Best of Cowboys Bundle

by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Barbara White Daille, Judy Christenberry, Christine Wenger, Shirley Rogers, Crystal Green, Nina Bruhns, Candance Schuler, Carole Mortimer

How would the stubbornly disinterested Mr. Jackson react to that one? Not that his reaction was important. But it irked her to be so thoroughly…unnoticed.

  “I’ll take it,” she said on a mad whim, her face instantly heating.

  What was she thinking? Never mind. Too late now.

  The saleslady threw in a thick pair of socks so Rhiannon could wear the boots along with her jeans. She tucked the bandanna discretely into a bag with her skirt and pumps as she left the shop. Her white blouse was a little prissy for jeans and boots, but it would have to do for now. She wasn’t ready to try out the bandanna just yet. Later. When she was alone. Or nearly so.

  The cowboy boots felt strange to walk in as she turned toward Jake’s. Stiff, with their thick leather stovepipe sides and low wooden heels. But not unpleasant. More like…substantial. Protective. Like nothing could harm her while she wore them.

  She couldn’t ever remember feeling this way before. Odd that it should come in this exotic foreign place, amid people she didn’t know, from something as unlikely as footwear.

  She walked into Jake’s, and every head in the place turned to stare. She stood self-consciously for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The sharp smell of beer, hard liquor and an echo of cigar and cigarette smoke assaulted her, along with the sight of Redhawk leaning against the bar talking to a pretty brunette with big brown eyes.

  “Over here, love!” she heard Fitz call from the other end.

  She waved and walked right past Redhawk, ignoring him. What did she care if he talked to pretty brunettes?

  “These are my friends Otis, Jim and Pete. And this is Rhiannon,” Fitz said, taking her hand in his. “Janet’s girl.”

  The other three men mumbled greetings and gazed at her with interest.

  “Aye, the prettiest girl in County Kerry.” Fitz took a swig from his glass. “But don’t try to be takin’ her, lads. She belongs to me brother Jamie.”

  Rhiannon looked at him with concern. He was doing it again.

  On the other side of the room, someone dropped coins into the jukebox with a ching-kaching-ching. The whine of steel guitars filled the room.

  Fitz focused on the swinging saloon doors. “Lower your voices, lads. That quisling Burton Grant just walked in. What’s he doin’ here?”

  “Having lunch as always, Fitz,” Pete answered, shooting Rhiannon a dry smile.

  His friends must be familiar with his lapses of time and place. She still hadn’t gotten used to it. Being constantly mixed up with her mother was a bit disconcerting.

  “How’s it goin’, boys?” Burton Grant paused by their table and turned to Fitz. “Hear you had another visit from them rustlers, O’Brannoch.”

  “How did you know that?” Fitz demanded.

  Grant tipped his sheriff’s hat back on his head with a finger. “I have the sight,” he said, his voice holding a hint of irritation. He scanned the table and his gaze halted on her, giving her a double take. “So who do we have here?”

  “Fitz’s niece, Rhiannon,” Pete said.

  “Janet’s girl,” Otis added.

  “Here for a visit?” Grant asked her with an interested smile. He looked about forty, handsome in a clean-cut way.

  “Helping out at the ranch for a while.” She shook his hand when he offered it.

  He held on to it as he said, “A pleasure, Miz O’Brannoch. Let me know if the Sheriff’s Office can be of any service to you.”

  “Why, thank you, Constable Grant. I will.”

  He chuckled and let her go. “It’s Deputy, actually. But please, call me Burt.”

  He really had the nicest smile.

  “You two ready to get back? It’s getting late.” Redhawk’s sharp voice came from right behind, making her jump.

  She spun to find him scowling down at her. He was standing close. Too close. She resisted the impulse to step back from his tall frame.

  Fitz scrambled out of his seat. “Aye. It’s starting to stink in here.”

  “Uncle Fitz!”

  “That’s all right, Miz O’Brannoch.” Burt gave her a lopsided grin. “Your uncle’s got it in his head I’m some traitor from the old country. Must be the uniform.”

