Cowboy Wilde (Cooper's Hawke Landing Book 2)

by Rhonda Lee Carver

  Climbing into the truck, it smelled strongly of oil and pig. Lord, she hoped once they were on the road the smell would go away, at least some.

  “Let me have that and I’ll toss it into the back seat.” He pointed at her bag which she handed over. When he started the diesel engine it rumbled and vibrated underneath them, and the radio blasted over top of the sound. “Sorry.” He shut off the music.

  “It’s okay. Thank you for the ride. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Being a trucker requires a lot of solitude and quiet and on occasion it’s nice to have company. My wife used to occupy the passenger seat until we had our first child.” He pointed at the row of pictures of his lovely family taped along the dash.

  “Your boys look just like you,” she said.

  “My pride and joy.” He smoothed his unkempt beard proudly.

  Once they got an air flow through the windows, the strong odor disappeared some, but it came back fully when they stopped at a light. Deep laughter rolled from Monte who must have noticed her winkled nose.

  “I’m nose blind,” he said.

  “Good thing.”

  “It comes with the perimeters of being a pig farmer. They smell but those gilts in the trailer are worth a pretty penny.” He turned right which took them on a country road and a change of scenery. Wildflower dotted fields were backdropped by sharp tipped mountains and a bright blue sky full of fluffy clouds. The scene was breathtakingly beautiful. She took out her phone to snap a few pictures and noticed she didn’t have service.

  “If you’re looking for service you’re out of luck. Most times you won’t get anything out here around the mountains.”

  Disappointed, she dropped her phone back into her purse. “It’s really beautiful out here,” she said breathlessly. “I knew this place would be amazing, but this is beyond words.”

  “We’re lucky out here, I guess. Unless you can’t live without technology. We don’t get many tourists. Everyone wants to be where the action is these days. But I think once Wilde gets the resort up and running, they’ll come in droves. So, Wilder Ranch, huh? No offense but you don’t look much like a country girl.”

  “I guess I don’t.” She looked down at her business attire. “Do you know Ruger Wilde?” The truck bounced over the road and the springs screeched. She held on as Monte slowed the truck as they encountered some deep potholes.

  His booming laugh echoed off the walls of the cab. “Not only do I know him, but he’s a buddy. I dropped him off a load of pigs just last week. What’s a ranch without hogs? They’ll take care of any slop he’ll have so who needs a garbage disposal? The ranch sure is coming along. He’s got an eye for detail. Glad to see he bought the place and has a plan, but...,” He whistled through his teeth. “he’s braver than I am.”

  “Braver?” That caught her attention.

  “Just sayin’, takes a lot of courage to turn a place around.”

  “I don’t know anything about him or the ranch,” she admitted, hoping that was an invitation for Monte to expand on information.

  “I believe it.” The man gave her a quick glance.

  “That bad, huh?” Her stomach knotted.

  “Nah! Ruger’s one of the good guys. He volunteers at the Hawke Landing Search and Rescue. He and the team saved my boy’s life last year when he fell on a trail up on ol’ Trip Ease. Broke both legs just like that. Ruger packed him back on his horse for miles.”

  “Search and Rescue? Are they needed out here with all the wide-open spaces?”

  “The mountains are a beautiful place but if a person isn’t careful Mother Nature can teach them a lesson. The rescue team is up in the mountains quite often saving missing or injured people.”

  “Sounds dangerous.” She clasped her hands in her lap.

  “Sure can be. Those men are bad asses. Wilde took a bullet while in the Marines and ended up in some overseas hospital for a short time before he was transferred back into the states. He came home after that with a medal so that should give you some insight on what type of man he is. Saved some lives and came home a hero, although he won’t brag. Modest son-of-a-gun. Been through a lot though. Made him a bit isolated.”

