Читать книгу A Cowboy Under Her Tree - Allison Leigh - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Melanie simply had to shut off her brain as they went through the process of obtaining the offered room key and getting to their room, which was actually one of the cabins looking out over Thunder Canyon, rather than a single room in the lodge itself.

It felt as if she and the hunk of granite towering over her were the focus of every pair of eyes they passed, first at the registration desk, then the coat check where Russ almost mockingly tucked her into her calf-length fur. Nor was her ego healthy enough to believe that she would be the subject of any particular gossip. After six months, she was still a newcomer in Thunder Canyon.

A curiosity.

An oddity.

Russ, however, was as much a part of the town as the foundation on which the charmingly Old West buildings were built. And it seemed very clear to her that he was definitely the focus of those curious looks.

They had to leave the main lodge to get to the cabin and the moment they stepped outside, Melanie felt the slap of cold, crisp air in her face.

It was both heady and sobering at the same time.

But she couldn’t back down.

Which is why she soon found herself standing in the center of the small two-room cabin, facing a man who didn’t like her, much less approve of her.

An electric hurricane-style lamp was already lit and it cast an intimate glow around the cabin. The interior looked rustic without being rustic and despite the haze clouding her sensibilities, her McFarlane brain still managed to take in the amenities of the cabin.

Pure luxury.

Similar to what she hoped to offer her guests.

She jerked a little when Russ dropped the cabin key on the long pine table surrounded by four chairs in the dining area. Seeming oblivious to her, he shrugged out of his shearling coat and tossed it onto the leather couch that was draped with a red-and-black-plaid woolen throw. There were also two comfortable-looking armchairs and an enormous ottoman that doubled as a coffee table. He brushed past her, entering the small, efficient kitchen area. “Take off your coat.”

Evidently, his helping her into it had been for the benefit of the people watching them. She set her purse on the table and slid off the mink that her father had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday and draped it carefully over one of the ladder-back chairs.

She tried to see through the open doorway that led to the bedroom, but it was too dark.

She heard him rummaging in a cupboard and was surprised when he returned to the table without another drink from what she expected would be a well-stocked bar.

Instead, he had a ballpoint pen in his hand. He yanked out a chair, sat down, and tossed the somewhat crumpled napkin on the table in front of him. He clicked the end of the pen and added his own scrawl beneath hers.

When he finished, his dark gaze was brooding as he slid the napkin across the smooth wooden surface toward her. “You gonna stand there all night, or sit yourself down?”

“Stand.” She picked up the napkin and read his additions, under which he’d confidently signed his name. Russ J. Chilton.

“It’s not short for Russell?”

He just watched her.

What did it matter what his name was? She tossed the ink-riddled napkin back to him. His first term had been that their marriage be performed legally. He’d already made that point perfectly clear. The second was the description of acreage he wanted when it came to getting his division of the Hopping H. But the last condition?

She gave him a look. “I need you to teach me what I need to know, not agree to do everything you tell me to do.”

“Where the Hopping H is concerned,” he pointed out the rest of his statement with a shrug. “Someone’s gotta be the boss.”

“And I suppose where you’re concerned that’ll never be a woman.” She managed not to roll her eyes.

“It won’t be a woman who doesn’t know the front end of a horse from the back.”

Then she did roll her eyes. “And women are accused of exaggeration. Believe me, Mr. Chilton, I know which end is which, and currently, you’re acting like the hind end.”

He shrugged again, obviously unfazed. “You can do all the bossing you want when it comes to your guest enterprise.” His lips twisted at that, telling her yet again what he thought of that particular endeavor. “But when it comes to ranch operations, I call the shots. Or there’s no deal. You can go find yourself some other sucker.”

“I’m not looking for any kind of sucker. Just someone who’ll give me a fair deal and exercise some discretion at the same time.”

“And you think that you’ll get that from me.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Won’t I?”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

She unfolded her arms and closed her hands over the back of the mink-draped chair. It seemed to help the way the room tended to spin around her head. She really shouldn’t have had that last martini. “We don’t have to like one another to acknowledge certain facts. And one is that you’re scupu…scrupulously fair. Everyone in town says so.”

He made a soft grunt. “Too damn fair. What’s your family got to do with all of this?” He shoved his hand through his hair, leaving it even more rumpled.

Probably what he looked like when he woke in the morning.

She swallowed, trying to banish the thought. “Hmm?”

“You said only your family had to believe we were married. Why?”

Her fingers sank farther into the fur. “They need to believe I’m competent in all areas of the guest ranch. Being married is a side note to them. Why would you trust getting your share out of a marriage—an uncostumated…consummated marriage—more than you’d trust a contract?”

His gaze seemed to drop to her lips. “Does it matter?”

Touché. She leaned over the table and slid the pen from between his fingers. Before she could talk herself out of it, she signed her name with a flourish, right beneath his.