  “No doubt. Well, I’m pleased to meet you—”

  “Hate to break up the party, but I’ve got work to do,” Redhawk interrupted, putting a firm hand to the small of her back and turning her toward the swinging doors. “Let’s go.”

  She just managed to wave a goodbye to Burt and Fitz’s friends before her uncle and his pushy foreman herded her outside.

  “Well, I never. That was rude!” she exclaimed.

  “Your uncle doesn’t like the man. Pick someone else to make eyes at.”

  The Jeep was parked right out front, and Hawk didn’t stop pushing her until she was at the driver’s side door, which he yanked open.

  “I wasn’t—”

  “You drive.” He stood, hands planted on his hips, glaring at her. Correction: at her new jeans. With an expression that warred between fury and masculine appreciation.

  Whatever his game was, she wouldn’t be unsettled by him.

  “Like what you see?” she asked.

  His flinty perusal slid down her legs. “Thought you didn’t wear denim.”

  “Changed my mind. Since I’m staying.”

  He stepped in close. “And how long are you planning on staying?”

  She tilted her head up to meet his gaze. There was not a spark of flirtation in it. Her pulse sped. He was trying to intimidate her.

  “As long as Uncle Fitz needs me,” she said. “You have a problem with that, Mr. Jackson?”

  “Would it matter if I did?”

  “No.”

  They stared at each other for long seconds, like two wolves sizing each other up.

  “Hurt him and you’ll have me to answer to,” he said in a growl low enough only she could hear.

  His threat took her by surprise. It should have made her angry. But it had the opposite effect. Redhawk’s loyalty to her uncle put his wariness about her in a very different light.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” she assured him quietly.

  “And stay away from Burton Grant,” he said, then turned to Fitz. “Let’s go, old man.”

  The drive back to the ranch was long, made even longer by Redhawk’s broody presence on the narrow rear bench of the Jeep. She drove, getting used to the feel of the vehicle, since it would be hers for the duration. Fitz slept. All the way. Even over the dirt washboard track that led up to the ranch. Maybe he’d had a mite more than a pint.

  “Did you get hold of the state archaeologist?” she asked Hawk as they passed the spot where they’d marked the skeleton.

  “She’ll be out to investigate it in the next few days,” he answered, then clammed up again.

  Rhiannon wondered if he was always this terse, or if it was only with her. He hadn’t seemed to have a problem talking to that brunette back at the bar. She’d even seen him smile.

  Not that she’d noticed or anything.

  She sighed in frustration. It wasn’t as if she wanted her uncle’s hired hand to make a move on her. But was it too much to ask that he occasionally spoke to her? Just to break the vast, overwhelming silence of this strange place?

  She’d thought it was quiet on the farm, but by comparison there’d been a veritable symphony of noise. The bells and the lowing of the cows in the pasture, the Dublin train whistling in the distance, the chatter of Aunt Bridget’s parakeet and the radio playing in the kitchen, the frogs and the seagulls and Uncle Patrick’s yapping dogs outside.

  Here there was none of that, save at dawn and dusk, which were the only times anything seemed to stir in this bloody heat. Only the endless, penetrating, maddening silence all around for a thousand miles. At times the sheer hugeness of scale nearly overwhelmed her.

  When they got back to the ranch, Rhiannon pulled to a stop in front of the barn to let Hawk out.

  Fitz woke up in the passenger seat and
peered around. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “We’re home,” Hawk told him gently. He unfolded his body from the cramped back bench and jumped to the ground. “Help Rhiannon put the groceries away, okay?”

  Fitz blinked over at her. “Janet?”

  “No, Uncle Fitz,” she said, and introduced herself for the dozenth time.

  He glanced tentatively at Redhawk, who smiled and nodded.

  “Yes, Rhiannon. I remember,” he said, but she was sure he once again had no idea who she was. His trust in Hawk’s guidance, however, was obvious.

  As she drove the few yards to the ranch house, she made up her mind. She had to get to the bottom of the enigma that was Redhawk Jackson. Find out why he disliked her so much. Dispel his mistaken belief that she somehow wanted to hurt her uncle.

