KNIGHT IN A WHITE STETSON

by Claire King

  As she eased the top-heavy stacker along the corrugates, she watched Henry, in high rubber boots, walk the ditch bank. As soon as she'd finished stacking each field, he'd been there to start the water. She hadn't known he'd even know how to do it. Gravity irrigation, in the age of huge pivot sprinklers, was fast becoming a lost art. But Henry's dirt dams held and the water swept into the cleared fields with amazing speed. She couldn't have done better herself, Calla admitted.

  It was an annoying, exhilarating thought. She'd never met anyone who could do her job as well as she could, with as much determination and skill. Not since Ben. And it had been years since she'd been able to go to sleep at night knowing there was someone other than herself she could depend on.

  A dangerous proposition, she knew, depending on Henry. Henry was a summer hand. She couldn't afford to keep him on for the year, though the idea of having someone other than Lester and Jackson to help her feed the hay they'd just put up was a heady one.

  No, she told herself firmly. She paid Henry just $850 a month, plus room and board—the going rate for summer cowboys—but it was more than the ranch could afford on a year-round basis. The loan, the final, magic one that had sent her to college loomed over her like a specter. She needed money more than she needed Henry.

  That was why she had to concentrate on Clark. It was why she needed him to hurry back. Clark, and Clark's money, was what was going to save the ranch. Not that she was marrying him, or hoped to marry him, she corrected herself, for his money. She loved him. She was sure of it. Almost sure of it. The minute she was sure of it, she'd let him know. And then she'd sleep with him, finally, and everything would be fine and she'd stop having those sweaty dreams in the middle of the night about her summer ranch hand.

  She reached the dirt road that led out of the field and toward the hay yard and gunned the stacker to full speed. It wobbled precariously under the full load of hay bales, but righted itself. She glimpsed Henry out of the corner of her eye. He had looked up sharply as she roared down the lane, and she could see him in her long side mirror, watching the stacker.

  Good, she thought with grim satisfaction. He'd been ignoring her pretty much completely for two weeks. She was his boss. He ought to pay a little closer attention to her.

  * * *

  Henry glared at the stacker as it zoomed around a corner and out of sight. He could hear it as it traveled along the road to the hay yard. It was loud. She must have floored it.

  He shook his head and went back to shoveling mud around the corrugate. She had almost tipped it when she came off the field. But she knew what she was doing and he resisted the almost overwhelming urge to run across the field and yank her from the seat of the huge machine. He'd like to shake her sometimes, the way she thundered around.

  She drove everything like that, the pickup, Helen's little car, the tractors, even the riding lawnmower he'd seen her on the evening before. She went everywhere full tilt, a bat out of hell.

  He dipped his shovel into the thick, sucking mud and slathered it onto the small dam he was building to hold back the irrigation water.

  Haying was finished, the irrigation started again. Tomorrow Lester would take over switching the water from earthen dam to earthen dam, along the complicated system of narrow canals and ditches laid out a hundred years earlier by Calla's great-grandfather. Henry would move to the camp in the hills to look after Calla's herd. He was looking forward to it. Desperately. He hadn't asked Calla about her relationship with Dartmouth, but it was pretty clear she was serious. He didn't know if he could stand to be around when the guy came back. For that matter, he didn't know if he could stand Calla brushing against him in the doorway of the kitchen anymore, or smiling at him over her coffee cup, her hair damp and fragrant from her morning shower.

  He was glad to be going. Being constantly turned on for the past fourteen days was getting to him.

  * * *

  Calla parked the stacker in the equipment yard next to the other two tractors, hopped lightly to the ground, and walked slowly through the shadowy alleyway the long stacks of bales made in the hay yard. It was a relief to get the first cutting up; and this year without the rain that could spoil it. She must be living right.

  She glanced up. Then again, maybe she wasn't. Henry was walking toward the bunkhouse, his irrigating shovel over his shoulders, his wrists hooked loosely over the handle.

  She simply couldn't help herself; she stopped for a minute and watched him walk. His head was down, as though he were concentrating on every step, and she could see where his sunburned neck slid powerfully down toward his ax-handle-broad shoulders. The man had some body, she thought, not for the first time. Not even for the first time that day.

