Читать книгу A Ranching Man - Linda Turner - Страница 8

The woman who opened the door to Angel Wiley’s soft knock was tall and spare, with a wrinkled face as stern as a ship captain’s. But at the sight of the visitor standing on her front porch, a delighted smile broke across her firm mouth and good humor danced in her sky-blue eyes. “There you are! And looking just as pretty as you do in the movies! Come in, come in, and make yourself at home. We don’t stand on ceremony in this neck of the woods—never have. Most folks are just like family.” And not giving Angel time to object, she pushed open the screen door, pulled her inside and hugged the stuffing out of her.

Surprised, Angel laughed and returned the hug. She’d long since accepted the fact that because people felt like they knew her from her movies, they felt free to treat her like an old friend. “Mrs. Henderson—”

“Myrtle, dear,” the older woman corrected her easily as she released her. “Mrs. Henderson was my mother-in-law, and that woman was meaner than a wet hen. Everybody in the county calls me Myrtle.” Glancing past her through the screen door, she frowned in disappointment at the sight of the Ford Taurus sedan sitting at the curb. “Is that your car? I thought you’d have a limo. Garrett Elliot does. I saw him driving around the square just this afternoon.”

Angle didn’t doubt it. She and her costar had worked together once before, to her regret, and she knew for a fact that Garrett didn’t go anywhere without a limo and entourage. Spoiled and insecure, he thrived on the trappings of stardom and the sense of self-importance it gave him. The more looks he drew, even in a backwater little town like Liberty Hill, Colorado, the happier he was.

She, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. She hadn’t gone into acting for the fame, but for the work itself. She loved it, loved creating a believable character that came alive on the screen. But the work had its drawbacks, and she hated the notoriety that accompanied success and stripped you of your privacy. Unlike Garrett, she didn’t like being stared at, so she kept a low profile whenever possible and tried not to draw attention to herself. Because not everyone who wanted to touch her, hug her, was a harmless fan.

A chill rippled over her at the thought, and it was all she could do not to glance over her shoulder to see if she was being watched from the street through the open front door. This wasn’t a sprawling metropolis like L.A., where danger had stalked her without her even being aware of it, she reminded herself. Liberty Hill was hardly more than a village, lost in the mountains of southwestern Colorado. There were no hotels in town, nowhere for a stranger to hide. The studio had made arrangements for the cast to board with the local ranchers and townspeople, then booked every hotel within a sixty-mile radius for the crew during the filming of Beloved Stranger. An outsider, left with no place to stay, would stick out like a sore thumb.

When she’d learned the studio had arranged for her to stay in a Victorian mansion that was right in the middle of town and only a block from the sheriff’s office, she’d sighed in relief. It had sounded like it was perfect for her.

And at first glance, the old house certainly lived up to its advanced billing. Dripping in gingerbread and charm, it was beautifully preserved and literally right around the corner from the sheriff. A scream would bring him or one of his deputies running to the rescue in a matter of minutes.

But what if she didn’t have time to scream? a voice in her head taunted softly. An intruder could slip up on her in the dark silence of the night and she’d never know it until it was too late. All he’d have to do was break one of the ancient window latches or jimmy the lock on the front door, and he’d be inside in a heartbeat. While Myrtle slept peacefully in her bed, he could do God knows what to Angel and be gone before anyone even thought to note the danger.

Stricken, she paled and knew in that instant that she couldn’t do it. There was too much at stake. As much as she liked Myrtle and hated to disappoint her, she just couldn’t stay there. “Garrett always did like limos. I prefer to drive myself. Mrs. Henderson, about the house—”

“I knew you would love it,” she cut in, beaming. “Everyone does. And it’s Myrtle, dear. There’s no need to stand on ceremony. After all, we’re going to be housemates for the next two months, and I want us to be friends.”

“Thank you…Myrtle. I appreciate that, but—”

“Think nothing of it, dear. I’m delighted you’re here. And you know, of course, that I don’t expect you to hole up in your suite the entire time you’re here. There’s plenty of room for both of us, so please make yourself at home. I heard you like to cook, so I imagine you’d like to look at the kitchen. It’s probably not as fancy as what you’ve got in L.A., but I made sure it was well stocked for you. C’mon. I’ll show you around.”

She would have given her a guided tour, but Angel couldn’t let her, not without feeling like a heel. To let her continue to think she could accept her hospitality would be cruel.

