Counterfeit Cowgirl (Love and Laughter)
Read Counterfeit Cowgirl (Love and Laughter) Online
Authors: Lois Greiman
What was that smell? Smoke! Oh, no, she was burning the house down!
Hannah jumped out of the bath and rushed toward the kitchen.
Tyrel was already stomping the last sparks from a dishcloth and running water into her egg pan. “What the devil!” he roared, then gaped as he saw her.
Hannah willed herself not to blush. “I was coming to put out the fire,” she said.
“Yeah.” He eyed her. Slowly. Thoughtfully. “You could have beat it out with the towel. Course then you’d’a been naked. You
are
naked under there, aren’t you?”
She was silent for a moment. “You, Mr. Fox, have the mind of an adolescent goat.”
“And you, Miss Nelson, have really nice…” His gaze skimmed her body, her long, elegant throat, the high rise of her breasts, the endless length of her tanned legs. “Diction.”
Dear Reader,
Summer brings such pleasant images to mind, ice cream and a day at the beach…great-looking men glistening with suntan lotion…oops! I need to pull my mind back to the topic of Love & Laughter. Nevertheless, in this month’s selection, we do have two hunky and adorable heroes to raise your temperatures.
Big, bad boy toy Tony Russo is a lot sexier and much more delicious than Lynn Morgan ever imagined. Lynn convinced her straitlaced lawyer buddy, Tony Russo, to play the role of her no-good boyfriend. More
GQ
than bad-boy material, Lynn feared he couldn’t pull it off. But when she saw him transformed into black leather and attitude, she all but forgot about her little scheme. All she could think about was taking a walk on the wild side…in
Operation Gigolo
by Vicki Lewis Thompson.
The last thing pampered rich girl Hannah Nelson wants is a cowboy, but when she’s forced to hide out at the Lone Oak Ranch, she begins to see Tyrel Fox in a very different light! The swaggering, sexy cowboy was just so…so elemental, Hannah decided. But would he be more than a change of pace? Find out in
Counterfeit Cowgirl
by Lois Greiman.
Enjoy the summer heat!
Malle Vallik
Associate Senior Editor
While growing up on a North Dakota wheat farm, I acquired lots of sophisticated talents—pitching manure, stacking hay and turning unborn calves. Those talents stood me in good stead during the years 1 spent as a horse trainer, but I didn’t expect them to come in handy once I began writing romance fiction. Strangely enough, they have.
Counterfeit Cowgirl
gave me the chance to relive the beauty of a frosty morning spent in the cattle yards, to remember the miracle of welcoming a newborn calf into the world—and I didn’t even have to freeze my fingers to experience it. Writing it was as much fun as I can have with my boots on. But what the heck,
you
might as well live dangerously—take off your boots and read it in bed!
—Lois Greiman
To Gary Nelson, who long ago declared me half horse and half Indian, and who taught me the fine art of blowing my nose without a handkerchief.
I
T WAS SNOWING IN HELL
!
Squinting through the cracked windshield of her ‘82 Rabbit, Hannah tried to read the nearest road sign. The words
Valley Green
were still discernible, but the rest of the letters were obliterated by the swirling, blinding snow. It was congealing on her windshield wipers like clotted cream, but she refused to knock off the frozen globs one more time.
She hated this sad excuse of a car, she hated this state, and she
hated
being Hannah Nelson.
This couldn’t be happening to her. It was all a nightmare.
No civilized being lived in North Dakota. She’d refused to come here, of course. But raving hadn’t worked. She’d switched to cajoling, but even then Daddy had remained uncharacteristically stubborn.
A slit of road became visible through the swirling snow. Hannah slammed on the brakes. Her car careened sideways, then slid dangerously toward a ditch. Her heart thumped in her chest. Please, God, don’t let her die. Not here, a thousand miles from the nearest Macy’s. The Rabbit’s bald tires finally grabbed hold and came to a jarring halt facing the crossroad. So this must be it—the road to The Lone Oak Ranch, the final leg of her journey into hell.
Frowning, Hannah stared back down the highway. Long fingers of snowdrifts slanted across the tar road behind her. She shivered, wishing with all her soul she could simply turn around and return home.
After all, none of this was her fault. None of it! Still, perhaps it wouldn’t kill her to apologize.
If a lady lost her pride, she lost everything,
her mother had said. And no one with any pride would apologize to a man who called himself Lucky Lindy. Even if she
had
called him a fat toad. Even if he was associated with men who called themselves Eddie the Knife and Mugsy Two Toes. Even if her life was in danger of being snuffed out by a couple of goons whose boss she’d insulted.
Fighting back tears, Hannah tightened her grip on the steering wheel, depressed the accelerator and…the engine killed.
Frustration roared up inside her. But there was no one around to blame, and no one to impress with her tears, though she had perfected the art of crying without smudging her makeup. So there was nothing to do but start the car and continue on. She turned the key. The engine coughed wearily and fell silent.
A degree of fear began to replace Hannah’s frustration. A person could freeze to death in a matter of minutes out here, couldn’t she?
