Читать книгу Cowgirl, Unexpectedly - Vicki Tharp - Страница 6

Chapter 1

The road is my addiction, an incessant quest, a burning itch I can’t quite scratch.

After a year of living on the road, I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever find what I’m looking for. I just hope I’ll recognize it when I see it.

Last night, I’d slalomed my Harley through Wyoming’s windy, mountain roads, challenging my still-healing body. Now my muscles burned in my back and shoulders as I scrounged around in my saddlebags for enough money to cover my bitter coffee and butter-bathed toast from the diner.

Where had the rest of my money gone?

A breeze kicked up and I zipped my grandfather’s WWII flight jacket to fend off the post-dawn chill. Off to my right, two pickups pulled up. A late model Ford diesel with all the trimmings and a two-door jalopy with its red paint sunburned away to bare metal, a frayed bungee cord strapping down the hood.

A cowboy in a pressed western shirt and jeans climbed out of the Ford, walked around, and then leaned against the driver’s side fender of the older truck. A deep tan told tales of his time out in the sun and his boots had enough scuffing to make me believe they were more than a fashion statement.

He settled his wide-brimmed hat low on his head to cut the glare of the sun. Dirty fingerprints stained the brim, and dried sweat ringed the crown. A teenager climbed down from her truck.

“This isn’t gonna work,” the man said, before the girl’s boots even touched the ground. He didn’t raise his voice, but tension arced between them, standing the hair on my arms and stirring Dread in my belly.

Yes, Dread. With a capital D. A salty old bastard of a marine that had claimed squatting rights in the pit of my stomach like it was his own personal foxhole. He’d moved in when I’d deployed overseas. He was mean. He was nasty.

And he’d saved this woman’s life a time or two.

He also never got the message he could stand down now that I was back stateside and sometimes spotted trouble where none existed.

“We had an agreement,” the girl said. “Figures, you’d want to back out of it now.”

I tucked my head and tried to ignore them. Since I’ve been back, I’ve tried to stay out of other people’s business and keep an eye on my own six.

“This is going to be hard enough without adding conditions,” the man said. “Have you considered anyone else’s feelings? What about your grandfather? Your grandmother? Don’t you think they’ve been through enough already?”

“So this is all my fault now?” The girl’s laughter rang as hollow as a cracked bell. “Perfect. Thank you for that. I knew this meet-up was a bad idea.”

At the bottom of my second saddlebag, I found enough dirt-encrusted coins to cover my tab, but somewhere on the road, I must have lost my last two hundred dollars.

Damn.

My skin prickled with heat and itched with the need to sweat like it used to when mortar fire crept closer and closer to the base’s blast walls. I sucked in a breath of frigid air and held it until the sting abated.

So, this is it then. The end of the road.

As I stepped toward the diner, the girl yanked open her truck door. The cowboy grabbed her wrist.

“Let. Me. Go,” the teenager ground out. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

The girl didn’t struggle, but she notched her chin up. By the tremble in her upper lip, it had taken everything she had to keep her voice from cracking.

She was tall and wiry, just shy of gaining curves. A dirty red bandanna hung from the back pocket of her faded jeans, and bailing twine restrained a brunette ponytail. I liked this girl already.

“You’re gonna have to talk to me some time,” the man said. “Now’s as good a time as any, sweetheart.” If he’d shouted, I might’ve gone about my business, but something about his smooth tone and calm demeanor raised my hackles.

“Is there a problem?” I asked him even as my brain told me this wasn’t what minding my own business looked like. Further proof I was better off limiting my contact with civilians.

“No problem,” they replied in unison.

He let go of the girl and she took a small step back, averting her gaze and kicking at a small pebble with her boot. The man glanced at the name patch on my great grandfather’s jacket. “Parish, is it?”

I nodded. “Mackenzie.”

The man raised a dark blond brow at me and a cocky smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Mr. Cowboy topped off at about six-one, so he had a good six inches and sixty pounds of muscle on me—a woman of my size didn’t threaten him—but brawn doesn’t always win. My ex-boyfriend, if you could’ve called him that, hadn’t felt threatened by me either, but he won’t make that mistake again.

Off the top of my head, thanks to Uncle Sam and my combat training, I knew how to neutralize a target with my bare hands.

Only a few of them were survivable.

I fixed my eyes on his, in the way that had made most of the men in my unit squirm. He had the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes but his short stubble was free of gray. Maybe thirty-six. Seven years older than me. Not that I’m in the market.

He crossed his arms over his chest, unfazed, with a hint of humor in his eye. Not as if he were laughing at me, but as if he’d learned not to take life so seriously sometimes.

