How to Wrangle a Cowboy (2 page)

Shane sighed.

Of course he was. She was a woman. She had dark hair. And she was pretty, if you went for that type.

Which Shane didn’t. No way.

Not anymore.

But his son looked like he’d just seen a fairy godmother, Glinda the Good Witch, and his own runaway mother, all rolled into one.

Chapter 2

Lindsey Ward closed her eyes and let her grandmother’s rose-scented perfume carry her back in time for one brief, perfect moment. Some things never changed, and for that, she was so grateful she could cry.

Finally, after five long years, she was back at the Lazy Q—back where she belonged.

Sadly, the passing of the years, along with Bud’s death, had sapped some of the life force from her grandmother. Grace’s body felt as fragile as an armload of twigs, and her eyes, once sharp and clever, had softened to a watery blue. Still, the old woman’s love wrapped around Lindsey like a well-worn blanket and warmed her to the bone, just as it always had.

Opening her eyes, Lindsey met the startlingly direct gaze of the black-hatted cowboy who was watching over Grace like some Wild West security guard. He wasn’t making the slightest attempt to hide the undiluted disgust in his eyes.

Shane Lockhart.

Lindsey had hoped he’d be gone by now—or at least, that’s what she’d told herself. But her heart had fluttered a little at the thought of seeing him again. Once, he’d wanted her in a way that thrilled and confused her, and she’d wondered what he’d think of her now.

She found her answer in the twist of his lips and the hard glint of his dark eyes. She couldn’t really blame him. After all these years, she was late to her own grandfather’s funeral.

But who made him the etiquette police? What made him grip her grandmother’s arm as if she might run away? And why was the cutie-patootie kid beside him looking up at Lindsey as if she was Malibu Barbie come to sparkly, miraculous life?

The kid looked so much like Lockhart, he had to be the cowboy’s son. He also looked like he needed a friend, so Lindsey smiled and fluttered her fingers in a conspiratorial wave.

Edging behind his dad’s leg, the boy smiled back, embarrassed and adorable, while his dad shot her a killing glare. He apparently thought she should be strung up on a gallows at sundown for daring to gaze upon his child.

She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. The man had no right to judge her. He didn’t know that Mrs. Donnelly’s cockapoo was like a member of the family. Lindsey had been heading out the door to catch her flight when the phone rang. She’d almost ignored it, but she’d changed her mind when she heard Mrs. Donnelly on the answering machine, going on about how Buster had gotten into a fight with another dog, who’d bitten him in a very crucial body part. She begged Lindsey to come to the clinic.

“He’ll lose his willy, Dr. Ward. Please save Buster’s willy!”

Lindsey had run to the clinic and stitched up the hapless critter, saving little Buster from transitioning from a cockapoo to a mere poo.

She knew Bud would have understood. She could almost hear his gravelly voice in her ear, saying, “The dog’s alive, honey, and I’m dead. Stay with the one you can help.” And then he’d have said something like, “God knows, a man needs his willy.”

Naturally, she’d missed her flight and had to scramble to find a new one. She’d rushed the last available rental car in Denver to the ranch with fingers crossed, zipping past every pickup, RV, and eighteen-wheeler on Interstate 25 in a minivan that could have comfortably carried an entire Little League baseball team.

Now she struggled to slow her tap-dancing heart and listen to Reverend Bannister—a challenge she remembered well from the Sunday mornings of her childhood, when his droning voice had leached all the emotion from even the most stirring Bible stories. She assumed he’d bore her tears away, but he’d been a firm friend to Bud and Grace, and called up so many memories she had to cover her mouth and turn away, staring at the faraway mountains until she could control herself.

When she turned back to the gravesite, Lockhart’s eyes were fixed on her, his gaze still hard and unforgiving.

She knew she deserved it. She’d all but abandoned her grandparents for the past few years. But life was complicated and filled with emotional bear traps that could tear families apart. Even families who loved each other.

Bowing her head, she willed her tears away. Why hadn’t she come back sooner? Sure, she’d made a fool of herself, but she’d been young. Though her granddad had given her an ultimatum, she’d known he’d forgive her someday.

Now, someday would never come.

