Читать книгу Christmas Cowboy: Will of Steel / Winter Roses - Diana Palmer - Страница 7

He never liked coming here. The stupid calf followed him around, everywhere he went. He couldn’t get the animal to leave him alone. Once, he’d whacked the calf with a soft fir tree branch, but that had led to repercussions. Its owner had a lot to say about animal cruelty and quoted the law to him. He didn’t need her to quote the law. He was, after all, the chief of police in the small Montana town where they both lived.

Technically, of course, this wasn’t town. It was about two miles outside the Medicine Ridge city limits. A small ranch in Hollister, Montana, that included two clear, cold trout streams and half a mountain. Her uncle and his uncle had owned it jointly during their lifetimes. The two of them, best friends forever, had recently died, his uncle from a heart attack and hers, about a month later, in an airplane crash en route to a cattleman’s convention. The property was set to go up on the auction block, and a California real estate developer was skulking in the wings, waiting to put in the winning bid. He was going to build a rich man’s resort here, banking on those pure trout streams to bring in the business.

If Hollister Police Chief Theodore Graves had his way, the man would never set foot on the property. She felt that way, too. But the wily old men had placed a clause in both their wills pertaining to ownership of the land in question. The clause in her uncle’s will had been a source of shock to Graves and the girl when the amused attorney read it out to them. It had provoked a war of words every time he walked in the door.

“I’m not marrying you,” Jillian Sanders told him firmly the minute he stepped on the porch. “I don’t care if I have to live in the barn with Sammy.”

Sammy was the calf.

He looked down at her from his far superior height with faint arrogance. “No problem. I don’t think the grammar school would give you a hall pass to marry me anyway.”

Her pert nose wrinkled. “Well, you’d have to get permission from the old folks’ home, and I’ll bet you wouldn’t get it, either!”

It was a standing joke. He was thirty-one to her almost twenty-one. They were completely mismatched. She was small and blonde and blue-eyed, he was tall and dark and black-eyed. He liked guns and working on his old truck when he wasn’t performing his duties as chief of police in the small Montana community where they lived. She liked making up recipes for new sweets and he couldn’t stand anything sweet except pound cake. She also hated guns and noise.

“If you don’t marry me, Sammy will be featured on the menu in the local café, and you’ll have to live in the woods in a cave,” he pointed out.

That didn’t help her disposition. She glared at him. It wasn’t her fault that she had no family left alive. Her parents had died not long after she was born of an influenza outbreak. Her uncle had taken her in and raised her, but he was not in good health and had heart problems. Jillian had taken care of him as long as he was alive, fussing over his diet and trying to concoct special dishes to make him comfortable. But he’d died not of ill health, but in a light airplane crash on his way to a cattle convention. He didn’t keep many cattle anymore, but he’d loved seeing friends at the conferences, and he loved to attend them. She missed him. It was lonely on the ranch. Of course, if she had to marry Rambo, here, it would be less lonely.

She glared at him, as if everything bad in her life could be laid at his door. “I’d almost rather live in the cave. I hate guns!” she added vehemently, noting the one he wore, old-fashioned style, on his hip in a holster. “You could blow a hole through a concrete wall with that thing!”

“Probably,” he agreed.

“Why can’t you carry something small, like your officers do?”

“I like to make an impression,” he returned, tongue-in-cheek.

It took her a minute to get the insinuation. She glared at him even more.

He sighed. “I haven’t had lunch,” he said, and managed to look as if he were starving.

“There’s a good café right downtown.”

“Which will be closing soon because they can’t get a cook,” he said with disgust. “Damnedest thing, we live in a town where every woman cooks, but nobody wants to do it for the public. I guess I’ll starve. I burn water.”

It was the truth. He lived on takeout from the local café and frozen dinners. He glowered at her. “I guess marrying you would save my life. At least you can cook.”

She gave him a smug look. “Yes, I can. And the local café isn’t closing. They hired a cook just this morning.”

“They did?” he exclaimed. “Who did they get?”

She averted her eyes. “I didn’t catch her name, but they say she’s talented. So you won’t starve, I guess.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t help our situation here,” he pointed out. His sensual lips made a thin line. “I don’t want to get married.”

“Neither do I,” she shot back. “I’ve hardly even dated anybody!”

His eyebrows went up. “You’re twenty years old. Almost twenty-one.”

“Yes, and my uncle was suspicious of every man who came near me,” she returned. “He made it impossible for me to leave the house.”

His black eyes twinkled. “As I recall, you did escape once.”

