Charlie watched him rotate his fingers in tiny circles, rubbing the horse’s copper-colored pelt. Honey’s long-lashed eyes drifted shut as she heaved a hard sigh and loosened her muscles, cocking one hind leg.
“Niiiice,” the rider purred. Charlie felt like she’d interrupted an intimate encounter.
“Sorry.” Dammit, she was blushing again. “I’m trying to get to Latigo Ranch. My car broke down.” She gestured toward the crippled Celica.
“Latigo? You’re already there,” he said. He swung one arm in a slow half-circle to encompass the surrounding landscape. “This is it. You a friend of Sandi’s?”
“A client,” she said. Sandi Givens was listed as “your hostess” in the glossy dude ranch brochure that lay on the Celica’s front seat.
He straightened in the saddle and widened his eyes. “You came all this way for Mary Kay?”
“Mary Kay?” Charlie shook her head. “No way. I’m not into that stuff. Makeup, yeah, but more like Urban Decay. I came out here to do some research on so-called horse whispering.” She attempted a smile. “I’m a grad student. Psychology.”
The rider bunched the reins in his fist and backed the horse a step or two. The horse moved cautiously, one foot at a time, nodding her head and laying back her ears. “Well, Sandi could sure use a shrink, but she’s not home. And don’t let her tell you she knows anything about horses. Whispering or otherwise.”
Charlie shrugged. “Well, duh. She’s just the hostess.”
“Hostess of what?”
“The dude ranch. I’m going to a Nate Shawcross clinic.”
The cowboy narrowed his eyes. With his battered hat and the two-day growth of stubble on his chin, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the young Clint Eastwood. That eerie, fluttering whistle pierced her subconscious again.
“Nate Shawcross doesn’t do clinics,” he said.
“Yes, he does. I have a reservation.” She set her fists on her hips and squared her shoulders. “Is there some kind of problem?”
“Kind of.” He leaned forward and pointed a thumb at his own chest. “Because I’m Nate Shawcross, and I don’t know a damned thing about any clinic.”
Charlie stood stunned, her mouth hanging open. “But…but I’m Charlie Banks. From Rutgers. I came all the way from New Jersey. My boss sent a deposit.”
“To Sandi, I guess,” he said. He looked down and fiddled with the reins. When he lifted his head, a muscle in his jaw was pulsing and his gray eyes glistened. He swallowed and looked back down at his hands. “Sandi’s my girlfriend,” he finally said. “She up and left, though. Went to Denver. I guess that makes her my ex-girlfriend.” He shook his head, still looking down at the reins. “Sorry. She didn’t tell me anything about this.”
“I’m supposed to stay here for three weeks,” Charlie sputtered. “And my boss expects me to come back with enough notes for a paper. There’s a conference…” She shook her head and blinked fast, pushing back tears. “I got lost, and now the car’s broken down and…” A single tear welled up in one eye and she flicked it away, praying he hadn’t seen it. She was angry, not scared, but she always cried when she was mad. And the madder she got, the harder she cried. It made her look weak, and she didn’t want to look weak in front of this stupid cowboy.
Because that’s what he was—a cowboy. No matter what the brochure said about “horse whisperers,” the man in front of her was a cowboy.
And she didn’t like cowboys.
She’d tried to explain that to Sadie Tate, but Sadie really didn’t care what Charlie liked.
* * *
Three days earlier, Charlie had parked her butt in an orange vinyl chair and devoted a solid half-hour to convincing Sadie Tate that the trip to Latigo Ranch was a bad idea.
The orange chair was part of the psychology department’s sixties vibe—a decorating concept as attractive and up-to-date as Sadie herself. The woman looked like an advertisement for What Not to Wear in her shapeless gray sweater and high-water pants.
“So you want me to spend the summer on a dude ranch, harassing innocent animals with a bunch of cowboys.” Charlie grimaced. “Please. I’m begging you. Don’t make me do this.”
