Читать книгу Conquering The Cowboy - Kelli Ireland - Страница 11
ОглавлениеIRRITATION CHASED TAYLOR down State Road 120, pushing the speedometer well to the right of the posted speed limit. She muttered to herself, saying aloud everything she wished she’d thought to say to Quinn Monroe when she’d faced off with him. Smart, cutting remarks that would have made an impression. But no. Not Taylor. The most she’d been able to do was call him a “one-trick pony prick” and storm off.
“Way to go, Williams,” she groused, yanking her hat off and tossing it onto the empty passenger seat. A tug on her hair tie was punctuated by a curse, and both were followed up by a hard yank, but her hair came down. She finger combed the mess of waves, but nothing less than a hot shower and a quart of conditioner would tame the flyaway thing she had going on. She’d get settled in her little cabin, eat whatever the owner sent over for supper, since she hadn’t picked up anything at the mercantile, and then she’d get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow had to be better. Right?
Her opinionated subconscious remained silent, despite the invitation to cut Taylor to ribbons.
That didn’t bode well. Ever.
Some obscure emotion wound its way around her ankles, subtle enough, at first, that she wasn’t sure what she’d stirred up. That mystery feeling became inescapable, squeezing and tightening its way up and up her body until it became an emotional anaconda that was squeezing the air out of her chest. Trepidation, and a hell of a lot of it.
She couldn’t stand the constriction and loss of control, was so conditioned by fear to respond by shutting her mind down and focusing on surviving, that she almost missed the bright red mailbox denoting the road to the rental.
Taylor stomped on the truck’s brakes, the back wheels chattering as she came to an abrupt stop. Backing up on the empty highway, she turned down the dirt road and passed under a black metal sign displaying the place’s name.
Place. Ranch? Family? Resort? Whatever.
Losing control like that had left her too rattled to pay attention.
She pulled over, the truck’s passenger wheels well into the pasture and, closing her eyes, let her head tip back onto the headrest. Doubt moved in, swift and assertive. Had she made a mistake coming here? Why did she think she could do this? What would happen to her if she couldn’t? Clearly Monroe wasn’t a compassionate man. Should she have booked someone else as her recertification guide? There were a handful of people she could have picked from, all of whom were qualified to see her through the process. There was no reason it had to be him. After all, he’d only just reemerged onto the climbing scene after more than a year’s absence. It had been serendipity she’d tripped into a recommendation to Quinn Monroe from another climb instructor she’d contacted. That guy had been booked, but he’d told her Quinn was back in business, providing her with Quinn’s new website and contact information. She hadn’t been comfortable calling, scared he’d recognize her from the accident, which had made national news. Last thing she needed was to hear the derision or judgment that were bound to be in his voice. Rejection would be easier to take in an impersonal email.
She was wildly curious about him, though. No climber had ever worked so hard to gain international notoriety for his skill and then walked away from a career—with sponsorships—when he was at the top of his game. But Quinn had. And then he’d fallen off the grid. Two interviews had briefly featured him since then. In each, Quinn had refused to talk about the reason he’d quit. He’d been borderline surly in his responses when the interviewers tried to talk him around to discussing his stage-left exit. After all, they’d said, the climbing world wanted to know why.
Quinn’s response? “The decision was driven by personal obligations, and I don’t talk about my personal life. Sorry.”
The last articles had been printed before the accident, but the dates were fuzzy. What she knew for certain was that Quinn had disappeared, closed up shop, not long after that. Maybe she should terminate the contract, find someone else.
Except he’d been the best. A person didn’t lose that distinction simply because they took a hiatus. He’d voluntarily come back to the real-life Chutes and Ladders. She didn’t need to know what prompted the absence or return, only that he was back and had the ability to lead her back, as well. To that end, she needed the best climber and instructor money could buy. So what if he’d never be nominated for Most Congenial Mountain Man? Heaven and hell alike knew that personality wouldn’t save a person’s ass in a pinch. Cold, logical decisions were their only chance.
“Looks like I’m keeping him,” she whispered.
The admission didn’t subdue her offended independence and female pride. His gall chafed that part of her raw. Who the hell did he think he was, ordering her around as if she were some green climber who needed him to dictate her every move from the moment she hit town to the second she was off the mountain and on her way home.
What. An. Ass.
Of course, she hadn’t exactly been a peach. More like a pit. She laughed, lifted her head and gasped as the view out the windshield hijacked her attention. Every bit of it.