She turned scarlet. Yes, she had, with an auditor who’d come to do the books for a local lawyer’s office. The man, much older than her and more sophisticated, had charmed her. She’d trusted him, just as she’d trusted another man two years earlier. The auditor had taken her back to his motel room to get something he forgot. Or so he’d told her. Actually he’d locked the door and proceeded to try to remove her clothes. He was very nice about it, he was just insistent.

But he didn’t know that Jillian had emotional scars already from a man trying to force her. She’d been so afraid. She’d really liked the man, trusted him. Uncle John hadn’t. He always felt guilty about what she’d been through because of his hired man. She was underage, and he told her to stay away from the man.

But she’d had stars in her eyes because the man had flirted with her when she’d gone with Uncle John to see his attorney about a land deal. She’d thought he was different, nothing like Uncle John’s hired man who had turned nasty.

He’d talked to her on the phone several times and persuaded her to go out with him. Infatuated, she sneaked out when Uncle John went to bed. But she landed herself in very hot water when the man got overly amorous. She’d managed to get her cell phone out and punched in 911. The result had been … unforgettable.

“They did get the door fixed, I believe.?” she said, letting her voice trail off.

He glared at her. “It was locked.”

“There’s such a thing as keys,” she pointed out.

“While I was finding one, you’d have been …”

She flushed again. She moved uncomfortably. “Yes, well, I did thank you. At the time.”

“And a traveling mathematician learned the dangers of trying to seduce teenagers in my town.”

She couldn’t really argue. She’d been sixteen at the time, and Theodore’s quick reaction had saved her honor. The auditor hadn’t known her real age. She knew he’d never have asked her out if he had any idea she was under legal age. He’d been the only man she had a real interest in, for her whole life. He’d quit the firm he worked for, so he never had to come back to Hollister.

She felt bad about it. The whole fiasco was her own fault.

The sad thing was that it wasn’t her first scary episode with an older man. The first, at fifteen, had scarred her. She’d thought that she could trust a man again because she was crazy about the auditor. But the auditor became the icing on the cake of her withdrawal from the world of dating for good. She’d really liked him, trusted him, had been infatuated with him. He wasn’t even a bad man, not like that other one.

“The judge did let him go with a severe reprimand about making sure of a girl’s age and not trying to persuade her into an illegal act. But he could have gone to prison, and it would have been my fault,” she recalled. She didn’t mention the man who had gone to prison for assaulting her. Ted didn’t know about that and she wasn’t going to tell him.

“Don’t look to me to have any sympathy for him,” he said tersely. “Even if you’d been of legal age, he had no right to try to coerce you.”

“Point taken.”

“Your uncle should have let you get out more,” he said reluctantly.

“I never understood why he kept me so close to home,” she replied thoughtfully. She knew it wasn’t all because of her bad experience.

His black eyes twinkled. “Oh, that’s easy. He was saving you for me.”

She gaped at him.

He chuckled. “He didn’t actually say so, but you must have realized from his will that he’d planned a future for us for some time.”

A lot of things were just becoming clear. She was speechless, for once.

He grinned. “He grew you in a hothouse just for me, little orchid,” he teased.

“Obviously your uncle never did the same for me,” she said scathingly.

He shrugged, and his eyes twinkled even more. “One of us has to know what to do when the time comes,” he pointed out.

She flushed. “I think we could work it out without diagrams.”

He leaned closer. “Want me to look it up and see if I can find some for you?”

“I’m not marrying you!” she yelled.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. Maybe you can put up some curtains and lay a few rugs and the cave will be more comfortable.” He glanced out the window. “Poor Sammy,” he added sadly. “His future is less, shall we say, palatable.”

“For the last time, Sammy is not a bull, he’s a cow. She’s a cow,” she faltered.

“Sammy is a bull’s name.”

“She looked like a Sammy,” she said stubbornly. “When she’s grown, she’ll give milk.”

“Only when she’s calving.”

“Like you know,” she shot back.

“I belong to the cattleman’s association,” he reminded her. “They tell us stuff like that.”

“I belong to it, too, and no, they don’t, you learn it from raising cattle!”

He tugged his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes. “It’s useless, arguing with a blond fence post. I’m going back to work.”

“Don’t shoot anybody.”

“I’ve never shot anybody.”

“Ha!” she burst out. “What about that bank robber?”

“Oh. Him. Well, he shot at me first.”

“Stupid of him.”