“Myrtle…wait,” she said when the older woman started to turn toward the arched doorway at the far end of the entrance hall. “I hate to do this to you after you’ve gone to so much trouble, but I’m not going to be able to stay with you, after all.”

“But the studio’s already made the arrangements,” she argued, taken aback. “Your rent’s been paid, your rooms are ready. All you have to do is move in and unpack.” Frowning with a sudden thought, she asked worriedly, “Is it the house? Is it because it’s so old? That nice Mr. Douglas from the studio thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am. I mean I would be but—”

“You’re worried I’ll talk your ear off when you try to study your lines at night,” she guessed. “Don’t be. I’m an old lady, dear,” she confided, trying and failing to look feeble. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I have a little antique store next door, and it takes all my energy just to stay on top of things there. By the time I get home in the evening, I’m so bushed, I’m lucky if I can stay awake long enough to eat a bowl of cereal during Entertainment Tonight.”

Fighting a smile, Angel sincerely doubted that. Myrtle might be somewhere in her seventies, but her blue eyes were sharp and full of life, her step lively. She was a long way from being old. “It’s not you,” she assured her. “It’s me. I need to stay in a place that’s more…private.”

It was a weak excuse, but the only one that Angel was willing to give her. She didn’t know Myrtle, didn’t know if she could trust her with the truth. She didn’t seem the malicious type, but Angel already knew she liked to talk, and that could easily get out of hand. If she inadvertently repeated any of their conversation to any of the reporters that would soon be flooding the area, the news would be all over the papers the next day. She could see the headlines now.

Angel Wiley Threatened By Stalker.

The press would have a field day with that. And so would Garrett. She could hear him now, telling everyone on the set that Angel was so desperate for publicity and her fifteen minutes of fame that she’d do anything to get her name in the paper. Just thinking about it made her cringe.

Not taking her seriously, Myrtle laughed. “This is Liberty Hill, dear, not L.A. You don’t have to worry about people peeking in the windows, ogling you. Anyone who goes around sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong is asking for a fat lip, and I’ll be the first one to give it to them. We respect each other’s privacy around here. Or else.”

Angel made no attempt to repress a smile. Myrtle looked so fierce, she could just see her taking on the tabloid reporters who regularly parked across the street from her house in West Hollywood and snapped pictures of anything that moved. If they tried that here, they’d be lucky if they still had their hair, let alone their cameras, by the time Myrtle got through with them.

“I’m sure everyone is normally very nice,” she agreed. “But we’re not talking about neighbors gossiping over the back fence about the county judge and his secretary. Once word gets out that a movie’s being shot in the area, fans’ll start crawling out of the woodwork. Then the trouble starts.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly before Myrtle could misunderstand. “I really do love my fans. Most of them are harmless and wouldn’t dream of doing anything more objectionable than asking for a picture or autograph. Those are the nice ones.”

“And the others? The not so nice ones? What do they want?’

“Anything that touches my skin,” Angel said bluntly. “They’ve been known to crawl through a window just to get their hands on a pair of my underwear.”

Her cheeks slightly flushed, Myrtle swallowed. “I see.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t fully understand what fame and adoration was like for someone who just wanted to do her job and come home at night and be left alone. The abhorrence of getting filthy letters in the mail from strange men. The fear that pressed in on her in the dark of night when the phone rang and she knew it was him—

Shying away from the thought, she stiffened. No! She didn’t need to go there for Myrtle to understand that the arrangements the studio had made for her were, unfortunately, unacceptable. “So you see why I need to stay some place more secluded. Please don’t take this wrong—your house is wonderful—but it’s right on the street. There isn’t even a fence. If I’m going to sleep at all at night, I really need a gated community, some place with a state-of-the-art security system and motion detectors in every room. I’m sure you understand. I guess you could say I’m like Greta Garbo. I just want to be alone.”

It was an outrageous request for the wilds of Colorado, and they both knew it. Liberty Hill didn’t even have a movie theater, let alone a gated neighborhood with the kind of security system she described. It was a ranching community, for God’s sake! People worked hard for their money and didn’t need fancy, high-falutin’ houses in town with walls around them to show what they were worth.

Which was more than could be said for a spoiled movie star from Hollywood who thought she was someone special just because she could play make-believe in front of a camera.