A series of mesas ran north to south, their varying heights accentuated by extremely flat tops. Each mesa was a mélange of browns and greens, the grass a short carpet interrupted by cedar shrubs and split by the dirt road that snaked its way deeper into the heart of the ranch. At the foot of the nearest mesa stood a lone windmill. Cattle gathered around the stock tank below the spinning fan, their white faces and rusty-red-brown bodies bright against the neutral background of grassland. And above it all rose an endless blue sky.
Taylor shut her truck off and got out, walking to the front and leaning against the bumper. A slight breeze lifted tendrils of hair off her neck and cooled the shirt that sweat had glued to her skin earlier. Inside, she quieted, the change startling enough to be apparent but reality too big to be bothered by it. Never had she experienced anything like this. The mountains in Washington were big, but the space here?
Massive.
This wasn’t the first time nature had made her feel small in relation, but this? No way was this the same. Standing there looking out over the wide-open space, the horizon appeared endless, the sky infinite.
All the questions that had been jockeying for position, each wanting her immediate attention, stopped. And Taylor breathed. Simply...breathed. Lungful after lungful she reveled in the clean air infused with earth and cedar and green growing things.
If a soul could sigh, she swore hers did.
Tires hummed on pavement, the sound carried by the wind. Unwilling to compromise the quiet she’d discovered, she got back in her truck, started it up and put it in Drive. She didn’t look back.
The truck rattled and chattered all the way across the metal-pipe cattle guard.
“Rustic rumble strips,” she mused.
The road was in very good shape, devoid of the washboard surface or shin-deep ruts inherent to dirt roads exposed to wind and rain. A good drainage ditch had been cut down one side. Fences were in good shape. Grass was grazed but pastures were clearly managed for conservation. She slowed as she reached the first incline. The herd stood spread out across the road like giant yard art, unmoving save for the occasional flick of a tail or slow, considering blinks of long-lashed eyes. They all looked young, given their size, but also healthy. And undisturbed.
She inched forward and the young cow—steer?—nearest her ambled off with a disgruntled chuff. The herd shifted around and a couple of others that had been in the road followed the first one out onto the grass.
Impatience bubbled to the surface and the urge to hurry things along got the best of her. Yes, the cows were moving, but they were too damn slow. Rolling her window down, Taylor waved an arm wildly and shouted. “Move!”
The cattle stopped and looked at her.
“Get out of the road!” she shouted.
She hit the truck’s horn, beep-beep-beeping before leaning on it hard and steady, the grating, obnoxious noise shattering the quiet.
One of the cows lay down. In the road.
The soul-deep peace she’d found was lost.
To a bovine antagonist.
“I’ve been reduced to this,” she thought, tears and laughter arriving at the same time.
She gave in to both.
Several minutes passed before she even tried to collect herself. Several more passed before she was successful. Drying her face on her shirt hem, she fished around in the console for a napkin, blew her nose and tried to decide what to do. She could attempt to drive around the animal, but the pasture on either side had cattle scattered about. She could nudge this guy and try to get him to move, but she didn’t want to hurt him. How fragile are cows? She also didn’t want to bang up her truck if it turned out the animal was more dent-proof than her vehicle.
When she was two seconds from throwing in the towel and calling the cabin owner for help, the cow stood up and moved on.
The universe was laughing. She could hear it.
Unwilling to waste any more time, she drove through the remaining animals—who all moved—as fast as she dared. The road went on long enough that she wondered if she’d taken a wrong turn, and she crossed three more cattle guards before she rounded the mesa and found herself in a canyon and following a stream. Aspens clustered here and there, white trunks stark against the hillside, their leaves shimmering in the slight breeze. The stream widened and turned north, winding through an empty field littered with wildflowers.
A little house sat straight ahead. Other buildings were situated behind and, like the stream, to the north so they faced the water. She parked in front of the main house, put her hair back up and hopped out of her truck.
“It’s like a fairy tale,” she whispered, standing behind the open driver’s door as if it would shield her from the fallout when the image shattered. And it had to shatter. Nothing like this existed in real life.
The house was half stacked river stone, half rough-hewn log cabin topped by an aged tin roof and embraced by a deep, wraparound front porch with tree branches used as porch railings. A porch swing hung from the rafters on one side while rocking chairs occupied the other. Country music played on a radio inside and, somewhere in the house, a woman sang along. The smell of fresh-baked bread drifted out of open windows. Beneath that hovered the scent of something rich and savory.
Please, God, let that be dinner.
