The normally quiet Charles contorted his face and let loose an earsplitting siren. The beleaguered buckskin broke from the group again and carried a delighted Mr. Delaney rocketing past the group.
“Maybe something a little more subtle,” Mack said.
With the crisis averted—at least temporarily—they set off, the horses plodding sleepily along, the riders enjoying the view. Frothy clouds floated in a sea of placid blue, promising fine weather. Cat smiled as a slight breeze lifted the hair on the back of her neck. There was something to be said for this Zen thing; living in moments like this was pure pleasure.
***
The following week brought more Zen moments than Cat could count, and new painting lessons every day. On Tuesday, they rode far out on the prairie to paint a view of the huge, slope-sided buttes that rose from the flatland. Wednesday they followed the river down into the canyon for a class on painting water. Thursday was devoted to perspective, using the buildings at the ranch; and Friday they returned to the buttes, climbing a dizzying hairpin trail to the top for a view of a sky so wide it felt limitless.
Through it all, Mack kept his promise. There was no touching. In fact, there was barely any looking or talking. Once or twice she caught him eyeing her from under the brim of his hat, but he’d looked quickly away the moment his eyes met hers.
She tried to tell herself that was a good thing. She needed to concentrate on Dora, and on her students. And Mack needed to focus on his wrangling duties. They didn’t have time for any kind of nonsense, but the truth was she missed the nonsense.
In fact, nonsense was all she could think about. As his interest had faded, hers had become an obsession. She turned their stolen moments over in her head the way you’d finger a smooth, round rock, savoring the texture, admiring the way it fit in your palm.
Friday’s dinner was Maddie’s best yet: pork chops cooked to unbelievable tenderness in a Dutch oven along with onions and sliced potatoes. The group seemed to love their new rustic lifestyle, and Abby was even learning to do a little Dutch oven cooking of her own. After the meal came the cowboy songs, with the quiet ranch hand strumming a guitar while Ed led the group in rousing renditions of “Home on the Range” and “Don’t Fence Me In.” Mack had led the singing the first night, surprising Cat with a resonant baritone, but he’d been happy to turn that duty over to Ed, who seemed to know every cowboy ballad ever written.
By the time she crawled into bed, Cat was sleepy enough that she thought she might conquer the absurd fantasies that danced through her mind every night. But they unspooled in her mind like a feature film the moment she closed her eyes.
Mack in the sunshine, kissing her like he had the day the students arrived. Mack in the firelight, the flames reflecting in his dark eyes as he took her in his arms. Mack in the dark, the feel of his hands on her body.
Mack. Mack. Mack.
If only she could stop remembering the way he sat in the saddle, moving in perfect synch with the horse, his posture as relaxed and easy as a man in a rocking chair. Trying to ignore him was like trying not to think of an elephant—the forbidden creature only loomed larger in your mind when you tried to exclude it.
She closed her eyes and pictured distant mountains, the sun sinking behind them in a blaze of glory. She added Mack on horseback silhouetted against the horizon, his figure dwindling as he galloped away. There. She’d sent him riding into the sunset like a movie cowboy. Now maybe he’d leave her alone.
She stared up at the ceiling and turned her thoughts to her work. What colors would she use to capture the late-afternoon light on the red rock of the mesa? How would she mix the unique blue-green color of the sagebrush? How would she show the way Mack’s shirt skimmed over the muscular breadth of his shoulders?
Mack. She almost screamed with frustration. If it wasn’t for him, Boyd Ranch would be her new happy place, replacing the imaginary beach she pictured whenever she needed to relax. It would be nice to find a place in the real world that made her tension ease and her heartbeat slow—but no matter how hard she tried, she’d catch a whiff of his scent, that combination of hay, wood smoke, and leather, and then he was back. It drove her crazy.
She turned over onto her left side, bunching the pillow under her head, then flopped onto her back. The silence drove her crazy too. She was used to the city, the endless hum of traffic, the staccato beeps of car horns, and the murmur of conversation from neighboring apartments, but here there was only the faint whisper of a breeze rattling the sagebrush. It was too damn quiet. How could people sleep?
Finally, there was a sound—a faint rustling, a stomp, and a flurry of thumps that might have been something stumbling. Something large and graceless. Cat remembered Mack saying something about bears living in the wooded area behind the bunkhouses. She pictured a big, mean one reeling past the Heifer House, looking for children to eat.
No. Wait. She knew better than that. She’d read Night of the Grizzlies. Bears didn’t care if their victims were children or old ladies or stinky old hunters in moth-eaten sleeping bags.
They were just hungry.
Chapter 15
Tossing off the covers, Cat slipped her feet into her unlaced Keds—not because she was planning to go outside, but because she might need to run if the bear came in. She sat up against the headboard with her knees pulled to her chest, huddled in her own embrace.
There were no more stumbles, no more stomps. If there had been a bear, it had given up and moved on. The glow of the fire faded and died. The night stretched before her, silent as before.
So why couldn’t she sleep?
