Authors: Beth D. Carter
Twenty years ago she had been a wide-eyed little pixie who had caught him off guard as a young man. He had deliberately forced himself to not think about her because she had been jailbait. But now she was a woman, and his body had more than jumped to attention when he saw her again in her too-short skirt and too-tight shirt. His dick had just about turned to concrete in his jeans.
Tristan frowned, then reached to adjust himself. Even just thinking about her made him hard. Damn.
He wasn't a stupid man, despite a lack of higher education. Lincoln Hart had hinted he would inherit the ranch, but Tristan knew there was a sentimental streak inside the dying man. Lincoln wanted the land to stay in the Hart family, and so out of the blue the missing granddaughter shows up. Didn't take a genius to figure it out.
Tristan loved Lincoln Hart like a father. He respected the weathered man for all he had accomplished to bring the ranch into the modern age. Lincoln had a head for management that had served the land well, prospering while many surrounding ranches fell prey to various financial hardships. And Tristan knew he could carry the ranch far into the future; Lincoln had taught him well.
Now Tristan stood ready to lose everything due to the sentimental whims of death. He didn't blame Lincoln for wanting the ranch to stay in Hart hands, but Heather didn't seem the type of woman who would or could understand the intricate knowledge of a cattle operation.
Several hands started running to the main arena near the house. Tristan rose from his seat and wiped his hands, re-capping the bottle of leather conditioner. He looked out of the barn and saw the ranch practically deserted. He followed the loud music, which came from the arena, long abandoned since Avery and Simon died.
When he walked inside, he caught a glimpse of Heather Hart and stopped in midstride.
Fuck.
The sun had almost set when Heather left the house to make her way back down to the abandoned arena. She bypassed Mabel, who worked in the kitchen, and headed down the paved driveway. She had changed out of her schoolgirl outfit into Rio shorts and a tank that hugged her curves intimately.
As she walked, she turned heads. She could feel the stares of the ranch hands as each one noticed her. But then again, she had planned it that way and made sure she put an extra wiggle in her ass as she walked. The shorts, worn without panties, accentuated her flat tummy and the diamond ring in her belly button. The tank had a hard time containing her generous breasts. She was sleek, toned, and tanned—a lethal trio for any man.
When she got to her destination, she moved to the center of the arena and propped up her MP3 player, finding the warm-up song she wanted and hitting Play. Heather started her exercise routine, knowing the men watched her. Part one of her mission had begun.
Her music was fast with a hard beat. Her hips swayed, and she made sure to put extra swagger into the aerobics for her audience. The dance steps were simple, repetitive, making it easy to lose herself in the music. For a moment, the audience disappeared, and she felt free.
As each tempo changed to match her workout, Heather immediately matched her dance pattern. She could only imagine what it looked like to the men, a girl humping and grinding the air. Sweat started to run down her temples, cleansing her skin. Maybe even cleansing more if she psychoanalyzed herself.
When the cardio was over, she panted heavily, glad to hear the slower strands of the music that would cool her down. She decided to forgo the abdominal routine, thinking the men couldn't handle any more. They needed to be eased into having her around, to be teased into wanting her to stay. When she shut off the music, she turned around and saw about two dozen men watching her, mouths hanging open.
"You guys don't get to ogle without participating,” she told them. “Next time you have to join in."
Most of the cowboys chuckled or had the grace to blush, which she thought was cute. All shuffled out of the arena except for one man who leaned up against the wall, arms and ankles folded in a casual pose.
Tristan's hat was pushed back on his head, and she could see one eyebrow raised. “It takes nerves to strut that body around a ranch full of horny, hot-blooded men."
"Like what you see?"
"I'm not dead or gay,” he replied, uncrossing his legs and pushing himself off the wall.
"Good to know,” she answered back with a saucy toss of her head. Her ponytail bobbed against her back.
"Nor am I stupid. Don't let the accent fool you."
"Hiding a PhD under that Stetson?"
"Trying to hide my temper."
"Why? Because you lust for my body? Don't worry, most men do. I'm an aerobics instructor, so I'm used to the leering."