Taylor laid her hand over her stomach when it growled in protest. When had she last eaten? Breakfast in Colorado? Must have been.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from the truck and shut the door.
Inside, the singing stopped.
Seconds later, the front door opened and a lovely woman stepped out, a dishtowel in one hand. She looked to be in her midfifties. Long dark hair threaded with gray had been braided, but a few flyaways rebelled. Worn jeans, faded and slightly frayed from a hundred washings, hugged slim hips. Her dark T-shirt had a smudge of flour on one corner. Her gaze met Taylor’s and each woman lifted a hand in greeting and smiled at the same time.
The older woman laughed. “If you’re Taylor Williams or if you’re selling Girl Scout cookies, come on in. Otherwise, I don’t need any, want any, have already registered to vote, found the Lord decades ago so He’s not missing anymore and I’ll warn you I have a loaded shotgun inside the doorway.”
Taylor paused halfway up the front steps. “Shotgun?”
The woman’s grin widened. “It’s reserved for salesmen and politicians.” She stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Elaine Bradley.”
A vehicle came around the bend. Taylor turned and squinted into the bright afternoon sun glaring off the windshield of what turned out to be a truck.
Light glinted off the late-model hood as it approached the house at speed. Slowing just outside of what Taylor considered the driveway, the driver pulled in at an angle, the dust trail the truck had kicked up rolling forward and swallowing the vehicle. The driver waited for the majority of the dust to clear before stepping out. Hat settled low on his head, he gripped the front of the driver’s door in one hand and the cab in the other, leaning into the V created between the two. His eyes narrowed and the cords in his neck stood out.
“That’s my son,” Elaine said from behind Taylor.
No. No, no, no. This was not happening.
“Come on up and meet our guest,” Elaine called out.
Taylor turned around and, clutching the step railing, swallowed hard. “He’s your son?”
Merry eyes crinkled at the corners as the woman’s smile widened. “He is, yes. Handsome as the devil is dark, and stubborn as a mule to boot, but he’s a good man,” she added softly, maternal pride coloring her words.
Heavy footsteps made the stair treads vibrate beneath Taylor’s feet, stopping before the owner drew level with her. His presence loomed at her back, large and hot and strong. Déjà vu struck her and she almost laughed at the irony when the bourbon-smooth voice spoke into her ear.
“I’m sure there’s a very good reason you’re standing here, on my porch, on my land, talking to my mother.” His tone wasn’t hostile but it sure as hell wasn’t welcoming, either.
“Mind yourself, Quinn,” Elaine bit out. “Taylor Williams is a guest of the ranch.”
“I can’t...” Taylor shook her head and stepped aside in an attempt to create space between her and the man at her back.
Quinn Monroe.
She’d thought this place was a fairy tale when she’d arrived—too pretty, too perfect, too good to be true. The thing was, all of the original fairy tales had been told as warnings. With this being Quinn’s territory, that made him either the hero or the ogre. If she had to put money on which was more likely, he wouldn’t end up king of the castle.
Fairy tale, indeed.
* * *
“GUEST OF...” QUINN was rooted to the spot. All he could think was that she was here and her damn hair was still up. “Since when?”
“Since I rented her the bunkhouse last week.” His mom stepped to the edge of the porch and towered over him, her gaze boring into his in that parental way that brooked no argument. “You’re well aware I’ve been working to revamp it, from décor to the new septic system. My intent was to make it available as a rental for people visiting the area, so once we were done, I listed it on a couple of online vacation-rental sites. Is there a problem?”
He had clenched his teeth so hard he wondered if they’d cold-welded. “You didn’t mention that was your end goal, Mom.”
“Wait. You’re a Monroe,” Taylor interjected, looking at Quinn. “And, Elaine, you’re a Bradley?”
“Quinn’s father and I split right after Quinn was born. I married Alan Bradley before Quinn was two, and Alan raised him,” she answered, not taking her eyes off Quinn. “When you treat me like an actual business partner, son—” and no one missed the emphasis there “—I’ll reciprocate. Seems there’s something going on you’re not sharing yourself.”
She snorted and flipped her dishtowel over her shoulder, shaking her head. “This isn’t an argument we need to expose Ms. Taylor to.” As she shifted her attention to Taylor, her smile returned. “I’m truly glad you chose the Rocking-B Ranch for your stay. The cabin, formerly our cowboys’ bunkhouse, is about two hundred yards north with the barn situated just beyond it. It’s a lovely two-bedroom place built as a smaller version of the main house. The porch there is much closer to the stream, so you can leave the windows open and listen to the running water if it suits. Above all, it affords you—” she glared at Quinn “—privacy. I’ll walk you over now, if you’re ready. Quinn, be a gentleman and grab her bags.”
