Must Love Cowboys (4 page)

My grandfather had shared that same attitude. Although he'd never explained it to me, I'd heard somewhere that the most valiant soldiers were those who considered themselves dead even before they went into battle. At first, that mind-set seemed rather fatalistic. But if you had to rationalize risking your life to save the lives of others, what better way to do it than to deem it already lost?

What I didn't understand was why that outlook persisted even after the war had ended. Was it because they'd convinced themselves of their death to the point they couldn't cope with survival? Grandpa had never listened to his doctors and only took his meds when I insisted. Perhaps he'd believed it pointless to try to save a man who was already dead and buried.

Shaking off my morbid thoughts had become increasingly difficult of late, and today was no different. I'd been on such a roller coaster of emotions. One minute I was up, thankful that Grandpa's suffering was finally over. The next, I was down, wondering how his life would have turned out if he'd been born on a different day and never been drafted into the Army.

In that moment, fatigue slammed into me like a runaway train, not creeping up on me the way it normally did. I was thankful for the bed I'd been offered, although truth be told, I would have been perfectly content to sleep in my car.

Ophelia nudged my hand. No doubt she was as tired as I was. This was the letdown after the taut wire I'd been stretched into finally snapped now that my tasks were complete. Silly. I was young enough to be able to handle the physical strain. It was the mental part that was sapping my strength.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Dean asked.

I stifled a yawn. “Sure. Although I'll probably nod off before it's over.”

What kind of movies would cowboys enjoy? Probably not Westerns. Like any romanticized group of people, their lives were nothing like those depicted on the silver screen. I knew the feeling. I had to laugh at the way computer geeks on TV instantaneously hacked into someone else's machine when in reality it was a fairly time-consuming process. The one thing the screenwriters did get right was the lack of romantic liaisons among geeks.

And then there was Wyatt's firefighter thing. I could think of at least one popular series he certainly wouldn't want to watch. I couldn't help wondering what the deal was with that, although I had an idea it was destined to remain one of life's great unsolved mysteries.

I rose from my chair. “Ophelia needs to go out.” To be honest, so did I. I hoped the foreman's quarters included a private bathroom or this arrangement would end right quick.

“You can show us what you want us to bring in for you.” Dean nodded at Nick. “C'mon, Nick. Let's go get her stuff.”

“Hold on a second.” I darted a look between the two men. “This is voluntary, right? If I have to pay in kisses, I'll carry my suitcase myself.”

The expression in Dean's eyes reminded me of the way Ophelia stared at me whenever she wanted to stay inside rather than go out in the cold. “Aw, come on, Tina. Nick got a kiss.”

I arched a brow. “He was paying me back for fixing his computer. That was his choice of payment, not mine.”

“Well, shit.” He blew out a breath, then grinned. “Guess I'll have to work on my strategy.”

I hoped his strategy wasn't anything like Nick's had been. Nick hadn't asked for that kiss. He'd taken it. Or given it. I honestly couldn't say which. If Dean wanted more than a kiss—and something told me he did—he'd damn well better be asking me first.

The trouble was, I had no idea what my reply would be.

The foreman's quarters were actually quite nice. In addition to a private bathroom, the room boasted its own television and recliner, a sturdy wooden desk and chair, along with a dresser, nightstand, and closet. I'd spent the night in a couple of hotels along my route that weren't as well appointed, nor had they been as clean. I wouldn't have expected a bunch of cowboys to be any great shakes as housekeepers, but they'd obviously had some practice.

I was surprised Joe hadn't taken advantage of the opportunity to move in there, although I was glad he hadn't. Somehow I couldn't see sleeping in the bunkhouse or bumping Joe or Calvin out of their room. I didn't even mind that the bed was only a twin.

The guys carried in my bags and thankfully didn't linger.

“We know you must be tired,” Dean said when he caught me yawning. “We'll be in the mess hall if you decide you want some company.” He pointed toward a door at the far end of the room. “That opens onto the hallway behind the kitchen so you can get to the mess hall without going outside. Calvin's room is next to yours.”

“Thanks.” My smile became another yawn. “Don't bother waiting up for me. I'm about done in.”

He laughed. “And you were gonna drive to Cheyenne tonight.”

“Yeah, well, best laid plans and all that.” I said good night and closed my door.

Strange how quickly we slide into that mind-set.
My
room at the hotel.
My
room at home.
My
apartment—although I didn't have an apartment anymore and was essentially homeless. I couldn't see Mom throwing me out, but without a place to call my own, I felt as though I'd been set adrift, leaving me vulnerable to the entreaties of a bunch of cowboys who seemed to want nothing more than the pleasure of my company.

I didn't wonder why anymore, but this was no place for me. After their computers were debugged, they would have no need of me, and I certainly had no intention of becoming the bunkhouse whore.

As if I could. Bunkhouse virgin would be more like it. Anyone taking on the whore job would need far more experience than I'd ever had. I doubted that reading steamy romance novels and fantasizing about hot, sweaty firefighters qualified me for the job.

Exhaustion left my brain wide open for thoughts of that nature to creep in. Whether I was ever intimate with a man didn't matter in the greater scheme of things. No planets would go undiscovered. No grand plans for world peace would be derailed.

Then again, maybe they would. Perhaps my unborn sons and daughters would be the very ones to save the planet from global warming and terrorism.

Or not.
God, I was going nuts. I needed to shed a layer of…something. I had no idea what. Inhibitions? My own persona and history?

Ophelia licked my hand as though she understood my problem—or at least wanted to help.

I considered joining the men in the mess hall. The bed, however, was much too inviting. Recalling that I'd traveled through several states and three time zones—plus gaining more than a mile in altitude—explained the weird feeling, wired but exhausted. I'd gotten jet-lagged without ever boarding a plane.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. I opened it to find Calvin standing in the hallway, appearing to be even more exhausted than I was. Granted, I'd only met him a few hours before, but something about him seemed…different. I couldn't put my finger on it.

