Cowboy Crazy (The Dalton Boys Book 1) (6 page)

She ran up the slope to the top field, spotting Ted. She waved her arms, but he didn’t see. Calling out, she barreled forward. “Mr. Dalton! Come quick, it’s your wife!” She yelled twice before he spun and saw her.

From this distance he might be Hank—solid, strong body and dark hair. Hank would age well, and he’d be a good husband for some lucky lady someday too.

He came at her jogging. “What’s happened?”

“Your wife’s broken her ankle. She was in the storm cellar fetching jars. Hurry, it’s bad!”

He paled under his tan, running now. Over his shoulder, he hollered, “Go inside and call Hank’s cell. He’ll be in town by now, so you’ll reach him. His number’s on a notepad by the phone.”

Wheeling around, she took off at a dead run to the house. Surely they wouldn’t wait for Hank to return before taking Mrs. Dalton to the hospital.

When his deep voice filled her ear, warmth coated her insides and her nerves steadied. “Hank, it’s Charlotte. Your mother’s broken her ankle and your pa told me to call you.”

“Dammit.” She could almost see his full lips pulled tight against his teeth. There was a little background noise, followed by a heavy sigh. “Of course all this shit happens when my brothers are away. Okay, tell them I’ll meet them at the hospital.”

Guilt flooded her. She was only adding to the trouble—if not for her, Hank would be home sorting this out right now. Instead he was taking time away from the ranch to help her.

“Look, why don’t we forget about you fixing my car? I can pay for the tow into a garage and stay in town—”

“No.” His tone was hard and gritty—and it raised goose bumps on her forearms. Warmth slid into her belly, then lower.

He went on, “The car isn’t the trouble. It’s my parents’ hair-brained scheme and my brothers running off to make it happen.” He sighed again. “Are you okay, Charlotte?”

“I’m fine. Just worried about your family.”

“Sit tight if you don’t mind. I’ll meet my parents here at the hospital and be back in time to do evening chores.” Was that a smile she heard in his voice?

“I will, Hank.”

After hanging up, she ran back outside in time to see Mr. Dalton carrying his wife out of the storm cellar. Charlotte rushed ahead, taking his order to open the truck door. She helped Mrs. Dalton position herself so her foot was propped, but the woman was still as white as snow and grimacing in pain.

Standing back, Charlotte wrung her hands. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Mrs. Dalton gave a short nod. “If you don’t mind throwing some feed at the chickens, I’d appreciate it.”

They buzzed down the driveway in a cloud of dust, leaving Charlotte alone on a ranch in the middle of nowhere. And she’d never fed chickens in her life. Did she hand-feed them? Scatter grains?

She thought back if she’d ever seen a TV show or even a cartoon where characters had fed chickens.

First, she needed to find the chicken coop. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she gazed over the land that had been left in her care, even if only for an afternoon. While butterflies hatched in her stomach, she possessed a sense of ease that hadn’t come easy to her in months.

She’d definitely found a new life.

* * *

Damn, what a long day. Up before dawn, and half the day spent waiting for his mother to come out of surgery. Hank still had evening chores too. The best part of the day had been hearing Charlotte’s voice on the phone.

He climbed out of the truck, feeling about seventy years old. Thank God he didn’t have a desk job—sitting all day wasn’t for him.

The front porch light was on, and Charlotte was on the porch, arms hugging her middle. His heart stuttered and seemed to restart with a huge lurch. In a few strides, he reached the steps. One more and he cleared the stairs. Charlotte stepped back, laughing, and he found her holding an afghan around her shoulders. Hell, she was even endearing wrapped in Aunt Diane’s ugly crocheted creation.

“How’s your mom?”

“She’s been through a rough day, that’s for sure. I called my brothers, and that was even worse than dealing with Pa. He was fit to be tied, pacing like a mountain lion while Momma was in surgery.” Suddenly the whole day caught up to him, and he wanted nothing more but to sink onto the old porch swing and push off with a toe.

He twitched his head toward the swing. “Care to sit for a spell?”

“Okay.”

He waited for her to curl into the corner of the swing, and he crowded beside her. With a short laugh, he said, “I seem to take up a lot of space.”

“It’s okay.”

