The Cowboy Wore A Kilt

by Grace Burrowes

  She turned off all the burners and made her way to Declan's room, then tapped on his door. "Food's ready."

  No reply, suggesting Declan had stepped out on the back terrace. Claudia knocked again, counted to ten, then opened the door.

  Moses in the bulrushes.

  Declan MacLeod lay on his side in the bad, one knee bent, eyes closed, his right arm jammed beneath the pillow. The sheets were tangled around one calf, but the rest of him, the muscular, beautiful, mouthwateringly naked rest of him, was on display.

  The line from his back to his waist, over his flank, down to his knee was male poetry, and the pattern of auburn hair trailing from his chest to his belly a road map of feminine fantasies. His left hand resting against the mattress was palm up, his fingers half-curled in a gesture of unconscious invitation.

  To study him while he slept was wrong—trespassing on his privacy—and irresistible. The male animal could be such an attractive beast, and this version of Declan, without the camouflage of manners or clothing, was luscious.

  And he was apparently enjoying some marvelous dreams—of her?

  Claudia let herself have one last, longing, look—my, my, my, the Creator had been generous to Declan MacLeod—then silently closed the door. The temptation to climb into that bed with him had her pressing her back to the wall and taking slow, deep breaths.

  Two things stopped her from stripping down in the hallway and making some of her dreams come true.

  First, in dealing with men, Claudia believed in a sauce-for-the-goose philosophy. In college, had she been a guy who loved to ride, no question her routine would have included a lot of early mornings at the horse barn. Girlfriends would either accommodate that priority or find another guy to hang with. Claudia had expected her own equestrian ambitions to be given the same respect, albeit with limited success.

  In this case, if a guy had presumed to climb into her bed on less than forty-eight hours'acquaintance—even if that guy had been Declan—she'd probably have woken up feeling a mite crowded.

  She took five more slow, deep breaths.

  The second realization holding her back had to do with not trusting her welcome in Declan's bed. He'd been a perfect, if friendly, gentleman last night, but most times when Claudia had pitched—a kiss, an arm around his waist, an invitation to cuddle—he'd let the ball go sailing past him.

  Was he being a Scottish version of a perfect gentleman, or—the idea nearly had her sliding down the wall—was he being kind to a woman who ought to know better?

  Dadgummit.

  "Declan, wake up." Claudia rapped on the door for good measure. "Breakfast is ready."

  A muffled sound came from beyond the door.

  "If you're not in the kitchen in five minutes I will personally throw you out of that bed."

  "I'll be there!"

  He showed up in the kitchen wearing jeans, a heliotrope T-shirt that had a picture of that famous castle on it—Eileen Somebody—his hair damp-combed into order.

  Claudia wanted to kiss his cheek in greeting, get him out of those clothes, and mess up his hair.

  "Have a seat," she said, putting a dish of bacon on the table, then taking a chair. "Pancakes are to your left, and I'm calling dibs on the butter. Tell me about how you landed your special projects job."

  Maybe if she understood Declan better, she could decipher his signals more easily.

  He took three little pancakes—only three—and two strips of bacon. His idea of a serving of butter wouldn't keep Hotay busy for two minutes, and he used enough syrup to attract about one low-flying insect.

  "How I got my job was simple. I was in the middle of designing a one-room schoolhouse for a village on the northwest coast of Scotland, and one of Brewster's exploratory boats got in trouble."

  Claudia poured maple syrup over all four of her pancakes. "Why a one-room schoolhouse?"

  "Two reasons. First, they are excellent educational environments. The children learn to focus, to work independently, and to absorb a lot of passive learning. Second, the northwest of Scotland is sparsely populated. Some of the villages are accessible only by boat, and their Internet access is dodgy. The simpler the school building, the more affordable it is. These pancakes are quite good."

  They were quite small too.

  "So you were minding your own business, designing this school, and a boat got in trouble?"

