The Cattleman (Sons of Texas Book 2) (6 page)

Following that, they would go back to her house for dessert. The thought set off a twitch in his
shorts. They hadn’t seen each other in weeks. To say he was, er,
anxious
was an understatement.

Just ahead of him, partially blocking his path on the single-lane road, a bright-green Volkswagen Beetle sat at a crooked angle, half on, half off the pavement. How it had gotten past the private security dude who often parked in a copse of trees and bushes near the front gate,
Pic didn’t know. He stomped the brake and yanked the steering wheel, avoiding a collision.

Coming to a halt on the shoulder, he saw no driver. He shoved the gearshift into Park, stepped down from his seat and started toward the car. The end-of-June heat hit him and instantly, he began to sweat. He was wearing a starched, long-sleeve dress shirt and the temperature hovered around a hundred.

A straw hat with the biggest floppy brim he had ever seen and big red flowers around the crown popped up from the far side of the VW. “Got a problem?” he called out, nearing the car. A trickle of moisture trailed down his spine.

The woman under the hat grew taller, but not by much. “Oh, thank God. I have a flat tire. I don’t know how it happened. I was just driving along and the steering started acting funny.” Her voice sounded soft and breathy.

Pic made a mental groan. He was already late.

Except for her head and shoulders, the woman’s body was hidden by the Volkswagen. Nor could he see her eyes, covered as they were by huge sunglasses with black lenses. He stole a glance into the VW.
A license plate he didn’t recognize. A suitcase, a couple of backpacks and several plastic boxes filled the small backseat. “This is a private driveway, ma’am. Are you lost?”

She caught a quick breath and
pressed a palm against her chest. “Oh, my gosh, I hope not.”

“Where you going?”

“Just a minute.” She opened the Volkswagen’s passenger door and pulled out a bag that looked like a fishing net. She pawed inside it for what seemed like forever while he stood roasting on the black pavement in the heat and humidity.

Finally, she dug out a piece of paper and raised it with a gesture of triumph. “Found it.” She beamed a huge smile showing perfect bright white teeth.
“I’m looking for the Double-Bar L Cattle Company. It’s a ranch. I thought this was the right road.”

“Yes, ma’am, it is. I’m with the ranch. What I can do for you?”

She came around the front end of the VW revealing a white form-fitting top that looked even whiter against her olive skin. Held up by straps that weren’t much more than strings, it stretched across an ample chest, showing deep cleavage and distinct nipple impressions. No bra. His adrenaline spiked as his gaze moved on down to tan shorts and flat sandals with about a dozen straps. Her toenails were painted bright red with some kind of white design.

Still smiling, she stuck out her right hand. Lord, her smile made the sun look dull. “How-do-you-do? I’m Zochimilka Amiyala McLaren.”

Hunh?
Pic’s chin tucked back involuntarily. Assuming she had told him her name, he cautiously accepted her handshake. “Uh, Pic Lockhart.”

“Oooh, you’re Pic.” She pumped his hand up and down. “I’m so glad to meet you. I feel as if I know you. My parents and I are friends with your mother.”

Clang!
An alarm went off in Pic’s head. He didn’t trust anything involving a woman if it had ties to his mother. He released the visitor’s hand as if it were hotter than the pavement. “My mother sent you here?”

“She told me you’d be glad to assist me. I’m a photographer. I came up here from Austin. I’m taking some pictures of old Texas ranches.”

Another mental groan. He didn’t have time to assist a photographer. Keeping the Double-Barrel Ranch running on an even keel consumed most of his waking hours and some of his sleeping ones. “I’m headed for town, ma’am. Tell you what. Just stay on this road and you’ll run into the ranch house. It’s about half a mile.” He hitched his thumb back toward the house. “My dad’s there. He’ll get one of our shop hands to fix your tire.”

She looked down at her flat tire, then back up at him. Obviously, she couldn’t drive the bug as it was. And the last thing he wanted was to change a tire, even if it did belong to a good-looking gal with Playboy centerfold ta-tas and thick coal-black hair that hung in ringlets and curls all the way to her ass. But he couldn’t expect her to walk to the ranch house in this heat. He made yet another mental groan. “Tell you what. I’ll drive you to the ranch house and introduce you to my dad. He’ll help you get fixed up.”