Then she tossed the pen on the table and straightened. The bravado had a price, though, and it was called head rush. She gripped the back of the chair again, waiting until her vision cleared and the room stopped swaying. “I’ll make arrangements, then, for this legal marriage.”

“No. I’ll do it.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t you trust me?”

He unfolded himself from the chair and smiled humorlessly as he very deliberately picked up the napkin, folded it in half and tucked it in his back pocket. “I shouldn’t have trusted the last woman I married. Why would you be any different?”

Leaving Melanie blinking at that, he headed through the cozy living area and into the darkened bedroom beyond. A moment later, a soft light came on and she saw the foot of an enormous lodgepole bed.

One bed.

Naturally.

Russ was out of her line of sight, but a familiar-looking ivory sweater was tossed onto the foot of that bed.

She chewed her lip and looked sideways at the leather couch.

“If you were any sort of gentleman, you’d offer to take the couch,” she said loudly enough for him to hear.

“Being fair doesn’t mean being a gentleman.” He appeared in the doorway and Melanie nearly wilted with relief that beneath his sweater he’d worn a white T-shirt.

A white T-shirt that clung faithfully to every line of his impossibly wide chest.

She barely had time to brace herself for the bed pillow that he tossed across the room to her.

“They keep extra blankets in that hassock thing,” he told her. “Lid lifts up and they’re inside. Get some sleep. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

Then he turned his back on her and closed the door between them.

Melanie squeezed the downy pillow between her hands.

She wasn’t sure if she were envisioning his neck or not.

She turned to the couch and tossed the pillow on it. The ottoman did, indeed, contain storage beneath the heavy leather-topped lid and she pulled out two blankets, which she spread out on the couch.

Eyeing the closed bedroom door, she nibbled her lip as she stepped out of her high heels. She needed the restroom. And not just to clean her face and her teeth. But she’d rather go out into the cold night and hide behind some bush rather than knock on that door.

The door that suddenly opened, as if the man behind it had, once again, been reading her mind. “Bathroom’s free,” he said abruptly.

The T-shirt was gone.

She dragged her eyes away from the dusty brown hair swirling across his chest and arrowing down a ridged abdomen that should have been winter pale, but wasn’t.

The last man she’d occasionally dated in Atlanta had been exactly six-one, worked out two hours a day, ran marathons and religiously waxed his chest. He’d been more beautiful than most women, utterly sophisticated and, amazingly enough, he’d been straight.

But for some ungodly reason, the appeal of Russ’s masculinity soared to a universe far beyond Michael’s. She’d never once contemplated becoming intimate with Michael, any more than she’d considered it with any of the other men who’d escorted her over the years.

That was, until she’d met this irritating man.

Now, she seemed to struggle with those unfamiliar thoughts every time she turned around and she knew if he knew that she’d managed to attain the age of thirty without sleeping with a man, he’d have a field day with the knowledge.

She was five-seven, but she still wished she hadn’t been so quick to remove her shoes as she sailed past Russ and all his appallingly glorious muscle and flesh into the spacious bathroom beyond the king-size bed, because he seemed larger than ever.

She closed the door and leaned back against it, stupidly feeling as if she needed to catch her breath. As if she’d just run some sort of gauntlet.

It was so ridiculous. Melanie didn’t get breathless over men, much less men who figured she wasn’t worth the time of day.

A mirror across from the door reflected her image and she stared hard at herself. Made herself remember just what she was working to accomplish here.

It had nothing to do with personal relationships, and everything to do with business.

That was who she was.

She let out a long breath. Ran her hand through her hair and straightened deliberately from the door. She was merely overreacting to the stress of the situation.

That was all.

Feeling more like herself, she reached for one of the twin robes that were provided by the resort. The shower was separate from the oversize, jetted tub and she turned it on, letting the rushing sound of water continue the job of soothing her jagged nerves. Moving more quickly than her swimming head was comfortable with earned her a stubbed toe and soap in her eyes when she washed her face. There were small complimentary tubes of toothpaste but no toothbrushes, and as she made do with a nubby washcloth and her finger to do the job, she vowed that the Hopping H would not be remiss in that area.

On the other hand, the soaps and lotions provided were about as heavenly as anything that McFarlane House hotels had ever provided. Showered and clean, she tossed aside the towel and folded herself into the smaller of the two thick terry robes. She rinsed out her lingerie and commandeered the robe hangers for them and her dress which she hung on the back of the bathroom door and opened it again, and acting as if she had blinders on, tossed the larger robe in the general direction of the bed as she strode back out to the living area.

Only Russ was stretched out on the couch, his ankles propped on one arm, his head on the other. He’d dragged one of the soft blankets halfway up his chest. One hand hung off the couch, propped on the ottoman. His other was thrown over his head.