  "In more ways than one. Brewster has never admitted it, but I suspect his boat wasn't supposed to be in the Minch at all. Brewster has North Sea projects, which is east of Scotland, while the boat was sailing about among the Western Isles. In any case, the boat ran aground on a shoal when a storm was bearing down. I figured out how to free the boat before it and all the scientific equipment aboard got smashed to bits. Brewster decided to thank me in person."

  Maybe Declan made a powerful first impression on everybody.

  "And from there, you were offered a job. Is that how you got to Texas?"

  He used his fork differently from a lot of Americans, putting the fork in his mouth tines down. Claudia liked knowing that detail about him, and attributed it to a European upbringing.

  "When I was working on my master's, I did some summer oceanographic work in San Diego, and drove back to the East Coast on I-10. Texas fascinated me. I had a chance that autumn to do two conferences in Houston, and I was hooked. When Brewster offered the job out of his Aberdeen office, I leaped at it. That was more than two years ago."

  This recitation might have come from any guest over Claudia's breakfast table, though she served breakfast most often in the dining room or on the front porch. She was abundantly aware of Declan's knee casually bumping hers under the table when he reached for more bacon.

  "Why Texas?" Claudia had her own answers to that question, but she wanted to hear his.

  "The people are friendly, for one thing. They have plans and dreams and a forward energy I didn't find back home. The sun doesn't go into mourning every winter, or require you to hang blackout curtains in the summer. There's history here—some of it violent and sad—but not endless millennia of contention, turning half the backyards in half the neighborhoods into historical sites. Would you like more pancakes?"

  "Help yourself. Juice?"

  "Please."

  They ate in silence for the time it took Claudia to finish her pancakes and snitch a fourth strip of crispy bacon. All manner of questions presented themselves for Claudia's consideration:

  Are you gay? None of her damned business, of course.

  Have any interest in a Texas fling? Except Declan was a good-looking guy who knew how to handle himself. If he was interested, he'd have let Claudia know it by now.

  How would a nice Scottish guy like you come on to a woman he's just met?

  "I was hungrier than I realized," Declan said, when he'd demolished eight pancakes and a half-dozen strips of bacon. "That syrup is different from what I have back home."

  I'm hungrier than I realized too. "Good old Vermont maple syrup," Claudia said. "Can I get you anything else? Cup of coffee? Tea?"

  Me? Good God, she was a disaster. Maybe all women went a little nuts the year they turned thirty.

  "How about if I help with the dishes, and then you can put me in the saddle? For today, sticking to the arena probably makes the most sense, though if you think the footing isn't solid, I've brought plenty of work with me, and I can keep myself occupied."

  "I can put you in the saddle. Did you bring a pair of boots?"

  "I did, and gloves. Your advert said you have riding helmets here."

  "Never climb aboard without a helmet on, Declan. That one's non-negotiable or I could lose my insurance. Fetch your boots, and I'll put the dishes to soak."

  He didn't take orders very well, something Claudia could grow to like about him. Instead of toddling off to put on boots, he put away the butter, syrup, and juice, wrapped up the bacon, and as Claudia washed the dishes, he dried and put away.

  And that was…Claudia's own dad had considered th
e kitchen a woman's domain. He wouldn't even wash out a coffee cup if a clean one was available to use instead.

  Claudia pulled the stopper from the drain and watched the water disappear. Declan, I'm falling for you.

  Nobody said stuff like that, not after a few days' acquaintance. And yet, at the Sugar Shack and honky-tonks all over Texas, people managed to find dance partners without making idiot declarations.

  So Claudia gave up on the words, and when Declan had folded the dish towel just so over the handle of the oven, she stepped in close, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him on the mouth.

  Chapter Four

  Oh, ye saints and angels.

  Claudia tasted of maple syrup and determination. Also desire. Declan hadn't had time to deal with the wayward urges that had plagued him upon waking, and they came roaring back, ready to destroy common sense, decency, and scruples in ten seconds flat.

  "Claudia…"

  She felt perfect in his arms. Lithe, feminine, not too diminutive and not too tall. The fit was sublime, and the lady was not shy. For the space of a half-dozen heartbeats, Declan wasn't shy either. He was aroused, interested, eager, and all hers. Claudia's passion was like lightning hitting a parched landscape, and between I'll let her down easily and Somebody had better stop this, the wildfire nearly engulfed Declan's self-restraint.

