Untamed Cowboy (C Bar C Ranch Book 1)

by Pam Crooks

  Too bad Penn had had to talk her out of doing it. If not for the revenge he craved, he would’ve filed them himself. Mavis deserved justice as much as her son did. Neither could get away with what they were doing to Carina, no matter how willing Callie Mae had been to go along with their scheme.

  Hell, she was just a kid. Naive and impressionable. Penn doubted she had a clear picture of the whole deal even now. She’d been swept away by the novelty of all her grandmother could give her. What kid wouldn’t have been?

  In time, that would wear off, and she’d begin to see things she didn’t see before. Like how she’d hurt Carina by running off, for one. Might be she’d gotten to missing her, too. And the ranch, her grandpa and Woollie and everyone else in the C Bar C.

  Penn had never met the girl, but if she was anything like her mother, she’d be smart as a whip. Wouldn’t take long, and she’d start to see through the Webbs’ greed and selfishness and want to fight them on it.

  He frowned. Unless she was more like her father.

  And wouldn’t that be a shame if she was?

  Penn couldn’t see Carina tolerating behavior of any kind that might show similarities to Rogan’s way of doing things, but what did he know? It was none of his business, besides. He just wanted his revenge from the man. Stop his counterfeiting activities.

  Throw him behind bars for a good long while, most of all.

  And Penn would, soon enough.

  Reshuffling his thoughts, he pulled his watch from his vest pocket. Sourdough would be back at the General Store, waiting for them, in a few minutes.

  Penn’s glance slid toward the bathhouse door, still closed. Carina should’ve been done in there by now. Strange she hadn’t come out yet.

  His mind dallied over an image of her lounging in the tub, naked and beautiful with her skin glistening wet, her hair a brunette waterfall that shimmered down her shoulders and back. An image so strong, so clear, his groin tightened with a rush of heat that all but knocked the breath right out of him.

  He ground his cigarette in the weeds with a curse. He couldn’t think of Carina Lockett like that. Naked and beautiful. He couldn’t get involved with her. Not mentally. Not physically. Not at all. She’d only knock him off course in his determination to get even with Rogan.

  Hadn’t he learned anything from Abigail?

  Oh, yeah. He’d learned plenty.

  Penn straightened with renewed resolve, taking his package with him. He didn’t know what was taking Carina so long in that bathhouse, but as late as it was, he’d have to find someone to go in and do some prodding on her.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure where Private Bekins’s wife was, if she was home or went shopping, and he had no desire to scour the post looking for her.

  Nor did he want to go knocking on barracks doors to ask the favor of someone else’s wife. A quick glance around the area didn’t yield any other female who might be willing to do the job.

  Well, hell. He strode toward the bathhouse and knocked on the door himself. When Carina didn’t answer, he knocked again. With the same result.

  Concern had him turning the knob and pushing the door open a space.

  “Carina,” he said.

  She didn’t respond. Frowning, he widened the opening and peered inside.

  He found her all right. Sound asleep in the metal tub. And his groin heated up all over again.

  He couldn’t have kept from going inside if he wanted to. And he would’ve been crazy if he didn’t. She drew him, like a thirsty man to water. Like a pathetically thirsty man who should know better than to intrude upon a woman’s private bath. When she was sleeping, no less. Completely unaware he was there.

  Staring. Lusting. Wanting things he shouldn’t.

  But, damn, the sight she made, reclined against the back of the tub with her long, brunette hair falling over the edge. Her knees were drawn up and resting at the side. Soapy water barely covered the mounds of her breasts, just enough to tantalize him with a glimpse of their rosy tips. To fill his head with ideas he had no business having.

  He was tantalized all right. He moved closer, quietly set aside his package and eased down into a squat beside her. Her hand curled loose on the tub’s rim, and he was struck by the sight of it, the thought of all that hand had to do.

