normal. Meanwhile,” he added with a chuckle, “we might consider ordering food and watching something on pay-per-view. What do you say?”

  She sat up, gingerly, and nodded. “That might be a good idea.”

  He stood up, stretched and then grinned at her admiring gaze, picked her up and carried her into the bathroom. “But first we can have a nice relaxing shower and play doctor!”

  She burst out laughing. Not only was marriage a passion feast, it also seemed to be the most fun she’d ever had.

  A WEEK LATER, THEY WERE doing the tango in an exclusive club in Jamaica, right on the beach.

  “I told you I’d learn quickly with the right teacher,” Mallory teased, kissing her ear as they moved around the room.

  “Yes, and you did.”

  “So did you,” he whispered outrageously.

  She peered up at him mischievously. “I bought this book today.”

  “You did? A book?” He leaned down. “What sort of book?”

  “It’s a detailed book about how to, well, how to do stuff. With your husband.”

  “I don’t have a husband,” he groaned. “What about me?”

  “It’s a book for a woman about how to do stuff with her husband,” she informed him. “It’s very detailed.”

  “Does it have pictures?” he asked with wide eyes.

  She glared at him. “It doesn’t need pictures.”

  “Then, can you demonstrate it for me?” he added, and his dark eyes were twinkling.

  She laughed out loud. “Oh, I think I can do that.”

  “Now?” he asked, stopping in the middle of the dance floor.

  “Here?” she asked, horrified.

  “How dare you?” he huffed. “I’m a decent, upright man, I am.”

  “You can’t be upright while I demonstrate this book,” she pointed out. She pursed her lips. “You have to be in a reclining position.”

  “This is getting better by the minute. Shall we go?”

  He held out his arm. She put hers through it with a chuckle. “By all means. It might take some time,” she added as they left the room. “I’m not sure I’ve got it down pat just yet.”

  “I promise not to complain, no matter how long it takes,” he assured her with laughing dark eyes.

  It did take a very long time. But he kept his promise. He didn’t complain. Not even once.

  Diamond in the Rough

  Diana Palmer

  For my friend Nancy C., who came all the way from Indiana just to meet me. Thanks for the beautiful cowboy quilt, Nancy—I’ll never forget you!

  And thanks to all of you on my bulletin board at my website, including Nancy and Amy, who spent hours of their precious free time making me a compendium of all the families in Jacobsville, Texas!

  Now, guys, maybe I can make fewer mistakes when I write about them! Love you all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE little town, Hollister, wasn’t much bigger than Medicine Ridge, Montana, where John Callister and his brother Gil had a huge ranch. But they’d decided that it wasn’t wise to confine their whole livelihood to one area. They needed to branch out a little, maybe try something different. On the main ranch, they ran a purebred bull and breeding operation with state-of-the-art science. John and Gil had decided to try something new here in Hollister, Montana; a ranch which would deal specifically in young purebred sale bulls, using the latest technology to breed for specific traits like low calving weight, lean conformation, and high weight gain ratio, among others. In addition, they were going to try new growth programs that combined specific organic grasses with mixed protein and grains to improve their production.

  In the depressed economy, tailor-made beef cattle would cater to the discerning organic beef consumer. Gil and John didn’t run beef cattle, but their champion bulls were bred to appeal to ranchers who did. It was a highly competitive field, especially with production costs going sky-high. Cattlemen could no longer depend on random breeding programs left up to nature. These days, progeny resulted from tailored genetics. It was a high-tech sort of agriculture. Gil and John had pioneered some of the newer computer-based programs that yielded high on profits coupled with less wasteful producer strategies.

  For example, Gil had heard about a program that used methane gas from cattle waste to produce energy to run ranch equipment. The initial expense for the hardware had been high, but it was already producing results. Much of the electricity used to light the barns and power the ranch equipment was due to the new technology. Any surplus energy could be sold back to the electric company. The brothers had also installed solar panels to heat water in the main house and run hydraulic equipment in the breeding barn and the stockya
rd. One of the larger agricultural magazines had featured an article about their latest innovations. Gil’s photo, and that of his daughters and his new wife had graced the pages of the trade publication. John had been at a cattle show and missed the photo shoot. He didn’t mind. He’d never been one to court publicity. Nor was Gil. But they wouldn’t miss a chance to advertise their genetically superior cattle.