Myrtle didn’t say the words, but they were there in her eyes, nonetheless, along with a look that told Angel all too clearly that she had read the stories about her in the tabloids and was wondering now if they were true. And it was that that Angel hated the most. The speculation about her character, the doubts total strangers had about her before they even had a chance to meet her, let alone get to know her. Had her overnight success gone to her head? Could she possibly be as spoiled and demanding as everyone said? Did she really insist that the studio fly in fresh strawberries from California every morning for her breakfast and Dom Pérignon champagne directly from France whenever the mood struck her?

No! she wanted to cry, but she never got the chance. There was a sudden bold knocking at the front door, and they both turned to face the visitor who had arrived unnoticed while they talked. Standing on the other side of the screen door and silhouetted by the bright sunlight that streamed onto the front porch behind him, he stood like a dark specter, his face bathed in shadows, his broad shoulders filling the doorway.

He didn’t say a word, didn’t make a move that was the least bit threatening, but just that quickly, her heart was pounding with the sick fear that had become all too familiar over the course of the last two months. There was no reason to be afraid, she told herself desperately. This wasn’t the man who was the cause of her nightmares in the dead of night. It couldn’t be. She knew he would eventually follow her from L.A., that it was only a matter of time before he hunted her down in spite of the fact that the studio had been careful to keep under wraps exactly where Beloved Stranger was going to be filmed on location. But even he wasn’t clever enough to find her just minutes after her arrival in Liberty Hill. Was he?

Still unsure and hating herself for it, she was struggling with the need to run when Myrtle broke into a broad smile of recognition and moved forward to push open the unlocked screen door. “Joe! Come in, dear. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

After working on the sets of two Westerns, Angel had seen her share of wanna-be cowboys, but there was no question that the man who stepped into Myrtle’s entrance hall was the real thing. Six foot two, if he was an inch, he looked as tough as a weathered fence post. His jeans and denim shirt were designed for work, not show, and both his scarred boots and battered black cowboy hat had seen their share of use and abuse.

But it was the man himself who bore the stamp of hours spent toiling out on the range in all kinds of weather. His square-cut face was hard and chiseled by the wind, his skin baked and tanned from the sun. Fine lines radiated from the corner of his sharp brown eyes, and although Angel guessed he wasn’t much older than his mid-thirties, the temples of his dark brown hair were dusted with gray.

There was, she thought at first, nothing the least bit soft about him. Then Myrtle said, “What are you doing in town in the middle of the day? Oh, I bet you came for Cassie’s bed, didn’t you? How is the little darlin’?”

“Wild as a March hare,” he said with a chuckle. “Zeke swears he’s going to be totally white-headed by the time he’s forty. Yesterday, he found her trying to ride one of the calves in the barn. She wants to be a bronc rider when she grows up.”

A grin broke the stern set of the man’s face, stealing Angel’s breath right out of her lungs. Transfixed, she couldn’t take her eyes off him as Myrtle laughed gaily. “What is she now? Two? Wait ’till she’s ten and wanting to drive that great big Suburban truck of his. The poor boy doesn’t have a clue what he’s in for.”

Suddenly remembering her guest, she exclaimed, “Oh, lordy, I completely forgot about Angel.” Turning, she motioned her to join them. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to exclude you. It’s just that sometimes I get rattling and I completely forget my manners. Have you met Joe yet? No, of course you haven’t,” she retorted, answering her own question with a wry grimace. “You just got into town, didn’t you? This is Joe McBride, my godson. Your movie’s being filmed on his family’s ranch.”

“Then you must be the one Garrett’s staying with,” Angel told him. Pitying him that, she smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Angel Wiley. Garrett’s costar.”

Between one heartbeat and the next, the good humor in his eyes turned to ice. His gaze dropped to her extended hand, he hesitated, and for one stunned moment, Angel thought he wasn’t going to shake her hand! Then he gave a curt nod, closed his fingers over hers for a terse shake, and jerked his hand back as if he couldn’t abide the touch of her. Without bothering to say a single word, he turned back to Myrtle. “I hate to interrupt, but I need to load up the bed and get back to the ranch. I’ve got a mare that’s due to foal any day now, and I don’t want to be away from her too long.”

Myrtle shot him a reproving look that would have made a lesser man grovel in apology, but Joe McBride just stared back at her woodenly and didn’t so much as blink.

