Cowboy Tough

Home > Other > Cowboy Tough > Page 5
Cowboy Tough Page 5

by Joanne Kennedy


  He reached over to show her how to hold the reins. As their fingers touched, he felt that shared heat again and glanced at her face, wondering if she felt it too. But she was concentrating almost fiercely on the mule, her brows drawn into a determined “V.”

  “Don’t let him tug.” He formed her fingers around the leather just below the mule’s jaw.

  The mule didn’t tug but Cat did—tugged her hand away from his and shot him a warning look that reminded him she held the future of the Boyd Ranch in her hands as surely as she held the mule’s reins. No matter how sizzling hot that kiss had felt, he needed to be careful. Just because the running and screaming hadn’t happened the first time didn’t mean he was in the clear.

  He watched her gather the reins in her hand, grab the saddle horn, and stick one foot in the stirrup. Her boots were going to be a problem. They were designed for style, not practicality, and the tips were so rakishly tilted they must strain her calf muscles with every step.

  She gave a mighty hop and hauled herself up the mule’s side, struggling to hoist the other leg over the saddle. No way was she going to make it. Without thinking, he palmed her butt and gave her a shove. He was a little worried he’d overdone it and she’d slide down the other side, but she caught the far stirrup and straightened out just in time.

  She eyed him from the saddle with a strict schoolteacher squint. “If we’re going to work together, we’re going to have to set some ground rules.”

  He leaned one elbow on the mule’s withers and tried to look attentive, but behind his back he flexed the fingers of his other hand in a vain effort to hang on to the warmth of her pleasantly rounded backside. It would be nice if the ground rules included some more palming her butt and kissing in the barn, but he didn’t think that was what she had in mind.

  “First of all, no touching.” She was trying to be harsh, but with her big eyes and small stature, she reminded him of a kitten spitting and showing its claws. “None. We’re here for the students, not for—well—that.”

  “That?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I do?” He knew he shouldn’t tease her, but he just couldn’t help himself. And women liked it when you flirted a little, right? “No, really. What?”

  “That.”

  “Oh, that.” He let the smile fade as he shoved his hat up so he could meet her eyes. “I’m not sure I want to give that up.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to,” she said. “My niece is coming on this trip, and I don’t want her to see anything inappropriate. She has—issues.”

  As far as Mack could see, all women had issues. And he had a feeling this one had more than most. But then again, so did he.

  Maybe they had something in common after all.

  ***

  Cat looked down at Mack and tried to smother the rush of arousal that was still flowing from the spot where he’d touched her. Apparently the clear country air was making her crazy. It was hardly “plain,” with its heady scents of sage and earth and straw.

  But the real problem was the cowboy himself. In his ragged shirt and worn jeans, he looked as much a part of the landscape as the gnarled trees and the weathered barn. Tough, elemental, and real.

  “Never mind.” She waved one hand carelessly, as if the rest of the rules were obvious. “Just keep it professional. Obviously that’s a challenge for you, but please try to be serious.”

  “I am serious.” There was a defensive note in his voice that made her think she might have struck a nerve. “You don’t succeed in my line of work unless you’re pretty damn serious about it.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” she said. “But I’m not a bucking bronco; I’m a woman.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m serious about that too.”

  Chapter 8

  Cat was doing her best to look cold and professional. It wasn’t an easy look to master when you were five foot two and looked like a Disney princess. To add to the challenge, she was mounted on an animal that felt about the size of one of those giant equestrian statues they put in city parks. She remembered seeing one where the horse was rearing up on its hind legs and she gripped the saddle horn a little tighter.

  Mack edged away and circled his horse right, then left. Pivoting on its back legs, it raised a showy cloud of dust, then burst out of the spin into a smooth, fluid trot. Mack allowed it a few strides before he slid to a stop—raising more dust—and looked back at her.

  “You know how to make him go, right?”