It was the infernal quiet. The only sound was a cricket who’d gotten his bow all rosined up and was fiddling out the rhythm part to some obscure Philip Glass composition. Screech, screech, screech, screech. He seemed determined to play it all night.
All. Night. Long.
Cat hugged her knees tighter and stared into the darkness. It seemed like the ranch took on a whole new dimension in the night. What had been gently waving grasses became sharp-edged knives jutting from the ground. The occasional calls of night birds became the shrill cries of lurking predators. Cat had never noticed before how much crickets sounded like the violins in Psycho.
Gathering her robe about her, she tied the sash tightly and stood. Supposedly, facing your fears rendered them toothless. The thing you feared would turned benign once you stared it down in the flesh. Hopefully that would be the case with whatever was out there in the wild Wyoming night.
As she stepped out into the night, she heard something swish through the tall grass off to her left. Did bears come this close to human habitation? She’d heard they were attracted to food, and there had been plenty of that here tonight. She could still smell the rich scent of Maddie’s pork chops lingering on the air.
But animals were afraid of fire, weren’t they? And the campfire was surprisingly active. She’d expected a heap of embers at best, but a lick of flame flickered from the center of the pit, dancing happily in the darkness.
Lowering herself onto one of the benches, she sighed and looked up at the stars. There wasn’t much hope of sleeping tonight. She might as well enjoy the view.
***
Mack stared up at the ceiling, his mind churning. Watching Cat disappear into the Heifer House had started the nightly wheel of speculation spinning in his mind.
What did she wear to bed?
He’d pictured her in everything from Hello Kitty pajamas to sheer black lace. Frilly nighties to threadbare T-shirts.
Maybe she didn’t wear anything. Maybe she slept in the…
Aw, hell, he needed to get a grip. How could he be thinking about frivolous things like women when his family was in such dire straits? The dude ranch project was the best chance they had to save themselves, but instead of doing his best to make it work, he was thinking about a woman.
The wrong woman.
The one who could make the whole thing go south.
He shifted on the narrow cot. The limp layer of foam that covered the springs of his iron bedstead might be good enough for a hunting camp, where a man could down a few shots of whiskey before bed, but it wasn’t going to cut it for people like Trevor Maines.
Or Cat. Maybe she couldn’t sleep either. Maybe he should go check.
No. He’d managed to behave himself for five whole days. He couldn’t blow it now.
But he would blow it. It was inevitable. When she’d been laying down the law, he’d had a chance—but lately he’d seen her watching him. And not like she was looking for riding instruction, either. She had one of those faces you could read like a book, and lately the book was all about the two of them. Together.
He turned over on his left side, then his right, trying to find a position where the bed didn’t jab him in the kidney or poke him in the shoulder. After flopping around a while like a fish on dry land, he sat up and rubbed the back of his neck, listening to the wind rustling the sagebrush. There were crickets chirping, and the faint call of a horned owl—and…
And something else.
He straightened, listening intently. Someone was outside. He could hear the grass rustling, and then a faint crackling, as if someone was crinkling paper. The fire flared up briefly and died.
Somebody was up to something.
He squinted into the darkness and listened. More footsteps, stumbling over rocks. The creak of a door.
Grabbing his jeans, he stepped into them and pulled a T-shirt over his head in one quick motion. He was out the door quick as a panther, pulling it closed behind him and standing against it, shielded by its shadow.
***
Cat gazed up at the frothy spill of stars overhead, waiting for the deep calm of the night sky to wash over her. But she couldn’t help straining for the sound of an intruder. Maybe not a bear. Maybe a human.
But there was nothing out there. Just crickets. Crickets and…
Breathing.
It was coming from behind her, as if someone was watching. Waiting.
She turned slowly, half expecting to feel the swipe of a mighty paw striking the side of her head, huge claws scraping her…
“Aaack!”
She leaped to her feet, grabbing a log from the fire—and found herself standing in a bogus martial arts crouch, brandishing a half-burned stick at Mack, whose chest heaved in hearty but silent laughter.
She dropped the stick and straightened, setting her fists on her hips. “What are you doing out here?” she hissed.
“Checking to see what you’re doing out here,” Mack said. “Could you maybe make a little more noise? I thought a herd of elephants was coming through.”
“I was quiet! I thought I heard something. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Worrying about Dora?”
She bit her lip. It would be easy to just say yes. And it wouldn’t be a lie. Dora was always in the back of her mind, like a faint and ever-present ache.
But she was going to be here for another week, so she might as well tell him what she was really worried about. She was probably being silly, and he could put her fears to rest.
“Are there really bears here?”
“Yes.”
So much for putting her fears to rest. She pictured a reversed version of the Goldilocks story, with the bear trying each bed in turn—and taking a bite out of each occupant.
Too big, too small… mmm, just right.
“They wouldn’t come right up to the buildings though, would they?”
He laughed. “Heck, one came right in the house once.”
***
Mack knew he shouldn’t scare Cat. She needed to report to the Art Treks company that the Boyd Dude Ranch was a paradise for artists, a safe, serene place where they could paint in peace.
But there she was, all wide-eyed and wondering, and he couldn’t resist the juvenile temptation to scare a girl. Even if that girl had dashed his fondest dreams by turning up in baggy gray sweats.