Calming her nerves, Hannah tried the key again. The engine turned over, chugged, and miraculously started.
The gravel road was slippery and hard to see, but Daddy said The Lone Oak would be impossible to miss. It was a large, lucrative ranch. State of the art.
She crested a hill and began to descend. Her wipers scraped against the windshield, echoing the headache that had begun several hours before.
Through a narrow arc of clear glass, she caught sight of a driveway on her left, but no massive house or impressive barns could be seen. She drove on, leaning over the steering wheel in an attempt to see through the blizzard. Still she saw nothing but arctic white and the tops of a few fence posts leaning dismally into the driving snow.
Finally, certain she had somehow missed her turn, Hannah stopped the Rabbit to read her directions once more. But the instructions remained the same.
Turning her car around was tricky, but she managed it with only slight heart palpitations. After a few miles, the lone
driveway appeared again, on her right this time. She squinted through the storm, and thought she saw a house at the end of the lane.
There was little else to do but turn in and ask for new directions. The house was an old two-story, sided by narrow slats and partially covered by peeling white paint. She pulled to a stop in front of it.
When she stepped from the car a gust of wind knocked her back a pace. Slush seeped into the fine suede of her newly purchased half boots—the perfect attire for a romp in the country and a bargain at $499, the salesclerk had said.
Hannah scowled down at them, lifted one from the mire, then caught a glimpse of a man through the swirling snow. Lowering her foot with a soggy splash, Hannah watched him approach. The brim of his felt Australian hat was turned down in front. In his arms was a calf, a slimy calf, nestled like his own kin against his frayed denim jacket and worn jeans.
“So you got here, then?” he said, stopping for an instant before stepping around her to climb the stairs of the slanted porch. “Been expecting you. Can you get the door?”
“What?” Hannah asked, staring after him in bewilderment.
He motioned toward the door with his head, jostling the calf he carried. “The door.”
So the natives were slow, Hannah thought, and found she was not the least bit surprised. Deepening her scowl, she followed his slushy footsteps to the porch and up. “I can only assume you realize you have a calf in your arms,” she said.
The cowboy glanced down at the newborn as if surprised to see it, then raised his gaze to hers. “Dad said you was bright.”
Hannah stared at him for a moment. She’d been on the road for four days. Her head hurt, her teeth had sprouted moss, and she hated men who thought themselves amusing. Especially when they were sadly mistaken.
She raised one brow at him. “I believe you’re under the false impression that you know me, sir.”
“You came here for a job, right?” he said, fumbling around the calf to open the door himself.
She smiled, knowing just the comers of her mouth would curl upward. It was an expression she reserved for peasants and oafs. This man was obviously both. “I’m afraid not. I simply stopped by for directions.”
The cowboy stepped inside. The calf’s rubbery hooves banged against the doorjamb.
“Come on in. Close the door.”
She dropped the smile. “I told you, I just stopped for directions. It seems I’m lost.”
“No, you’re not. I found you.” He laid the calf on the cracked linoleum of the cluttered living room. A guitar was nestled against a dying jade. Setting aside his hat, he straightened with a grin that creased twin dimples into his lean cheeks. “Come on in. We’ll hunker down by the fire and dream about Jamaica.”
Hannah straightened her back to ramrod stiffness and pursed her lips. She’d been courted by millionaires and celebrities. Not one of them had gotten so much as an invitation to dinner. This cowboy’s two-bit charm was unlikely to impress her, even though he had Robert Redford’s disarming smile and the Marlboro man’s chiseled jaw.
“Thanks so for your kind offer,” she said with ringing insincerity. “But as tempting as it sounds, I’m afraid I’m not the…hunkering type. I simply need directions, Mr…”
“Fox.” The cowboy stepped forward, offering his hand in greeting. “Tyrel Fox.”
“Tyrel…” Hannah echoed. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach. “This is not…” She shook her head and motioned vaguely toward her surroundings. “This isn’t The Lone Oak Ranch.”
“Fraid you’re mistaken,” he said, and nodded toward the barn.
Hannah turned to stare in that direction, then squinted at a sign hung above the broad double doors. The words
The Lone
Oak
could be seen even through the driving snow. She turned back in a daze.
“This is the Oak, and I’m Ty,” he said, and, catching her hand, shook it firmly.
Hers immediately felt sticky. She ended the greeting abruptly, pulling her fingers from his grip and grimacing at the filth he’d left behind.
“You must be Hannah Nelson. I’m glad to see you,” he said, seeming oblivious to her horror as he watched her face. “You just made me ten bucks.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Me, I’m not the betting kind.” He grinned again. His dimples winked at her, and his hair, black as a raven’s wing, was wet and curling around his ears. “But Nate, now, you gotta watch him, he’ll bet ya silly and steal ya blind.”
“Nate?” She had entered the world beyond hell. Nothing made sense here. Where was The Lone Oak with the Olympic-size swimming pool and the climate-controlled barns?
“My little brother. Won’t be home till tomorrow. Come on in before the weather gets bad.” He turned away. “You’ll want to bring your stuff in right off, ‘fore it freezes.”
