Читать книгу The Cowboy Claims His Lady - Meagan McKinney - Страница 8

“Get over here and give this old cowgirl a hug!”

Melynda Clay laughed at the greeting. She heard the familiar voice before she could even glance across the small airport terminal of Mystery, Montana.

“Hazel!”

Tugging her wheeled luggage behind her, Lyndie headed toward the petite older woman with the elegant silver-chignoned hair. Her great-aunt was the same old contradiction in terms Lyndie remembered. The handsome cattle baroness also wore faded jeans tucked into dusty cowboy boots and a smart alligator-band Western hat.

“So how is my notorious great-aunt?” Lyndie asked with laughter and a hug.

“Right as rain on a wood duck! Never better!”

Lyndie had to agree. Hazel McCallum didn’t look a day over sixty but the matriarch was well into the next decade.

All that clean-living and fresh mountain air, Lyndie mused. Certainly it was the opposite of the life she’d been living recently, bent over accounting books, worrying and biting her nails in the back of her little French Quarter shop in New Orleans.

“Lands, let me look at you!” Hazel exclaimed, holding Lyndie out at arm’s length. “Hon, I love what you’ve done with your hair. Last time I saw you, you were just graduating college and you practically had a buzz cut, remember?”

“Remember? Are you kidding? You kept asking me if I’d joined the Marines!”

“Well, the shoulder length and the blond streaks are perfect for your McCallum good looks,” Hazel said approvingly, still admiring her. “You’ve got my daddy’s sapphire-blue eyes. My gosh, you’re a regular traffic hazard.”

Hazel narrowed her own Prussian-blue eyes as if seeing more than Lyndie wanted her to. Lyndie wondered if her great-aunt was taking note of the signs of chronic strain and worry molding her features these days, especially the dark circles under those “sapphire-blue eyes.” The smudges betrayed the days of endless fretting and the sleepless nights.

“Well, c’mon, city slicker,” Hazel said, taking Lyndie’s free hand and pulling her toward the parking lot. “I’m parked right out front. You’ll find no chauffeur-driven Jaguars around here. Just my dusty old Caddy with tumbleweeds stuck in the grill and longhorns for a hood ornament.”

“Chauffeur-driven Jaguars?” Lyndie repeated, gasping. “Aunt Hazel, I’m not doing that well.”

“Oh, cowplop! Your mom tells me you’re getting ready to open your second store. That lingerie empire of yours is practically now a conglomerate. I’m proud of you, sweetie. I guess there’s two sharp business tycoons in this family. So don’t you let those cowhands of mine tease you mercilessly about those underwear shops.”

“‘All for Milady,’” Lyndie replied, hamming it up for her favorite relative and quoting from the advertising copy Lyndie had written herself, “‘offers a complete line of women’s intimate apparel, the latest in fit and luxury for the discriminating woman.’”

Hazel rolled her eyes. “Oh, brother! Intimate apparel? All my cowboys know about a ‘teddy’ is that he was once the president.”

They emerged into the sun-drenched late afternoon, a gorgeous June day. Lyndie was amazed that Hazel had meant it literally when she said she was parked right out front. Her cinnamon-and-black Fleetwood sat only about ten feet from the front doors. The small parking lot was almost empty.

“The only reason they call this paved pasture an airport,” Hazel informed her niece as they stored her luggage in the trunk, “is that we get a few flights from Helena. You’re in back of beyond now, girl. And I still say it’s just what you need. Your mom Sarah’s been telling me you’ve been working from get-up to go-to-bed, seven days a week.”

Lyndie managed a woeful smile. “I’m glad to be out west, Aunt Hazel, and to see you. But I confess I’m not so sure about this dude ranch of yours. That part is a little off-kilter right now.”

“Land sakes, why?”

“Oh, you know…I’m not really in the mood to be bonding with a bunch of tourists—”

“Oh, pouf! Besides, Bruce will keep all of you so dang busy there won’t be much time for idle jawboning.”

“Bruce?”

“You remember, I mentioned him to you on the phone? He trains and breeds horses for all us ranchers in Mystery Valley. During the summer he also runs Mystery Dude, from May to September. With some help, of course.”

Lyndie could have sworn she saw a glint of shrewdness in Hazel’s eyes as she added, “He’s also one of the most eligible hunks in the valley. ‘Bedroom eyes’ as us older gals used to say. He puts me in mind of Gregory Peck in his salad days.”

“Oh, no you don’t!”

