Читать книгу Cowgirls Don't Cry - Silver James - Страница 11

Two

Cass loosened her seat belt as the flight attendant announced the flight would be delayed. Seemed a passenger was running late. The economy section was packed, so it had to be somebody in first class. She rolled her head on her neck and listened as her vertebrae snapped, crackled and popped. Better to sound like a bowlful of Rice Krispies than suffer the headache that would follow.

She closed her eyes and tried to forget her situation. Going home was always hard—that’s why she’d avoided it for so long, even though Boots had urged her to visit. And now with her dad gone—with things left unsaid and apologies not made, her heart hurt. She swallowed her guilt but it churned in her stomach like raw jalapeños. Cass forced her thoughts away from her dad. She’d say goodbye when she got to the funeral home, but until then, she’d just have to hope he had heard what was in her heart when she talked to him last night.

The pilot’s voice echoed over the intercom, scratchy and hard to hear over the hum of conversations. Evidently, whoever they’d been waiting for had arrived, and they were finally ready for takeoff. She braced her feet against the floor and clasped her hands in her lap. Flying was not her favorite activity, especially getting off the ground and landing. She measured her breathing, concentrating on remaining calm, then remembered the scent of the guy in the hotel. Leather and rain on a hot day. That’s what he smelled like—an odd combination that evoked memories of her childhood growing up on the ranch and around rodeo arenas all over the West.

He’d been wearing a starched white shirt with a button-down collar, like a banker, but it was tucked into a pair of well-fitting jeans, even if they were pressed to a knife-edged crease. Her brow furrowed. He’d also been wearing boots. Not that people in Chicago didn’t wear Western boots. Some of them even wore them “for real,” not just as a fashion statement.

Her stomach dropped away as the plane rumbled into the cloudy skies, chasing all thoughts of the guy out of her head. The fuselage shuddered several times before she heard grinding as the landing gear retracted. The plane continued to climb at a steep incline, and the pilot mumbled something about weather and flying altitude that she couldn’t really hear over the throbbing in her ears. She swallowed to make her eardrums pop, pushed back against her seat and returned to thinking about her close encounter.

Had the timing been different, she might have let the guy buy her a drink, just to see what percolated between them. He was sexy as all get-out. Tall. Muscular. His hands strong as they gripped her arms, but with a certain amount of gentleness. She wasn’t petite by any measure, but he’d towered over her. He radiated heat, too, or maybe he just touched something in her that created heat. She hadn’t been so intrigued by a man in ages. Then she remembered the reason for her trip, and all thoughts of the sexy encounter fled.

I’m sorry, Daddy. She offered the apology to the heavens, knowing it covered so much more than her wayward thoughts. Cass squiggled her nose, fighting the burn of tears. She couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

Her dad’s voice echoed softly in her memory, reminding her to be strong. She flashed back to the time she’d just lost the final round of a barrel-racing event by mere tenths of a second. That she’d lost to the reigning national champion, who was twenty years older didn’t mean a thing. At the age of seven, all she’d wanted was that shiny buckle and the saddle that went with it for winning.

“No, Daddy. No time for tears. Cowgirls just get back on and ride.” Back in the present, she whispered the words in the hopes that saying them out loud would make them true. She hadn’t been a cowgirl for ten years. Not since she’d left home to attend college back East. Not since she’d taken the job in Chicago. In fact, she’d only been on a horse a handful of times since then. She hated going home. Hated the heat and dust, the smell of cattle manure.

She didn’t want to be a cowgirl. She’d liquidate the ranch, get Boots set up somewhere comfortable and haul ass back to Chicago where she belonged. No regrets. It’s what her dad would expect her to do. She’d told him often enough she’d never be back, never take over the ranch.

Those guilty jalapeños boiled and raged in her stomach again. Returning to Chicago was the right thing. Really. She conjured up the picture of her close encounter from the night before in her mind, shutting out the remorse. His chiseled face still seemed familiar, and she felt as if she should know him. Was he an actor? Or maybe a professional cowboy? She nudged the feeling this way and that, seeking an answer, but didn’t find one.