“But it’s perfect.” Sadie’s nasal voice meshed perfectly with her appearance. “You love animals. And this is valuable field research.” She pushed her heavy glasses up the long slope of her nose and glanced down at the research proposal on her desk. “You’ll be assessing the parallels between the training techniques of Western livestock managers and the nonverbal cues with which humans communicate their wants and needs.”
Charlie snorted. “You can’t fool me with your academic double-talk, Tate. I know what a Western livestock manager is. It’s a cowboy.” She shoved the glossy brochure under Sadie’s nose, tapping one crimson fingernail on a color photo of a man in Wrangler jeans and a Stetson. “I’m a PETA member in good standing, Sadie. That’s ‘People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.’ I won’t ‘bust a bronc,’ and I don’t want to deal with anyone who does.” She sighed. “Can’t we just experiment on a few more freshmen instead?”
“Times have changed, Charlie.” Sadie dismissed her last question with an imperious wave of her hand. “They’re not called ‘cowboys’ anymore. They’re called ‘horse whisperers.’ They use nonverbal cues to communicate with another species. They soothe them and gain their confidence by mimicking the body language the animals use to communicate with their own kind. It’s exactly the sort of thing we need to understand.”
Charlie sighed. Her summer was ruined, but she’d stand on her head and whistle Dixie for Sadie Tate if she had to. Sadie was the only professor who’d been interested when Charlie shopped around for grad schools. The others figured out that her choice of psychology as a field of study was an afterthought. She’d majored in biology with an eye toward veterinary school, but she’d never make it with her mediocre grades. She’d spent too much time at PETA protests and not enough at her desk.
At least a degree in psychology would lead to some kind of meaningful work. No way was Charlie going to end up like her mother, sacrificing her life to making a living in a succession of dead-end jobs. Waitress. Receptionist. Hostess.
Mom.
Charlie knew her mother loved her, but being saddled with single motherhood at seventeen had been the equivalent of a life sentence to New Jersey’s minimum wage gulag. Mona Banks could have escaped, but she’d saved every penny she earned for her daughter’s education. That’s why she was still waitressing herself half to death on the night shift at the All-American Diner, still pushing Charlie to succeed at something, anything. There’ll be time enough for fun later, after you get your education, she’d said. Make some sacrifices.
But cowboys?
That was going too far.
“Do you realize what you’re asking me to do?” Charlie demanded. “You’re asking me to spend half my summer with men who make their living subjugating helpless animals. Men who think getting ground into the dirt by angry bulls is the ultimate proof of manhood. Who swagger around in chaps and cowboy hats, chewing tobacco and looking for ‘buckle bunnies.’”
“Exactly,” Sadie said. “I’m glad you have such an accurate grasp of the concept. Your flight leaves in three days.”
“Flight?” Charlie blanched. “Oh God, Sadie. Don’t make me fly. I hate flying. Can I drive? Please let me drive. I’ll take my own car.”
Sadie smiled and slit her eyes like a satisfied cat. “Why certainly, Charlie. I’m so glad you’ve agreed to go.”
Charlie cursed herself silently. She’d fallen right into Sadie’s trap.
“But you’ll need to leave tomorrow since you’re driving,” Sadie said. “It’s at least a two-day trip, and I arranged for you to arrive early in order to receive some individual instruction.”
Individual instruction? That meant Charlie would be on her own—all alone
with a cowboy who would no doubt try to tell her what to do. She pointed a finger at Sadie and took a deep breath, preparing to plunge into verbal battle.
Sadie stared back, calm as a Buddha, and Charlie felt her anger fade into hopelessness.
“I need to pack,” she mumbled and slouched out of the office.
Reaching the doorway, she turned. “But if they abuse their horses, I’ll—”
“You’ll observe and report,” Sadie said, raising her eyebrows and stabbing the air with a ballpoint pen. “As a student of psychology, you will maintain an objective perspective and will eschew any personal involvement with your subjects.”
“Yeah, that’s just what I was about to say,” Charlie muttered.
“Good.” Sadie shoved the pen behind her ear and nodded sharply. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
* * *
Charlie’s mother tossed a plastic-wrapped package into Charlie’s suitcase.