Hazel glanced over, the very picture of faux shock. “Oh, no I don’t—what?”

“Aunt Hazel, I know good and well a scheming mind lurks behind that innocent-little-old-lady exterior of yours. I told you I wouldn’t come if I was to be one of your victims. Mom has told me all about your little matchmaking schemes, and I made it clear I’ll take no part in—”

“Schemes?” Hazel protested. “I’ve…facilitated a romance or two, perhaps, but—”

“Four weddings in one year? Mom says you even use notches now to count them.”

“Oh, you know Sarah,” Hazel said dismissively, “that niece of mine always liked to stretch the blanket a mite.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Well, please don’t try to ‘facilitate’ anything for me, okay? A little fun and diversion, well, all right, I’ll give that a whirl. But believe me, right now ‘romance’ is the last thing I need.”

“Now, you needn’t be so testy,” Hazel scolded. “I simply remarked that Bruce is good-looking, and here you go and erupt like Mount Vesuvius.”

“I’m sorry.” Lyndie sighed, wondering if she had been overreacting. She was certainly prone to it these days.

Hazel nattered on enthusiastically about Mystery Dude Ranch while Lyndie dutifully tried to pay attention. Outside, the brittle light of late afternoon was taking on the mellow richness of sunset. White gauze clouds drifted in a deep cerulean sky, with majestic mountains forming a postcard-perfect Western vista. Mystery, Montana, was downright sublime in its natural beauty.

Lyndie abruptly realized Hazel had asked her a question.

“I’m sorry, what’d you say, Aunt Hazel?”

“I said, Mystery Dude is right on the way to my place. Since you’ll be moving in there tomorrow, anyway, why don’t we swing by and leave your cowpoke duds in your room? It’s close to supper, Bruce should be back to the house now. You can meet him.”

Lyndie aimed a suspicious glance at her.

“No Cupid tricks,” Hazel assured her. “Honest. Just to give you the lay of the land, that’s all.”

“Sure,” Lyndie responded, perking up a bit. “You’re right. That way we won’t have to haul my stuff around needlessly.”

A grin divided Hazel’s weather-seamed face. “Now you’re whistlin’! Maybe we can even pick out your horse.”

Lyndie could have sworn the sly glint was back in Hazel’s eyes when she added, “If there’s one thing Bruce Everett is a good judge of, it’s horseflesh.”

As if the place were only remembered in dreams, Lyndie realized she had forgotten how breathtaking Mystery Valley was—a patchwork of verdant pastures and fields like spokes radiating from the hub of the town of Mystery, population four thousand. About ten minutes after they entered the valley through a winding mountain pass, Hazel swung the Fleetwood off onto a dirt lane. The lane led to a ranch much smaller than her own Lazy M that dominated the valley.

“Why, there’s Bruce now,” Hazel remarked, tooting the horn as she pulled up in front of a long stone watering trough.

Perhaps a dozen or so people of both sexes and various ages, most with Lyndie’s unmistakable look of “city slickers,” stood near a big pole corral watching something—or someone. The car rolled a few more feet forward, and then Lyndie spotted a tall, lean, weather-bronzed man who was evidently demonstrating how to cinch a girth, using a barrel-chested sorrel horse as his model.

“This is the second new group of the season,” Hazel explained as both women got out of the car. “Bruce takes a new group every three weeks—that way everybody’s on the same page.”

Bruce Everett smiled and waved a greeting at Hazel, excusing himself from the group and striding over to meet the new arrivals.

Even from where she was, Lyndie could see he was indeed handsome, but she felt an almost physical backlash to her attraction, and she couldn’t help but think of the old truism “Once burned, twice shy.”

“Hazel, you cattle rustler!” he called out cheerfully. “What have you come to swindle me out of now?”

“Me the swindler! You’re the one who sells spavined horses to unsuspecting old ladies.”

During this exchange of fond insults, his gaze quickly appraised Lyndie. For some reason, Hazel’s comment about his prowess in judging horseflesh just wouldn’t leave Lyndie’s mind.

“Bruce Everett,” Hazel announced, handling the introductions, “this is my grand-niece from New Orleans, Melynda Clay. But everybody calls her Lyndie. She doesn’t know beans about horses, but I expect you to remedy that in the next few weeks.”

“As long as she’s sound of limb and wind,” he assured Hazel, “we can turn her into a cowgirl. Glad to meetcha, Lyndie.”