"Shut the hell up, Heather,” he growled. “Are you trying to get raped?"
Before she knew what she was doing, her hand flew out to smack him across the cheek. In stunned disbelief, she watched her handprint turn bright red against his tan flesh. He stared at her for a full minute, his lips tight and compressed.
"That was a little uncalled for,” he said as he rubbed the tender area.
"A man should never make jokes about something like that."
"I wasn't. I'm just saying unless you want a lot of unwanted male company, you better put your dancing back in the can."
"Excuse me, but this is an abandoned arena, and I've been invited to stay here by my grandfather, who is your boss.” She stressed that little reminder.
"Decided to throw around the name, huh?"
"No need, Tristan. I'm sure you remember it."
They stood toe-to-toe, her hands on her hips and his crossed over his chest. It took her a moment to realize an electric charge had sprung up between them, zapping her skin. The feeling surprised her, and she could tell he felt it too, by the way his eyes narrowed and how his body tensed.
He stood a few inches taller, and this close she could still see the young, good-looking boy from long ago in the handsome man before her. Faint little lines ran from his eyes. Grooves bracketed his mouth. He wore a cowboy hat, of course, a big gray one pulled low upon his forehead. It cast his eyes into shadow. His jaw had a day's worth of whisker stubble that she bet would tickle her bare skin most deliciously. The idea of having him rub up and down her body caused her pulse to jump. She shifted slightly to ease the sudden tension between her thighs.
"Hey, boss?” came a questioning voice from the doorway, causing Heather to jump slightly. She immediately stepped back from Tristan. “Some of us are gonna try to train that new horse. Want to rope the steer with us?"
Without taking his gaze off her, Tristan waved his hand. “I'll be right there."
"Boys will be boys,” she murmured, her voice husky.
"Ranch work is never done."
"Then I'll see you tomorrow.” She turned and grabbed her MP3 player, aware of his gaze following her every move.
A heavy knock on her door made Heather sit up in bed, the covers all a tangle around her body.
"Rise and shine!” Mabel called in a cheerful voice through the door.
Heather squinted at the door, then squinted at the window which proved it was still night. Finally, she glanced at the clock.
4:00 a.m.
"Heather? Are you awake?” Mabel knocked again.
In response, Heather grabbed the small alarm clock from the nightstand and threw it at the door. It hit with a thud. She lay back down and pulled the covers over her head, falling back to sleep almost instantly.
Five hours later, Heather came into the kitchen. She wore a short, kimono-style robe that barely covered her ass cheeks, and a lit cigarette dangled from her mouth. She opened the refrigerator, took out the milk, and poured some in a glass.
She turned around and saw Tristan filling the doorway.
"Can't I wake up in peace?” she mumbled around the cigarette.
"You're smoking in the house of a man dying of lung cancer,” he pointed out with a deliberate stare at her cigarette.
Heather took a drag and then blew it out slowly in his direction. “It's not like secondhand smoke can hurt him any worse."
But she turned around and stabbed the cigarette out in the sink. She took a long drink of her milk before moving to open cabinets, obviously looking for something.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm looking for breakfast,” she replied, keeping her back toward him. “I thought I saw cereal in here yesterday."
"Breakfast was five hours ago."
"No creature on earth needs to be up at four in the morning."
"The animals need to be fed."
"What, the animals can tell time?"
Tristan crossed his arms and fell silent as she finally located some cereal and fixed herself a bowl with the milk she had left out. She leaned her hip against the tiled counter as she spooned bites into her mouth. She watched him, and he watched her.
"I know about the stipend, Heather. You think your grandfather wouldn't tell me? Who do you think is going to report your progress?"
She swallowed the last of the cereal and placed the bowl aside. “Don't you think your opinion is kind of biased?"
"I'll give an honest report."
"You have as much to gain as I have to lose. So we'll report together, thank you very much."
"What's your game, Heather? Was your little exercise routine yesterday part of your ploy? You don't really want this ranch, so why the competition?"
