Cowboy Tough (5 page)

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.

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.

“What am I, the help?”

“Hope so.” He gave her his most winning cowboy grin and got a bemused smile in return. Turning his attention to Rembrandt, he watched out of the corner of his eye as the girl unsaddled the horse like an expert.

When she returned from the barn and started rubbing a curry comb over Spanky's dusty coat, he gave her a nod of approval. “You must be Dora.”

The squint returned. “How'd you know? Did Aunt Cat tell you about me?”

“Yeah, but she didn't say you were coming today.”

If he could befriend the kid, it would probably score points with Cat. Besides, it seemed like she needed a friend. He watched her switch to the finishing brush, knocking it on her hip with each stroke to get rid of the dust.

“How'd you get here, anyway?” he asked.

Her lips flattened into a thin line. “Shuttle.”

“All the way from the airport?”

“Uh-huh.”

He could almost feel the wall going up. Probing would only make her add more bricks, so he let it go—for now.

“Does Cat know you're here?”

She shrugged. “I'll find her in a minute.”

He should probably send Dora up to the house to find her aunt, but she seemed totally absorbed in brushing the horse. Cat had said the girl had issues, and dealing with animals always calmed him down. Maybe it would do the same for Dora.

“So your mother was Cat's sister?”

“Yeah. She died.”

Shoot. This went way beyond “issues.” He didn't know what to say, but Dora saved him by yammering on.

“Aunt Cat likes to
think
she's my mom now. Like she can replace her or something. That's why she took me on this trip. We're supposed to
bond
.” She brushed harder at the horse's smooth coat, cleaning off dirt that wasn't there and blinking fast. “Like that's going to happen. My mom didn't even like her most of the time.”

Mack swallowed and tried to think of something soothing to say. This was evidently his day to be tested by women, and he'd failed every trial so far.

He stopped his own work and watched her trade the brush for a hoof pick. She ran her hand down the horse's leg and Spanky obediently lifted his foot.

“You're good with horses.”

He was rewarded with a luminous smile that made the girl's pale face almost pretty. “It's easy to be good at things you like to do.” The smile dimmed so fast it was like a shade being drawn over a lighted window. “What sucks is being good at stuff you don't want to do. Stuff you never want to do again.”

“Like what?”

“Art.” She lowered her brows, and Mack could swear a tiny thundercloud was forming above her bright halo of hair. “I
hate
art. And that's all I'm going to be doing for
two
whole
weeks
.” She said the last words like she was pronouncing a life sentence at hard labor. “You're our guide, right? The wrangler?”

Mack nodded. He was tempted to say he wasn't looking forward to the two weeks either, but grown-ups were supposed to set an example, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Maybe I could help you with the horses. Like, work for you. Instead of painting.”

He could feel the solid barn floor beneath him turning into a quagmire. She was trying to get him to take sides. Viv did the same thing, setting her mother against her father to distract them from her own misbehavior.

“Maybe you'd better ask your aunt.”

“Why? It's not like she's my mother or anything.” She straightened, absently rubbing the small of her back as she tossed the pick into the bucket. “No matter what she'd like to think.”

***

To Cat's relief, Maddie welcomed Trevor Maines with her customary enthusiasm. Taking a cue from his lord-of-the-manor attitude, she declared it was time for afternoon tea and began bustling around the kitchen as if the king of England had arrived. Cat took the opportunity to mumble a polite excuse about getting organized and hightail it for the relative safety of the bunkhouse.

She'd chosen the smallest room in the Heifer House for her own, a windowless cubicle at the end of the hall furthest from the bathroom. It was the approximate size and shape of a grave, which left barely room for herself and her luggage. For the moment, the cave-like solitude suited her.

Tugging a string that dangled from the bare bulb screwed into the ceiling, she knelt by the bed and fussed over her art supplies. She needed to have two of everything. Dora would be arriving tomorrow, and Cat had no doubt she'd conveniently forget her own brushes and paints. The girl had been strangely resistant to painting ever since her mother died.