  "You want me." Claudia rested her forehead on his chest. "Or you want sex. I'm an adult, Declan. I'm not looking for fairy tales, so don't give me the speech, okay?"

  Declan longed to share a fairy tale with her. "What speech?"

  "About leaving your options open, and not making plans, and whatever other euphemism you use to keep it light. You will get in your little red car and tool down my drive come Saturday morning, I know that."

  She did not know he intended to leave with the figurative deed to her ranch in his back pocket.

  Declan shifted, bracing his butt against the table and spreading his legs so he could bundle Claudia in close. The feel of her against him was bliss, and for an instant, he considered lifting her onto the table and obliging their mutual lust.

  A soft scratching sound interrupted that fantasy—the cat, who was apparently on the back terrace.

  "Mralph." A polite, pathetic call to sanity.

  "I'm serving cat burgers for dinner," Claudia said, dropping her arms from Declan's waist and going to the back door.

  She'd be serving MacLeod burgers if Declan let this attraction go anywhere.

  Hotay strutted into the kitchen, tail held high, and stropped himself against Declan's boots. "Mraaaalph."

  "Claudia, you deserve more than what you Americans call a roll in the hay," Declan said.

  She shut the door firmly. "What I deserve and what I want are for me to say, Declan. You're interested, and unless you're committed elsewhere, I'm interested too."

  Damn, damn, and double damn.

  Hotay stood up on his back legs and sank his front claws into Declan's thigh. Declan lifted the cat against his chest. The damn beast was heavy and purring like a touring bike.

  Shortly after taking the job with Brewster, Declan had seen one of Brewster's business associates kick a cat for rubbing against his boots. The animal had scampered off, hissing with indignation, but the image had stuck with Declan.

  If Declan took advantage of Claudia's trust, he'd be worse than Brewster, and that was a serious criticism. If Declan were honest with Claudia now…

  He had to be honest with her now.

  "The commitment that keeps me from obliging my desire for you is to my job, Claudia. I'm not what I appear to be, and if you tell me to get in my little red car and leave the property within the hour, I'll go."

  She peeled Hotay from his grasp, and Declan let the cat go. "Tell me the rest of it, and be ready to run like hell, Declan MacLeod. All the way back to your fancy-ass company in Houston. I cannot abide a liar or a thief."

  More than either of those, Claudia Jensen would disrespect a coward. "Brewster Energy more or less owns the mortgage on this ranch, and they'll find an excuse to foreclose if you don't accept their offer on the property. I'm here to make that deal happen so Thad Brewster can turn this place into a corporate training center and canyon retreat."

  He expected her to order him off the ranch, to explode into the sort of invective that Longhorn bulls knew to run from.

  She cuddled the cat and slid into a chair at the table where they'd just shared a meal. "You've come to steal the Bar J?"

  "Aye."

  "That is lower than a snake's belly in a Death Valley wagon rut, Declan."

  "No argument there."

  "If my mortgage is paid up, can this Brewster guy still take the ranch?"

  She ought not to trust another word out of Declan's mouth. He turned around the chair to her right and straddled it.

  "They'll find something, Claudia. Some piece of fine print, some failure to maintain the property according to the terms of the loan. They'll say you didn't get the well inspected, that some underground storage tank is leaking. They'll let your cattle loose, or your horses. Brewster knows there are lines I won't cross, but I've seen too many coincidences go his way not to warn you. Thwarting him is ill-advised."

  She rubbed her chin across the cat's head. Hotay sent Declan a look that combined feline disgust with she likes me better and always will.

  "What does Brewster have over you, Declan? He must have you by the balls somehow. A man does not stay awake half the night with a boogered-up horse, get all lit up talking about engineering for deaf people, and make me a bed of straw bales—much less a cup of coffee—and then turn around and knife me in the heart unless his back's to the wall."

  Declan didn't understand her question at first. He tried patting Hotay on the head, and the cat hissed at him and batted at his hand—claws extended.