“Well,” she huffed, scowling in disapproval, “if you want to act as if you were raised in a barn, then I’m sure there’s nothing I can do about it.” And dismissing him as easily as he had Angel, she turned her attention back to her guest. “I’m sorry about this, dear, but it looks like I’m going to have to run next door to my shop and take care of a little business. I hope you don’t mind. It’s only going to take a few minutes. If you’d like, you can go upstairs and check out your suite. You might change your mind about staying here once you see it. It’s the first door on the left at the top of the stairs.”

Taken aback by Joe McBride’s rude dismissal, Angel nodded stiffly. He’d all but cut her dead, she thought in amazement as the cowboy walked out with Myrtle without sparing her so much as a second glance. Her. Angel Wiley! The winner of last year’s People’s Choice Award who was, according to Variety, one of the brightest new stars to come along in Hollywood in years. Not that she read and believed her own press, she quickly amended. But didn’t the man know who she was, for heaven’s sake?

Of course he did, her bruised ego snapped in her head. He just wasn’t impressed.

That wasn’t a reaction she was used to.

She didn’t consider herself a conceited woman, and she certainly didn’t expect male attention as her due. After all, she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous like Jaclyn Smith, and she didn’t have the pouty, sexy beauty of Marilyn Monroe. She was just average, nothing more, like the girl next door.

Or so she had always thought. But with the release of Heart’s Desire, her first movie, three years ago, men had been making complete fools of themselves over her. She generally only had to smile at one to knock him out of his shoes. And even the more confident ones tended to stumble over their tongues when they got a chance to talk to her.

Joe McBride had done neither.

She should have been relieved. She didn’t want any male attention, fawning or otherwise, and if she had any sense, she’d be thanking her guardian angels for making sure that the oh-so-annoying cowboy wasn’t the least bit interested in her.

Instead, she wanted to throw something at the darn man’s head.

So he wasn’t a fan, she thought irritably. So what? She wasn’t one of those insecure actresses who needed everyone to love her. People had different tastes—she accepted that. But was a little common courtesy too much to ask for?

She told herself to forget him and his rudeness. She had too many other problems to spend her time worrying about a long, tall drink of water like Joe McBride. But instead of going upstairs to check out the suite Myrtle had prepared for her, she stepped into the front parlor and moved to a window that overlooked the antique shop next door.

Joe strode out of Myrtle’s shop just as Angel pulled aside the lace panel that covered the window, and guiltily, she stepped back out of sight. But she needn’t have worried that he’d catch her watching him. He never even looked her way. With Myrtle scurrying along beside him, trying to help, he carried the solid wood antique twin bed and set it in the bed of his pickup as easily as if it weighed no more than a feather. When Myrtle scolded him, he only grinned and gave her a bear hug that completely lifted her off her feet.

Seeing them together, their faces alight with affection, Angel couldn’t get over the change in the man. Which one was the real Joe McBride? The cold, arrogant one who had barely been civil to her? Or the charming cowboy with the slashing dimples who swept an old woman off her feet just to make her laugh?

Watching his truck head west out of town with the antique bed secured in the back, Angel was still asking herself that same question a few minutes later when Myrtle returned. “Oh, there you are,” she said with a pleased smile when she spied Angel in the front parlor. “Did you check out your suite?”

“No, I really didn’t see the point—”

“Don’t say no yet,” she cut in. “Think about it while we have tea.”

Angel didn’t want her to go to any bother, but she was learning that Myrtle was a force to be reckoned with when she was determined to have her way about something. “It’s no trouble,” she assured her and escorted her into the large, old-fashioned kitchen.

“When I was a girl, I was raised to entertain guests in the front parlor,” she confided with twinkling eyes as she expertly prepared the tea. “My mother always said anything else just wasn’t proper. Obviously, I was a sad disappointment to her. I like to break the rules.” Grinning, she joined Angel at the round oak table that looked like it was at least as old as its owner and offered her homemade lemon cookies to go with her tea. “So what did you think of Joe? I hope he didn’t offend you. In spite of his dreadful behavior, he really is a wonderful boy.”

With a weathered face like his and disillusioned eyes that had seen more of life than he wanted, Joe was a long way from being a boy. And from what Angel had seen of him, there was nothing the least bit wonderful about the man. Still, Myrtle seemed to be more than a little fond of him so she wisely kept those thoughts to herself.

“Maybe he was just having a bad day,” she said diplomatically, accepting a cookie. “It happens to the best of us.”