She shook her head once, but he didn’t notice. He’d stepped into the adjacent room only to reappear seconds later with a couple of thin towels with which he began rubbing the calf.
“Don’t mind telling ya, we’re in a little over our heads. Me and Nate, we been working our tail ends off out here. Now I ain’t never hired a woman before, but Dad vouched for you, and hell…” He glanced toward her, seeming to size her up as he did so. “You’re better looking than old Howard. Dad said you was, but Nate wouldn’t believe him, seeing’s as how Dad’s opinion ain’t always reliable. This’ll be the first time I beat my little brother in a bet in a good long time. You know, if you’d learn to smile you might be kind of pretty.”
She stiffened her back even more. There were those who compared her regal beauty to Cindy Crawford, and then there were those who realized Crawford was far outclassed. “And
if you’d change your personality and put a bag over your head you might be halfway appealing yourself. But I doubt it,” she said.
Ty stared at her, then settled back on his haunches and laughed.
Rarely had Hannah wanted to strangle anyone as badly as she did now. So before she was hauled off for murder one, she turned on her Armani boots and strode across the porch and down to the Rabbit.
The car door creaked as she opened it. She jolted inside.
It didn’t matter where she went. Being murdered by a thug in civilization was surely preferable to
living
here. She twisted the key. The engine coughed once and fell silent.
Hannah closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried again. The engine snorted a noise that sounded like a laugh and went still.
“No.” She whimpered the word to the windshield and thumped her forehead against the plastic center of the steering wheel, trying once again to pretend this was a nightmare. But she couldn’t. It was too cold for her to be asleep.
Eventually there was nothing to do but concede defeat She stepped back into the storm and slammed the door behind her. It banged closed and bounced open. She slammed it again. It opened again. She grabbed the door, preparing to swing hard enough to vent her frustrations.
“Problems?”
“No!” she snarled, whirling about. Tyrel Fox stood on his porch, looking warm and content. The car door swung lazily open behind her. “No problems. I’m just stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with a grinning Neanderthal and a…” She turned and viciously kicked the door. It closed with a whine and stayed put. “And a rusty heap of junk that won’t start!”
“Won’t start?” he asked as if surprised. Hooking a thumb into an empty belt loop of his frayed jeans, he leaned against the doorjamb. “Were you planning on leaving?”
Hannah choked out a laugh. “Do I look brain-dead?”
He cocked his head. “Let me think.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes at him. “I am leaving.” She said the words with careful diction.
“Oh.” Ty nodded, glanced at the car, back at her. “Well…” He shrugged. “Too bad things didn’t work out,” he said, and turning, slammed the door shut behind him.
It was almost twenty minutes before Hannah was convinced she was about to die of hypothermia. The driver’s door had refused to open, so she sat in the passenger seat, silently considering what might be said in her eulogy. The problem was, there was not a single soul in this godforsaken state who even knew her real name! And she would
not
be buried as Hannah Nelson!
The wrenching of her pride was a physical ache when she finally exited the car, slogged through the snow, and knocked on the front door.
It opened after what seemed an eternity.
“Hannah!” She hated him for sounding surprised to see her. She’d seen him staring out the window at her at least twice. Once he’d even had the gall to wave and smile.
She gritted her teeth. “My car won’t start.”
“Really?” He glanced past her toward the Rabbit. “Damn dependable vehicles, too, them Volkswagens. Could be the fuel line. Sometimes they freeze up. Or the spark plugs, maybe, if they got wet. How’s your battery acid?”
“I don’t…” She paused, smoothing her voice into the dulcet tones they had labored to teach her at Purnell. “I’m sure I couldn’t tell you about the state of my battery, Mr. Fox. All I know is that it’s supposed to start the car, and it doesn’t I thought you might help me in that regard.”
“You want my help?” He motioned toward his chest with a square hand, as if surprised and delighted that she had thought of him.
She nodded once, short and sharp.
His grin was not pretty. “Ask me nicely.”
She thought of a thousand things she could do to wipe that
grin off his face and felt somewhat better for each one. “Please,” she managed.
He canted his head as if thinking, then said, “You can do better than that.”
For just a moment, she was tempted to whap him upside the head. But she wouldn’t—not until he’d started her car.
“Please, help me,” she said, employing some of the charm she used when Daddy was being difficult.
“That’s
better,
” he said slowly. “But I can’t. I don’t know nothing ‘bout engines.”
“You…” She stopped herself before it got ugly. “What about the fuel—thing—and the battery and—”
“Now Nate,” Ty interrupted, lifting a calloused palm toward her, “he’s a fine hand with an engine, but he won’t be back till tomorrow, like I said.”
She was certain he was lying, but there was little she could do about it until she could hire a reliable hit man. She wondered vaguely if Charles Bronson was still in business. “Then might I use your phone to call a garage?” she asked, her tone admirably level.
“Wires must be down somewhere. Phones don’t work.”
She glared at him, abandoning all civility. “I couldn’t possibly stay in this—”
“And even if I was a first-rate mechanic, I don’t have no time to fiddle with your car. If I don’t get that calf sucking in the next hour or so he’s a goner.”