She didn't answer as she walked up to him, her gaze tracing his hardened face. “So, I got five things to accomplish by the end of the month,” she replied with a casual tone. “I obviously have ideas, but since you're the taskmaster, what's yours?"
"Meet me in front of the main stable."
"And that would be where?"
"The large, red barn trimmed in white to the right of the house. You can't miss it."
"All right. I'll be there as soon as I dress."
She expected him to move aside. But he didn't. He watched her, waiting, so with a crooked smile she squeezed between him and the door frame, her breasts pushing against his rock-hard chest.
The young girl that she had been, who hadn't understood what desire was all about, had given way to a woman who recognized the blatant hunger in his dark eyes.
His hand hit the wall next to her head, trapping her. He leaned in so close that she felt his breath on her face. An answering need rose sharply inside her, and she itched to touch him, to bring his lips down upon hers. Fire ignited her blood. Her heart thumped almost painfully while her pussy creamed for the hard cock that pulsed through his heavy denims, pushing against her thigh. The overwhelming urge to fall to her knees and suck him into her mouth for a feast had her reeling.
Shaken at the unwanted feeling, and a touch scared of it, she pushed past him and hurried up the stairs, very aware of the gaze that followed her retreat.
Once in her room, with the door firmly pressed shut behind her, Heather slumped against it, breathing heavily. She had to get control of herself. If she planned on winning this little competition between favorites, she was going to have to keep her head clear and her eye on the prize. Falling for Tristan's charms would do her no good.
Shaking off the lingering tingles from her brush against the virile cowboy, Heather quickly dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a form-fitting, low-cut T-shirt that nicely hugged her breasts. She fluffed her hair, applied some makeup, and then pulled on a pair of Ugg boots.
Boots were boots, right?
She left her room and crossed to her grandfather's door, not even bothering to knock as she strolled on in. Mabel sat next to him with an open ledger in her hands. Heather caught the tail end of her talking about some accounts before the housekeeper-accountant clammed up.
"We're not done yet, girl,” Lincoln Hart wheezed. “Come back in a while."
"I'm supposed to meet Tristan,” Heather said. “But I guess I can stand him up. I have a new bikini I can wear as I work on my tan. Think your cowboys would like that?"
"Quit trying to seduce the men out of work! Mabel, can you give us a moment?"
Mabel shot an annoyed look Heather's way before snapping the ledger shut and rising. She straightened Lincoln's bedcovers before walking out the door, shutting it behind her with a soft click.
Heather folded her arms, waiting, one eyebrow arched.
"You got a mouth on you, don't you?” her grandfather grumbled over his labored breathing. An oxygen hose ran up each nostril.
"Why did you tell Tristan about our arrangement?"
"How else am I gonna know if you're keeping your end of the deal? It's not like I can play detective while carrying around my breathing tank."
"I'll keep my word because I've decided I want this ranch,” Heather announced.
"The deal was for cash."
"We both know it was for a lot more than money. Otherwise, you wouldn't have demanded the stipulation."
He narrowed his eyes and regarded her steadily, sizing her up like a cow at auction. And perhaps that described her predicament perfectly.
"It'll take a lot more than that to win my decision, Heather,” he finally said. The sound of her name coming from his lips startled her a bit, his rusty voice old and tired.
She pursed her lips and turned to leave the old man to wither away another day in his room, but at the threshold, she turned. Her chin went up a notch. “Whether you like the fact or not, I am your granddaughter. And I suspect I've gotten my backbone and determination from you, because there's no way in hell I'm losing this ranch to a fucking replacement."
She slammed the door behind her, the Ugg boots not quite making the noise she'd hoped for.
The stable housed forty horses, with twenty individual stalls on each side. Heather stood in the open doorway on the soft dirt and wrinkled her nose at the undeniable smell of manure, leather, and beast. It brought back memories.
Tristan had promised to come see her all those years ago, to see how his home remedy had helped, but he didn't show. She had gone looking for him and had ended up at this stable, where she had been told by his friend Duke that he had left Hart Ranch. She had forgotten that until just then. Her little schoolgirl crush had been almost overwhelming, her disappointment at missing Tristan heartbreaking.