“Good thing you’re small.”

She dipped her head, and he swore she was blushing, though the bluish light cast by the porch fixture didn’t make it clear. Her curls were tucked behind one ear, exposing the tender shell. So perfect for nibbling.

“Thank you for being here. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

“I only fed the chickens.” Embarrassment sounded in her feminine voice.

“And found Momma. Who knows how long she might have laid there. And feeding those chickens can be hell.” He raised the leg of his pants to expose his hairy leg above his boot. A silvery scar lived there. “Got spurred by a rooster when I was ten.”

“I didn’t know they’d do that.”

He laughed. “If you had, you might not have gone close, right? I deserved this wound. I was teasing the rooster, waving a stick at him, and he came after me.”

Now she laughed. They pushed off and began to swing.

For several minutes they rocked in silence. She smelled good and her toes were bare. Longing rose in him, closing off his throat. More than anything, he ached to turn and draw her into his arms. To taste those sweet rosebud lips.

And learn what she was running from.

“I got your car parts.”

She groaned. “Do I want to know the damage?”

He lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “Plenty of time for discussion. I was hoping to strike a deal with you.”

She scraped her big toe on the wooden floor, slowing them. “What kind of deal?”

“Well, Momma’s laid up for six to eight weeks. She has some screws in her leg now, and it will be some time before she can get into a walking cast. I was hoping you might stay on here and help while I fix your car.”

She darted her tongue over her lips. He tracked the movement, aware of the pressure building inside him. “I don’t know, Hank.”

Sweet Jesus, he was in trouble. Just hearing his name fall from those honeyed lips tied him in knots. “We could use your help. We’ll trade work.”

“You don’t even know if I can cook!”

“Won’t matter. Momma will want to oversee from a wheelchair if she has to. All you have to do is take direction. In exchange, I fix your car and you drive off, no payment necessary.” It hurt him a little to say those words, though it shouldn’t. He had no ties to her.

She pushed off with her toe, setting them in motion again. Silence stretched. Nine swings, ten.

“Okay, it’s a deal. But you have to promise that if it’s not working for you, our deal is dissolved.”

He looked into her eyes. “Shake on it.” Really he wanted an excuse to touch her.

With a smile, she placed her hand in his. Soft warmth enveloped his fingers, rocketing up his arm. Fighting rising need, he squeezed her fingers and pumped her hand once. “We’ve got a deal, little lady. Now I’d better get to work before I drop over. I’m bushed.”

He stood and she jumped to her feet. “What do you mean get to work?”

“Ranch duty calls. All the work I didn’t get to today needs doin’.”

“It can’t wait until tomorrow? You’ve had a long day…” Was she worrying about him? Damn, that felt good.

“Nah, having cattle is like having a pack of dogs. I’ve got to water them and check feed troughs.”

“I—” She stared up at him, face light and shadows. “I’ll help if you’d like.”

His stomach tingled with anticipation. “I’d love that. But you’d better have some shoes. Boots if you’ve got ‘em.”

The next two hours were spent working close in the moonlight with only the occasional giggle from Charlotte and the lowing of cows upset by waiting for their dinner. That was the trouble with living so far from neighbors—no one could step in and help in a bind. Then again, the Daltons never got into binds, not with five brothers to pick up the slack.

When Hank and Charlotte returned to the house, grubby and tired, his heart was near bursting. She fit so well here—fit with him. Sometimes words weren’t needed between them, and when they did speak, there was a spark.

His body was growing impatient, but he couldn’t push her. The times she withdrew signaled to him that she might not welcome an advance.

She used the bathroom and when she came out, he had a mug of hot chocolate prepared for her. Her mouth fell open, sweet and so damn kissable. He leaned close, and she wrapped her fingers around the mug. Their fingers brushed. Electricity zipped through his system, lighting up every corner of his lonely self.

“I never knew a man who could make hot chocolate.”

“This ain’t no packet mix either. It’s the real thing, milk and shaved chocolate.” Up close her eyes had blue flecks among the gray.

“Thank you.” Was it his imagination, or was she a bit breathless?

“I’m glad you’re here, Charlotte.”