  "Good kitty." Claudia kissed Hotay's ear. "Why don't you tell Brewster this is one special project he needs to drop? You solve this guy's problems, and calling in the occasional favor the other direction is part of how business is done."

  She was talking to him. Declan took heart from the fact that Claudia was talking to him, trying to understand the challenge she faced.

  "You understand how business is done, Claudia, but Thad Brewster inherited his money and has never had to work a day in his life. He dabbles at business when it pleases him to, then comes roaring into the boardroom and throws his money and his temper around. He has no children, his father is gone, his mother thinks the sun rises in his baby-blue eyes. Life is pretty much on his terms."

  "A rogue stud colt," Claudia said, scratching Hotay's chin. "Ranker 'n hell, and gets worse the longer he's allowed to get away with his bad manners. You picked a bad bronc, Declan. He'll buck you off and stomp you for the fun of it."

  Well put. "I know that now. Two years ago, Brewster was the sincerely grateful oil executive who told me I was the answer to his prayers. Nothing could have pleased him more than welcoming me to Texas on his payroll."

  "You fell hard," Claudia said. "Texas will do that. Not that I forgive you."

  Declan could not expect her forgiveness and, in fact, didn't want it. He did, though, want her respect.

  "If I cross Brewster, I'll be on the next plane to Edinburgh, with no hope of returning for a long, long time. He'll still come after your ranch, and I won't be around to ensure the terms are reasonable."

  Claudia set the cat aside. "You are not my new best friend, Declan. Your situation is not my fault, and you could cost me my home. Brewster probably pays you a handsome salary, good benefits, with hot and cold running dancing girls on Friday nights. If you're done threatening me, I have horses to ride."

  "And I have a paycheck to earn," Declan retorted. "I work for Thad Brewster, Claudia, and I owe him my loyalty, even when I disagree with his objectives."

  She shot to her feet. "Then you're as bad as he is, Declan, because his objectives are greedy, selfish, and wrong. You're paid up here through the week, and I honestly need the
money, so I won't throw you out. Just stay out of my way, and don't provoke me."

  "If you will give me five minutes of your time, I can explain to you why Brewster wants this ranch," Declan said, keeping to his seat. "I'm hoping that sometime in the next six days, I can figure out a way to get him what he needs, without costing you what you love. I can't do that alone Claudia, and I don't think you'll outfox Brewster on your own either. He's rich, canny, unscrupulous, and determined."

  Claudia let the cat out the back door, and for a moment, Declan thought she'd go stomping out after her pet. Instead, she closed the door and remained with her back to Declan.

  "I hate this, Declan. I hate that you flew false colors, I hate that you work for a snake, and I hate that your snake is trying to slither into my canyon. He might be rich, crooked, and determined, but I'm from the Canyon, stubborn as hell, and madder than a wet hen. Start talking."

  She hadn't included Declan on her list of hates. On the strength of that cheering realization, Declan launched into an explanation of the entire situation. He wasn't half started, though, when wheels crunched on the driveway.

  "Damn," Claudia said, rising from the table. "I should have called Shiloh and moved her lesson. If you have only one punctual student, don't schedule her on Monday."

  Monday…Declan had only a few days to solve a problem that affected him, Claudia, Kara, and possibly the well-being of every employee who relied on a Brewster paycheck to keep body and soul together.

  "May I watch the riding lesson?" He didn't want to let Claudia out of his sight.

  "No, you may not. Shiloh Malloy is a relatively new student, and railbirds are a pain in the behind on a good day. I'm so upset with you right now I don't want to look at you, and horses pick up on that stuff."

  "I understand. I'm going for a hike, then, and I'll see you at lunch."

  She left to teach her lesson and didn't spare Declan so much as a backward glance.

  ***

  Small riders had the potential to be the most effective. Claudia had long known this, and Shiloh Malloy was proof in the saddle. Some of the least effective riders were the big guys who tried to muscle and dominate their way through interactions with the horse. They were almost incapable of relying on anything besides brute strength. When a tricky moment arose, they had no communication skills available to ease them or their horse through the knotholes.