“Thank you so much,” she said. “Your father would be Bill Lockhart, Junior?”

Who is this woman?
“Uh, yes, ma’am. Hold on. Let me move my truck.”

Pic had parked his truck with the passenger side canting downhill, the right wheels on the shoulder. He was driving a RAM 2500, a big rig with big tires. Sitting
at an angle as it was, the running board was at least three feet off ground. No way would she be able to climb in.

Trekking back to the truck, he lifted off his straw Resistol and wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve. When he climbed behind the wheel, “Lone Star Blues” blasted at him from the radio. He turned the air conditioner on high, clicked off the radio and backed up. After he had leveled the truck on the pavement, he secured
the tiny navy blue sack holding Mandy’s birthday present in the jockey box, slid out again, rounded the frontend and opened the passenger door for the visitor.

As she neared the doorway, sunlight glinted off her necklace, a leather thong with some kind of bauble that lay against her cleavage. A sheen of sweat showed on the cushions of flesh around it.
Oooh, man..
.

“It’s really noisy, isn’t it?” she said.

Noisy?
“What, my truck?” He looked at the truck, noticed for the first time the big HEMI engine chugging rhythmically. He swerved his eyes back to her. “Guess I’m so used to it I don’t hear it.”

She hesitated a few beats, then lifted one foot. It came inches short of reaching the running board. She looked up at him again. “I’ve never ridden in a pickup this big. Am I supposed to jump?”

He frowned, then bent at the waist and interlocked his fingers, making a stirrup of his hands. “Here. Step here and climb in.”

“Oh, gosh, I don’t want to step on your hands with my shoes on.” She squatted and began to undo multiple buckles. He straightened and glanced at his watch. Now he was forty-five minutes late.

She stood, kicked off the shoe and stepped on the pavement, “Ow!” She yanked her foot up and hopped to the truck door, grabbing it for balance.

Oh, hell.
No telling what the temperature was on the asphalt. He again bent down and interlocked his fingers. “Look, ma’am. I need to get to town. Let’s just do this. Just put your foot here. I’ll lift you onto the seat.”

She pulled off her sunglasses and shoved them against the crown of her hat. Then she braced one hand on his shoulder and stepped into his hands with a small slender foot.

The edge of her hat brim tangled with his and caught his sunglasses, shoved them to the side and gouged his eye. Pain jerked his head back reflexively.

He grabbed for his own hat with one hand, trying to hang on to her foot with the other. She teetered and hooked him around the neck with one arm, her breast pressing against his
nose and smarting eye. To keep from dropping her, he had no choice but to scoop her up and into his arms.

Her scent surrounded him—hot woman, sultry perfume. Another surge of adrenaline coursed through him and muscles tightened low in his belly. His eye felt as if it had been slashed with a knife—hell, it might be bleeding—but suddenly a critical part of him felt zero concern for an eye injury.

He lifted her to the level of the seat, but before he could slide her onto it, she looked at him eye-to-eye, mere inches between their faces. “Oh, my gosh,” she said softly. “Your eye is so red. And it’s watering. Are you okay?”

Her breath touched his lips and smelled of peppermint. Her breast and the beat of her heart rhythmically pressed against his chest. He felt a shift in his shorts and his world turned upside down. He had the damnedest urge to kiss her shiny pink lips.

A few seconds passed before he came to his senses. He had to untangle from her. He did not like what being so close to her was doing to him. “It’s fine. Just slide onto the seat.”

At last, she was seated. His eye burned like fire. He dabbed at it with his shirtsleeve as he slammed the door. Cussing under his breath, he rounded the truck’s front end again and climbed behind the wheel, turned the truck around and drove the short distance back to the ranch house in silence, fighting the confusing action and reaction going on behind his fly.

As he approached the house, his two border collies rose from sleeping on the front porch and began to bark. He came to a stop on the driveway in front of the house and the dogs bounded toward them. The two orange barn cats raced along with them. He scooted out of the truck, rounded the frontend again and opened the passenger door.