  She nodded and twitched her leg against the mule’s side, breathing a sigh of relief when the animal lurched forward. She followed Mack’s lead, admiring the way he managed to sit ramrod straight, yet stay relaxed. His torso moved with the horse as if they were some kind of compound creature. She watched him covertly, trying to emulate his easy movements as he swung his mount toward the ranch house and prodded it into that easy, swinging trot.

  The discovery that her destination was Wyoming had put an abrupt halt to her dreams of handsome Italians and debonair Frenchmen, but maybe cowboys were just as good. Or at least they would be if Dora wasn’t coming. Once her niece arrived, she’d have to get her hormonal yearnings under control.

  They rode in silence, with only the chattering of the birds to keep them company. Cat felt awkward and unbalanced in the saddle, and evidently Rembrandt had caught her fear. He started when a stone skittered out from under the horse’s hooves and shied at a fence-snagged tumbleweed that twitched in a passing breeze.

  “Try and relax,” Mack said. “You’re making him nervous.”

  She let the mule fall behind so they could ride in single file. The animal settled down, plodding sedately in what appeared to be the tracks of a hundred horses before him, and she turned her attention to the landscape. Since she didn’t know much about rock formations, trees, or flowers, she’d keep her conversation with her students to art topics. She could compare the views to paintings by Bierstadt and Moran, noting the problems in perspective formed by the jagged canyon and distant mountains, and discuss color and composition…

  Mack turned in the saddle and looked back at her. “You okay?”

  “Fine. You know anything about what we’re looking at?”

  “Pretty much everything. I was born here.”

  “So what are those?” She pointed toward some purple flowers that bobbed by the side of the trail.

  “Flowers.”

  “No, I mean what are they called?”

  He shrugged. “Cattle won’t eat ’em, so it doesn’t really matter.”

  It was lucky she’d brought a field guide along. She’d have to look everything up, but at least she could title the paintings if a student chose wildflowers for a subject.

  The sun dropped toward the horizon as they rode, throwing long shadows over the pasture grass. Mare’s tail clouds whipped the skyline, suggesting a high wind on the distant peaks. Gradually, they turned gold, then pink as the sun sank. Replicating the otherworldly quality of the light here wouldn’t be easy. She thought about color—alizarin crimson and cerulean blue, sap green and yellow ochre. It was easy to push the cowboy to the edge of her consciousness, she told herself. She was here to paint.

  He drew rein at the top of the rise and she did the same. A broad panorama was spread before them as if God had shaken out a multicolored blanket. This was the kind of view that would give her clients a hundred lessons in light and aerial perspective. The land rolled gently into the distance, hill upon hill, a rumpled patchwork of greens and golds that faded into the distance. A thin purple border of mountains marked the horizon, and off to the east a scattering of spindly pines thickened, swelling to a dark wave that lapped at the side of a rocky mesa.

  She’d become a painter from an urge to save fleeting moments like this one, and there was a lot worth saving in the scene before her. Maybe Wyoming wasn’t a penance
after all.

  She slapped her shirt pocket and cursed silently. She’d been so flustered by all that had happened that she’d left her camera in her luggage. Now all she could do was try to imprint the scene on her memory.

  Mack dismounted. “Get down if you want.”

  She stayed in the saddle. Enjoying the view from horseback made her understand why King Richard offered his kingdom for a horse. She felt like the ruler of the sun-soaked plains and the deep blue distance.

  Resting his arm on his saddle, Mack leaned on his horse’s hip, gazing out at the landscape as if he couldn’t drink in enough of it. He looked like the quintessential cowboy—an image from a country song, or maybe a movie, with his craggy profile outlined against the pine-clad mountains.

  She wouldn’t mind ruling him, too.

  Gripping the saddle horn a little tighter, she squeezed her eyes shut and cleared her mind of all the long-buried longings the cowboy’s kiss had brought to life. This trip was about Dora. Painting, and Dora.

  No cowboys allowed.

  ***

  The rest of the ride passed mostly in silence. Mack pointed out a few of the more scenic overlooks and what he thought were the prettiest places, and Cat seemed too busy drinking in the scenery to talk.