  Her mind fabricated up an image of a rugged, burly man with scars and soulless eyes. That didn’t sound like the owner of the voice she heard on the phone. Turning her attention to look outside, she watched the scenery pass, sweat building between her breasts as she worried about her meeting with this man named Ruger who seemed like a legend in these parts. Everyone liked him—respected him. Would this ex-Marine see right through her?

  “Here we are,” Monte said in a soaring voice, pointing at a narrow gravel drive with a beat-up mailbox in front. He stopped the truck and she looked at him.

  “Are you sure this is it?” She couldn’t see anything but fields.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid this is where the ride stops. The lane is too rough for the springs on this old girl.” He patted the dusty dashboard lovingly.

  If she would have stopped and thought about Monte’s words longer she would have been curious why the lane was so rough, but instead she’d been so wrapped up in her nerves that she politely climbed out, took her bag that he handed her through the open door, and bid the nice, but interesting, man a “Thank you”.

  She watched him pull away and heard an oink or two.

  Starting up the long road, pulling her bag along behind her. She stepped around deep divots and a dead opossum that the vultures were having their way with before she disturbed their meal. They didn’t move far except to the other side, watching her with beady eyes of warning that they weren’t sharing. The stink almost made her gag as she hurried her pace passed the roadkill.

  The lane was sandwiched between fenced fields. By the time barns and horses came into view, she was panting, sweating, and her new boots were covered in a layer of dust.

  Coming to a clearing, her smile dropped as her shoulders slumped. She was flabbergasted at what she saw ahead of her.

  She’d found the house.

  Calling the structure a house would be an insult to other houses, those with four solid walls, a roof, and a porch. This place had all those things, but they looked like they leaned a bit like her grandpa’s shoulders had before he passed away. The siding which was probably white at one time was now green with moss. A paint job might help, or not. The tin roof needed mending. The porch, well, it should be torn down and rebuilt. The flower beds were overgrown with weeds and were unwelcoming.

  An old yellow dog spotted her from his perch on the front steps, lifted his head, then slowly got up to greet her. His tongue was hanging out the side of his mouth and his short, spiky tail wagged, the only sign that he was glad to see her. She petted his head and he sat down as if to indulge in the scratch.

  A fat tomcat bounced over and rubbed against her legs. He was missing the tip of one ear and half his tail. The stub swished back and forth like a windshield wiper. She laughed when the cat dropped down on his side in front of the old dog as if demanding attention.

  “Where’s your owner, you two?”

  Receiving a meow in response, Grace patted the cat’s head. “Is that so?”

  She surveyed the piles of chopped wood, the rickety barns in the distance that looked sturdier than the house, further on to the small white house along the edge of the woods. A couple of horses leaned over the fence, stretching their necks to investigate the visitor.

  The place seemed quiet. Abandoned, except for the animals.

  Reaching into her pocket for the letter, she started to read it for any clues when she heard pounding from inside the house. So, she wasn’t alone? The hammering echoed through the open windows causing her ears to ring and a headache to start at her temples. For several years now she’d suffered from migraines. Lack of sleep and worry never did her any good.

  She took a step toward the house and then the loud whining of an electrical saw stopped her. The high-pitch screeching of metal hitting wood sent a sharp pain t
hrough her forehead. She needed a water and a pain killer.

  What had she expected?

  Pull it together, Grace.

  Following the worn grass to the porch, she climbed the makeshift steps made of concrete blocks and stepped onto the wobbly boards with wide gaps between the slabs. The wheels on her bag got caught and she pulled the handle. Hearing a loud crack, the plastic separated from the bag and she went flying into the wall, hearing a splintering. Grateful she didn’t do much damage, she decided to leave her suitcase and purse outside in case she had to make a quick escape.

  She rapped her knuckles on the rickety, cockeyed screen door, the only thing separating the inside from the outside. She doubted her attempt could be heard with all the racket.

  When the saw stopped, she yelled inside, “Hello?” A second later she tried again. “Hey? Can you hear me?”

  The sound of thudding boots resonated through the house and she peered inside the dimly lit space, waiting and anticipating the sight of any living person.