  Maybe then they could live together under the same roof without walking on eggshells. Have a normal conversation now and again. Maybe even become friends.

  Perhaps more than friends.

  She took a mental step back at the errant thought.

  True, she was attracted to Redhawk. More than attracted, to be quite honest. His long, tall body was deadly gorgeous, and his face, with its dark angles and sun-creased eyes, made her ever so weak in the knees. Especially when he gave her one of those bone-melting once-overs of his. The man was walking, talking sex in a Stetson.

  Okay, maybe not so much talking. Still, who needed talk when a man looked as good as he did?

  No, wait a minute. She had to screw her head on right.

  She did need him to talk.

  Just talk.

  So they could be friends.

  Just friends.

  She wasn’t here for romance. She was done with romance. Robbie Trevalian had taught her you could know a man for years and still be deceived by his charming smile, believing his lies, all the while setting yourself up for heartache of epic proportions. Just as her mother had been deceived by her father. Love was for the gullible. Not her.

  No, it would be a good long time before Rhiannon O’Brannoch would again trust a man, if ever. With her heart, at any rate.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t look. After all, Irish women never shied away from appreciating a fine specimen of the male species. Looking was safe enough.

  And talking.

  As long as she kept her wits about her. And as long as the male in question felt like talking.

  Which brought her back to her original quandary.

  How to make the man talk?

  Hawk eased down into the warm water with a long sigh. Heaven. After spending the afternoon stringing new barbed wire where the rustlers had cut it, the pulled muscle in his shoulder burned like fire and his knee wobbled like a one-year-old’s. But all of that was forgotten the moment his body submerged into the sun-heated cocoon of his private Jacuzzi.

  The day had ended, but the blazing remnants of sunset lingered on the horizon, the cobalt-blue sky oozing down onto the red earth like giant crayons melting over the distant cliffs.

  His dirty clothes hung from the fence rail, his boots stood where he’d dropped them on the ground below, and three cold, dripping bottles of Colorado’s finest sat in a neat line on the edge of the long, narrow cattle trough awaiting their turn to help numb his mind and the soreness of his muscles.

  He’d been waiting for this moment all day.

  Pulling his hat over his eyes, he let his body unfurl and relax, floating down until he could rest his neck and head on the rough metal lip of the short end. Even with his six-foot-plus frame, there was a foot or two to spare. Enough to seat a whole other person, if the occasion ever presented itself.

  “Mind if I join you?” Rhiannon’s voice said just above him.

  With a huge splash, he airplaned his arms to sit up, sputtering water that swamped over him when he slid into the trough. He righted his dripping hat and glared at her, grabbing his sore shoulder.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She was wearing a flimsy white dress with no sleeves. And the ridiculous pink boots she’d bought that morning.

  “I saw you get in,” she said, dipping a few fingers into the water. “Looks refreshing.”

  If she saw him getting in, she also saw him stripping out of his clothes. All of his clothes.

  He clamped his jaw. “It is refreshing.”

  “In that case…” She pulled off her boots, climbed into the opposite end of the trough and sat down in the water, dress and all.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  “You do realize I’m naked,” he informed her, making no move to cover himself with his hat.

  That mischievous smile played on her lips, but this time it was far from prim. “Shy?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but slid down under the water, intimately tangling her feet and legs with his. Too intimately for comfort. He gritted his teeth harder. She reemerged a moment later wet from head to toe and sat up again. He swallowed. Her white dress had all but disappeared.

  “No, I’m not shy,” he choked out. “But I thought you might be.”

  She winked. “I have my slip on.”

  “Not anymore,” he said, taking in the view. Damn, she was beautiful. Slim and curvy in all the right places.

  She glanced down and her eyes flared. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She plucked at the transparent fabric over her plump breasts in a belated show of modesty. “Oh, dear.” She looked up, her cheeks turning pink.