I should have apologized. I should’ve backed off while I had the chance. I didn’t—me, people, the combination was no bueno. “She’s a little young for you, don’t you think?”

The girl snickered behind me and he shot her a look over my shoulder that did little to shut her up. His lips flattened, but the amused gleam in his eyes remained as if he were withholding a good punchline. He shrugged one shoulder by way of comment.

“You coming in?” he asked the girl as he hefted himself off the side of her truck.

“I think I lost my appetite.” She said it like a challenge, like she was daring his to argue with her. And yet almost like she wanted to join him.

He blinked twice as if he could clear his vision enough to see what she was really saying. Then he gave up. “Suit yourself,” he said as he strode into the café without a backward glance.

She climbed into her pickup, and its hinges groaned when she heaved the heavy door closed. I headed inside to pay my bill and she mumbled something to me through her open window.

“What was that?” Glancing over my shoulder, I bit back all the things I wanted to tell her. Things like she had her whole life ahead of her, and that she didn’t have to settle for a man who was almost old enough to be her father. Then again I could have read the situation all wrong. It wasn’t any of my business.

“Hank.” She waved her hand toward the café. “He’s really not so bad.”

Maybe. Maybe not. I nodded to her then made my way up the steps of the café, wondering how much of an ass I’d made of myself. Inside, the man she’d called Hank sat with his back to me, sharing a table with an older gentleman.

At the front counter, I counted out my change—dimes, nickels, pennies, and the occasional quarter to speed up the process.

A hand landed on my jacketed forearm.

I didn’t think.

I didn’t have to.

Training kicked in. I grabbed his hand, shoved the man face down against the counter and pinned his left arm behind his back. I released him almost as fast as I’d restrained him, and the rapid rat-a-tat-tat of my heart dropped back to normal in the span of a few seconds.

I know I’m not in Iraq. I know everyone isn’t out to get me. Sometimes it just takes me a moment to remember that.

A stark reminder I’m not like everyone else.

I doubted I would ever be again.

The old man chuckled. Here I thought I was nuts. I lifted my gaze and he stretched his shoulder to relieve the pain from the bind I’d put him in. His pale blue eyes held a thin mixture of amusement and perhaps understanding.

I tried for a smile, even though the expression felt foreign on my face. “Sorry about that.”

“Where did you serve?” He asked in a way that made me feel like the crazy train hadn’t just left the station.

“Iraq,” I said. “Fallujah,” to be more specific. Something in his demeanor made me want to add ‘sir’ to my answer.

He nodded once like a commander to a subordinate, laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and pushed it toward the wide-eyed waitress. “For the lady’s breakfast,” he told her and stuck out his hand to shake mine. “Thank you for your service. Glad you made it back in one piece.”

A half laugh escaped me—full of irony and empty of humor. Physically, I was in one piece, more or less. Emotionally? I was shattered. Each shard so minuscule, no way could I ever superglue them back together again, so I’d never really tried.

I didn’t want this man’s help or his money. However, I accepted it and thanked him anyway.

As weird as it sounds, I felt I owed him that much.

After a modest tip, between the coins I’d found and the change from his ten, I’d have enough for a gallon or two of gas, maybe a tad more. It might get me around the next bend, or perhaps up into the next mountain range, but nowhere near where I wanted to be.

He stepped back to his table. Hank hadn’t stirred from his seat. “So much for coming to my rescue,” the old man ribbed him.

As I headed out the door, I caught Hank’s reply. “Not the first time I’ve let you down.” Then he added, “I doubt it’ll be the last.” His self-deprecating tone lost its light, shifting to something darker.

* * * *

Dense clouds obscured the peaks of the mountains flanking the valley making my location feel like a world of its own. It could be heaven for all I knew, but without my last two hundred dollars, it felt a whole lot more like hell.

I’d known my days on the road were numbered. I just hadn’t expected it to be in a no-stop-light town. I needed to earn some money, but this high plain valley wasn’t exactly ripe with employment opportunities.

After fueling, I paid for my gas and spotted the “Help Wanted” ad on the crowded bulletin board. “You know anything about this ranch?” I asked the kid who’d rung me up.

He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Busy time of year. Plus they’ve had a run of bad luck.”

“So the job is temporary?”

“I reckon.” He shrugged again. Easy. Automatic. Habit.

I tore the ad off the board. It had phone number tabs at the bottom, but I didn’t have a cell phone and after paying for the gas, I didn’t have money for a pay phone either. If I could even find one.

There was a map to the ranch drawn in the corner. “Mind if I take this?”