He grinned. “That’s just what he said, when I visited him in the hospital. He missed. I didn’t. And he got sentenced for assault on a police officer as well as the bank heist.”

She frowned. “He swore he’d make you pay for that. What if he gets out?”

“Ten to twenty, and he’s got priors,” he told her. “I’ll be in a nursing home for real by the time he gets out.”

She glowered up at him. “People are always getting out of jail on technicalities. All he needs is a good lawyer.”

“Good luck to him getting one on what he earns making license plates.”

“The state provides attorneys for people who can’t pay.”

He gasped. “Thank you for telling me! I didn’t know!”

“Why don’t you go to work?” she asked, irritated.

“I’ve been trying to, but you won’t stop flirting with me.”

She gasped, but for real. “I am not flirting with you!”

He grinned. His black eyes were warm and sensuous as they met hers. “Yes, you are.” He moved a step closer. “We could do an experiment. To see if we were chemically suited to each other.”

She looked at him, puzzled, for a few seconds, until it dawned on her what he was suggesting. She moved back two steps, deliberately, and her high cheekbones flushed again. “I don’t want to do any experiments with you!”

He sighed. “Okay. But it’s going to be a very lonely marriage if you keep thinking that way, Jake.”

“Don’t call me Jake! My name is Jillian.”

He shrugged. “You’re a Jake.” He gave her a long look, taking in her ragged jeans and bulky gray sweatshirt and boots with curled-up toes from use. Her long blond hair was pinned up firmly into a topknot, and she wore no makeup. “Tomboy,” he added accusingly.

She averted her eyes. There were reasons she didn’t accentuate her feminine attributes, and she didn’t want to discuss the past with him. It wasn’t the sort of thing she felt comfortable talking about with anyone. It made Uncle John look bad, and he was dead. He’d cried about his lack of judgment in hiring Davy Harris. But it was too late by then.

Ted was getting some sort of vibrations from her. She was keeping something from him. He didn’t know what, but he was almost certain of it.

His teasing manner went into eclipse. He became a policeman again. “Is there something you want to talk to me about, Jake?” he asked in the soft tone he used with children.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “It wouldn’t help.”

“It might.”

She grimaced. “I don’t know you well enough to tell you some things.”

“If you marry me, you will.”

“We’ve had this discussion,” she pointed out.

“Poor Sammy.”

“Stop that!” she muttered. “I’ll find her a home. I could always ask John Callister if he and his wife, Sassy, would let her live with them.”

“On their ranch where they raise purebred cattle.”

“Sammy has purebred bloodlines on both sides,” she muttered. “Her mother was a purebred Hereford cow and her father was a purebred Angus bull.”

“And Sammy is a ‘black baldy,’” he agreed, giving it the hybrid name. “But that doesn’t make her a purebred cow.”

“Semantics!” she shot back.

He grinned. “There you go, throwing those one-dollar words at me again.”

“Don’t pretend to be dumb, if you please. I happen to know that you got a degree in physics during your stint with the army.”

He raised both thick black eyebrows. “Should I be flattered?”

“Why?”

“That you take an interest in my background.”

“Everybody knows. It isn’t just me.”

He shrugged.

“Why are you a small-town police chief, with that sort of education?” she asked suddenly.

“Because I don’t have the temperament for scientific research,” he said simply. “Besides, you don’t get to play with guns in a laboratory.”

“I hate guns.”

“You said.”

“I really mean it.” She shivered dramatically. “You could shoot somebody by accident. Didn’t one of your patrolmen drop his pistol in a grocery store and it went off?”

He looked grim. “Yes, he did. He was off duty and carrying his little .32 wheel gun in his pants pocket. He reached for change and it fell out and discharged.”

He pursed his lips. “A mistake I can guarantee he will never make again.”

“So his wife said. You are one mean man when you lose your temper, do you know that?”

“The pistol discharged into a display of cans, fortunately for him, and we only had to pay damages to the store. But it could have discharged into a child, or a grown-up, with tragic results. There are reasons why they make holsters for guns.”

She looked at his pointedly. “That one sure is fancy,” she noted, indicating the scrollwork on the soft tan leather. It also sported silver conchos and fringe.

“My cousin made it for me.”

“Tanika?” she asked, because she knew his cousin, a full-blooded Cheyenne who lived down near Hardin.

“Yes.” He smiled. “She thinks practical gear should have beauty.”

“She’s very gifted.” She smiled. “She makes some gorgeous parfleche bags. I’ve seen them at the trading post in Hardin, near the Little Bighorn Battlefield.” They were rawhide bags with beaded trim and fringe, incredibly beautiful and useful for transporting items in the old days for native people.