“No, it’s more than that, I’m sorry to say.” Sobering, she stirred cream into her tea. “He and his wife, Belinda, divorced four years ago, and it hit him hard. The poor boy was nuts about her, but she was a city girl, and living on a ranch was downright foreign to her. Can you imagine? She didn’t even know the difference between a bull and a steer when she came here!”

Struggling not to smile, Angel had no intention of admitting her own ignorance. “You don’t encounter many bulls in the city.”

“No, I guess not,” the older woman chuckled. “But it was more than that. She missed her friends and shopping malls and all the noise of Denver.” She shook her head, as if for the life of her, she couldn’t understand the fascination. “Anyway, I thought she was adjusting, and so did a lot of other people. Then six months after their wedding, when Joe was busy with the spring roundup, she packed up her clothes one day, left him a note saying she couldn’t take it anymore, and ran back to Denver. Joe hasn’t had anything good to say about women since.

“Not that that excuses rudeness,” she added quickly in case Angel got the wrong impression. “His mother, Sara, is my best friend and I know for a fact that he was raised better than that. He’s just got some baggage he’s got to deal with. We all do. But I’ll tell you one thing, he’s a good man. He might not sit next to you or any other single woman in church if he could find a way to avoid it, but if you were in trouble, he’d be the first one there to help you. The McBrides are all like that. They’d give you the shirt off their back if you needed it.”

Her teacup lifted halfway to her mouth, Angel slowly set it back down as an idea began to take shape in her head. “They sound like a good family. Just how big is their ranch?”

“Oh, Lord, big enough to get lost in if you don’t know where you’re going. The place is huge. Janey, the oldest daughter, lives with Sara in the old homestead, and that’s three miles from the ranch entrance. The rest of the kids have their own homes scattered about the place, and all of them are miles apart.”

“And Joe? How far is his house from the main entrance?”

Her mouth pursed, Myrtle considered the distance. “Maybe two miles, more or less. Merry has her veterinary office and house near the front gate, then you have to pass Joe’s before you get to the homestead. So yeah, I’d say it’s about two miles. Why?”

“It’s not a gated community, but it sounds like the next best thing,” she said honestly. “It’s miles off the road, so I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone invading my privacy.” Or getting to her without someone on the ranch spying them first. Security would already be increased because the film was being shot there, and anyone who didn’t belong there would never get past the front gate, let alone two miles down a private road to Joe’s house.

“But Garrett Elliot’s staying there,” Myrtle argued with a frown. “And to put it bluntly, dear, I don’t think Joe would be at all pleased to have a woman in his house. If you’re really determined not to stay here, why don’t you let me call Sara and see if she can put you up?” she suggested earnestly. “I know several of the other women cast members were assigned to her place, and of course, Janey’s there, but they might be able to squeeze you in. It’ll be crowded, and you won’t have the privacy you would have here, but you won’t have to worry about any fans peeping in the window at you. If anyone even thinks about approaching the homestead—or any of the kids’ houses, for that matter—you can see them coming from a mile away.”

Touched, Angel knew it couldn’t have been easy for Myrtle to make the offer, especially since she’d so obviously been looking forward to having her stay with her. And if she’d just been worried about a curious fan or two, Sara McBride’s home with its house full of women would have, no doubt, been safe enough, Angel acknowledged silently. But the man who had made the last few months a living nightmare for her was far more dangerous than a curious fan. If she was going to sleep at night, she needed someone hard and tough to protect her, someone who wasn’t the least bit interested in her as a woman.

She needed Joe McBride.

The decision made, she sat back with a sigh of relief. For the first time in weeks, the sick, hollow fear in her stomach eased, and she knew she was doing the right thing. “It’s very kind of you to make the offer, Myrtle, but I really do think it would be best if I stayed with Joe.”

“But what about Garrett? Joe only has three bedrooms, and Garrett reserved two of them so he could use one as an office.”

Not the least bit worried, Angel said confidently, “I’ll take care of Garrett.”

And she’d see that he got no more than he deserved. After all, he was the one who’d gone to the tabloids during the making of Wild Texas Love last year and claimed that her success had gone to her head, that she acted the star and disrupted shooting on the set whenever she didn’t get her way. She hadn’t, of course, but he hadn’t cared about the truth. He’d only wanted to get back at her for refusing to sleep with him.

