Читать книгу The Hard-to-Get Cowboy - Crystal Green, Crystal Green - Страница 9

He sure was cocky, Laila thought, her pulse racing so fast that it felt as if she was running.

Jackson Traub—arrogant and altogether too confident.

And they were talking about a date.

Her. Him.

She could just imagine what her parents—no, the whole town—might say if they caught wind of this conversation. Laila Cates, the proper bank manager, the woman who did everything according to the letter, hanging around with a rabble-rousing Texas stranger.

But then a different type of thought altogether started to take shape in her mind… .

What if going on a date with a fly-by-night man like Jackson Traub could convince Cade Pritchett that she really wasn’t longing for stability and marriage?

Suddenly, she liked the whole idea. Especially since, even if she wasn’t looking to settle down, there would be no future with Jackson, anyway. Because the talk around Thunder Canyon was that he was merely here to work on that oil shale project.

Here and gone.

There was an appeal to that. And there was a definite appeal to him, too, as he sat across from her with that crooked grin, all playful cowboy, the complete opposite of a man like Cade.

What would be the harm in just one date?

But then something went swirly in her belly, melty and hot, trickling downward until it settled in the core of her.

She shoved the sensation aside.

“Come on, Laila,” Jackson said, his brown eyes glinting with that flirtiness she’d seen before. “I’m just talking about a date, not a marriage proposal.”

Wasn’t he a card.

Or, more to the point, a wild card.

“Very funny,” she said.

“Don’t tell me a man doesn’t have a chance with you.” He sent a glance over his shoulder, toward the door where Cade had disappeared only moments ago. “Or maybe there’s something else to it.”

She had the feeling he was going to go somewhere she didn’t want to go.

“Maybe,” he said, “there really is something between you and Pritchett, even if you were desperate to get away from him less than five minutes ago.”

Jackson said it in a teasing way, as if he didn’t believe it for a second.

Was there anything this Texan didn’t see? It was as if he could read her through and through.

Yet she refused to dignify his question with an answer. She knew when a troublemaker was stirring it up.

He chuckled, just as the jukebox went silent, leaving only the laughter from the bar patrons.

She crossed her arms over her chest.

“We both know that there’s no way you’ll end up with a nice guy like Pritchett.” He put the glass to his lips, drinking.

His throat worked with every swallow.

She couldn’t take her eyes off him, couldn’t stop herself from thinking what it would feel like to have her lips against that throat, the warm skin roughened by stubble from a five o’clock shadow.

But she managed to pull her gaze away before she offered evidence that he was right about her being attracted to a bad boy over a good one.

“I may not end up with Cade,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean I’d put myself in the position of ending up anywhere with you.”

He put down the drained mug. “Shot through the heart, Miss Laila. You’ve got some excellent aim.”

“And you don’t know enough about me to go around predicting who’s my type and who’s not.”

“I can sure guess.” He sat back in his chair, long-limbed and laconic.

A wise girl would have gotten up from the table by now, heading through the door for home, where it would be safe. But here she was flirting with him.

And she didn’t want to stop.

He said, “I surmise that, all your life, you’ve dated men who are steady. Men who drive just five miles above the speed limit—and that’s their idea of living dangerously. And yours, too.”

He didn’t even seem to be expecting a response—not judging by the long, cocky stare he was fixing on her, one that suggested he knew how madly her blood was flying through her veins, just from being near him.

When had she ever felt like this before?

Was it curiosity that was keeping her here? Or was it because the big 3-0 was looming above her like a net, ready to drop and wrap her up in the great unknown?

Whatever it was, she finally, quietly dared to say, “And just what would a man like you have to offer on a…date?”

Jackson lowered his ankle from where it’d been resting on his knee. “I drive a whole lot faster than the speed limit, for one thing.”

“And you’ll be driving just as fast out of town, once you’re done with your business here.”

“So I will. But a woman who doesn’t aim to settle down wouldn’t care so much about my leaving. We understand each other’s philosophies on that.”

Was he saying that they had something in common? That because she didn’t have any plans to get married, she was just like him?

The notion should’ve disturbed her, but instead, it sent a shot of adrenaline racing through her body.

“Come on, Laila,” he said, leaning toward her even closer. Charmingly. Devastatingly. “One date. That’s all I’m asking for.”

She swallowed. “That’s all?”

What was she doing?

“One date is all…for now.” He stood to his full height, towering above her, then leaned down until his words brushed her ear with warmth. “But I’m pretty sure you’ll find that one date won’t be enough.”