“Here,” she said. “I got you these.”
Charlie scanned the model on the cover. “Mom, these are granny panties,” she said. “Yuck.” She flipped through her underwear drawer and pulled out a pair of polka-dotted hi-cuts and a matching bra. “I wear pretty stuff.”
Her mom flipped her waist-length gray hair over her shoulder and peered into the drawer, picking through the satin and lace pretties. Pulling out a flimsy scrap of lace, she held it at arm’s length and eyed it as if she’d found the decaying corpse of a dead trout.
“What is this?”
“A thong,” Charlie said, snatching it out of her hand. “It’s so you don’t get panty lines.” She tossed it into the suitcase, but her mom immediately snatched it out and flipped it back into the drawer.
“Don’t you have any regular underwear?”
“This is regular,” Charlie said, holding up a scanty bikini panty with lace panels in the side. “I like pretty things, Mom. It’s not a big deal.”
“How do you expect to be taken seriously in your career when you dress like that?”
“I’m not going around in my underwear, Mom.” Charlie rolled her eyes. “It just makes me feel good to be pretty underneath, you know? I’ll be wearing jeans and stuff the whole time. I need a little pick-me-up.”
“Just don’t let anyone else pick you up.”
“They’re cowboys, Mom,” Charlie said. “I told you. I’m not going to fall for some dumb bronco buster.”
“I didn’t think I’d fall for a football jock either.” Her mom sat down on the side of the bed. “But it happened. And you know where it got me.”
Where the football jock “got” Charlie’s mother was the state of single-motherhood. A year after Charlie was born, he moved away, never to be heard from again. Charlie barely even knew what the man looked like. If she passed him on the street, she’d probably walk on by—and he’d probably run away. He’d never paid a dime in child support.
“Just don’t get involved with anybody until you finish your education.”
“I know.”
“Because men are different. They can just walk away, even from their own child.” She slipped the panty package back into the suitcase. “Men don’t love like we do. Just remember that.”
“Maybe they’re not all like that,” Charlie said. “Maybe there are a few good ones out there.”
“Maybe,” her mom said. “But it’s not worth the risk. Not for you. Not now.”
She set her hands on Charlie’s shoulders and looked her daughter in the eye. Charlie looked up and offered a quick prayer for patience, then met her mother’s gaze.
“What’s The Plan?” her mother asked.
It was their own private catechism, and Charlie had the answers down pat.
“Get my degree.”
“And after that?”
Charlie sighed. “Get meaningful work. Work that fulfills me. Work that helps people.”
“Right.” Charlie’s mother patted her shoulders twice and beamed at her. “Just keep your eyes on the prize, and you’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” Charlie said.
“And keep everyone else’s eyes off your underwear.”
“No problem.” Charlie grinned. “They’re cowboys. I’m not interested, and anyway, I’ve heard they only have eyes for sheep.”
Chapter 2
Nate eyed the crippled Celica and shook his head. The right front tire was completely flat, angling the front end into a painful twist, and the left rear wheel was perched up on a rock, accentuating the car’s absurd position.
“How were you planning on getting up to the house?” he asked.
“I’m going to walk,” the woman said decisively. “It can’t be far.”
She was unconsciously mimicking the pose of the car, with one hand fisted on a cocked hip and her torso twisted to survey the wide expanse of prairie. She was a tiny little thing, with short black hair hacked into a ragged, choppy shag. She’d rimmed her green eyes in thick, black eyeliner, and her lips were painted a deep shade of crimson. Any self-respecting Mary Kay lady would faint dead away at the sight of her, but Nate thought she looked exotic, like a strangely attractive alien from Planet Jersey.
“Ranch house is ten miles that way,” he said, pointing down the road. He looked down at her boots and stifled a smile, picturing her teetering across the rugged landscape in her fashion footwear. “It’s getting dark. Don’t you think you’d better ride?”
“I don’t ride,” she said. “I’ll call the ranch.” She tugged a cell phone out of the back pocket of her painted-on jeans. “They’ll send somebody.”