  John usually traveled to show the cattle. But he was getting tired of spending his life on the road. Now that Gil had married Kasie, the brothers’ former secretary, and the small girls from Gil’s first marriage, Bess and Jenny, were in school, John was feeling lonelier than ever, and more restless. Not that he’d had a yen for Kasie, but Gil’s remarriage made him aware of the passing of time. He wasn’t getting any younger; he was in his thirties. The traveling was beginning to wear on him. Although he dated infrequently, he’d never found a woman he wanted to keep. He was also feeling like a fifth wheel at the family ranch.

  So he’d volunteered to come up to Hollister to rebuild this small, dilapidated cattle ranch that he and Gil had purchased and see if an injection of capital and new blood stock and high-tech innovation could bring it from bankruptcy to a higher status in the world of purebred cattle.

  The house, which John had only seen from aerial photos, was a wreck. No maintenance had been done on it for years by its elderly owner. He’d had to let most of his full-time cowboys go when the market fell, and he wasn’t able to keep up with the demands of the job with the part-timers he retained. Fences got broken, cattle escaped, the well went dry, the barn burned down and, finally, the owner decided to cut his losses. He’d offered the ranch for sale, as-is, and the Callister brothers had bought it from him. The old man had gone back East to live with a daughter.

  Now John had a firsthand look at the monumental task facing him. He’d have to hire new cowboys, build a barn as well as a stable, spend a few thousand making the house livable, sink a well, restring the fences, buy equipment, set up the methane-based power production plant…He groaned at the thought of it. The ranch in Medicine Ridge was state-of-the-art. This was medieval, by comparison. It was going to take longer than a month or two. This was a job that would take many months. And all that work had to be done before any cattle could be brought onto the place. What had seemed like a pleasant hobby in the beginning now looked like it would become a career.

  There were two horses in a corral with a lean-to for protection from the weather, all that remained of the old man’s Appaloosas. The remuda, or string of working ranch horses, had been sold off long ago. The remaining part-time cowboys told John that they’d brought their own mounts with them to work, while there was still a herd of cattle on the place. But the old man had sold off all his stock and let the part-timers go before he sold the ranch. Lucky, John thought, that he’d been able to track them down and offer them full-time jobs again. They were eager for the work. The men all lived within a radius of a few miles. If John had to wait on replacing the ranch’s horses, the men could bring their own to work temporarily while John restocked the place.

  He planned to rebuild and restock quickly. Something would have to be done about a barn. A place for newborn calves and sick cattle was his first priority. That, and the house. He was sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag, heating water on a camp stove for shaving and bathing in the creek. Thank God, he thought, that it was spring and not winter. Food was purchased in the town’s only café, where he had two meals a day. He ate sandwiches for lunch, purchased from a cooler in the convenience store/gas station at the edge of town. It was rough living for a man who was used to five-star hotels and the best food money could buy. But it was his choice, he reminded himself.

  He drove into town in a mid-level priced pickup truck. No use advertising that he was wealthy. Prices would skyrocket, since he wasn’t on friendly terms with anyone here. He’d only met the cowboys. The people in town didn’t even know his name yet.

  The obvious place to start, he reasoned, was the feed store. It sold ranch supplies including tack. The owner might know where he could find a reputable builder.

  He pulled up at the front door and strode in. The place was dusty and not well-kept. There seemed to be only one employee, a slight girl with short, wavy dark hair and a pert figure, wearing a knit pullover with worn jeans and boots.

  She was sorting bridles but she looked up when he approached. Like many old-time cowboys, he was sporting boots with spurs that jingled when he walked. He was also wearing an old Colt .45 in a holster slung low on his hip under the open denim shirt he was wearing with jeans and a black T-shirt. It was wild country, this part of Montana, and he wasn’t going out on the range without some way of protecting himself from potential predators.

  The girl stared at him in an odd, fixed way. He didn’t realize that he had the looks that would have been expected in a motion picture star. His blond hair, under the wide-brimmed cowboy hat, had a sheen like gold, and his handsome face was very attractive. He had the tall, elegant body of a rider, lean and fit and muscular without exaggerated lines.