“Thank you,” he said abruptly.

She lifted her eyebrows. “For what?”

“For not calling it the Custer Battlefield.”

A lot of people did. He had nothing against Custer, but his ancestry was Cheyenne. He had relatives who had died in the Little Bighorn Battle and, later, at Wounded Knee. Custer was a sore spot with him. Some tourists didn’t seem to realize that Native Americans considered that people other than Custer’s troops were killed in the battle.

She smiled. “I think I had a Sioux ancestor.”

“You look like it,” he drawled, noting her fair coloring.

“My cousin Rabby is half and half, and he has blond hair and gray eyes,” she reminded him.

“I guess so.” He checked the big watch on his wrist. “I’ve got to be in court for a preliminary hearing. Better go.”

“I’m baking a pound cake.”

He hesitated. “Is that an invitation?”

“You did say you were starving.”

“Yes, but you can’t live on cake.”

“So I’ll fry a steak and some potatoes to go with it.”

His lips pulled up into a smile. “Sounds nice. What time?”

“About six? Barring bank robberies and insurgent attacks, of course.”

“I’m sure we won’t have one today.” He considered her invitation. “The Callisters brought me a flute back from Cancún when they went on their honeymoon. I could bring it and serenade you.”

She flushed a little. The flute and its connection with courting in the Native American world was quite well-known. “That would be nice.”

“It would?”

“I thought you were leaving.” She didn’t quite trust that smile.

“I guess I am. About six?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you then.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Should I wear my tuxedo?”

“It’s just steak.”

“No dancing afterward?” he asked, disappointed.

“Not unless you want to build a bonfire outside and dance around it.” She frowned. “I think I know one or two steps from the women’s dances.”

He glared at her. “Ballroom dancing isn’t done around campfires.”

“You can do ballroom dances?” she asked, impressed.

“Of course I can.”

“Waltz, polka …?”

“Tango,” he said stiffly.

Her eyes twinkled. “Tango? Really?”

“Really. One of my friends in the service learned it down in Argentina. He taught me.”

“What an image that brings to mind—” she began, tongue-in-cheek.

“He didn’t teach me by dancing with me!” he shot back. “He danced with a girl.”

“Well, I should hope so,” she agreed.

“I’m leaving.”

“You already said.”

“This time, I mean it.” He walked out.

“Six!” she called after him.

He threw up a hand. He didn’t look back.

Jillian closed the door and leaned back against it. She was a little apprehensive, but after all, she had to marry somebody. She knew Theodore Graves better than she knew any other men. And, despite their quarreling, they got along fairly well.

The alternative was to let some corporation build a holiday resort here in Hollister, and it would be a disaster for local ranching. Resorts brought in all sorts of amusement, plus hotels and gas stations and businesses. It would be a boon for the economy, but Hollister would lose its rural, small-town appeal. It wasn’t something Jillian would enjoy and she was certain that other people would feel the same. She loved the forests with their tall lodgepole pines, and the shallow, diamond-bright trout streams where she loved to fish when she had free time. Occasionally Theodore would bring over his spinning reel and join her. Then they’d work side by side, scaling and filleting fish and frying them, along with hush puppies, in a vat of hot oil. Her mouth watered, just thinking about it.

She wandered into the kitchen. She’d learned to cook from one of her uncle’s rare girlfriends. It had delighted her. She might be a tomboy, but she had a natural affinity for flour and she could make bread from scratch. It amazed her how few people could. The feel of the dough, soft and smooth, was a gift to her fingertips when she kneaded and punched and worked it. The smell of fresh bread in the kitchen was a delight for the senses. She always had fresh homemade butter to go on it, which she purchased from an elderly widow just down the road. Theodore loved fresh bread. She was making a batch for tonight, to go with the pound cake.

She pulled out her bin of flour and got down some yeast from the shelf. It took a long time to make bread from scratch, but it was worth it.

She hadn’t changed into anything fancy, although she did have on a new pair of blue jeans and a pink checked shirt that buttoned up. She also tucked a pink ribbon into her long blond hair, which she tidied into a bun on top of her head. She wasn’t elegant, or beautiful, but she could at least look like a girl when she tried.

And he noticed the minute he walked in the door. He cocked his head and stared down at her with amusement.

“You’re a girl,” he said with mock surprise.

She glared up at him. “I’m a woman.”

He pursed his lips. “Not yet.”