Slowly, she pulled away, as if finding her fingers glued, taking the mug with her. He followed her to the bottom of the stairs and watched her ass sway with every step. Not only was she tempting on the outside, she was as sweet as honey inside.

“’Night.” His throat was dry and prickly. Maybe he should have fixed himself some hot chocolate.

No, what he needed was a cold shower.

* * *

How was she supposed to work under these conditions? Charlotte could hardly think with six feet of muscled cowboy standing there watching her. Hank leaned against the counter in a beam of sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, arms folded, looking as if he might eat her up.

Mrs. Dalton, or Maggie, as she’d told Charlotte to call her, had been made comfortable on a recliner her husband had dragged into the kitchen. From the depths of the cushions, she had guided Charlotte through a simple breakfast of oatmeal with fruit, a lunch of thick hamburgers on Texas toast and now an apple pie.

Making a pie for the first time was nerve-racking enough without glancing up to find burning hazel eyes on her.

For two days since sitting on the porch swing with Hank, Charlotte had become too focused on him. She knew which line around his eyes crinkled first when he smiled and that he ate his food clockwise, finishing one whole dish before starting on the next.

She also knew he liked looking at her.

When had she last welcomed male attention? More than a year ago, when Stephen had picked her out at the club and asked her to dance. Within two months she’d been situated in his apartment and he was telling her who she could hang out with and which shoes to wear.

She should have recognized how controlling he was before it was too late and he tried to dictate how many days were left of her life.

The area on her upper thigh itched. Though the burn was healed, just thinking of Stephen made her skin crawl.

“That’s right, Charlotte. Now lift the rolling pin carefully and set it on the edge of the pie dish.”

With a little squeaking noise, Charlotte followed direction. She’d created a crust from scratch with flour and butter, mixing it until it was crumbling. Then she’d rolled it and now was trying to lift the delicate dough without it ripping.

The crust started slipping, and she set the pin down so hard on the glass dish she was certain it’d chipped.

To Hank’s credit, he didn’t laugh.

“Just catch the edge there and shift the crust over the apples. Yes, you’ve got it. Now do this.” Maggie held her thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart and pointed at the space with her other index finger. She made a motion indicating how Charlotte should seal the edges of the crust.

Her first attempt drew a wheeze from Hank, and she threw him the evil eye. “Don’t you dare make fun of me!”

“I’m not. You’re doing well for a city girl.”

She focused on two more pleats in the crust before considering his words. Since crash-landing in the middle of Nowhere, Texas, she’d learned how to gather eggs without getting pecked and how to drive a stick shift truck. Hank had not bothered to keep from laughing during her jerky attempts.

She didn’t feel much like that girl from Phoenix who’d packed her few belongings and set out on her own. In a short time, she’d learned so much and come so far.

One of the biggest things she’d learned was how strong her libido was. With a gorgeous cowboy nearby, she’d found her sex drive again.

Raking her gaze from his dusty hat to the dark five o’clock shadow on his jaw, and down to the cotton T-shirt straining over his chest, she said, “I think I’m doing well for
any girl
, not just a city girl.”

“You are, dear,” Maggie said.

“Momma, you’re looking a bit tired. Can I help you to bed? Charlotte has the pie under control.”

“All right. I don’t know why a broken ankle should sap the life from me, but it does. Give me a hand, Hank.” He mostly lifted her from the chair, planting an arm around her so she wasn’t bearing her weight. Then she hopped out of the room.

By the time Hank returned, Charlotte had lost a little of that tingle in her belly she got when he was near.

Then he leaned over her shoulder—warm man who smelled like soap and leather. “Momma says don’t forget to poke holes in the top crust with a fork to let the steam out.”

She picked up a fork and jabbed it.

“You look as if you’re trying to kill it.”

“Kill what?” The unfamiliar voice made her jerk, and she tore a small hole in the crust.

“Damn.”

There was a stampede of boots, and Charlotte found four more sets of amazing hazel eyes on her. She shrank against Hank, and he turned with a smile to the cowboys who were obviously his brothers.

“I thought you guys weren’t coming back till tomorrow.”

“Left early. The wife hu—er, thing we were doing, was slow. We thought we’d better get home to Momma. Who’s this?” The cowboy wearing a denim shirt with pearl buttons was Hank with a few less lines on his face.