And, with that, he ambled away, not even bothering to get her phone number or arrange a time to pick her up.

Just as cocky—and tempting—as he’d been when he’d entered the bar.

“Seriously?” said Laila’s best friend, Dana Hanson, while sitting in a chair by Laila’s office desk the next day. “You’re actually going out with that pugilist?”

Laila closed the glass door that separated her working space from the rest of the bank, which bustled with people during lunch hour. Dana, who was wearing her sandy hair in a conservative upswept style that artfully hid the purple streak she’d decided to add last weekend, had pushed her decorative Clark Kent glasses to the crown of her head in her awe of Laila’s situation.

“I think I have a date with the pugilist,” Laila said, staying near the door where she could keep an eye on things.

“How is it that you’re not sure?”

“Well, he asked me out then just sort of…left me hanging.”

“A proficient tease. He sounds like an all-around bad seed.” Dana waggled her eyebrows. “I would go out with him, just for the adventure.”

“I’m not sure I should, even though I kind of said I would.” Laila shook her head. “He has me all confused.”

“Then that’s why you’re into him. He’s different. He’s the guy who makes our straight-arrow golden girl feel like she could get a little tarnished. And he throws you for a loop when you don’t normally get riled up by men.” Dana pointed at her. “That’s why you like him.”

“Technically, I didn’t say yes to a date.”

“But you didn’t refuse.”

“I should’ve.”

“Why?”

Laila gave up trying to make sense out of any of it, then motioned to the suit she was wearing—a black and white advertisement for dedicated businesswomen everywhere. “Because of this, Dane. Because maybe I’m a little…”

“Bored with it all?”

Nodding, Laila leaned her head against a wooden reinforcement by the door. All around, her office seemed so bland, with its chrome touches, the fake potted flowers in strategic places. Real ones would’ve been prettier, but it took commitment to maintain them.

“I know, life’s rough,” Dana said. “Every man wants the beauty queen. It must be a slog, fending them all off.”

“You know what I mean by bored.”

“Yeah. And I’d have some compassion if you weren’t you.”

She knew her friend didn’t mean anything cruel by that; Laila had tried all her life not to be smug about her looks, appreciating what God had given her while always working for more.

“I have to say, though,” Dana said, “that when the Pritchett boys and then this Traub fellow proposed at Miss Frontier Days, I did feel for you. I actually regretted entering you into the pageant…for about two minutes.”

“No major harm done.”

“So if he does take you out, where do you think it’ll be?” Dana asked, not even remotely off the subject of Jackson. “Bowling? Cow-tipping in the fields?”

“Hilarious.”

“You’ve totally been thinking about your choices.”

Lying was futile, and Dana was smirking now.

“What?” Laila asked.

“You’re fidgety about this. Laila Cates, I’ve never seen you so nervous, not even back in our junior year, when you had your very first date, with Gary Scott.”

Nervous? Her?

Couldn’t be.

Laila opened the door, smiling caustically at her friend. “Isn’t it time for you to get back to the loan desk?”

Dana smoothed down her red skirt and headed for the exit. “You’re affected, Laila. A-F-F-E-C-T-E-D.”

And she left, still smirking.

Laila tried to get back to the paperwork on her desk, plus the million-and-one to-do items on her list, but she just couldn’t focus on work. So it was almost a relief when she saw the bank’s elderly owner, Mike Trudeau, walking by the windows of her office.

She’d been waiting for her boss to come in for hours and, even before she went to him, she marked him off her to-do list, then rose from her seat. With a smooth gait, she went outside, following him to his own office, which was decorated with a huntsman’s touch, featuring kitschy, homey things like a mallard clock and a painting of buffalo roaming a prairie.

He was standing behind his desk, accessing his computer when she walked in.

“Morning, Laila.”

Casual, friendly, with the silver hair of a grandpa…He shouldn’t have intimidated Laila in the least, especially since he’d shown up to check in on his business dressed in jeans and a bulky sweater, just as laid-back as usual.

And, as usual, Laila put on the same façade that made everyone think that nothing ever got to her.

“Morning, Mike. Do you have a moment?”

“For our reigning Miss Frontier Days? Always.”

He motioned toward the chair in front of his large oak desk, and she sat, crossing her legs, slipping a folder toward him.

“Ah,” he said. “Do we have another idea today?”

She was used to this bit of harmless condescension in his tone, and she kept smiling, even if every idea she brought to him seemed to end up in the garbage heap. Or, more likely, she suspected that there was a vortex that could only be accessed through a drawer in his desk, and that was where her ideas went.