  “Guess you’ve never been in a wet T-shirt contest.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind,” he said, leaning back against the short end again, relaxing into the beginnings of a grin. Waiting to see what she’d do. It was nice having the advantage for a change. Her legs brushing against his were even nicer. “Doesn’t bother me to share,” he told her, “if it doesn’t bother you.”

  “In that case…” To his surprise, she leaned back, too. She bent her knees up, no doubt thinking it would block his view. It didn’t. Just made it more intriguing.

  Her breasts peeked out above her knees, round and perfect, not too big, not too small, with pretty, dusky-rose nipples that made his mouth start to water and other body parts begin to stir. He didn’t dare look any lower.

  What was going on here? Grabbing a bottle from the fence rail, he wrenched it open and took a really big swig. Then remembered his manners.

  “Beer?” he asked, reaching for one of the spares and twisting off the cap.

  “Ta,” she said. She had to lean forward to take it. His parts lurched painfully.

  Not good.

  “Damn, woman, is this you getting creative?” he ground out, certain she was tormenting him on purpose. Though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

  “Perhaps,” she said, tilting her head, studying him.

  He froze. Surely she didn’t want to—No. This had to be a failure to communicate because of the language difference. It still happened with Fitz occasionally. She couldn’t possibly mean—

  “You’re saying you want me to drag you off to my teepee?” he asked, his mind scrambling just in case she actually meant it.

  Did he want to? Oh, yeah. His body was definitely ready.

  Was it a good idea? No damn way.

  Would that stop him…?

  “Don’t be silly. I know I’m safe with you,” she said with a funny smile. Not a mischievous or seductive one, but somehow sadly knowing. His budding fantasies screeched to a halt.

  Safe?

  Knees bent, her legs rested between his to about midcalf. It would be easy enough to reverse that and take what he wanted if he were so inclined. Which he wasn’t, of course. But still.

  “How can you be so sure you’re safe?” he asked, feeling vaguely and unreasonably insulted, all things considered.

  “Because you don’t like me.”

  Ah.

  He regarded her in the growing darkness, her wet hair curling in fiery tendrils around her face and shoulders. It wasn’t tru
e—far from true—but he’d acted like he disliked her since their first meeting. Spoken aloud so brutally, her matter-of-fact assessment shamed him deeply. But he wasn’t willing to admit it just yet.

  However…Damn, if she really wanted him, who was he to refuse?

  Underwater, he curled his foot past the hem of her slip and forward, then trailed his toes lightly along the back of her bare thigh. Her mouth parted.

  “I’m liking you more by the minute,” he said, giving her a lazy come-and-get-me smile.

  She put a hand on his ankle and set his foot away. “That’s just sex,” she said quietly.

  He hiked a brow. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “No,” she said.

  Okay, miscommunication it was. He settled back again, tossing his hat onto the fencepost. Uncertain whether he should be massively disappointed or grateful for the reprieve from his own foolishness.

  “If not sex, then what do you want?” he asked.

  Like there were a lot of choices. How stupid could he get, thinking it was him she was interested in?

  What the hell. May as well get all the bad news in one fell swoop so he could move on with his life. Or what would be left of it after she’d stolen the best part.

  “I want to be friends.”

  Right. He sighed and tipped his beer, draining the contents in two swallows. “I doubt that’s possible,” he said, wincing at a painful twang in his shoulder when he set it down.

  After a short pause she said, “Did you hurt your shoulder?”

  “Yeah. Loading the steer yesterday.”

  “Turn around, then. I’ll massage the muscles for you.”

  He gazed into her face. How could a woman be so wise and so naive at the same time? “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  Lifting her own shoulder, she handed him her beer and he held it, not sure what would happen next. Cupping her hands, she scooped up water from the trough and let it trickle down onto her neck and chest. The light was almost gone by now, but he could see the silhouette of enjoyment on her face. Such a simple gesture, but the sensuality of it took his breath away.

  Why couldn’t it have been him she wanted?

  “Tell me,” she said, splashing her face, “why you don’t like me.”

  Watching her pour, he thought about what he should say, how much, if he should say anything at all or simply take his disappointment like a man.