She’d never pulled rank in her life, but she was going to now. Because she had to. One phone call to Will Douglas, the producer, was all it would take, and she would be in at Joe McBride’s, and Garrett would be out. A vindictive woman would have seen that he was given lodging in some dusty old attic on the other side of the county, but that wasn’t her way. No, she was much nicer than that. She’d make sure he had a comfortable place to stay…right in the middle of town. If he didn’t like little old ladies who had a tendency to speak their minds, then he’d just have to learn a little patience or rumors would soon be flying about him.

Revenge. How sweet it was!

Grinning mischievously, she observed Myrtle with twinkling blue eyes. “How would you like Garrett to stay with you?”

Hot and dirty and out of sorts, Joe headed for home just as the sun was sinking below the sharp ridge of mountains to the west. After checking on his pregnant mare, he’d spent the afternoon clearing brush and decaying logs out of the creek bed in Coyote Canyon, trying to improve the flow of the spring-fed creek for his thirsty cattle. And all he had to show for it was an aching back and a trickle of water that wasn’t going to last the summer if they didn’t get some rain soon.

But that had nothing to do with his foul mood.

Dragging red dust behind his pickup as he raced across the ranch on one of the dozens of gravel roads that crisscrossed the property, he came over a rise and scowled at the eighteen wheelers lined up like ducks in a row under the pines off to his left. There were no logos on the trucks, nothing to signify where they were from, but everyone within a hundred-mile radius knew what was in their trailers. Cameras, lights, sound equipment. Everything needed to make a movie.

Hollywood had come to the ranch, and he didn’t like it.

His mouth compressing into a flat line, he jerked his eyes back to the road and reminded himself that he’d do well not to look a gift horse in the mouth. With cattle prices at an all-time low, the cost of feed up because of a drought that looked like it was going to last into the next century, and money tighter than it had been in decades, the ranch had been in serious financial trouble when Gold Coast Studios literally came knocking at the front door. The studio suits had wanted to use the ranch as the location for the filming of its next big blockbuster, and they’d been willing to pay an obscene amount of money to do it.

Even then, his first instinct had been to tell them no and shut the door in their faces. He wanted nothing to do with the artificial world of movies and the people who made them. He didn’t want strangers poking their noses into every nook and cranny of the ranch like they owned the place, scaring the cattle and making general nuisances of themselves. He didn’t want to be bothered, dammit!

But business was business, and the ranch was a family operation. He couldn’t make a unilateral decision based on his personal feelings. So in a family meeting with his mother, brother and sisters, the matter was presented and discussed. And to no one’s surprise, it was decided that, considering the ranch’s current financial troubles, they really had no choice but to accept the studio’s offer.

The next day, he’d signed a contract giving Gold Coast Studios unlimited access to the ranch for the making of Beloved Stranger. Because of the shortage of available housing in town, he’d also given in to the pressure applied by his mother and sisters and agreed to rent out rooms to several cast members at the homestead and at his house. So for the next two months, the cast and crew could go just about anywhere they liked on the property.

Common sense told him he’d done the right thing, but that didn’t make him like the situation any better. He’d been running the ranch for the last seventeen years, ever since his father died the summer after he’d graduated from high school, and the land was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes. His brother and sisters had all gone on to college and important careers, but he’d given that up without a single regret. Because it was the ranch that he loved—the vastness of its high mountain meadows, the solitude of its canyons, the beauty of a lone hawk soaring on thermals high over land that belonged to his family as far as the eye could see.

And when he drove over ranch roads that he knew like the lines on the back of his hand, it was deer and elk he expected to see when he caught sight of something moving through the trees, not cameramen and set designers getting ready for the first day of shooting on Monday.

He supposed he would, with time, grow used to the sight of strangers on the ranch, but he didn’t think he would ever come to accept the idea of one in his home. Especially one like Garrett Elliot. The man was a jerk, a self-inflated, pompous fool who’d moved in yesterday while he was out, and taken over the house with an arrogance that still infuriated Joe. Elliot had actually had the audacity to claim the master bedroom for himself for the duration of his stay!

Who the hell did the man think he was? Joe fumed. Just because he was a big shot in Hollywood didn’t mean he could waltz into his house and start taking over like he owned the place. As far as Joe was concerned, he was nothing but a boarder. And he’d had no trouble telling him that. He’d then given him two options. He could either take the two smaller rooms, one of which he could use as an office, or find himself a hotel. And the closest hotel with rooms still available was seventy-five miles away. Not a stupid man, Elliot had sulked off to the two smaller rooms and been thankful to have them.

