The Trouble With Cowboys (5 page)

He led the kid to the nearby fence and showed him how to hold the rope and swing it. He gave it a toss, and it settled around the fence post.

“Wow, I wanna try!”

Dylan collected the rope. “It’s gonna take some practice, now. You gotta be real patient.” He placed the lariat in Ryder’s hand and helped him swing and throw the loop.

The lariat dropped to the ground at the base of the post, sending up a puff of dirt.

“That’s awful close,” Dylan said. “Keep it up and you’ll be a real cowboy in no time.” He set his hat on Ryder’s head. “Looks good on you.”

The boy looked up at him and smiled with adoring eyes, and Dylan remembered the kid didn’t have a father.

“Try again, now.”

A few minutes later he heard a rumble and looked up the drive to see Annie’s truck approaching.

Ryder’s loop fell at the base of the post as Annie shut the truck off. She got out and walked toward them. Her jaw was set, her back stiff.

Ryder dropped the rope and threw himself into her legs. “Aunt Annie!”

Her face softened as she embraced him. “Hey, Bed Head. How was your day?”

She was striking, with that black silky hair swinging around her shoulders and that skin, pretty as porcelain. He bit his tongue before he went and said so.

“Mr. Taylor is teaching me to be a real cowboy!”

Her lips stretched in a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “Is that so?”

“If you keep practicing,” Dylan said, “you’ll be roping cattle in no time.”

Ryder let go of Annie. “I don’t have a rope.”

“Take this one. I have plenty.” Dylan picked up the lariat and wound it up.

“You really shouldn’t,” Annie said.

“No problem.” He handed the rope to Ryder, who jumped up and down.

“Thanks, Mr. Taylor.”

“Anytime.”

“Ryder,” Sierra called from the doorway. “Time for your bath.”

“Aww, I don’t wanna.”

“Being a cowboy is dirty work, right?” Dylan said. “Every day ends with a nice, hot shower . . . er, bath.”

“Come on, Ryder!” Sierra called.

The boy made a face, but he handed back Dylan’s hat and scuttled off with his rope.

Dylan turned a smile on Annie. “Cute kid.”

She crossed her arms, none too inviting. “Thanks.”

Maybe she didn’t like unannounced visitors. “Sorry to drop by. Wanted to thank you for passing on Roy’s number. He worked with Braveheart last week.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“ ’Fraid it didn’t go too well.”

“That’s too bad.”

He felt like he was talking to a tree stump. If he could just get her to sit down and loosen up. “Listen, you have a minute? Maybe we could take a load off.”

Annie’s eyes darted to the house and she swallowed. “I—suppose we could sit on the porch.”

When they reached the house, Annie disappeared inside, then returned with a plastic chair she set against the brick façade. She sat down and tucked her hands under her thighs. “What’s up?” Her eyes darted away from him toward the darkening mountain range.

Dylan looked around her property. It was small by Montana standards, but the grass was neatly clipped, and the flower bed had already been given a spring spruce-up.

“Nice place you got. How many horses you have?”

“Just one. You need some advice about Braveheart?”

He called on his dimple; it rarely failed him. “Eager to see the backside of me, Annie?”

She banked a look off him as a pretty blush bloomed on her cheeks. “I’m busy, Dylan. If you have a question, spit it out. If not . . .” She looked ready to bolt.

“I’ll cut right to the chase then. Braveheart’s worse than he was last we spoke. Roy wasn’t working out. I let him go.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“The horse needs your help.”

“I already told you—”

“You’re busy, I know. I’m getting desperate here, Annie. He won’t even let me near him anymore. His eyesight’s worse, and he’s wreaking havoc in my barn. He’s going to hurt himself or someone else.”

Dylan planted his elbows on his knees and twisted the brim of his hat in his hands. He hated seeing Braveheart like that. It was as if the horse was going mad, only he wasn’t. When he looked up, he met Annie’s eyes.

“Maybe Merle was right,” she said softly.

“I’m not putting him down.” They’d been through so much together. Braveheart had gotten him through the worst days of his life. How could he turn his back on his horse in his hour of need?

“I’m not,” he repeated.

Annie looked away from Dylan. He had that dogged look Ryder sometimes got when Sierra said it was bedtime. Only the expression was ten times as formidable on Dylan’s face and probably wouldn’t precede a temper tantrum that left him thrashing on the porch.

It had disturbed her to see Ryder in the cowboy hat, swinging a lariat. Last thing she needed was Dylan coming around influencing the child.

“You’re the only one who can help him,” he said.

“You don’t know that. These things take time. Roy’s not a miracle worker.”

Dylan shook his head. “Braveheart knows you. You’ll be able to get through to him, I know it. You’re the best trainer in all Park County, maybe even the whole state.”

She steeled herself against his flattery and forced herself to remember last summer. She’d been working with his stubborn mustang, and the animal had kicked at her. She jumped back just in time. Right into Dylan’s arms.

“Whoa there,” he’d said, his low Texas drawl tickling her ear.

His strong arms curled around her stomach. The heat of his chest burned into her back. The feel of him against her sent a shiver down her arms despite the summer heat and turned her legs to noodles. Her mouth went as dry as Spring Creek in July. Her breath seemed stuffed in her lungs.