“Free country.”

Yes, it was.

Outside, I swung my leg over my motorcycle. At over seventy years old, the bike showed wear—leg rubs on either side of the faded black tank, pitted chrome, and the edges of the leather seat and saddlebags were alligatored with age. Like an old T-shirt, it molded to my body. It was comfortable. It was familiar. And we’d experienced many of life’s difficulties together.

I jumped on the kick-starter and blipped the throttle as the engine roared to life. The rumble and vibration of the bike shook the unease from my nerves as I settled into the seat to memorize the map. The job sounded promising. Hard work had never scared me. I needed the money. It was temporary.

Practically perfect.

Glancing both ways, I pulled in front of a slow-moving tractor, my helmet strapped to the side of the seat behind me. It bumped my leg as I shifted into a higher gear. Before deployment, I never rode without my helmet. Since I’ve been back, I’ve worn it less and less. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suicidal. I don’t have a death wish.

I’m just not certain it matters much if I die.

* * * *

My engine sputtered and stopped on the downhill road into Lazy S Ranch, like an old dinosaur rattling out its last breath. I coasted the rest of the way and skidded to a halt in front of a small group of men gathered around a campfire.

I climbed off and stepped to the edge of the circle of men. My engine ticked as it cooled and thin tendrils of campfire smoke curled into the air, but the handful of hot coals remaining provided little heat.

A sharp whistle from an older man I assumed was the boss or ranch foreman, hushed their chatter, yet all eyes remained on me. Men don’t intimidate me, but I swallowed a grumble when my eyes settled on Hank from the café.

One of the cowboys spit on the ground. Another stopped whittling. A kid of about nineteen or twenty on Hank’s right sucked in a hard breath. I thought he might choke on his toothpick.

“Morning, boys,” I said, unfazed by the welcome. For a moment, silence reigned. Even the cow dog stopped chewing at his fleas. “Looks like I’m just in time.”

“I thought the women’s knitting circle met on Wednesdays,” the kid muttered around the toothpick.

There was the expected quick round of chuckles. Ignoring the comment, I walked over to the foreman and pulled the flyer from my back pocket. “Says here you need hands. I have two, so I’m here to apply.”

“You’re a woman,” the foreman said as if the statement would come as a revelation to me.

I pasted on a bright smile, ran my hand down my ponytail the same deep brown as the horse tied to a nearby tree, and flattened the front of my bomber jacket that all but hid my breasts. “Kind of you to notice.”

“We need men. Strong men. With muscle.”

I took the flier from his hand and feigned confusion as I pretended to reread the information printed on the sheet. “No, nothing here specifies men only.”

“You have to be able to ride.”

“I can ride.” He probably meant horses, not motorcycles, but he hadn’t qualified the type of riding so I didn’t consider it an outright lie. Besides, how hard could it be?

“And shoot,” the foreman added.

A genuine smile tipped my lips. “Not a problem.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed. “And wrestle calves.”

The breath I blew out ruffled my bangs. “Never wrestled calves.” Looking around, I tilted my head, indicating the kid with the toothpick, still lanky from a growth spurt. “But I sure as hell can out-wrestle him.”

The group of men burst into hoots and guffaws, and one of them piped up, “Aw, c’mon boss, give her a shot, what can it hurt?”

The foreman scrubbed a hand in nearly a week’s growth of beard and sighed. “Got no quarters for ladies, here.”

After all the things I’ve done. I don’t think I qualify as a lady anymore. And in all honesty, I felt more comfortable around men than women. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” I sauntered over to Hank with mustered bravado and jabbed a thumb in his direction. “I’ll bunk with Pops.”

Hank jerked his chin up as if I’d landed an uppercut. “Pops?”

He had at least ten years on a couple of the other guys, who weren’t long out of the schoolyard at best. It wasn’t as if he was old, old. Just old enough I wouldn’t have to tell him more than once I wasn’t interested in a high country romance.

In Iraq, the men had learned to leave me be. These guys would, too. In time. But I needed rack time before I had the energy to deal with it. Besides, I figured I’d already pissed Hank off enough this morning that he’d be the least likely one to hit on me.

Hank eyed me with speculation, the brim of his hat shadowing his expression. “You’re no spring chicken either.”

I ignored him and let the comment slide, as well as the round of juvenile comments from the guys steeped with sexual innuendo. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before, and the guys weren’t meaning any harm, but if my bones didn’t ache and the muscle under the scar on my shoulder didn’t burn, I might have argued with him.