  “Hello?” came a booming voice.

  She swiveled on the porch, looking for the owner. Stepping across the unsteady, rotten boards, she looked around the unkempt yard and into the distance, seeing only the dog and cat who were watching in curiosity.

  “Up here,” came the voice again.

  Twisting and lifting her chin, she found him sticking his head through the window on the second floor. His face was partially covered by clear safety glasses and the strap of a mask hung off one ear.

  She waved. “Hi, I’m—”

  “I know who you are. You’re late!” he ground out.

  “I had to ride the bus from New York and then find a ride—”

  “Come upstairs,” he demanded then disappeared from the window. The heavy pounding of a hammer followed by the returning whining of an electrical tool made Grace cringe.

  Dragging the hem of her blouse down her hips, she inhaled a sliver of bravery and entered the house that smelled a lot like mildew and saw dust. The curtains—if you could call the yellowed material curtains—were strung up over the windows to either block out the light or trap the dust particles.

  Through the dusty shadows she made out a dingy sofa and a matching chair. The walls were completely bare. The floors looked like they hadn’t been cleaned since nineteen eighty. The fireplace cove had six inches of ash.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she stared up the worn boards, hoping they were sturdier than the surrounding walls. With each step the wood creaked in resistance and by the time she made it to the top of the landing her palms were clammy, and her heart was beating like a hammer inside her chest.

  What had she been thinking by coming here?

  She didn’t belong on a ranch.

  Turning, she took one step down when she heard, “Back here!”

  Fine!

  Following the sounds down the hall, she came to an open doorway and stopped at the threshold. Even through a growing migraine and edgy nerves, she could still appreciate the image before her. Cornflower blue eyes stared at her from behind glasses. Strong, chiseled jaw was covered in dark, day-old whiskers, and sweat-slicked brow was creased. Powerful, barreled arms stuck out from a stretched white T-shirt. Gloved hands held a saw, hovering over a slab of wood, reminding her of a lumberjack.

  “You’re late!” he repeated the accusation as he placed the tool aside.

  Straightening her back, she swallowed a bit of discomfort. His scowl didn’t deter from his good looks, not one bit, although this wasn’t a good first meeting. “Like I said, I traveled from New York—”

  “Yeah, I know what you said,” he growled. “You were supposed to call when you made it and I would have arranged for a ride.”

  “In the spotty service out here? I was lucky and found—”

  “I gave up hours ago.”

  Tilting her chin, she sighed. “Do you make it a habit to interrupt someone every time they try to speak?”

  “Do you make it a habit to arrive three hours late for your first day on the job?” When she didn’t answer, he blurted, “Did you hear me?” He pushed the glasses up to rest atop a mass of dark hair with threads of silver. How old was he? She guessed mid-thirties.

  “I heard what you said.” It took her a moment to recover from the piercing blue gaze that erupted awareness in her body. “I’m here now.”

  “After half the morning is lost.” He grabbed the wood off the sawhorses and turned his back to her to prop the board against the wall. His back was broader than his chest, if that was possible, and the jeans fit his firm bottom nicely.

  Drawing her gaze upward to settle on his head, she sighed. “What time is it?”

  “How the hell should I know? Do you see a watch?” he drawled.

  “You said three hours. That certainly sounds like you’d know the time,” she quipped.

  “Lady, just take my word for it.”

  “It’s only around nine. That’s certainly not half of any morning, especially on a Saturday morning.” At least this time he didn’t interrupt her half sentence.

  “I don’t know how they do things back in New York, but here in Montana on a ranch the work day starts at sunrise and there are no weekends, at least until one has been earned,” he said grumpily then started moving about the room as if searching for something. Maybe his manners?

  The hair on the back of her neck lifted. Had she made a mistake? Yes!