  He wasn’t sure if it was a friendly silence or a hostile one, but it worked for him. He wasn’t much of a talker anyway. And when he talked to women, he always seemed to say the wrong thing.

  As they headed back to the ranch, Mack paused to watch a couple of dust clouds rise on the distant road.

  “Lot of traffic today,” he said.

  Cat laughed. “Two cars?”

  “That’s a lot.”

  By the time they got back to the ranch, she was learning to move in concert with Rembrandt’s easy, rocking gait. Tippy raced out of the house at a lopsided run, then paused to circle a silver SUV that was parked in the turnout near the barn.

  “I thought you weren’t expecting students till tomorrow,” Mack said.

  “I wasn’t. Somebody’s early.”

  It figured. She’d hoped to have some time to herself to do some sketching and jot down notes on the scenes they’d seen from the ridge—preserving what she should have captured with her camera—but instead she was going to have to make nice with a client.

  Oh well. Maybe she’d make a new friend. It was always nice to talk to another artist, and at least she wouldn’t have to spend the evening making awkward conversation with the reluctant dude wrangler and his matchmaking mother.

  “Just pull Rembrandt up to the gate.” Mack pointed toward a corral beside the barn. “I’ll take care of him.”

  Cat pulled up at the gate and dismounted, wincing as her thigh and calf muscles stretched to their limit. She tossed the reins and silently thanked the universe and all its powers when they draped gracefully over the top rail. She might not care what Mack thought of her, but a nagging sense of embarrassment nibbled at the edge of her consciousness, making it extra important to maintain her dignity.

  She paused to pet Tippy’s sleek head while she pondered the new arrival. He certainly had plenty of dignity. Tall and blond, he stood beside the SUV with one foot on the running board, surveying his surroundings like a duke dismounting from a phaeton. He was dressed impeccably in crisply creased khakis, a green polo shirt, and hiking boots that were just worn enough not to be gauche. Blond hair swept back from his high forehead in graceful waves.

  Cat was painfully conscious of her own grubby duds as she stepped up and shook his hand. “Hi.”

  “Trevor Maines.” His grip wasn’t weak so much as languid. “You must be our Cat.”

  Our Cat. What was she, a pet? Maybe he had a leash and a litter box in the back of that truck. And there was nobody with him, so was he using the royal “we” when he called her “our” Cat?

  Maybe “dignity” was the wrong word. The guy was a snob.

  She squelched an urge to meow. “That’s me.”

  He looked down his nose at her the way a scientist might regard a particularly commonplace insect. As his gaze flicked from her face to the surrounding landscape, his nose wrinkled slightly. The scene had struck her as stunningly beautiful moments before, but now she noticed the ragged grass surrounding the barn and the distinct odor of cowflops mingling with the scent of sage.

  What was this aristocratic stranger going to say when he saw the bunkhouse? Anxiety clawed at her stomach, putting a final kibosh on the serenity she’d enjoyed on the ride.

  “Trevor Maines.” Cat flipped through her mental files. Maines had been a late addition—the final registration. He was from California. Some kind of photographer. Fashion work. That was it. And that explained the casual perfection of his hair and clothes. It was probably also the reason behind his erect posture and the upward tilt of his patrician nose.

  She tried and failed to brush a streak of dirt off her jeans and decided she needed reinforcements. This guy was as sophisticated as Mack was down-to-earth, and she couldn’t imagine the two of them getting along.

  Fortunately, there was one person on the ranch who could handle just about anyone.

  “Let’s head on up to the house,” she said. “I’ll introduce you to our hostess.”

  Hopefully, the steamrolling skills of Maddie Boyd would prove as effective on Maines as they had on Cat herself. Maybe she could find a way to get Madeleine to show him the bunkhouse.

  Let her explain to this guy the quaint charm of sleeping with the spiders.