An ear-piercing whistle from behind me made me jump. The men quieted mid-laugh and a dog sidled up to my leg and leaned against me. I dropped a hand to its head and felt the quick lick of a hot, moist tongue on my palm. I turned and recognized the man I’d restrained this morning and the young girl walking up from the main house.

The girl’s smile was a quirky mixture of shy and amused. The man spared me a brief nod before turning his attention to the rest of the men. “Enough of that kind of talk. My wife and granddaughter live here. I expect you to behave like gentlemen, and treat them”—the man looked between his granddaughter and myself before glaring back at them— “and any other women, with respect. If you cannot manage that, then you’d best go now.”

The kid with the toothpick stared down at his boots and kicked sand onto the coals, and someone cleared his throat, but nobody bothered to leave. They had a leanness, a sparseness to them that spoke of a life of hard work without much left for excess. They may have been happy enough with a roof over their heads and a meal in their bellies.

The old man from the diner took a spot next to the foreman and introduced himself as Dale Cunningham, the ranch owner. “My wife is Charlotte, but people call her Lottie. This here is my granddaughter, Jenna.”

With a negligent wave of his hand, he then introduced the man next to him. “My foreman here is Link Hardy. I expect you to follow his orders as if they came from me. There’s been mischief in the past, but that’s behind us now. Disloyalty to the brand or stealing from me or mine won’t be tolerated.”

All the men nodded, as Dale, in turn, caught each of their eyes. I bobbed my head as well. After all, loyalty and following orders came second nature to me.

“Breakfast and dinner will be served at the main house,” Dale continued. “There are groceries in the bunkhouses, so lunches are up to you. You have thirty minutes to stow your gear and pack a lunch. Daylight’s wasting and we have fences to check, cattle to work, and horses to round up.”

Dale turned and headed to the barn without any fanfare. I figured that meant I, as well as the rest of the men, was hired. The men went to grab their gear from their trucks. Two had their own horses in a stock trailer and they headed over to offload them.

The horses’ hooves tapped a nervous, deep staccato on the trailer’s wooden floorboards as they backed out and steel clanked on steel as the rear door banged against the shaking trailer.

The bunkhouses were downhill from the campfire, so I straddled my bike and coasted down the ranch road after Hank, trying to pry my eyes off the firm curve of his jeans-clad ass.

* * * *

When asked, I had no cabin preference, so Hank chose the further of the two bunkhouses. I followed. None of the other men did. Then again, Hank didn’t exactly exude warmth and welcome.

If his foul mood had bothered me, I would have bunked with the others, but after bending Dale over the café’s counter this morning, I figured the fewer people around me at any given moment, the better. And despite our little run in that morning, he didn’t strike me as a man I needed to worry about.

I’ve met enough of the bad kind to know the difference.

A small stand of trees shaded one side of the bunkhouse and provided a modicum of privacy from the other one. I assumed because this cabin was farther from the main house—and meals—the other three men didn’t argue our choice.

The cabin was constructed with rough split logs, the chinking thin and weathered—and light years away from the modern-rustic designs that resembled giant Lincoln Logs play sets.

There was a hitching rail for a couple horses and a water trough out front. A small covered porch provided enough shelter to take your boots off and stay out of the rain and snow. Though this late into the spring, I didn’t expect snow to be a big problem.

The door had no lock. I stepped inside with an armload of my gear and dumped it on one of the two double bunks, one on each sidewall. The set of hooks and a small footlocker at the head and foot of each bed provided ample storage.

Modern conveniences included a bathroom roomy enough to turn around in, but not much more. Since indoor plumbing was a treat for me, you wouldn’t hear me complain about the size. The door leading to the bathroom was off to one side; its long wall was directly across from the front door and supported an apartment-sized refrigerator, a sink with a microwave above, and a two-burner stove. A homemade wooden table with two chairs completed the furnishings.

I tossed my tarp and two thin blankets I use as a makeshift bedroll onto the top bunk to get them out of the way. I hung my jacket on one of the hooks. My clothes I dropped on the bed’s quilt—a hodgepodge of flannel, blue jeans with the occasional scrap of T-shirt thrown in. Lottie’s handiwork, probably.

I figured the other cabin was equipped like this one. Which meant the other cabin had an empty bunk.

“Looks like there’s room in the other cabin for one more,” I said.

“All yours if you want it.”

A gentleman would have bunked with the other men and let me have my own place, but that meant preferential treatment. I didn’t need or want that. I respected the fact he treated me like any of the other hands.

By the time I’d finished stowing my gear, Hank had coffee dripping into the small carafe and eight slices of bread spread out on the table, a generous dollop of mayonnaise spread across four faces.