The visitor slid out, landing on the ground with a one-footed hop, hanging on to her shoe and her purse. The dogs barked and danced around them.
The cats meowed. Her shoulders scrunched all the way up to her earlobes, one palm flew up and her jaw clenched. Evidently, she didn’t like animals.

Pic gave a loud whistle. “Frissy! Fancy! Settle down!”

His dad came out of the house, walking toward them. He whistled, too. “Fancy! Get back on the porch!”

Both dogs continued to bark and
bounce around them. The visitor inched closer to Pic’s side. He glanced down at her, saw a little quiver in her chin. Was she afraid of dogs? He shoved the question out of his mind and amidst the commotion, raised his voice. “Dad, this is—” He stopped. Though she had said her name, he hadn’t understood it.

She stuck her right hand out to Dad. “Hello,” she said, her voice elevated above the dogs’ barks. “My name
is Zochimilka Amiyala McLaren.”

Pic still didn’t catch her name. In the sing-song way she said it, it all ran together.

Dad took Miss What’s-Her-Name’s hand with his right hand, bent and grabbed Fancy’s collar with his left and leveled a narrow-lidded look at the visitor. “You don’t say.”

Dad hadn’t caught
her name either.

“Frissy, c’mere,” Pic said and whistled again. The border collie finally calmed and took a seat on her haunches beside his boot, panting, her tongue lolling. The two cats sat down beside her.

“Mrs. Lockhart told me I could take pictures of this ranch,” Miss What’s-Her-Name said.

Fancy whined and twisted, pulling against Dad’s grip on her collar. “Drake’s wife? You’re friends with Drake’s wife?”

“Drake?” Miss What’s-Her-Name said, a puzzled expression on her face.

Since Dad and Mom were separated and had been living in different
locations for years, obviously Dad thought the visitor meant the oldest Lockhart son’s new wife. “Dad, I think she means Mom,” Pic said.

Dad released Fancy’s collar, straightened and jammed his fists against his waist. “My wife told you to come here and take pictures?”

“Well…yes….She said you wouldn’t mind.”

“I guess that depends on what you want to take pictures of. And for what reason.”

“Oh….Well…” Miss What’s-Her-Name looked around. “Is there someone I can speak to about it?”

His father’s gaze traveled down and up the new arrival in a thorough assessment.
The man had a refined eye for a good-looking woman. “Dad, she’s got a flat tire back on the driveway. Can you get Smoky or somebody to go fix her up?”

“Smoky’s not here right now,” he said, continuing to study the visitor. “Won
’t be back for a couple hours.”

“Oh,” Miss What’s-Her-Name said again. “Well, that isn’t a problem. I don’t mind waiting. I’m planning on being here a few days. Mrs. Lockhart told me I could stay as long as I need to.”

“Is that right,” Dad said. A statement, not a question.

Evidently, Mom hadn’t clued him in about sending a photographer. Nevertheless, Pic knew his dad
. If the visitor said Mom had sent her, Dad would go along with it. He gestured toward the front door. “Then I guess you’d better come on into the house and tell me what’s going on. It’s a little cooler inside.”

“Let me put my shoe on,” she said, sliding her foot into her sandal.

Pic’s eye continued to burn and water. As Miss What-s-Her-Name squatted and dealt with the buckles on her shoe, Pic thought of Johnnie Sue. She would know what to do for his eye.

After Miss What’s-Her-Name was ready, she and Dad walked toward the front door chatting. Pic lagged behind, Frissy and Fancy and the cats trotting beside him. Even with slightly blurred vision, he couldn’t keep from admiring how well Miss What’s- Her-Name’s heart-shaped bottom filled out her shorts and the sexy sway of her
hips.

Inside the house, he left Dad and her in the entry and found Johnnie Sue in the kitchen. She stood on her tiptoes and closely examined his eye through the lower half of her bifocals. “I don’t think it’s hurt bad. Probably just irritated. Sit down and I’ll get something to put in it.” She left the kitchen and returned with a small bottle. “Sit down and let me squeeze a few drops of this into it. It’ll make it feel better.”