“Why, Annie Wilkerson . . . ,” he’d whispered, fluttering the sensitive hairs near her ear. “I had no idea you felt this way.”

His words brought her around quick enough. She pulled herself from his arms and gave him a shove for good measure, noting that it didn’t make him budge one iota.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Taylor.” She was amazed her voice hadn’t betrayed the chaos inside her.

He’d tugged the brim of his hat down, his eyes twinkling. “Whatever you say, Miss Annie.”

She looked at him now. The twinkle was long gone, replaced by hues of desperation.

Too bad. Her heart pounded from the memory. She’d rather wrestle a rattlesnake than spend another day at his place—she’d probably stand a better chance of coming out unscathed.

“You’re his last hope, Annie. Please, you gotta help him.”

The man had a way of working people over that reminded Annie too much of her own father and all the other smooth-talking cowboys she’d had the misfortune of meeting. Even now he was buttering her up, tugging at her heartstrings, making her want to do something she had no business doing.

“I’ll pay whatever you want.”

He didn’t have the money to make an offer like that, but his desperation twisted her heart. And she hated seeing an animal suffer. Too bad she couldn’t bring the horse here, but Braveheart already had enough change going on. He needed a familiar environment, familiar smells, familiar people.

“Come on, Annie. I’ll do anything.”

He was getting to her with his sad eyes. She could feel her resignation crumbling away like the old stone schoolhouse on Mill Road.

“Anything,” he repeated.

The letter surfaced in her mind, the one she still had no answers for. The one that was due tomorrow even though she still didn’t know what to say.

Maybe Dylan could help. No doubt the man knew his way around the maze of love.

She blinked, shaking her head. What was she thinking? She was not talking about something as personal as love and relationships with Dylan Taylor. Not with the way he made her feel all . . . distracted and unsettled. She’d be a ninny.

“And I swear,” he said as if reading her mind. “No funny business. ” He held up his hands. “Strictly professional.”

She wavered. Maybe it could work. Helping the horse would take awhile. If they traded, he’d owe her a lot of help. Maybe even enough to get her through her probation period, long enough to get her legs under her, long enough to get that raise.

“Annie? Will you do it?”

“I’m thinking.” Annie stood and paced the length of the porch. Could she handle Dylan? He said he was busy. Maybe she’d hardly see him. She did want to help the horse.

But they’d have to work on the column together. She imagined sitting in his cozy living room going over the nuances of love and shivered. All her red flags were waving high.

But what else could she do? Sierra had no job in sight, and their savings had dwindled down to nothing. She couldn’t afford to lose the column.

Before she could change her mind, she turned. “All right, on one condition.”

Dylan straightened. “Name it.”

She crossed her arms, a barrier between them, and lifted her chin. “I need help with a project. I’ll make a trade.”

“What is it?”

“An advice column,” she said, suddenly reluctant to mention the topic. “You help me, I’ll help you. Equal hours.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Not sure how I can help with your horse column, but I’ll do whatever you want.”

Might as well just get it out on the table. “It’s not the horse column. It’s a . . . lovelorn column.”

She watched the emotions flicker in his eyes. Understanding dawned like the sun, tinged with the colors of amusement and ego. “So you think I’m an expert in the love department.”

She leveled a look at him. “Never mind. It was a bad idea.”

His smile fell as he stood, his eyes sobering. “All right, all right,” he said in a tone he probably used with a nervous horse. “I’ll do it, whatever you want. Done deal.” He extended his hand.

She paused a minute, her heart skittering across her chest like
a marble over a hardwood floor. She told herself she had no choice. She told herself she could handle Dylan Taylor and his flirtatious ways just fine.

Then his hand closed over hers, and she felt the same shiver run through her as last time, and no matter what she told herself, she knew she’d just signed up for all kinds of trouble.

Dear Betrayed in Billings,

    
It sounds as if your boyfriend is unworthy of the love and respect you’ve given him. A marriage won’t fix the problem and may, in fact, end up being the biggest mistake of your life.

6

F
rom the barn Dylan watched Braveheart running wild in the field. His mahogany coat gleamed in the waning daylight, and his black mane flopped as he bucked.

The horse had bolted like a wild mustang from the paddock when Annie opened the gate, and only now, a full thirty minutes later, was he beginning to settle. Dylan had winced as he watched the horse bump into the fence twice and trip several times on the uneven ground.

Now his sides heaved. He tossed his head and snorted. At the fence, Annie’s head tilted.

Dylan approached her. “What do you think?” He propped his foot on the fence beside her. The sweet smell of her shampoo wafted over on a breeze.

“You were right, he’s a mess.”

He tugged his hat lower. “But you can help him . . .”

Braveheart caught the sound of his voice and turned toward them. “I think so. It’ll take time though.”

“You got further tonight than Roy got all week.”

“It was a risk to let him out again. Wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing.”

Braveheart tossed his head, cocked his ears.

She opened the gate. “Why don’t we go say hello.”

“Sure that’s a good idea? He ’bout trampled me last time.”

She started toward the horse, walking slowly. “He still has some sight in his right eye. Stay where he can see you and keep talking. He’ll be reassured by your voice and know where you are.”