  Too much, every day. Whether roping an ornery steer or cuddling an anxious calf, Carina worked her hands harder than any woman should have to. Regret tugged at him, and he slipped his finger beneath hers, gently lifted their limp weight and dropped a kiss to her knuckles.

  She didn’t move, her weariness that deep. Penn never claimed to be perfect, and this unexpected availability of her nakedness to enjoy at his leisure reached in and latched onto the healthy male in him. Carina Lockett was a wondrous vision of long-legged, full-breasted womanhood. If he were a weaker man, he’d peel himself naked, too, then climb in with her.

  And wouldn’t that get her good and riled?

  A corner of his mouth lifted. Too bad he had to choose the honorable route. He dipped a hand into the water, drizzled some over her bare shoulder. A lone trickle disappeared into the valley of her breasts, captivating him, compelling his gaze to linger over their glistening, rounded shape.

  And damned if he didn’t long to cup one in his palm and savor the feel of her supple flesh. Experience what Carina had to give. Which she allowed no man to have.

  Sighing, he slid his wet finger down her cheek in a light caress.

  “Carina,” he said softly. “Hey, wake up.”

  She stirred, then. Finally. A slight shifting of her dark head toward him. Her long lashes fluttered open; her mouth moved into a languid smile.

  “McClure.”

  The sultry sound of her voice shot instant heat into his blood. She’d sound the same way in the morning, he knew, and some day, some lucky man would get to hear her, see her, warm and slumberous, just like this, for the rest of his life.

  The idea of seducing her then and there had never been more appealing. But before he could convince himself it would be the absolute most stupid thing he could ever do—Carina Lockett was his boss, for damned sake—her eyes flared wide. She yelped with a flail of those willowy legs and slapped her arms over her breasts.

  “What the hell?” Water sloshed over the edge of the tub. “McClure, damn you! What are you doing—oh, get out of here! Get out!”

  He reached for the towel. “There you go, cussing again. You promised you wouldn’t, remember?”

  “I’ll have you shot for this.”

  “Yeah, well. Right now, I think I have the advantage.” He rose, shaking out the towel. “Stand up.”

  “I’ll order Private Bekins to have you locked up in jail forever.”

  “For what?” he asked, feigning innocence.

  “For—for violating my privacy, and—and—”

  He’d never seen her so flustered. For once, the she-boss didn’t have control, and wasn’t that something to behold?

  “Trust me. Nothing happened,” he said.

  “But you looked. That’s worth getting you arrested right there.”

  Her ire amused him. “Go ahead. Trump up charges against me, Carina, but that herd of yours isn’t going anywhere without us while you do.”

  He waited, still holding the towel open.

  She peered up at him, blinked, and breathed a curse. This time, at least, she had the sense to keep it lassoed to a whisper.

  “I forgot about Sourdough,” she groaned.

  Penn nodded. “He’s waiting for us.”

  “How late is it?”

  “Late,” he said, cutting her no slack.

  She swallowed. Her pride in shreds, she stood, water sluicing down those long, slim legs. He stepped closer, draped the towel around her shoulders. She clutched it closed with both hands, and he helped her climb out.

  Dripping on the wood floor, she stood before him. But Penn didn’t step away. When again would he have an opportunity like this? Carina Lockett, naked under the towe
l, at her most desirable. Purely feminine, more than that. He drew her against him, his grasp both firm and gentle, and amazingly, she didn’t resist.

  Her forehead sank onto his chest, as if she was too mortified to look him in the eye. Bathwater soaked into his shirt. She smelled like soap, like woman, and a sudden, fierce protectiveness slid through him.

  “Don’t be shy with me, Carina,” he murmured, his jaw pressed into the wet mass of her hair.

  “None of my men have ever…seen me like you did just now.”

  “No one?” he asked, teasing.

  But she was gut-twisting serious. “Not since Rogan, I mean, and that was so long ago, he—he doesn’t count.”

  Hearing the name, Penn’s teasing died. “He never deserved you, even then.”

  Her head came up. “You won’t tell them, will you? The others?”