Taylor didn’t look at him, didn’t even seem to look at his mom when she spoke. Her voice was shaky but resolute. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradley. Given my unanticipated acquaintance with Quinn, I’m going to have to find another place to stay.”
His mother glanced between him and the woman. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Quinn rolled his shoulders. “She’s my client.”
His mother’s eyes flared wide with alarm. “You’re climbing again.”
His answer was a single nod. No, he hadn’t told his mother about Taylor hiring him to see her through recertification. He hadn’t wanted to admit he’d been forced to lean on his former profession to shore up their financials. Cattle prices were lean this year, and the first three semi-truckloads of yearlings they’d sent to the sale had averaged a paltry seventy-nine cents per pound. If the remaining three truckloads did the same, the ranch would break even, covering operating costs and land taxes. There’d be nothing left over, nothing to live on.
Not to mention the bank note that had come due.
Quinn pulled his cowboy hat off and slapped it against his thigh. Sweat beaded on his nape at the memory of the notice that had come on official letterhead via certified mail. The ranch’s operating loan was more than ninety days past due. They had thirty days to bring that loan current or the foreclosure process would begin.
He and his mother had put their heads together, trying to come up with some feasible option to raise the money. Short of selling off the equipment, which they needed, or the animals, which were their only source of income at the moment, they’d come up with nothing together—but, apparently, separate plans they hadn’t shared with each other.
And Murphy’s Law said those individual plans would involve the same woman.
He met and held his mom’s unblinking stare. “Private discussion.” The last thing he wanted Taylor to know was that he was desperate for her fee. It would undermine his authority, both in prep work and on the climb.
“Obviously communication isn’t a strong point between me and Mom, but it doesn’t change the fact you need somewhere to stay while we do the pre-climb work and then get your climb hours in.” She started to object, and he interrupted in a rush. “Truly, Taylor. It’s fine.” Before she could argue, he tipped his hat and spun on his heel, strode to the Toyota and stopped at the driver’s-side rear door. “Is it unlocked?”
Taylor looked at him, her face blank. “Your mom has a shotgun. I think she’s more a deterrent to thieves than the factory alarm.”
Quinn grinned and pulled the door open, hauling out one moderate suitcase and a small overnight bag. He looked in the truck bed and found three decent-sized army duffels. “That all your gear?” He shook his head. “Never mind. We’ll inventory what you brought later. I’ll bring those over after a while.”
“No worries.” Taylor’s voice was softer when she moved closer to Elaine, but Quinn heard her just fine. “You realize my staying here will be awkward, at best, and impossible, at worst.”
Elaine shrugged. “Your options in town are the six-room motel run by the Moots. He’s eighty-seven. She’s eighty-six. The motel was renovated in 1958. No wi-fi, no cable and no kitchenette. You could check out the dude ranch to the south, but last I heard, they were booked through Valentine’s Day next year. Beyond that? There’s nothing else within sixty miles.”
Quinn watched as Taylor worried her bottom lip with her teeth, rocking back and forth on her feet, sneaking looks between the truck and the general direction of the cabin. She settled her focus on Elaine. “I need to speak to Quinn, if you don’t mind.”
The woman gave a short nod. “I’ll go in and wrap up the last of dinner. Holler when you’re ready and I’ll walk you to the cabin.”
Taylor’s smile was small and decidedly noncommittal.
Quinn hoisted her bags over one shoulder and retrieved one duffel, watching as Elaine disappeared into the house and Taylor skipped down the porch steps. He waited, watching her close the distance between them.
“Would you put those back in the truck, please? I need to talk to you.”
He didn’t comment but dropped the duffel at his feet and set her two personal bags atop the military-green canvas. He had a good idea which punch she’d throw first, but knowing wasn’t going to make it any less painful. So he decided to swing first. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you’re irritated.”
Her flat stare was answer enough.
“Care to elaborate?”
She pulled her ponytail down, worked her hands through the loose curls and pulled the entire mass up in a sloppy topknot. “How long have you been running the ranch?”
“Coming up on two years too soon.” Instinct shouted at him to proceed with caution. “Why?”
“Did you give up climbing for this?”
“Excuse me?”