Sound asleep.

She pressed her lips together, thoroughly disconcerted.

“Go before I change my mind,” he muttered softly.

Not sound asleep, she quickly revised.

She turned on her bare heel and fled back into the bedroom, softly closing the door behind her.

His ivory sweater was still in a heap on the foot of the bed. Feeling very odd about it, she picked it up, laying it out over the bare pine dresser top.

His T-shirt was on the floor and she gave it a wide berth as she pulled back the thick red comforter that topped the bed. The linens were crisp and fresh when she climbed between them and sighing, she sank into the downy pillows.

By all rights, exhaustion and alcohol should have assured her of immediate sleep.

So, naturally, the moment she turned off the lamp next to the bed, all she did was stare, wide-eyed, into the darkness.

Dawn had barely broken when Russ gave up trying to sleep.

He tossed back the blanket and sat up on the couch, shoving his hands through his hair, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

He ought to be following his own advice of getting some sleep.

Too bad every time he’d closed his eyes, his imagination had gone into torture mode.

Probably what he got for trading six months of so-called marriage for a hunk of land that he’d been wanting ever since he’d assumed control of the Flying J after his dad died. Jasper Chilton had been more than happy to keep the Flying J just as it had been when he’d taken it over from his father.

But not Russ.

Hell, no. He had to want more, and look where it had landed him.

Promising to marry a woman no more suitable for him than Nola had been.

At least this time his eyes were wide-open. He was more than a decade older than the twenty-one-year-old kid he’d been back then, and no ridiculous notions of love were clouding his brain these days. Who knew what would happen? Maybe the next six months would be far less torturous than the two years of wedded “bliss” that he and Nola had shared before she’d permanently hared off back to the bosom of her Bostonian family.

Most importantly, this time he’d be able to keep what he wanted out of the deal.

Half of the Hopping H was a poor comparison for the loss of the son he never saw anymore, but it was the only positive note on the horizon as far as Russ could see.

So he’d take what he could get.

Even if it meant playing house for a while with Melanie McFarlane.

He pushed off the couch and found coffee makings in the kitchen, probably taking too much pleasure in the noise he was making while he was about it. But if she wanted to know more what ranching life was supposed to be about, she’d damn sure better get used to rising with the chickens.

He’d built himself up a fine head of steam about the matter by the time the coffeepot was half full. He yanked out the pot, stuck his mug beneath the steaming stream from the coffeemaker until it was full, then stuck the pot back in place. Feeling stifled inside the cozy cabin, he shoved open the wide door that led out onto the wraparound-style porch and went outside, mug in hand.

The cold doused him from bare feet to bare head, and he let out a long sigh.

As far as his eye could see were signs that Thunder Canyon would never again be the hometown where he’d grown up. There were more schools. More shopping centers. More this. More that.

Even now, despite the early hour, he could see the dots of people working their way along the ski slopes even though the lift wasn’t yet running. From one of the resort’s restaurants—probably the Grubstake—he could already smell the scent of frying bacon.

His stomach rumbled.

Too many beers last night and not enough food.

Another thing that would be easy to blame on her.

Only his parents hadn’t raised him to shuck off his own responsibilities. Melanie hadn’t held a gun to his head.

He’d jumped without a parachute after the carrot she’d dangled all on his own.

“Good Lord. Have you lost your mind? It’s freezing out there.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Well, well. If it isn’t the future Mrs. Chilton.”

Her lips turned down at the corners. “I don’t recall agreeing to change my name.”

He actually hadn’t expected otherwise, but why let her know that? “There ain’t no staff people hanging around here to serve you coffee.”

Her eyes with those thick dark lashes narrowed. Her hair was slightly rumpled and she was bundled to her chin in the massive red blanket from the bed. It ought to have clashed with her auburn hair—he’d learned such things thanks to Nola’s clotheshorse ways—but it didn’t. If anything, Melanie looked…too damned tasty.

Soft. Sleepy. Female.

And everything inside him stirred annoyingly to life.

He looked away at the snowy mountainside. Cold was definitely a good thing. “You want some, get it yourself. It’s hot in the kitchen,” he finished.

“I don’t drink coffee.” Her voice was snooty again. “And you’re letting in all the cold air.”

He didn’t look back at the rustle of bedding that preceded the not-so-soft slam of the door. He pulled out the napkin from his back pocket and squinted at the splotchy lines of writing they’d made on it the night before. In the cold sober morning light, his signature was even more of a scrawl than usual, and her neat penmanship showed some decided unevenness.

No hanky-panky.

She’d even underlined it. Twice.

Muttering an oath not only at himself but at the universe in general, he tucked the napkin back in his pocket, then leaned his forearms on the rail of the deck and glared at the million-dollar view.

“Happy wedding day, Russ,” he muttered under his breath. “Welcome back to hell.”