  As if he'd read her thoughts, Henry halted his stride and looked over at her. Calla's breath caught in her throat, though she couldn't have said why.

  He walked across the narrow road, straddled the low fence and approached her slowly, his wrists still over the handle of his shovel. When he reached her, she smelled clean sweat and damp mud and could just glimpse the suggestion of the hair of his armpits at the stretch of his short sleeves. The sight quickened the pace of her heart for some reason, and she flared her nostrils to suck in the smell of him as soon as she dared again to breathe.

  "Hey," she said, sounding just a little strangled.

  "Hey."

  Calla jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "Hay," she said feebly. He didn't even smile. Oh, smooth, Calla. She stared at him, unable to look away, though instinct told her now would be a good time to run.

  "Can I ask you a question?" Henry stretched a long, sinewy arm past her and leaned his shovel against the stack behind her head. Slowly, slowly, as though she might bolt at any sudden movement. Her eyes dipped shut as he neared—and she sniffed at him again—then popped back open.

  "Uh, okay."

  "Are you going to marry Dartmouth?"

  "What?"

  If she didn't stop smelling him like that, he was going to have to do something drastic, Henry thought. He took a step forward, backing her toward the stack. "Are you going to marry Dartmouth?" He pressed closer, then stopped. That was drastic enough for him. "It's a simple question."

  Calla stumbled backward until she could feel the heavy scratch of hay through her clothes. Henry's voice was oddly thick and he was so close now she could see the tight cords in his throat.

  "Are you?" he whispered. Drastic, hell. This was deadly. His eyes drifted shut involuntarily. He sniffed at her now. "Are you?"

  "Who's Dartmouth?" she managed to ask, before his mouth was on hers. He leaned slowly into her, pushing her against the haystack, crushing her in the most wonderful manner, and had his way.

  That's all she could think as he kissed her. And kissed her again, pulling at her lips, plucking kisses from her. He's having his way with me. Then he tipped his head to one side and deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue along her still-closed mouth. And she stopped thinking altogether.

  Her mouth opened to allow the tiniest moan to slip past.

  "Calla," he murmured against her lips, and dove in.

  She made no effort to raise her arms and twine them around his neck, they came around him of their own accord, and she met the pressure of his body with an equal force. Henry groaned deep in his chest and braced his hands on the haystack behind her, while his body started an astonishing bump and grind against hers.

  Her head suddenly weighed about eighty pounds, and it dropped back at the erotic contact, breaking his kiss. For moments they just breathed on one another, his eyes shut tight in concentration, hers half-lidded, watching him, amazed.

  Fast, so fast. From nothing to this … so fast. She let herself drift. She'd go at any speed he'd take her.

  His fingers gripped the stack to keep from tearing at her clothes to get to the skin underneath. But he unclamped them now, his discipline in tatters. They met at the back of her skull as he pulled her back to his mouth.

  But, oh, they wouldn't stay still.
He ran them under her arms and to her back, down then to her bottom, pulling her up to meet his painful, heart-stopping arousal, staying there for the longest, excruciating moments while he moved against her. Then clutching her to him though she could get no closer, he banded his arms against her back, then released his fierce hold to brush his fingertips against the soft sides of her breasts.

  He tried, God knows, he tried to be content with that. But every ordered thing about him, every restraint, every moderate, cautious habit, drained right out of his body. Or was burned away by the heat, he didn't know. He brought his hands between their bodies. And touched her. Finally, to be touching her.

  The moan that left her mouth to come to his was like a gift. His chest constricted, and all he could think was that he hadn't felt this sweet piercing wonder before, not even the first time he'd touched a woman, not even as a young man. He levered himself away from her body to watch his hands on her.

  "Calla," he breathed, lifting the weight of her breasts in his hands, molding her, stroking, then slowly lifting his head to see her eyes glaze as he ran his thumbs over her hardened nipples, feeling her rise to meet his touch through her work shirt and bra.