But that didn’t stop her from trying again, especially since this particular idea was closer to her heart than usual.

“Yes, sir, I’ve got another one,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.

He didn’t make a move to open the folder, so she started her pitch, determined that he would at least hear it.

“It’s no secret that most people in Thunder Canyon have been hit hard by the economy,” she said, leaving out the fact that Mike Trudeau himself was flush right now, along with his bank.

“True enough.” He was still fussing with his computer.

“And I know you’ve expressed an interest in getting this town back on its feet. You’ve been meeting with the mayor, along with other leading members of the community. I don’t know how many ideas you’ve come up with, but if you’ll take a look at some figures I’ve put together to support what I have in mind…”

Mr. Trudeau finally opened the folder, but his expression didn’t change.

Laila cleared her throat. “I think the bank is in a position to make more loans to struggling local homeowners and small businesses in Thunder Canyon and, as you’ll see, I’ve proposed some avenues to do that, while benefiting our business in the long run.”

“Interesting,” he said, paging through the folder.

Laila couldn’t stop looking at the top of his silver head, and when she realized that her fingers were clutching her skirt, she loosened her hold.

Mr. Trudeau closed the folder. “Looks like that college business degree did you some good, Laila.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Beats getting an MRS degree, like the girls in my day used to do.”

Laila kept her mouth shut. Even though she’d decided to major in business because she thought she should, rather than out of a love for the subject, she was proud of her accomplishments. So were her parents, who’d always emphasized a firm work ethic in their household.

Her boss sat in his chair with a sense of finality. “I’ll go over it, Laila. Thanks for your work.”

She almost said, “But…”

Yet she didn’t, even if, so many times before, she’d heard Mike Trudeau use the same brush-off.

Sometimes, when she talked to him, she felt as if there was no substance in her at all. But maybe this time he would believe that there was more to her than what he saw—something she’d tried, and failed, to prove all too recently at Miss Frontier Days.

Holding back that frustration, she got up, thanking her boss again, then headed for the door.

She shut it behind her, adapting a pleasant expression for the customers who greeted her on their way to the tellers’ windows.

In spite of what had just happened, as long as Laila could use her brain, she was going to keep putting proposals on her boss’s desk. She would keep on fighting the good fight… .

On her way across the tiled lobby, a woman’s voice stopped her.

“Laila!”

She turned to find Jacey Weidemeyer, one of her friends from high school who patronized the bank. She was dressed in jeans and a thick sweater that almost hid the reminder of a recently pregnant belly.

And she was holding a baby.

For some reason, Laila’s heart twisted at the sight of the newborn in Jacey’s arms, an infant swaddled in a pink blanket with a tiny knit hat covering her head, her eyes closed in sleep, her skin smooth and rosy.

“Oh,” Laila whispered. “She’s beautiful.”

Jacey stroked her daughter’s cheek. “Meet Hannah. This is the first time we’ve gotten out of the house since I gave birth.”

Laila touched the baby’s little hand. Tiny nails. Tiny fingers.

Her heart seemed to sink inside her for some reason.

Jacey said, “We’re going to have a reception in a few weeks. I’ll email you an invitation.”

“I’d…” What, love to go? It was the last thing Laila thought she would ever have said. She amended herself appropriately. “I’ll be there.”

After they finished chatting and Jacey left for the teller’s window, Laila looked after her and Hannah, pangs invading her deep and low.

Was it because of what Cade had said last night about how he could give her children before it was too late?

Having no idea, Laila went back to her office, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her.

By the time a chilly, star-pinned night hushed over Thunder Canyon, Jackson had left the brick office building that his brother, Ethan, had established for Traub Oil Montana in Old Town and arrived at the Thunder Canyon Resort to meet some of his family for dinner at DJ’s Rib Shack.

He shed his coat and hat in the hostess area and walked into the restaurant, with its family-style benches and booths filled with customers, pictures of sepia-toned cowboys and a visual history of Thunder Canyon revealed in a mural painting.

It wasn’t two seconds before Ethan came over to him.

“So I hear you’ve already gotten busy here in town,” his older brother said.

Jackson was tall, but Ethan had a couple of inches on him, and he was dressed for the field in boots and jeans since he’d returned from the Bakken Shale today.

It would seem that Big Bro was talking to Jackson about work, yet that wasn’t quite the case.

Ignoring Ethan’s jibe, Jackson headed for a private back dining room where special events were often held, including tonight’s family gathering that DJ had called, though no one knew the reason yet.