“Chicken or ham?” he asked. His hat was off, but that was the extent of his unpacking. His duffel lay untouched on the lower bunk on his side of the cabin.

“Chicken,” I replied without much thought to the decision. “I can make my own.”

“I don’t doubt that, but my mother managed to beat a few manners into me. Easy enough to make a couple more sandwiches while the ingredients are out. You get the coffee.”

I turned to the pot without comment, poured a couple mugs, brought them to the table, and watched as he piled thick slabs of ham on two slices of bread and the shredded pieces of chicken onto two others. Well-muscled arms with large hands made quick work of the job.

Hands that had wrapped around Jenna’s wrists this morning.

From deep down, I felt that low-level hum, the slow simmer of anger that has been my constant companion since I’d returned to civilian life. I wasn’t quite sure what fueled it or what made it grow, but it had been a constant battle to keep it from taking over my world.

Then the relief valve popped, and words flew out of my mouth, circumventing my verbal filter. “Your mother taught you to make sandwiches for others but didn’t teach you to keep your hands to yourself?”

He snorted out a clipped laugh, then slapped on the top slices of bread and shoved his sandwiches into a plastic baggie.

“What’s so funny?” I said.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” he mimicked, even getting my indignant inflection correct. A muscle tensed at the corner of his jaw as if biting back his words. Weak, ambient light leaked through the drawn front curtains, yet the flash of anger in his eyes was blinding. “You’re a fine one to talk. I’m not the one who bent an old man over a counter this morning. You’re outta line.”

Probably. ‘You’re outta line’ could have been my theme song for the day. I should sell the rights. Taylor Swift could spin it into a hit. I pursed my lips at the truth. “Look, I’m so—”

“Save it.” He ignored his fresh mug of coffee, stalked to his bunk, grabbed his hat from the hook, and snugged it down on his head.

When he opened the front door, he turned to me and opened his mouth to say something. He must have thought better of it because he closed it again then he swept his gaze up and down my body—not so much as if he was interested but as if he was taking my measure—before he stepped through the door. Just as well. Some things are better left unsaid.

His momma had taught him more manners than I’d given her credit.

* * * *

By the time I’d made it to the barn, the horses stood saddled, which was fortunate because I’d never saddled a horse in my life. When the time came to unsaddle, I’d pay close attention to what went where and then just do the reverse when it came time to saddle up again.

Hank untethered two horses and led them toward me. The one in his left hand was a striking dark palomino with a thick, flowing mane and tail that followed him like a puppy. The other was the blue roan the color of cattle dogs and danced at the end of his lead as if it had mainlined a gallon of coffee minutes before.

In fact, the animal more closely resembled a dragon as thick plumes of condensation blew out of his flared nostrils into the cold air. Twenty feet away, Hank dropped the palomino’s lead. The horse stopped and dropped his head to munch on a clump of grass.

I realized then Hank intended for me to ride the blue dragon.

I swallowed a lump of apprehension. It would be a real shitter to have survived my tour only to be killed by a horse.

Though I’m confident in my abilities to do many things, riding a thousand pounds of snorting, fire-breathing flesh and blood that spent more time with his feet in the air than on the ground left me rattled. The smirk on Hank’s face said he knew I’d never make eight seconds on this horse’s back. But I wouldn’t chicken out now. I was determined to pass this test.

Really, how hard could it be?

Damn hard was the answer I didn’t want to hear.

Okay, so maybe I should have given this cowboy career more consideration before I’d jumped in with both Harley Davidson boots, but a little desperation goes a long way in the job selection process.

And it wasn’t like I’d never been on a horse before, but I don’t think a nose-to-tail trail ride in Vail as a kid or the carousel pony in front of the grocery store counted for much.

I reached for the lead rope and tried to recall everything I knew about riding horses. Which wasn’t much, so it didn’t take long to run through the list. Something about horses being able to smell fear jumped to the front of my mind. I didn’t know if it was true or not, but I took a deep breath anyway and did my best to relax and calm my breathing and heart rate like my rifle instructors had taught me back in basic training.

I must have closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, because as my hand went to close around the rope, my hand came up empty.

The next thing I knew, Jenna was marching the horse backward toward the barn, double-time. As soon as Jenna stopped, the horse did too. Then he lowered his head and started licking his lips. Jenna glanced at me over her shoulder and said, “Come with me and we’ll saddle another horse. Angel has a loose shoe.”

Hank stood with his hands on his hips, clearly annoyed with Jenna for ruining his fun.

I glared at Hank, who sported an innocent “what?” grin.. His deep chuckle washed over me like jet fuel, and I was the match.