The passenger in front of her shoved his seat all the way back jostling her tray table so that the coffee, served moments before by the flight attendant, sloshed out. The man on her right in the window seat snored as his head fell over toward her shoulder. She dodged him but bumped the woman on her left. That earned her a scathing look. Cass rolled her eyes and shrugged. She could only hope this flight from hell ended sooner rather than later.

She gulped what little coffee didn’t spill and passed off the sodden napkin and cup to the attendant as she came back down the aisle. Feeling far too much like a sardine for comfort, Cass closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Thoughts of the handsome cowboy danced in her head. She was positive she knew him from somewhere. Since she didn’t watch much TV, she discarded the idea he might be an actor. Could he be someone she’d met in college? Or, heaven forbid, high school? She didn’t have the best memory for faces, but there was just something about the man.

Giving up any pretense of relaxation, she shoved her tray table up and fastened it with the little lever, using a lot more force than technically necessary. Then she stretched her legs under the seat in front of her and drummed her toes against the bottom of it. When the occupant twisted to stare at her over the top of the reclined seatback, she flashed the smile of a two-year-old brat. And didn’t care. The man eventually turned around and since he raised the seat a few inches, she quit kicking.

More memories of her dad swamped her. Moisture filled her eyes, and her nose stung. She blinked rapidly and had to sort through more guilt. She was a terrible daughter. Her dad had died, and she couldn’t be bothered to get there in time to say goodbye. If she never saw the ranch again, never saw Oklahoma again, it would suit her just fine. Yes, she was selfish. She admitted it. So there. Boots had begged her for months to come, and she’d stalled. Her dad had been too proud to call. And she’d been too proud to bend. Now it was too late.

When the tears finally came, Cass dashed them from her eyes with the back of her hand. Her elbow caught the arm of the passenger sitting on her left. The woman exhaled, the sound uncompromisingly disdainful as she shifted away from the contact. The guy on her right just snored, mouth open and drool threatening Cassie’s wool blazer.

Already walking a fine line between anger and grief, Cass lost control. “Well, pardon my tears.” She didn’t bother to keep her voice down. “My father died last night, and I was stuck in a freakin’ blizzard and didn’t get there in time. I’m on my way home to bury him. If my crying is too much of an imposition, you can just move your...self to another seat.”

Around her, the hum of conversation petered off into silence. She could tell from the heat radiating off her face that she’d turned beet-red—a legacy from her mother. She flushed scarlet whenever she got mad, cried or laughed too hard. Yeah, that was Cassidy Morgan. She wasn’t pretty when her emotions ruled. Unfortunately, that was a great deal of the time. At the moment, her emotions slammed her with a double whammy.

The woman stared, mouth gaping, left speechless by Cassie’s outburst.

Cassie bit back any further retort, instead, settling back into her seat. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared stone-faced straight ahead, ignoring everyone.

* * *

Chance sipped his French roast coffee from a ceramic mug and skimmed the information on his laptop screen. He was learning all sorts of interesting things about his father he couldn’t wait to share with his brothers. To hear the old man tell it now, he’d been born with a gold spoon up his... Chance reined in that thought and tried to scrub the image from his brain.

But back when Chance’s mother was still alive, the old man had been all about hard work and scrabbling to put the Barron name on the map. Chance’s research from the night before showed Cyrus had worked the oil patch, ranched and even been a rodeo rider on the side.

And he’d loved a woman named Colleen before he’d met and married Chance’s mother, Alice. According to the papers at the time, Cyrus Barron had done a stint in county jail after a spectacular fight at a rodeo in Fort Worth. He’d put Ben Morgan in the hospital and ended the man’s promising bronc-riding career. Colleen had turned her back on Cyrus and married Ben within weeks. Oh, yeah. The old man didn’t hold a grudge; he got even. He’d been dogging Ben Morgan’s steps ever since, throwing up roadblocks in an attempt to grind the other man beneath his boot heel. But Ben Morgan didn’t have any “give up” in him. He’d made a life for his wife, first as a supplier of rodeo stock then as a horse trainer.