His strong white teeth flashed in a wolfish smile, and an eerie, unpleasant sense of déjà vu washed over her. There was a confidence—a confidence bordering on arrogance—about this man that was reminiscent of Lyndie’s ex-husband Mitch’s manner. But whereas Mitch was all show and no substance, something told Lyndie to be wary of this cowboy’s confidence. It just might turn out to be the real thing.

His scrutiny trapped her.

Suddenly irritated, she flung him a frozen, perfunctory smile, then let her gaze turn to study a group of horses in a paddock beside the sprawling stone ranch house. As she’d hoped, her dismissal of him was obvious.

“Same here,” she intoned in a pleasant, detached manner, her attention glued to the paddock.

“Well, that gets my money,” she thought she heard him say under his breath.

Hazel raised her voice for Lyndie’s benefit and suggested cheerfully, “Bruce, maybe you two could pick out Lyndie’s horse while she’s here.”

They joined her near the paddock.

“That little bay mare with the white socks is one of my favorites,” he told Lyndie. “’Course, they’re all good animals. They’re not what you’d call well-schooled in dressage, but all of them are honest and fit. They do to take along.”

Lyndie chanced a longer look at him this time.

He had removed his hat, and a shock of jet-black hair curved across his strong brow. The eyes watching her were the shade of morning frost.

He didn’t have Mitch’s features, no. But the handsome smile and the confidence—they were reminiscent of the traits she had fallen for hardest in Mitch. And the very thought of him still soured her blood.

“They’ll do to take along where?” she replied, though she knew full well it was just a westernism he had spoken, not a literal remark.

He gave another interrogative glance at Hazel. “Wherever I take ’em,” he replied, placing slight emphasis on the word I.

Hazel, her expression clearly betraying how much she did not like the trail they were taking, again spoke up.

“You know, hon, I just remembered you must be tired from your trip. You can pick out your horse tomorrow. Why don’t we just take a quick look at your room, then head on to the Lazy M?”

“That’s sound just like the tonic I need,” Lyndie said.

Bruce seemed to want to elaborate on what kind of tonic he’d like to give her, but to his credit, he directed “Right this way,” leading them toward a low building of new milled lumber that stood between the main house and a row of stables.

“This here’s the bunkhouse.” He threw open a door. “The place has been renovated to make private rooms. As you see, they’re basic, but they’re clean as the bottom of a feed bucket. And there’s plenty of hot water.”

Lyndie stepped into the room. Her black Italian pantsuit looked absolutely out of place next to the rough-hewn log bed and the throw rug covering the floor. She already felt like a fish out of water, and only more so when she turned and met the cowboy’s gyrfalcon gaze.

There was no reading his mind. He was like Mitch, a cipher. But she swore she saw the twist of a smirk on his lips as he, too, noticed the contrast between her and the simple room.

Rattled, she ran her hand down the thick, scratchy wool blanket on the bed. “Well, I didn’t expect the Ritz, so I guess this will serve its purpose just fine,” she said dismissively.

His gray eyes lit with an amused sparkle. “It’s always served my purposes damn well—”

Hazel interrupted him with a coughing fit. “Lordy, don’t know what came over me,” she apologized when she was finished.

“I—I guess I’ll get my bag, then,” Lyndie remarked.

“Let me help you,” he offered.

“Thanks, I can manage,” she assured him, walking out the door without turning around.

He stared at her until she turned the corner.

“Well, ain’t she silky satin,” he mumbled under his breath.

Hazel grinned. “Actually, she is.”

He raised one dark eyebrow.

“She’s in the lingerie business, remember?”

He grinned back. “That’s right. Well, either she’s got a mighty high opinion of herself, or a mighty low opinion of everyone else.”

“Neither one,” Hazel insisted. “She’s a wonderful girl. Just give her a little time, that’s all.”

Bruce lifted the corner of his mouth in a smirking smile. The gray of his eyes deepened. “Tell you what, Hazel, her nose may be a little out of joint, but the rest of her sure seems to be in order.”

“Atta boy,” Hazel encouraged him. “You just keep thinking like that, and sooner or later things are going to start humming right along.”

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Humming along? Hey, I just run a dude ranch here, Hazel, and I try to be civil with all comers. I got no ulterior motives regarding your niece.”

“Well, you’d better get some,” Hazel insisted.

His jaw slackened in surprise.

But before he could respond, Hazel said, “Shush now, here she comes.”

“The hell you up to now, old gal?” he muttered.

“Just the usual tricks,” she muttered right back, quelling her smile before Lyndie saw it. “Just the usual tricks.”