“A bear got in the house while Mom and Dad were in Denver at the stock show. Damn thing busted the door down, tore the place apart looking for food. Broke a couple windows. Crapped all over the place, too. Must have been in there for hours.”
She edged toward him until their thighs touched.
“It was kind of funny. There were two big paw prints on every mirror in the house.” He put his hands up, one on each side of his face, like a mime in a glass box. “Right at eye level. He must have stood up and looked at himself.”
Cat let out a shaky breath and he realized he might have scared her a little too much.
“Don’t worry; it won’t happen with this many people here, or with the fire burning.”
She sat down beside him. “You sure?”
“Yep. Plus it’s more likely to happen earlier in the year. They’re pretty damn hungry when they come out of hibernation.”
“Well, thanks. I feel better.”
“Good. People usually do once they know more about things.”
Mack watched Cat as she clutched her knees to her chest, tilting her head back to look up at the sky. Her pale profile stood against the black backdrop like a cutout silhouette.
“I love the sky at night,” she said. “You ever see that Van Gogh painting Starry Night?”
He nodded, relieved she’d mentioned one of the two or three paintings he knew by name. Maybe later they could discuss the Mona Lisa or American Gothic. He needed to spread out those conversations, though, since they covered the sum total of his art knowledge and they still had a week to go.
“It’s a great painting,” he said. He remembered trees, wind, swirling stars.
“I think every artist has a starry night,” she said dreamily. “A scene that speaks to her. The landscape that defines her.”
“Like a horse you’re meant to ride,” he said without thinking. Oh, shoot. He sounded like a total yokel.
She gave him a long, appraising look. He waited for her to laugh, dismiss what he’d said, but she just nodded. “Exactly.”
Tilting her head back to study the stars, she leaned closer. Maybe she liked yokels.
“That’s why I’m so excited about this trip. If it works out, I can get out of advertising and travel and paint for a living. I’ll end up going all over the world. Tuscany. Maybe Paris. The mountains of Tibet. I’m bound to find my starry night sooner or later.” She smiled sleepily. “That probably sounds crazy to you.”
“No crazier than rodeo. If you have a dream, you have to chase it wherever it leads.” It felt like they were sharing something—something that mattered. He slid a sideways glance her way. “So. You want a tour of the heavens?”
She tried to respond, choked on her own breath, coughed, and spluttered. “No,” she croaked out. “And that is the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
“That’s not what I meant. You said you came out to look at the stars. I meant I’d tell you about them. Their names. Old stories that go with ’em.”
“You know the constellations?”
“Sure.” He kept up the hokey yokel act. It seemed to put her at ease. She probably needed a break from all the Chicago fanciness—especially the boyfriend. Amos Whittamer, or whatever.
“Okay,” she said. “Give me the tour.”
“Hang on.” Jumping to his feet, he jogged into the bunkhouse. He’d done this on dates, and girls always liked it.
Not that this was a date. Those baggy sweats should make it easy for him to stick to the rules. But stargazing required a certain ritual, and that ritual required a blanket.
Whipping a puffy quilt off one of the empty beds, he carried it outside and shook it out over a patch of ground just outside the glow cast by the fire.
“Okay, come over here.” He lowered himself down on the b
lanket and patted a spot beside him. “Tour bus is leaving.”
She tossed him a suspicious glance and tightened her grip on her knees. “I’m fine right here.”
“No you’re not. You’ll strain your neck. We’re going to do some authentic cowboy stargazing here, and we’ve got to do it right.”
She smiled and relented, just as he’d been hoping she would. Her strides were remarkably long for such a small woman. She was all feminine curves on the outside, but he suspected there was a strong frame under that delicate exterior. If she were a horse, she’d be an Arabian.
Not that he could tell in those sweats. Why didn’t she just put a blanket over herself and be done with it?
He smoothed the quilt and stretched out, patting the space beside him. “Come on. This way the sky’s just like a movie screen, see?”
She cast him a doubtful look and he thought he’d lost her, but then she stretched out herself and lay staring at the sky, her hair puddling on the quilt. She wore a rapt expression, and he could suddenly picture her as a schoolgirl paying close attention to the teacher. Teacher’s pet, no doubt.
No petting tonight. No touching.
The stars swirled for a moment and he wondered what it was that had made him dizzy, but then they paused and the world spun steadily on its axis again.
“You know the Big Dipper?”
She turned and gave him a disbelieving look. “We have stars in Chicago too, you know.”
“Right.”
“They’re pink, and extra-sparkly.”
“What?”
“Yup,” she said. “Super fancy. In my world, God’s last name is Swarovski.”
He groaned. “Are you ever going to let me forget that ‘fancy’ comment?”
“Nope. So tell me about the stars.”
“You know the Pole Star?”
“The one sailors steer by.”
“And cowboys. That’s our reference point, okay? All the constellations spread from there. So you see how you can follow the Pole Star to the lip of the Dipper? Follow that line and you’ll see Hercules.”
Cowboy Tough Page 10