“I want to know what your priorities are. If you’re a rancher, you’re a rancher. That’s fine. But I didn’t hire a rancher to see me through my recertification. I hired you under the express belief you were a dedicated mountaineer.”
Muscles along his jaw worked and knotted. “I’m perfectly capable of doing, and being, both.”
“I disagree.” She crossed her arms and looked at some point well beyond him. “When was the last time you summited, Quinn? Eight months? Twelve? More?” She waved him off when he started to answer. “What you’ve been doing with yourself over the last several months may not matter so much to you, but it matters very much to me. I decided to hire you, signed the contract you required, paid your well-above-the-going-rate fee up front and then came to you, and I did it all based on your skills and qualifications as I understood them.”
“And? I’m not tracking here, Taylor.” He leaned one hip against the rear door of her quad-cab pickup and mimicked her, crossing his arms over his chest. “If this is about the cabin rental, it’s not that big a deal. The arrangement caught me off guard, but it’ll be fine—easier, even, since I intended to have you come out here every day to train, anyway.”
Her lips thinned. “This isn’t about the cabin.”
“Then break it down for me. Why, exactly, can’t I ranch and climb? Is there some cosmic law that says a man is capable of one but never both?” he demanded, words razor sharp.
“I’m sure you can do both and be good at both. But to be the best at something, you have to focus, dedicate yourself and give your complete time and attention to that one thing.”
His chin rose slowly until narrowed green eyes met her hazel ones. Drawing a deep breath, then another, he worked to keep his tone level and his hands from shaking. “That may be the most screwed-up logic I’ve ever heard. It’s like saying a man can’t be a CEO and a father.”
The corners of her eyes tightened and she looked away. “Yeah? Well you hit that nail square on the head,” she muttered, carrying on before he could question her. “For a man to be the best CEO, he has to dedicate himself wholly to that pursuit. He can’t shut it off when he gets home and give the same time and focus to being a father.” She met his gaze, then. “The demands of the CEO are always there, always hovering and commanding his attention, even as his kid does the same. Sure, he can give a percentage of his attention to one and the remaining percentage to the other, but he can’t give his full time and attention to both, and never at the same time. And just because he’s a father doesn’t mean he’s not a CEO and vice versa. So he’s forever divided and only half as good as he might have been if he’d dedicated himself wholly to only one pursuit.”
“I disagree.” Anxiety, as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome, created distinctive half-moons of sweat under his arms. He instinctively picked up her suitcase when she reached for it and tried to check his panic. “I’ll carry this for you.”
“No need. I’m not staying.”
He froze. This wasn’t happening. Quinn needed this climb too bad for her to bail on him now. No, the climb wasn’t what he needed. It was the fee. If she walked, he’d have to refund at least half the money she’d paid him based on the contract she’d referenced—the contract he had drafted. That couldn’t happen, in large part because he’d spent two-thirds of it to settle the vet’s bill for vaccinating the weanlings. There was no money to return.
“If you’ll move your foot, I’ll grab my gear and get out of your way.”
He looked down, confused. “My foot.”
“You’re standing on my duffel handle.”
Something in him snapped, and he ground his boot—and the handle—into the dirt. “So that’s it. You track me down, hire me, show up and take one look around before deciding I’m not focused or dedicated or single-minded enough to be damn good at what I do.” He leaned into her space, closing the distance until they were nearly nose to nose. “Who the hell do you think you are, putting me through the front-end work of interviewing you, checking references and all that shit only to have you show up and immediately declare me ‘unfit’ just because you don’t like the backdrop I’m standing against? Is that your MO, Taylor, to pick and choose only what agrees with your definition of the world and deny everything, and everyone, else?” His eyes widened as hers narrowed. “Wow. Okay, fine. If you’re that willing to quit before your first day of ground work, it’s probably a good thing you’ve put on the brakes.” He stepped back and picked up her duffel, tossed it in the bed of her truck and started for the house.
“I’m not quitting,” she called after him with open defiance. “And it’s my right to put on the brakes.”
“Sure it is. It’s just...” He waved her off. “Never mind. Best of luck to you.”
“Just what?” she demanded.
“I’ve never once had someone with a quitter’s attitude complete my groundwork let alone make it up the mountain, and trust me, Taylor. This is a quitter’s attitude no matter how you dress it up.” Quinn didn’t slow or turn back when he delivered the kill shot. “You didn’t stand a chance of passing the re-cert. This saves us both the embarrassment—you from failing and me from failing you.”