Chance rubbed the back of his neck. His father was a royal jerk. He couldn’t even let the man have peace in the grave. The email from Cord first thing this morning had confirmed that Morgan had taken out a loan at a small bank—the bank recently purchased by a subsidiary of Barron Enterprises, and he’d used the ranch as collateral. The old man wanted Chance to stop off and pick up the file before coming into the office. Since he could no longer screw with Ben Morgan, Cyrus planned to screw with any heirs or successors his old nemesis might have by calling the note.

Yeah, leave it to his father to be four moves ahead of any opponent. Chance had to admire the old man’s business acumen. He’d thought the acquisition foolish at the time and certainly not worth the hassle of the federal and state banking regulators’ paperwork. Chance had hired a couple of experts in banking law to handle it because Cyrus had remained adamant. The old man wanted the bank. So they’d bought it. Chance knew why now. He tossed off a mental shrug. Barron Enterprises could afford it.

Closing the laptop, he held up his mug for a refill as the flight attendant hovered, a ready smile on her face.

“You know, I have layovers in OKC sometimes,” she whispered. She wrapped one hand around his to steady the cup as she poured, a move he recognized as an excuse to touch him.

Chance glanced up. She was a brunette, in her late twenties, and her trim uniform fit in all the right places. The girl was just his type—female—but even as he smiled, another face appeared in his memory. The blonde from the hotel. His abdomen contracted, and his heart thundered for a few beats. He hadn’t even gotten her name, yet here she was haunting him.

“Sorry, hon. This is just a quick trip for me.” The lie flowed smooth as honey from his mouth. As disappointment registered on her face, Chance wondered what the hell had gotten into him. Why would he turn down a sure thing?

While it was unlikely he’d ever cross paths with the woman, he did have a brother who was a private investigator and ran Barron Security. He’d sic Cash on her trail. All Chance wanted was one night to get her out of his system. That’s all it would take.

He shifted in his seat, glad the tray table and computer disguised his discomfort. He couldn’t pinpoint why the woman had gotten under his skin but she had, like a burr under his saddle. He shoved thoughts of her away and opened his laptop again, hoping to concentrate on the task at hand. He had to squelch his libido and his uneasiness over what his father wanted—the combination made for an odd sensation in and of itself.

The flight attendant scurried toward the economy section. He leaned into the aisle to see what was happening. Three attendants hovered around a row of seats toward the back of the plane. Everyone with aisle seats had twisted to watch the commotion, too. He heard raised voices, but the conversation was too indistinct. Within moments, the situation calmed. He returned his attention to the problem at hand.

Once the plane landed, he was the first one off. With no luggage to retrieve, he headed straight for the parking lot. He stepped into the gentle March sunshine, glad he hadn’t bothered to shrug into his heavy winter jacket. The storm pounding the upper Midwest hadn’t dipped as far south as Oklahoma, and Chance was thankful. He hated cold weather. Of course, he hated hot weather, too. If he had his way, he’d live somewhere where the temperature remained at a balmy sixty-eight degrees year-round.

He dug out his car keys, hit the button for the auto-unlock and dumped his carry-on suitcase and laptop case in the passenger seat before settling behind the wheel. With a reckless abandon born from experience, Chance maneuvered his sleek, phantom-black Audi R8 sports car toward the parking lot exit. The car swooped down the exit ramp, slowing to a stop just long enough for him to pay the attendant.

Without looking for merging traffic from other lanes, he downshifted and gunned the powerful 571 horsepower V10 engine. A flash of rust in the corner of his eye and the sound of squealing tires had him handling the powerful vehicle like a race car to avoid a collision. Caught by the next traffic light, Chance glanced over at the beat-up old pickup in the next lane. He looked away then looked back. He didn’t recognize the old man in the driver’s seat but the passenger? Oh, yeah. It was her! The blonde from the hotel. She’d rolled down the window, and her glare could melt the metallic paint right off the Audi.

His windows were tinted dark, and he doubted she could see him. When the light changed, instead of accelerating the way he normally would, he eased off the clutch, making sure the clunker pulled ahead of him. He made a mental note of the license plate. Now he’d have a chance to sic Cash on her and move in for the kill after all. He grinned, unable to calculate the odds of seeing her again, especially here on his home ground. Excitement tingled in his fingertips. Life was looking up. Gunning his engine, he headed toward I-40 and the command performance he had to attend.