Ethan followed. “Weren’t you the one who said that you’d probably be in Thunder Canyon only long enough to work on this project and then you’d be going back to Midland?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Well, it sure looks as if you’re settling into this place fine enough to me. You’re dating a local girl.”

Jackson sat at a dining bench. The aroma of DJ’s famous rib sauce was already making his stomach grumble.

“It’s just a date,” he said lightly. “And Laila Cates is fully aware that it’s not going to turn into anything more. And just so you know, my social activities won’t affect my work here.”

Ethan sat across from him. “If you had the kind of track record that didn’t include a string of heartbreaks for your dates, I wouldn’t be worried. From what I know, Laila Cates is the town sweetheart. You mess with her, you mess with every man who’s had his eye on her. Traub Oil Montana doesn’t need that kind of PR. It’s your job to see that this town wants to work with us.”

It was obvious that Jackson still had a lot of work to do when it came to earning his family’s trust, but he was going to accomplish it. His real dad would’ve wanted that. Even Pete, his stepfather, would be proud of that sort of determination, and Lord knows that after what Jackson and the rest of his brothers had put Pete through, the man deserved some consideration.

Good thing that the rest of the Traub kids were coming around to seeing that these days, too, after Pete’s heart attack and recovery.

“I don’t aim to make trouble,” Jackson said, meeting his brother’s dark gaze.

Ethan seemed to realize that Jackson meant it—at least for the moment—so he let it go.

That didn’t sit right with Jackson, though. He wanted his brother—all his siblings—to know that he was going to come through for them, that he wouldn’t screw up again.

He wanted them to have some faith in him.

More of his relatives arrived—Dillon, Corey, their cousins DJ and Dax. A waitress took their orders, then left to place them while everyone made small talk, chatting about their work and lives as well as the latest gossip about ex-town councilman Arthur Swinton and his heart attack and death in jail. He’d been incarcerated for embezzling funds from Thunder Canyon, and his mere name left a sour note in the room.

Drinks were served. Jackson had ordered a soda, showing his brothers that he wasn’t such a wild man that he needed a drink in hand at all times. The champagne at Corey’s wedding had done enough damage.

Whether or not his siblings noticed the gesture, they ate in peace when the food came.

That was, until DJ brought up some unsettling news.

“Get your fill while you can,” he said. He was a quiet man most of the time. Didn’t dress flashy, preferring flannel shirts and jeans to a cowboy hat, boasting the same dark eyes and brown hair that seemed to be the hallmark of the Traub family.

Ethan said, “What do you mean?”

DJ put down his fork, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I mean that LipSmackin’ Ribs is making a play for all the business in town.”

And that was obviously the reason he’d brought them together tonight.

A chorus of support for DJ filled the room. Everyone knew that his ribs had a stronghold in Thunder Canyon, as well as other joints sprinkled throughout the country. An upstart rib outfit in the new part of town didn’t have anything on DJ’s.

Jackson was still taking in the announcement. Strange, but when he’d met Woody Paulson, the manager of LipSmackin’ Ribs, a time or two at the Hitching Post bar, the man had never let on that there was an underhanded takeover afoot. He knew that Jackson was a Traub, too.

Had Woody been laughing to himself the whole time, thinking about how he was working over the family right under Jackson’s nose?

DJ tried to seem as if he wasn’t too worried, but something about his gaze belied that. “LipSmackin’ somehow got in tight with the Hitching Post, and they’re providing the ribs for them now.”

Jackson just shook his head. DJ was decent. Real decent. Never one to screw over a competitor. And Jackson felt protective of that sort of nobility in his cousin.

In his family.

“Let me get this straight,” Dax, DJ’s brother, said. He was the true rebel of the group and had always reminded Jackson of James Dean in a brooding way. “A tavern that’s been in Thunder Canyon for generations has turned its back on one of its own in favor of a bunch of strangers?”

Jackson knew that by strangers, Dax wasn’t including the Texas Traubs, who had strong family ties to Thunder Canyon. And he could tell that Dax’s blood was boiling for the sake of his brother, too.

“This is what they’re telling me,” DJ said. “I had an exclusive contract with the Hitching Post, but had is the operative word.” He carefully set down his napkin now. “I’m not going to lie to you all. This is hitting the Thunder Canyon branch of the Rib Shack hard, and it hurts the bottom line of my entire business.”

Jackson could see how this affected DJ personally as well. His cousin’s skin was a shade of red, as if he was angry, maybe even embarrassed at being treated so shabbily by a neighbor.