  "Oh." Her breath caught. "Oh." And again. The sensation was too much, by a million miles too much. Moisture flooded her, blood pumped at her center, every pore and vessel and nerve opened to him.

  He dropped to his knees in the hard-packed dirt of the stack yard, burying his face between her breasts, seeking the sex, the solace, the heat of her. He took a nipple between his teeth and gently bit her through her clothing.

  Calla felt herself slipping slowly down to the ground in front of him, eager for a closer connection. Her strong hands clutched at him, seeking a more intimate touch.

  The sound of the horn was unbelievably loud in her ears. Her eyes flew open and she looked over to see Lester waving wildly at her from the ranch truck. A little scream escaped her, a completely different kind of little scream from the one Henry had swallowed with his mouth a moment before. She struggled to her feet, her knees oddly weak.

  "Damn," she said, her hands clawing into the hay behind her. "Damn, damn, damn."

  Henry had considerably less trouble regaining his footing, and steadied her with one hand. Then, without looking at her, he strode quickly over to Lester's truck where it hugged the fence of the stack yard, and leaned across the fence into the open passenger window.

  "I'm going to kill you, Lester," Henry said through gritted teeth. "You scared Calla half to death. What the hell are you doing?"

  "What the hell am I doing?" Lester sputtered. "What the hell are you doing? It's broad-damn-daylight out here."

  "You got three seconds to get away from me, Lester, before I do something rash." He was feeling rash. He was feeling homicidal. A moment ago he'd been as aroused as he'd ever been, and that arousal had viciously turned itself to something else, a readiness. He was anxious to do battle.

  Lester was not intimidated. "You got less than that to get away from Calla, spud. I just passed her boyfriend on the road. He's heading this way." Lester gunned the pickup. "You're welcome, you pissant," he called through the open window.

  Henry raked his fingers through his hair and stared after Lester's pickup. Then he turned to look at Calla. Hay was sticking every which way out of her clothes and she was trying to tuck her hair back into its ponytail. His mouth went slack at the sight of her. Blood and desire still pounded heavily through his body. He was so hard, he ached.

  She walked determinedly past him.

  "I heard," she said, not looking at him. He reached out to catch her arm, but she twisted out of his grip. "Don't do that."

  Calla jumped the low wood fence that separated the stack yard from the road and walked across to the main compound. She reached the driveway just as Clark pulled up in a sports car. Henry stood in the stack yard and glowered at her. He couldn't seem to move. Calla stood stiffly next to the little car until Dartmouth managed to untangle his skinny legs and step out onto the gravel drive.

  Her boyfriend—Henry's hands clenched as the word passed through his thoughts—kissed Calla dutifully on her mouth, her beautiful, well-kissed, delicious mouth, and then said something into her ear. Henry watched Calla as she began to furiously brush the hay from her clothes.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  "So Dad and I wrapped it up last night and I decided to take the first morning flight out to see my little cowgirl, here." Clark reached out and patted Calla possessively on her rump. She jumped a little, nearly dropping the stack of dirty plates she was carrying to the sink.

  Henry's fingers tightened around the short glass of whiskey he was holding. Too bad she didn't drop 'em, he thought. Right onto Dartmouth's sorry lap.

  Henry was well on his way to drunk, and he knew it. He couldn't remember the last time … yes, he could. He'd drunk himself to a stupor the night Heidi left him. It was the least he could do in honor of his short and wretched marriage. He raised the glass to his lips and drained the last of the liquor. And glared gloomily at Dartmouth.

  "You have a good trip?" Jackson inquired politely of Clark. He stepped over to the counter, retrieved the whiskey bottle and poured a healthy amount of the amber liquid into Henry's glass. Calla's eyes flew to her father in wide astonishment

  "Very good." Clark was smiling broadly. Henry wondered with scientific precision just how many of those capped teeth he could take out with one punch. "Dad and I made an offer on a piece of property out in the Hamptons. I think I told you about it, didn't I, honey?"

  Calla raised her eyebrows at him from where she stood at the sink. Honey? Clark had never called her honey. It sounded almost as silly as cowgirl.