Cat hoped she'd be able to figure out why on this trip. Figure out why and fix it. Underneath the hard shell Dora had donned at her mother's funeral was a sweet, talented girl. And Cat aimed to bring that girl back into the light.

She put everything back into the canvas bag she'd bought just for the trip. The brushes fit into neat slots, graduated by size. The paints themselves went into a plastic-lined compartment, and there was a removable zipper pouch for sketching pencils, charcoal, and erasers.

She loved art supplies the way some women loved fashion or food. There were so many possibilities waiting inside the tubes of bright color, and the blank paper was just waiting to take the paint.

The sketchbook went in last, and reluctantly. She'd noticed a rustic cabin behind the house, set in a copse of trees at the end of a picturesquely winding path. It would be lit by the lowering sun right now, with long, crisp shadows stretching from the sagebrush. She'd love to do a quick watercolor sketch of the place, but she needed to check on Trevor Maines and see if Madeleine Boyd had stolen his free will yet.

She hoped so.

Strolling up the steps to the ranch house, she was careful not to even look toward the barn. She had trouble enough without ogling the cowboy again. She mounted the steps and edged the door open.

“Anybody home?” She hoped her voice sounded more playful than she felt.

“In here.” Madeleine sounded chipper enough.

Trevor was laughing as she entered, his head flung back so that his blond hair flowed over the back of the chair. The laughter sounded forced and artificial, and when he slanted his gaze her way she caught a hard gleam in his eyes that had nothing to do with humor.

What was it about this man that made her so uneasy? For some reason he set off alarm bells in her head.

“It looks like Mrs. Boyd made you comfortable,” she said.

“Oh, yes. We're old friends now.” He shifted his feet, which were resting on a fringed footstool constructed mostly of cattle horns. Like much of Maddie's furniture, it looked like a relic of the nineteenth-century west of cattle barons and entrepreneurial British nobility. The website said the original Boyd was a duke from Scotland whose father had sent him to America after he'd killed a rival in a duel.

She tried to picture Mack fighting a Scottish duel, but she only got as far as the kilt before her thoughts wandered off on a rocky and forbidden track.

Or maybe not so rocky. The kiss had been awkward, but she had to admit the cowboy was growing on her. There'd been a companionable silence during their ride that felt somehow soothing, and he'd let her look at the landscape as long as she wanted. Most nonartists got impatient with her gawking, but Mack had a stillness about him that let her relax and enjoy the view. She enjoyed looking at him too, but she'd been serious about the “no touching” rule. There was no way she could indulge herself in a wild cowboy fling once Dora arrived.

Still, she wasn't sorry she'd taken a quick sample of what the Wild West had to offer.

“You have to try this shortbread.” Trevor gestured toward a plate of buttery cookies dusted with sugar. “It melts in your mouth.”

“No thanks.” She forced a smile and turned to Madeleine. She'd hoped the woman would show Trevor to the bunkhouse, but evidently that job was reserved for Cat. “I'm sure you'd like to see your room before dinner.”

“Oh, I've seen it,” he said. “Quite nice. The rustic decor's a bit, well,
forced
, you know? Rather juvenile. But it'll do.”

Cat felt like she'd just cleared the biggest hurdle in a boot camp obstacle course. Maybe she'd been wrong about the bunkhouse. If it was okay with Trevor Maines, surely it wouldn't be a problem for anyone else.

“The bucking horse motif is a bit over-the-top,” he said with a languid wave of his hand. “That bedspread, those curtains.”

Bucking horse motif? Cat blinked. She'd checked out the Bull Barn, and it hadn't had any kind of curtains at all. The bedspreads had been plain blue-ticked cotton.

“I thought Mr. Maines would be more comfortable in the house, so I put him in Mack's old room,” Maddie explained.

“I take it the photographs are of your son?” Trevor asked.

“That's right.” She tapped him playfully on the knee. “So you look out. Those bucking horses might get in your blood. They sure got into his.”

“I can't wait to meet him,” Trevor said, his bored tone belying the words. “He sounds so… rustic.”

Cat felt something in her spark and flare. “From what I hear, he's a very successful bronc rider,” she said. “It takes a lot of skill to get that far.”