And if their neighbors were treating DJ like this, then that left the Traubs to back each other up.

Jackson’s jaw had gone just as tight as Dax’s appeared to be.

“I can’t believe the Hitching Post did this,” Dax said.

Dillon, the levelheaded doctor, stepped in. “Maybe there’s a good explanation.”

“Sure,” DJ said. “LipSmackin’ Ribs undercut me on cost in a way that the Hitching Post couldn’t say no to—not in these economic times. I can’t really blame them for accepting the offer, either. It’s just good business.”

Corey interrupted. “And bad loyalty.”

DJ shrugged. “Either way, LipSmackin’ Ribs can’t possibly be making a profit, from what I can gather. There’s just no way.”

“Then why the hell are they doing this?” Dax asked.

No one at the table knew.

But all Jackson could gather was that his cousin was hurting, and that was an affront to him.

It was something worth fixing.

When he left that night, he didn’t go straight home. He drove through Old Town, intending to drop by the Hitching Post since Woody Paulson often stopped there around this time for a drink.

The way Jackson had it figured, brokering a better understanding of the situation would be simple: He was acquainted with the manager of LipSmackin’ Ribs in a friendly manner. Why not ask him what was going on?

And who better to do this than the community relations guy for Traub Oil Montana?

Jackson felt good about this constructive method of going about it. He was turning over a new leaf—a diplomatic one.

A helpful one.

He tried to mellow the memory of DJ’s wounded expression that kept niggling at him as he walked into the Hitching Post, spying Woody at the bar nursing a brew as the silent jukebox sat sentry in the corner.

Jackson approached the man, a fortyish refugee from Vegas. He still carried some of that old-school air about him in his creased brown trousers and a tan long-sleeved silk shirt that had seen better days.

When he saw Jackson, he raised his mug.

“Evening, Traub,” he said.

Jackson kept on his coat and declined to order a drink when the bartender approached. Then he greeted Woody right back.

The other man went back to his beer, and that struck Jackson as just being wrong. Here the manager was, part of a scheme to undermine DJ, and he didn’t seem to mind at all. It even occurred to Jackson that perhaps Woody had only made a habit of grabbing a drink at the Hitching Post because he’d been making LipSmackin’ deliveries all this time.

“I heard about your new contract with the Hitching Post,” Jackson said in a civil enough manner. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Woody froze for the briefest second, then muttered a thanks, but didn’t meet Jackson’s gaze.

That didn’t sit well, either. Jackson didn’t like weasels. Didn’t like dishonesty on any level.

“It’s only unfortunate,” he said, doing a fine job of keeping himself in check in spite of his rising dander, “that your business has to be at the expense of my family’s.”

“It’s a cutthroat world out there, Traub. You’re a professional man. You know how things are.”

“Sure, but as far as memory serves, I never did draw blood from anyone. No one in my family has.”

Woody surveyed Jackson, his gaze bleary. “Aren’t you the honorable bunch.”

Drunk. And just this side of ornery.

Had someone had a bad day?

If Woody hadn’t sounded so mocking—as if he’d pulled one over on DJ—and if Jackson hadn’t been so swayed by his cousin’s genuine sense of concern about his business, he might’ve let Woody’s attitude slide.

Woody stood away from the bar and walked off, and Jackson was about to let him go for the time being.

That is, until Woody looked over his shoulder and bellowed, “Tell DJ that he shouldn’t be afraid of a little healthy competition. Tell him to just man up, for God’s sake.”

Everyone in the bar had gone still, turning to Jackson to see if he was going to stand up for DJ.

Still thinking he could settle this constructively, Jackson followed Woody outside to the boardwalk, near the hitching post that had given the tavern its name.

“Listen, here, Woody,” he said. “There’s no need to—”

“You’re just itching for a fight, aren’t you?” the man said, slurring even more.

“No, thank you. But—”

The punch came out of nowhere—a slam of numb pain that blasted into Jackson’s jaw.

Instinctively, he punched back, connecting with Woody’s eye, sending the man to his rear.

Jackson’s knuckles throbbed and he shook them out, sighing. Goddamn it. And he wasn’t cursing from the emerging pain in his jaw or hand, either.

“Hellfire,” Jackson said. If his dad had been around to see this, he’d be shamed, all right. Awfully shamed. “Now why’d you have to make me go and do that, Woody?”

Woody put a hand over his eye, groaning as Jackson left him, knowing that there would be hell to pay, not only with his conscience, but with his family, too.