She flushed. She tried for a comeback but she couldn’t fumble one out of her flustered mind.

“Sorry,” he said gently, and became serious when he noted her reaction to the teasing. “That wasn’t fair. Especially since you went to all the trouble to make me fresh rolls.” He lifted his head and sniffed appreciably.

“How did you know that?”

He tapped his nose. “I have a superlative sense of smell. Did I ever tell you about the time I tracked a wanted murderer by the way he smelled?” he added. “He was wearing some gosh-awful cheap cologne. I just followed the scent and walked up to him with my gun out. He’d spent a whole day covering his trail and stumbling over rocks to throw me off the track. He was so shocked when I walked into his camp that he just gave up without a fight.”

“Did you tell him that his smell gave him away?” she asked, chuckling.

“No. I didn’t want him to mention it to anybody when he went to jail. No need to give criminals a heads-up about something like that.”

“Native Americans are great trackers,” she commented.

He glowered down at her. “Anybody can be a good tracker. It comes from training, not ancestry.”

“Well, aren’t you touchy,” she exclaimed.

He averted his eyes. He shrugged. “Banes has been at it again.”

“You should assign him to school crossings. He hates that,” she advised.

“No, he doesn’t. His new girlfriend is a widow. She’s got a little boy, and Banes has suddenly become his hero. He’d love to work the school crossing.”

“Still, you could find some unpleasant duty to assign him. Didn’t he say once that he hates being on traffic detail at ball games?”

He brightened. “You know, he did say that.”

“See? An opportunity presents itself.” She frowned. “Why are we looking for ways to punish him this time?”

“He brought in a new book on the Little Bighorn Battle and showed me where it said Crazy Horse wasn’t in the fighting.”

She gave him a droll look. “Oh, sure.”

He grimaced. “Every so often, some writer who never saw a real Native American gets a bunch of hearsay evidence together and writes a book about how he’s the only one who knows the true story of some famous battle. This guy also said that Custer was nuts and had a hand in the post trader scandal where traders were cheating the Sioux and Cheyenne.”

“Nobody who reads extensively about Custer would believe he had a hand in something so dishonest,” she scoffed. “He went to court and testified against President Ulysses S. Grant’s own brother in that corruption trial, as I recall. Why would he take such a risk if he was personally involved in it?”

“My thoughts exactly,” he said, “and I told Banes so.”

“What did Banes say to that?”

“He quoted the author’s extensive background in military history.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “Yes? What sort of background?”

“He’s an expert in the Napoleonic Wars.”

“Great! What does that have to do with the campaign on the Greasy Grass?” she asked, which referred to the Lakota name for the battle.

“Not a damned thing,” he muttered. “You can be brilliant in your own field of study, but it’s another thing to do your research from a standing start and come to all the wrong conclusions. Banes said the guy used period newspapers and magazines for part of his research.”

“The Lakota and Cheyenne, as I recall, didn’t write about current events,” she mused.

He chuckled. “No, they didn’t have newspaper reporters back then. So it was all from the cavalry’s point of view, or that of politicians. History is the story of mankind written by the victors.”

“Truly.”

He smiled. “You’re pretty good on local history.”

“That’s because I’m related to people who helped make it.”

“Me, too.” He cocked his head. “I ought to take you down to Hardin and walk the battlefield with you sometime,” he said.

Her eyes lit up. “I’d love that.”

“So would I.”

“There’s a trading post,” she recalled.

“They have some beautiful things there.”

“Made by local talent,” she agreed. She sighed. “I get so tired of so-called Native American art made in China. Nothing against the Chinese. I mean, they have aboriginal peoples, too. But if you’re going to sell things that are supposed to be made by tribes in this country, why import them? ”

“Beats me. Ask somebody better informed.”

“You’re a police chief,” she pointed out. “There isn’t supposed to be anybody better informed.”

He grinned. “Thanks.”

She curtsied.

He frowned. “Don’t you own a dress?”

“Sure. It’s in my closet.” She pursed her lips. “I wore it to graduation.”

“Spare me!”

“I guess I could buy a new one.”

“I guess you could. I mean, if we’re courting, it will look funny if you don’t wear a dress.”

“Why?”

He blinked. “You going to get married in blue jeans?”

“For the last time, I am not going to marry you.”

He took off his wide-brimmed hat and laid it on the hall table. “We can argue about that later. Right now, we need to eat some of that nice, warm, fresh bread before it gets cold and butter won’t melt on it. Shouldn’t we?” he added with a grin.

She laughed. “I guess we should.”