She put her fist to her mouth, stifling a sob that rose straight from her heart. If she let herself cry, she’d never be able to stop.

The rest of the service rushed past her in a blur, right up to the point where the casket was lowered into the ground and blessed by a single flower tossed by Grace. It wasn’t a hothouse rose or a florist’s white lily, but a simple sunflower, no different from the millions that sprouted in tangled jubilation along the roads and fences of the Lazy Q. It was a fitting tribute to her grandfather, who had never put on airs or cared for luxuries. He’d once told Lindsey that all he needed to be happy was a good horse, a long stretch of land, and Grace.

Once the service ended, Grace dragged Lindsey through the crowd, introducing her to one person after another with obvious pride, turning the sad occasion into a strange, somber garden party. Lindsey remembered many of the guests, but she was terrible with names, so she concentrated on being gracious, accepting condolences, and answering nosy questions about her absence from the ranch with a vague, “Oh, things happened.”

Which was one heck of an understatement, but nobody needed to know that.

She glanced over at Lockhart and was relieved to see he’d turned his frown on the crowd in general. Maybe his orneriness was caused by the fit of his suit. His stance was as stiff as the starched collar on his white shirt, and he constantly tugged at his tie.

As she watched, he turned away from her to talk to Grace, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets. The vent in his jacket opened, revealing a world-class cowboy backside.

She pictured that backside in faded Wranglers.
Nice.

And how about chaps? She loved chaps. There was nothing like leather pants without a seat to show off a man’s best assets.

Lockhart stopped mid-sentence and turned to face her, frowning, just as she happened to lick her lips.

Oops.
Had he felt her staring? What had he and Grace been talking about? Surely they weren’t keeping secrets—were they?

Her grandmother, oblivious to the foreman’s scowl, led him over to Lindsey.

“You remember Shane, don’t you, honey? He’s the boss of me now that Bud’s gone.”

The dark eyes softened as Lockhart smiled down on Grace. “Bud never bossed you a day in his life. He couldn’t, and neither can I.” The smile grew into a grin. “You’re a wild one.”

Grace tittered as Lindsey offered her hand.

“You probably don’t remember me.”

He did, of course he did, but she was hoping they could put the past behind them. If they pretended to be strangers, they could start over—couldn’t they?

The scowl returned as he shook her hand. Now, as before, she was stunned by the raw sexual magnetism that emanated from him as naturally as her ex-husband had radiated Southern sophistication.

“I remember.”

Shoot.
She didn’t
want
him to remember. Their last encounter had been mortifying.

“I guess we couldn’t very well forget.” She let out a trilling, artificial laugh, hating herself all the while. “We’ve known each other—how long?”

“Years.” His tone was dry, as if he hadn’t enjoyed one second of their acquaintance. “I think you were ten years old when we met.”

“Eleven. And you were what, fifteen?”

She remembered that day with surprising clarity, probably because she’d been so thrilled to meet Shane and his brothers. She’d overheard her grandparents talking about them the night before. They’d thought she was in bed, but she’d crept to the top of the stairs, as she often did, to eavesdrop.

She heard Grace tell Bud she’d invited Bill and Irene Decker to drop by the next day and bring their new family. In hushed whispers, she told him the Deckers had taken in three boys from the orphanage in Wynott.

Bud said he’d heard the whole story. Heard those boys were so bad the whole state of Wyoming couldn’t find a place for them. He thought Bill was crazy for taking them on, but Grace, in low, soothing tones, argued that the boys just needed someone to love them.

“Let the Deckers love ’em, then,” Bud said. “We’ve got a little girl to think of, and I don’t want Lindsey mixing with boys like that. It’s not safe.”

Lindsey had tossed and turned all that night. She’d never met any orphans and wondered why they weren’t safe. She’d only recently discovered boys had more to offer than snakes and snails and puppy dogs’ tails, and something about these particular ones had thrilled her in a new way. They were bad boys, like James Dean in the old movies her aunt liked to watch. She’d pictured them wearing leather jackets and smoking cigarettes.

The next day had been a disappointment. The boys were nothing like James Dean. They’d worn new Western shirts with the creases still in them, and stiff jeans that didn’t quite fit. Shuffling along behind Bill, they’d ducked their heads when Irene and Grace fussed over them.