But they’d taken an instant dislike to each other on sight, and Joe didn’t fool himself into thinking that was going to change. He had no use for a man who thought he was entitled to special privileges because of his position in life. The next two months were, he thought grimly, going to be long ones.

He didn’t, at least, have to treat the jerk like a guest. That wasn’t part of the deal. He wasn’t running a motel. Elliot had to pick up after himself and cook his own meals. Joe doubted that he even knew how to turn on the stove, but he wasn’t sticking around to find out. Just as soon as he took a shower and washed off the ranch’s red dirt, he was heading into town to have dinner at Ed’s Diner. Chili sounded good. And chocolate cream pie. Nobody made chocolate cream pie better than Ed.

Already savoring the taste of it, he spied his house in the distance as the last streaks of red left from the setting sun turned to magenta, then darkening shades of violet. Every light in the house was on, not to mention the floodlights that illuminated the front and backyards. It was barely dark, and the place was lit up like a Christmas tree.

Swearing softly, Joe increased his speed. He could see right now that he and Elliot were going to have to have another talk. The studio might have paid a decent sum for him to stay there for the next two months, but that didn’t mean Joe was going to stand by and let him drive up his utility bill just because he missed the bright lights of L.A.

He had a scathing lecture all worked out in his head. Then he braked to a stop behind a red Ford Taurus sedan in his driveway and his mind went blank at the sight of the woman pulling something from the trunk of the car. Angel Wiley. He’d barely spared her a glance at Myrtle’s that afternoon, but he’d still have known her on the dark side of the moon. Just like every other man in America.

Not that he was a fan. He didn’t give a rat’s ass that she was Hollywood’s latest sweetheart. But like it or not, she wasn’t the kind of woman any man with blood in his veins could easily ignore. And for the life of him, Joe didn’t know why. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous. She was too cute, too wholesome with her wavy, sun-streaked blond hair, freckles and sparkling blue eyes. To add insult to injury, her smile was crooked, and she had dimples, for God’s sake. Granted, she was tall and willowy and had legs that went on forever, but she couldn’t, under any circumstances, ever hope to be called voluptuous. Still, there was something about her, an air of innocent sexuality, that was incredibly appealing.

Furious with himself for even noticing, he wondered what the hell she was doing there. Then his gaze shifted from her to the suitcase in her hand, then to his open front door. And it hit him. She was moving in!

Muttering a curse, he slammed out of his pickup and strode toward her, his long legs quickly eating up the distance between them. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Her heart thumping crazily, Angel didn’t so much as flinch. Myrtle had warned her he wouldn’t be happy about the change in plans, but that wasn’t something she could be concerned with at the moment. She needed a safe haven, and like it or not, his house was it. Nothing else mattered.

Still, she wasn’t nearly as cool as she pretended when she looked down her slender nose at him and met his hostile gaze with a delicately arched brow. “I would have thought it was obvious. I’m moving in, of course.”

“The hell you are!” he growled. “Put that damn suitcase back in your car and get out of here. You’re trespassing on private property.”

There’d been a time when that would have been enough to send her packing. Unlike Joe McBride, she didn’t have an ounce of anger in her. She didn’t like confrontations, didn’t like fights. Given the chance, she avoided them at every turn. But this was one she couldn’t back down from. Not when not only her safety, but her daughter’s, was at stake.

Standing her ground, she faced him squarely. “I hate to be the one to disillusion you, Mr. McBride, but I have every right to be here. You signed a contract with the studio—”

“My contract is with an actor,” he cut in coldly. “An actor,” he stressed. “Sharing my house with a woman was never part of the agreement. Especially a spoiled prima donna who thinks she’s God’s gift to the rest of the world.”

Angel felt her cheeks burn and knew she looked guilty as sin. Damn Garrett! Was there anyone who hadn’t heard and believed the lies he’d told about her? “Your contract is for a cast member,” she said stiffly. “If you don’t believe me, you can talk to Will. I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have.”

She didn’t give him time to object, but simply punched in a number on her cell phone and handed the phone to Joe. Stony-faced, he was left with no choice but to speak to the producer. “Douglas, we’ve got a problem,” he snarled. “I don’t care what the damn contract says. I’m not sharing my house with a woman!”