  Chapter 9

  Mack strode into the barn with Rembrandt’s saddle propped on his hip and the bridle draped over one shoulder. Tippy trotted beside him, gazing up at his face with a good-natured grin. The way her tongue dangled out the side of her mouth made him smile in spite of the way he’d screwed up the whole afternoon.

  “Women,” he said to the dog. “They’re the problem.”

  She put her tongue back in her mouth and looked worried.

  “Not you,” he said. “Human women.”

  His mother. The artist. The mere thought of his ex-wife. They all had him spinning in circles. His mother bossed him like he was still a little kid. His ex was a nightmare. The artist…

  Well, the artist hadn’t really done anything wrong. In fact, she’d done just about everything right. She’d been quiet and appreciative on their ride. She might not be a top hand, but she did her best with the animals.

  And that kiss—she’d kissed him like she meant it. The effect she had on him was something new, something instantaneous and irresistible. It wasn’t just a sexual attraction; it was something more.

  The problem was, he didn’t know how to follow up on something like that. What was the proper etiquette after you’d kissed a stranger with the kind of passion that was usually reserved for lifelong lovers?

  He had no idea. Saying he was sorry would make it seem like he regretted the kiss, and he didn’t. Pretending it hadn’t happened seemed equally rude. Maybe he should just do it again, but she hadn’t exactly asked for an instant replay.

  “We’ll make the best of it—right, Tippy?” He bent and ruffled the thick fur on her shoulders. “We’ll get along with Miss Crandall somehow.”

  “Good luck with that,” said a voice from the shadows. “I’ve been trying to get along with her since I was born.”

  Shoot. Another ambush in the barn. He was going to have to quit talking to the animals, or at least check for humans first.

  He turned to see a slim figure hovering by one of the stalls. It was a young girl, slight as a fairy, with pale skin and a halo of frizzy blonde hair. She had one hand on Bucky’s muzzle and was using the other to scratch the horse under his whiskered chin.

  “Who the heck are you?” Mack squinted into the dimness. The kid wasn’t more than about fifteen years old, and she might weigh ninety pounds if you handed her a ten-pound brick.
Judging from the relaxed way Bucky was letting his eyes drift shut, she was a horse lover—but the frown on her fine-boned face told him she wasn’t too keen on the rest of the world.

  She glanced at Mack, then returned her attention to the horse. “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘Howdy, pardner’ or something like that? I thought you’d talk in cowboy lingo.”

  “Yeah, I’ll have to work on that.”

  She was about a year younger than his daughter Viv, and apparently she carried the same teenaged chip on her shoulder Viv had at that age.

  A family counselor had told Mack that adolescent rudeness was a protective shield. Viv hadn’t wanted to express her feelings about the divorce so she’d tried to push her parents away. In Mack’s case, she’d succeeded—mostly because her mother was pulling her away from him just as hard. He and Viv got along pretty well now, but cutting through her resentment had taken time and patience.

  “Just don’t go yelling ‘yee-haw,’ okay?” The little blonde gave the horse a final pat and followed Mack into the tack room. “I don’t think I can handle any of that John Wayne stuff. I’m more into Clint.”

  She narrowed her eyes and set her narrow jaw, taking on a Dirty Harry squint. “Go ahead, punk. Make my day.”

  “Pretty good.” He grinned as he hung the bridle up, then grabbed a plastic bucket of grooming supplies with an S scrawled on the side in black Sharpie marker. Handing it to the girl, he grabbed another one marked with an R.

  “You know how to groom a horse?”

  “Yes.” She turned sulky. “I know a lot about horses. I do dressage.”

  “Well, my horses don’t need to dress up. I just keep ’em clean.”

  “That’s not what dressage is.” She tossed her golden frizz and scowled. “It’s…”

  “A joke. Just a joke, hon.”

  “I knew that.”

  He tried to hide his grin. This kid might be disagreeable, but she definitely had spunk. He strode out to the corral gate, where Rembrandt and Spanky were blinking in the sunshine.

  “You can take care of Spanky, here. I’ll do the mule. Saddle goes in there.” He cocked a thumb toward the barn.

 

‹ Prev