He watched, amused, as she flipped the phone open and stared in dismay at the “No Service” notice that lit up the screen.
“Shit,” she said.
“Those don’t work here,” Nate said. “And besides, who’s ‘they’? Don’t tell me Sandi made out like we had a staff or something.” He swung a leg over the horse’s back and eased himself to the ground.
“Okay. I won’t tell you.” She glanced over at the car, then flicked her eyes back to him. He followed her gaze and spotted a glossy brochure in the passenger seat. “Live the Western Dream at Latigo Ranch,” it said. Dang. It had Sandi written all over it. He wondered how many more of them were out there.
Sighing, he jerked his stirrups short and looped them over the saddle horn.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Taking Honey’s saddle off. Can I put it in your car?”
“Why? The car’s stuck.”
“Right. And that’s why.” He turned and met her eyes. “Honey’ll carry us bareback, no problem.”
“I told you, I don’t ride,” she said.
“It’s up to you,” he said. “Either you ride, or I leave you here and the coyotes pick your bones.” He shrugged. “Your choice.”
“But I can’t,” she said. “It’s morally wrong, forcing animals to serve us. Nobody has the right to…”
“Look.” He wedged one finger in front of the bit and lifted Honey’s upper lip into a horsey snarl. “See those teeth? And look at those feet.” As if to emphasize his point, Honey stamped one heavy hoof. “She weighs almost a thousand pounds. If she didn’t want to carry me, she wouldn’t.” He stroked her muzzle and she nosed his ribs, snuffling at his shirt. “Honey and I have a deal. I keep her warm and fed and spend a fortune on vet bills, and once in a while she takes me somewhere.”
The woman studied the horse, then turned to survey the featureless expanse of land surrounding them. “Okay,” she said uncertainly.
He heaved the heavy Western saddle into the Celica’s hatchback, then tossed a thick saddle blanket into the front passenger seat. The blanket released a puff of white dust onto the black leather upholstery, and the brochure rose into the air and flipped out the car window. As Nate and Charlie watched, it fluttered across the landscape on a
gust of wind, resting briefly against a clump of sagebrush, then continued on its random, breeze-blown journey across the plains.
“Oh, well.” Nate hadn’t really wanted to read what Sandi had written anyway. Swinging up onto the mare in one easy motion, he tightened the reins and backed up until Honey stood right next to the car. “Step up on the hood and I’ll help you up.”
Charlie looked down at her boots, then up at Nate. “I can’t. The boots will scratch my car.” He wondered why she cared. The car looked to be ninety percent Bondo and ten percent rust.
“Take ’em off,” he said. For some reason, the phrase summoned up a picture of Charlie Banks taking off a lot more than just her boots. He gave himself a mental slap. Women were nothing but trouble—this one more than most, he was willing to bet. She struck him as a bad attitude, all wrapped up in a pretty package.
He’d better keep his wayward imagination under control.
The bad attitude rested her shapely ass on the car’s fender while she jimmied off the boots and tossed them into the hatch with the saddle. Rummaging around on the floor behind the driver’s seat, she found a pair of sparkly flip-flops and slid into them.
“Now, up on the hood,” he said. “Give me your hand.”
“I don’t know,” she said, hoisting herself onto the car. “I don’t even know you.”
His lips twitched again, and this time he let them curl into a smile. “You want an introduction?” He held out his right hand. “Hi, I’m Nate Shawcross.”
“Charlie Banks,” she said. “Nice to meet you.” She reached up for a handshake and yelped as he grabbed her right hand, tucked his other palm under her left armpit, and swept her up onto the horse’s hindquarters in one smooth, practiced motion.
Honey snorted and danced sideways as Charlie flailed her legs and struggled for balance. Nate reached back to steady her and felt some soft, yielding body part give way beneath his hand. Good thing she was behind him. He could feel his face heating in a blush.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Sure.” She sounded breathless, and he wondered if she was scared of horses.
Cowboy Summer Page 35