  He stared into those violet-blue eyes, dark with worry about her prized station in life. Head of the C Bar C outfit. That her reputation with them might be tarnished from a little scandal with the trail boss.

  Something deep in his chest moved, a need to assure her she could trust him, in the bathhouse and out. His head lowered, and he touched his mouth to hers. The sensation of the fullness of her lips rolled through him, warmed his blood, tugged at his restraints. Her mouth fit itself to his with a provocative ease, as if she’d kissed him a hundred times before, naked under a towel, and if only she had, and could keep on kissing him…

  But she couldn’t, and slowly, his head lifted. Her languid gaze met his. He dragged himself backward to the reason why he’d kissed her in the first place.

  “You really think I’d tell them?” he demanded in a rough whisper.

  “Men gossip, same as women do,” she said, her voice husky.

  “I told you, Carina, nothing happened between us.” His mind lingered on what she’d said earlier. What transpired ten years previous. “You’re a beautiful woman. It’s not right you haven’t found someone to bed you since Rogan.”

  She stiffened, cheeks pinking. “That’s none of your business.”

  Penn had poked a raw spot he suspected had been gnawing at her a good long while. “Just doing a little ruminating on something you brought up first, that’s all.”

  “I don’t need a man, so don’t go feeling sorry for me that I don’t have one, all right?”

  Yet that raw spot told him she did, more than she wanted to admit. Even to herself.

  “Yeah, well, it’s a good thing you had one to get you up from your nap just now, wasn’t it?” he countered smoothly. “Otherwise you’d still be snoring.”

  She gasped, still keeping a tight hold on that towel. “I wasn’t!”

  He couldn’t help a grin from getting her hackles up so easy. “No, you weren’t. I’m just stirring your oats, that’s all.” He released her. “Now go on. Get a wiggle on it. Sourdough will be wondering what’s happened to us.”

  “I’m not getting dressed until you leave.”

  Hell, she couldn’t show him something he hadn’t already seen when she was lying naked in that tub, but he declined to remind her.

  “Five minutes,” he said. “If you’re not out of here by then, I’m coming back in.”

  He turned to leave, and his attention caught on the package he’d laid on the floor. Retrieving it, he extended the bundle toward her.

  She eyed the thing with suspicion. “What is it?”

  “It’s for you. Here.”

  “Me?” Her gaze dropped to the package, then lifted back up to him. “You bought me something?”

  “I did.”

  “Where? When?”

  “At one of the shops on Washington Avenue. A dry goods store. When you were sleeping. Or bathing. I’m not sure which.”

  She rolled her eyes at his teasing, but pivoted, presenting him with her back. She fiddled with her towel, tucked the ends securely between her breasts, and when she turned around again, her hands were free.

  “Why in blazes would you want to buy me anything?” She took the package with obvious reluctance.

  “Because I wanted to. Open it. Time’s ticking.”

  Nibbling on her lip, she tore open the brown paper. The contents appeared—pink, with ribbons and lace, and tiny pearl buttons—and she stilled. The wrapping drifted to the floor.

  “A camisole? And pantaloons?” Her cheeks turned rosy again; incredibly, her second blush of the day.

  “It’s good you recognize what they are.”

  Her perusal dragged from the underwear and narrowed over him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He thought of the garments he’d seen hanging over bushes and tree branches after she washed them these past days on the trail. Her laundry, plain white and serviceable. Far from feminine. And nothing like what he gifted her with now.

  “Figured you don’t have much of a chance to wear pretty things on a cattle drive. I’m giving you one,” he said.

  “Why?” she asked, clearly taken aback.

  “Because you’re a woman, and women like pretty things.”

  A moment passed, as if the concept was beyond her comprehension. Wearing something feminine while herding cows.

  “You deserve it, besides,” he added, thinking of Rogan and his blackmail, waiting for her with his accomplice at the end of the line. “Now, get dressed.”

  But she lingered, fingering the dainty tucks, the tiny satin bows and buttons. A faint frown tugged at her mouth.