  He'd also never patted her bottom. Bottom patting was a new and irritating affectation. She wondered if Clark's friendliness had anything to do with the glowering, half-drunk Neanderthal facing him across the table.

  "Uh, yeah. The golf course?" Everyone glanced politely in her direction except Henry, who continued his grim evaluation of Clark.

  A freshly showered and shaved Henry had shown up on the kitchen stoop just as Calla, Clark, Jackson and Helen were about to sit down to a steak dinner. Lord knew where old Lester was. Calla had recovered from that amazing … whatever it was … out in the stack yard, barely, and wasn't thrilled to see Henry and his hearty appetite show up for dinner. But she wasn't exactly surprised, either. Now she regretted not slamming the door in his face before Jackson had had time to cheerfully invite him to join them.

  "Much more than a golf course, dearest," Clark replied indulgently. Dearest? "We'll have housing developments and two separate clubhouses, a small greenbelt and a strip mall with the highest quality shops and restaurants. All very posh. Dad and I were thrilled. It took a lot of wheeling and dealing, and of course I resent every minute I have to spend away from you, hon—" he reached his hand out to Calla who took it hesitantly "—but it was worth it." Clark gave a hearty laugh, which made Calla wonder if he wasn't a little drunk, as well. "We'll make a mint."

  Henry tipped back his chair and clunked his booted feet onto the kitchen table with a crash. The family turned to stare at him. He crossed his legs casually and sipped his drink.

  Calla was annoyed. More than annoyed. Not only was this—fool—who had invited himself to dinner for the first time in two damn weeks—being about as rude as he could be, but her father and aunt were happily allowing it to continue. If anyone else on the planet dared to put his feet on her kitchen table, Helen would have put a broom handle in his ear. Now she just grinned into her coffee cup in a fit of humor Calla couldn't begin to fathom.

  Calla's gaze shifted to her father, who was smiling absently at Henry.

  And since when did Jackson Bishop ply people with whiskey? Where had he even got the bottle, for heaven's sake? She knew Jackson saw how smashed Henry was slowly getting. Why did he keep pouring liquor into his glass?

  And where the hell was Lester? Calla co
uldn't remember the last time that weasel had missed a free meal.

  She was furious, and getting madder all the time. Cowgirl? Honey? Dearest? Hon?

  Clark was still talking. "And you should see the plans for the mall, Jack." He leaned forward earnestly, Calla's hand still captured in his. "We're still working on investors, but Dad and I have managed all the up-front money. It's our biggest deal yet. Huge. You'll have to come out and see it. I really think you would be impressed. Seriously. We could give you the grand tour. You might even decide you want to throw a little cattle money in that direction. Big bucks to be made in this development, Jack."

  "You know, I don't much like leaving the place anymore, Clark," Jackson said, one age-spotted hand pulling thoughtfully down his face. "I haven't been back East in I don't know how long. Before Calla was born, anyway. Her mother and I took a trip to Maine, remember that, Helen? Oh, beautiful country, Maine. Lot of wilderness up there. Reminds me a little of Idaho."

  "Maine reminds you of Idaho?" Clark guffawed good-naturedly, slapping Jackson on his knee. "You mean except for the rain and the trees, right? Never heard that before. You got one on me there, Jack."

  Calla began to relax a little. She was still painfully aware of Clark's possessive hand on hers and of Henry's defiant feet on the table in front of them. They were both idiotic male statements of some kind, she knew. She'd certainly been around enough men to recognize an idiotic male statement when she saw one. But the conversation wasn't threatening, and Clark and Jackson were communicating in a way she hadn't seen before. It was nice, she thought. Suspicious, but nice.

  Henry shifted his feet and Calla glanced over at him. His eyes were on her now. Unreadable, deep pools of darkest brown. His gaze went to her hand in Clark's. After a moment, he met her eyes again. There was an open challenge in them. She turned to Clark and stole an arm around him, sitting on the narrow arm of the dining chair. She could almost feel those dark pools, drugging her, dragging her in. Clark slid a gangly arm around her waist.