  “What the hell are you doing?” came a gruff, angry voice from the back. “I told you to go bring in those new sacks of feed before the rain ruins them, not play with the tack! Get your lazy butt moving, girl!”

  The girl flushed, looking frightened. “Yes, sir,” she said at once, and jumped up to do what he’d told her to.

  John didn’t like the way the man spoke to her. She was very young, probably still in her teens. No man should speak that way to a child.

  He approached the man with a deadpan expression, only his blue eyes sparkling with temper.

  The man, overweight and half-bald, older than John, turned as he approached. “Something I can do for you?” he asked in a bored tone, as if he didn’t care whether he got the business or not.

  “You the owner?” John asked him.

  The man glared. “The manager. Tarleton. Bill Tarleton.”

  John tilted his hat back. “I need to find someone who can build a barn.”

  The manager’s eyebrows arched. His eyes slid over John’s worn jeans and boots and inexpensive clothing. He laughed. His expression was an insult. “You own a ranch around here?” he asked in disbelief.

  John fought back his temper. “My boss does,” he said, in an impulsive moment. “He’s hiring. He just bought the Bradbury place out on Chambers Road.”

  “That old place?” Tarleton made a face. “Hell, it’s a wreck! Bradbury just sat on his butt and let the place go to hell. Nobody understood why. He had some good cattle years ago, cattlemen came from as far away as Oklahoma and Kansas to buy his stock.”

  “He got old,” John said.

  “I guess. A barn, you say.” He pursed his lips. “Well, Jackson Hewett has a construction business. He builds houses. Fancy houses, some of them. I reckon he could build a barn. He lives just outside town, over by the old train station. He’s in the local telephone directory.”

  “I’m obliged,” John said.

  “Your boss…he’ll be needing feed and tack, I guess?” Tarleton added.

  John nodded.

  “If I don’t have it on hand, I can order it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. I need something right now, though—a good tool kit.”

  “Sassy!” he yelled. “The man wants a tool kit! Bring one of the boxes from that new line we started stocking!”

  “Yes, sir!” There was the sound of scrambling boots.

  “She ain’t much help,” the manager grumbled. “Misses work sometimes. Got a mother with cancer and a little sister, six, that the mother adopted. I guess she’ll end up alone, just her and the kid.”

  “Does the mother get government help?” John asked, curious.

  “Not much,” Tarleton scoffed. “They say she never did much except sit with sick folk, even before she got the cancer. Sassy’s bringing in the only money they got. The old man took off years ago with another woman. Just left. At least they got a house. Ain’t mu
ch of one, but it’s a roof over their heads. The mother got it in the divorce settlement.”

  John felt a pang when he noticed the girl tugging a heavy toolbox. She looked as if she was barely able to lift a bridle.

  “Here, I’ll take that,” John said, trying to sound nonchalant. He took it from her hands and set it on the counter, popping it open. His eyebrows lifted as he examined the tools. “Nice.”

  “Expensive, too, but it’s worth it,” Tarleton told him.

  “Boss wants to set up an account in his own name, but I’ll pay cash for this,” John said, pulling out his wallet. “He gave me pocket money for essentials.”

  Tarleton’s eyes got bigger as John started peeling off twenty-dollar bills. “Okay. What name do I put on the account?”

  “Callister,” John told him without batting an eyelash. “Gil Callister.”

  “Hey, I’ve heard of him,” Tartleton said at once, giving John a bad moment. “He’s got a huge ranch down in Medicine Ridge.”

  “That’s the one,” John said. “Ever seen him?”

  “Who, me?” The older man laughed. “I don’t run in those circles, no, sir. We’re just country folk here, not millionaires.”

  John felt a little less worried. It would be to his advantage if the locals didn’t know who he really was. Not yet, anyway. Since he was having to give up cattle shows for the foreseeable future, there wasn’t much chance that his face would be gracing any trade papers. It might be nice, he pondered, to be accepted as an ordinary man for once. His wealth seemed to draw opportunists, especially feminine ones. He could enjoy playing the part of a cowboy for a change.