  The decision she warred with, he knew. Accept the gift or throw it back in his face.

  Neither would be easy with that pride of hers.

  “Say ‘Thank you, Penn,’” he said gently, to steer her in the right direction.

  She glanced up at the bathhouse roof. Sighed. “Thank you, Penn.”

  He liked the way his name sounded rolling off her tongue. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “I’ve never had a man buy me underwear before.” She hugged the lingerie to her chest and finally looked at him.

  Why should that please him, being the first?

  He didn’t have time to analyze the reason, but it did, he thought, as he left her so she could get dressed. It pleased him plenty. She’d be beautiful with that soft pink fabric lying close against her creamy skin.

  But most important, she’d feel like a woman.

  New Orleans

  Callie Mae figured her life was as perfect as it could be.

  She sat prim as a princess on the gold-threaded brocade settee and stared, entranced, at the fashionable, rich-looking ladies around her, Grandmother’s high-society friends who came to the party to meet her. Some were young, some were old; some sitting, some standing. They drank tea from painted china cups and ate little cakes with icing flowers on top that Grandmother ordered from the bakery down the street.

  And, oh, they talked enough to keep a windmill going. Gossiping, the whole party long.

  But what else could they do? People here didn’t have farms or ranches like folks back in Texas. These ladies didn’t raise livestock that needed to be fed, so they didn’t go on about market prices or the newest breeds of bulls and horses. Or the best crop to plant when.

  They just talked about other people.

  Callie Mae found it a little confusing. Is that what these ladies did since they didn’t have chores? Go to parties like this and blather for hours on end?

  Sighing, she stretched out her legs and admired the bows on her shiny, patent leather shoes. One thing Callie Mae knew for sure. Getting dressed in the morning took up a bunch of their time. Shoot, her new party frock had so many buttons and petticoats and big bows to tie that it took forever to do them, and she couldn’t manage any of it without Grandmother’s help.

  But Callie Mae didn’t really mind. Her new dresses were worth the trouble. She stroked the taffeta over her lap, loving the pretty shade of blue, like a robin’s egg. Grandmother bought her dainty, striped stockings to match, and Callie Mae admired them, too. She’d never had any so fine
. Why, they felt as if she wasn’t wearing any at all!

  Except she had to be careful not to get a hole in them, and that was the worst part. Grandmother kept reminding her she’d ruin her new clothes if she didn’t sit still, and Callie Mae figured she was right. She would.

  There were times, though, she missed going out to play, doing whatever she wanted, and not worrying about what she wore. The part of her life which wasn’t so perfect. Grandmother kept her too busy meeting her lady friends and seeing all kinds of different places in New Orleans that Callie Mae hadn’t had a chance to play.

  A twinge of homesickness curled through her. If she was home right now, that’s what she’d be doing. Playing. Or riding Daisy. Or having a game of checkers with Grandpa.

  She grimaced. Unless she had to do her chores.

  Mama—Mother, she corrected herself—would make sure Callie Mae got her work done before she could do anything fun.

  Grandmother never made her work.

  Mother wouldn’t want her to wear a fancy dress like this blue party frock in the middle of the day, either.

  Grandmother didn’t want her to wear anything else but fancy dresses. Didn’t matter what time of day it was or how frilly one was or how much it cost.

  The confusion built in Callie Mae, and she fidgeted on the settee. Mother and Grandmother. The two women she loved most, who could keep her life just the way she liked it, perfect and fun, if they wanted to.

  But they didn’t.

  They were too different from one another, and they just made her life complicated instead. Neither liked the other very much, and that put Callie Mae right in the middle.

  If only she could talk to Grandpa about it. But he’d just take Mother’s side like he always did when they got to discussing Mavis Webb. So would Woollie. She couldn’t talk about it with Daddy, either, even if she dug up the courage. She hadn’t seen him for a while, besides; Grandmother said he was gone somewhere on business, and she didn’t quite know when he’d be back.