  She should tell him the truth and walk away. She hadn’t signed up for this…

  Before she could say a word, his eyes were back on her, taking her voice prisoner as she stood there awkwardly. His gaze journeyed a head-to-toe trail over her. One corner of his mouth lifted in wry humor as if read her discomfort. “Please tell me you brought more suitable clothes than those.”

  No clue that today she’d be standing in a dilapidated house on an overrun ranch being grumpy eyed by a handsome cowboy, she hadn’t dressed accordingly. So the gauzy blouse and slim slacks were more practical yesterday. “My suitcase is outside.” She did a quick mental list of what she’d packed. She’d been in such an impulsive hurry and couldn’t remember. It probably didn’t matter because nothing in her wardrobe would be fitting for a ranch. She’d tell him the truth, but she was slightly afraid that the bulging vein on his temple might explode. “It’s been a long ride. New York didn’t have a direct route here, so I had to switch buses somewhere around Billings and then two more. I didn’t realize it would be forty-four hours—” Seeing his dull expression, her words fizzled.

  There was his smirk again.

  Feeling a warm flush spread from her roots to her toes, she resisted the urge to wrap her arms around her waist in protection. Feeling self-conscious, she swept her palms down her blouse and shifted in her ruined boots.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?” He raised a thick brow.

  “Up for it?”

  He picked up a slab of drywall and hefted it onto the sawhorses. “The job?” He gave her a lazy grin and some of the tortured creases around his eyes relaxed, making him appear friendlier. Some of the shakiness left her legs.

  “I’m up for it.” Honestly, she had no clue what she was confirming, but she’d gotten herself into this…in a roundabout way.

  He swiped off his gloves and scratched his whiskered jaw, leaving a smudge of sawdust across his cheek. “I guess we should have a seat and go over my expectations,” he said easily.

  That would be great, considering she had no idea what those expectations were. “Yes.”

  “Did you get the letter?”

  “Yes. I did.” She realized she was holding it clutched in her fist.

  “I’m sure you have some questions.”

  “Would you happen to have a bottle of water?” She needed to wipe out the thumping in her temples since laying down in a dark, quiet room didn’t seem to be an option at the moment.

  He gave a jerky motion for her to follow him and they made their way downstairs, this time the back stairs, took a q
uick right into the kitchen—a description she used lightly. The cabinets were faded gray, some of the doors were missing, and the wallpaper looked like a popular fifties style.

  “Nice.” She tapped the antique stove. “Every homemaker’s dream.” “The place needs some work.” He opened the refrigerator causing the door to squeak and whine in resistance and he took out a bottle of water, tossing it to her. She caught it against her chest, chipping a nail.

  Uncapping the offering, she took a long gulp with two pain killers from the bottle in her purse. Feeling almost an instant relief, she drank more of the water.

  He’d crossed the room and was leaning casually against the edge of the counter. “You okay?”

  “Oh yes, I’m fine now. Thank you.” She thought he was referring to her headache, but his next words erased any sign of her smile.

  “I bet it’s rough having a chipped nail.” He crossed his arms over his chest, turning his biceps into barrels.

  “Probably not any more difficult than days of dirt under nails.” She made an obvious point by staring at his hands. They were dirty, but they were also large with wide fingers and short, flat nails.

  He surprised her by laughing. He had a nice laugh.

  No denying, he was masculine and handsome.

  “It was a long trip. Mind if I take a seat?” She didn’t wait for an invitation but pulled out one of the chairs at the long, farmhouse table and took a seat, admiring the construction of the antique. “This is nice.” She ran her hand along the thick, polished oak.

  There was a long hesitation. “My dad had a way with wood. He made it.”

  “Amazing skill. Does he have any other pieces?”

  “No,” he said sharply.

  “So, this is Wilder Ranch?”

  “Wilder Ranch and B&B.”

  The only guests in the house were of the four-legged variety. Feeling like her nerves were back on track, she said, “Oh, yes. A B&B.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “It’s in the renovation stage.” She looked around, placing her clasped hands nervously in her lap. “You said I’d be provided room and board.”