They hadn’t had a word to say to Lindsey. In fact, they’d barely looked at her.

For some reason, that had made her mad. For the first time in her life, she’d wished she was a real teenager. A pretty one. Then they’d pay attention to her, wouldn’t they?

Embarrassed by feelings she didn’t understand, she’d fled, running off to visit the old horses Grace kept in a far pasture. She always felt safe with the horses. With the boys, she wasn’t sure what she’d felt, but “safe” was definitely not the word. That low hum of excitement deep inside her, the one that made her want their attention, had made her uncomfortable.

It still did. Lockhart’s eyes met hers as Grace turned away to greet some old friends, and Lindsey felt that same heat thrumming through her veins. The rest of the crowd seemed to blur into the background, leaving the two of them alone on that high hill, standing over her grandfather’s grave under the wide Wyoming sky. Only when he spoke did the world come back in focus.

“You got here a little late.” Lockhart obviously wasn’t just talking about today. He meant to reproach her, to remind her she hadn’t come to see her grandparents for years.

But that was none of his business. She gave him a cool stare.

“I had an emergency to take care of.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

His voice was so low and sexy it vibrated through every bone in her body. She’d read once that the purr of a cat hit the perfect frequency for reducing stress. If that was true, maybe a man’s voice could hit the ideal tone for making a woman warm from the inside out, inspiring visions of moonlight and roses and damp, twisted sheets.

Get a grip, Lindsey. He doesn’t even like you.

Lockhart looked her up and down, his lip curling when he reached the absurd high heels. “So how’s your cockapee?”

Lindsey was horrified when she felt heat rush to her face. What was he talking about? “My what?”

“Your cockamamy cockapee, or whatever. The one with the emergency.”

Oh, no. He means Buster.
She knew it wasn’t appropriate, but she couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a cockapoo?” she asked, as soon as she could speak. “It’s a cross between a cocker spaniel and a poodle. Cockapoo. Get it?”

He curled his lip again. “Whatever.” He sighed, staring off into the distance. “You’re not staying, are you?”

Great. She got desire, and even amusement; he got annoyed. The man sure wanted her gone.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she gave him her best Southern smile, complete with dimples. She’d been in Charleston long enough to absorb some of the tricks of the smooth Southern belles, and she swung into the sexy side of a Southern lilt.

“Well, I don’t know.” Clasping her hands in front of her, she batted her lashes. “Do
you
think I should stay? Since you’re the boss and all, I’d sure like your opinion.”

Lockhart squinted at the horizon, then stared down at his boot tips, clearly at a loss for words. Apparently Mr. Scowly was shy deep down under that glowering glare, and not immune to Southern charm.

But a brief pause was all it took for him to gather his wits, along with the low, simmering anger that emanated from him like heat.

“I think you should go back where you came from and leave us alone, like you always have.”

She knew she should feel insulted. She should storm off, ignore him, maybe even complain to her grandmother—but the conversation had started to feel like a battle of wills, and she could swear there was a light in his dark eyes that dared her to stay.

She hoped she could, because she was pretty sure she could win this fight—but it would take some time.

Chapter 3

“Why, Shane.” Grace slapped Lockhart’s biceps with one delicate hand. “You forgot to bring your manners today.”

“Oh, I brought ’em.”

The low rumble of Lockhart’s voice vibrated in Lindsey’s ear, in her chest, and in her belly, whipping up a sweet confection of sexual warmth and wanting. His words didn’t matter; he could insult her or recite the alphabet. Either way, she’d feel the same thrill.

“Sometimes it’s better to be direct, rather than dancing around things,” he continued. “That’s what Bud would have said.”

“My husband would never have been rude to a lady.” Grace set her hands on her skinny hips and looked him straight in the eye. There was a practiced humor in the face-off that made it obvious she and the tall, stone-faced cowboy were the best of friends.

“So go on. Be direct. Tell me straight out how pretty my granddaughter is.”

When Shane didn’t respond right away, Grace relaxed her stance and touched her long gray hair, which was no easier to tame than the rest of her. She’d tried to twist it up into a knot, but runaway wisps floated around her fine-boned face. “Everyone always said she took after me.”