His smile hadn't changed, nor had his genial nature. “If you need anything, I'm right next door.”

“I'm sure I'll be fine,” I said. “Good night and thank you for dinner.”

“You're welcome.” He smiled wistfully. “I'm so glad you came.”

“Me too.” Mine was an automatic response, although, oddly enough, I meant it. How often did a woman get to spend the night in an honest-to-goodness bunkhouse anyway? I caught myself before the something-to-tell-my-grandchildren thought had a chance to become fully formed in my mind.

More like something for my memoirs.
That was, if anyone wanted to read them.

After Calvin left, I washed my face and combed out my hair before changing into my pajamas. I could hear the men's voices and laughter from the mess hall, despite the fact that the kitchen lay between us. Apparently, the rooms all interconnected in one way or another. With no need for soundproofing in a building intended to house a bunch of cowboys who knew one another and worked together every day, I suspected the interior walls were relatively thin.

I turned out all the lights except for the lamp on the nightstand and crawled into bed with the latest romance novel on my TBR list, an erotic paranormal guaranteed to keep me awake half the night.

It didn't.

When I awoke several hours later, the lamp was still on and my book had fallen forward onto my chest. Ophelia lay curled up on the rug by the exterior door, her head up and cocked to one side. She looked toward me with her ears pricked, listening.

A moment later, I heard what must've awakened me.

Tap, tap, tap.
The sound was coming from the wall my room must've shared with Calvin's.

Mice?

I doubted it. Especially after my tired brain finally made sense of the pattern.

I rose from the bed and went out into the hallway, passing through the kitchen to peer into the mess hall. The room was still warm—no doubt the men had added more wood to the fire in the potbellied stove—and the moonlight streaming in through the window was more than enough to prove it was empty.

Frowning, I retraced my steps, pausing at Calvin's door.

Then I heard the moan.

I raised a hand to knock, hesitating as I recalled that Calvin had served in the same war my grandfather had and possibly suffered from the same sort of nightmares. As a child I'd learned to ignore the restless mutterings and occasional shouts coming from Grandpa's room. Later, when his health deteriorated, I'd often gone in to check on him, never knowing what I would find.

When yet another moan broke the silence, I knocked without hesitation. “Calvin? Are you okay?”

The door must not have been latched very well because with my knock, it swung wide. The room was dark and silent, save for his raspy breathing.

“Calvin?” I said again.

Although I didn't know Calvin well at all, I knew enough to realize something was wrong.

I flipped on the light.

Calvin lay on his bed, his hands clasped to his chest, his eyes squeezed shut. A bluish tinge circled his mouth as he sucked in one long, shuddering breath and then another.

And then none.

“Calvin!” I was shouting now, praying someone would hear. I ran to the bed and shook him. Receiving no response, I screamed out the first name that came to mind. “Wyatt! Help!”

The thud of footsteps mingled with muttered curses. A pair of hands pulled me back, practically throwing me into the arms of someone else. Wyatt tilted Calvin's head back and leaned forward to listen.

“Not breathing,” he snapped. “Sonny, call 911. Bull, bring the AED. Nick, give me a hand here.”

I stared at him, unblinking, as he barked out orders and then, with Nick's help, pulled Calvin onto the floor and began chest compressions.

“I'll call the house,” Joe said.

With all the other men accounted for, I realized I was in Dean's arms once again.

Regardless of who held me, my eyes were firmly fixed on Wyatt. Grim-faced and determined, he delivered the compressions with an ease that spoke of superior knowledge and skill. A white T-shirt stretched over his broad back, muscles bulged in his arms and shoulders, and his plain white briefs molded to his muscular buttocks.

I shook my head, trying to divert my attention from him to the dying man only to find that I couldn't do it. My eyes simply refused to watch another man die. Not Grandpa's friend. Not Calvin…

Wyatt was much easier to look at, along with Nick, whose ponytail was plastered to his bare back, a pair of navy blue boxers his only garment.

The two men worked together like a practiced team, Nick delivering breaths while Wyatt pumped rhythmically on Calvin's chest. When Bull came running in with the AED, Wyatt ripped Calvin's nightshirt open and applied the pads.

“Analyzing,” the robotic voice of the AED announced. After what seemed like forever, the machine advised a shock and charged with a siren-like wail.

Wyatt shouted, “Clear!” and pressed the button.

A jolt shook Calvin's body. Another analysis followed.

Wyatt pressed his fingers to the side of Calvin's neck. “I feel a pulse.”

Nick delivered another breath, then waited a moment. “He's breathing.”

“An ambulance is on the way,” Sonny announced.

“Sure glad you talked us into getting that AED for the bunkhouse,” Bull said to Wyatt. Only then did I realize the only part of Bull that was adequately covered was his upper lip.

Too late, I glanced away.

What has been seen cannot be unseen.

“He's the reason I wanted it,” Wyatt said. “I knew we'd have to use it on him someday.”

“You okay?” Dean's voice in my ear nearly had me jumping out of my skin.

“Yeah. I heard him…tapping on the wall, moaning.”

“Good thing you were here,” Dean said. “Otherwise, we wouldn't have found him until morning.”

Shivering, I turned in his embrace, making no protest as he held me against his bare chest, my arms folded over my breasts. Considering how scantily clad the rest of the men were, I was afraid to look down.

Wyatt sat back on his heels and pulled his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face. “He's not out of the woods yet, and we're a long damn way from a hospital.” He glanced at Sonny. “Better check his medicine cabinet and see what he's on.”

“If he's anything like my grandfather,” I said, “he has plenty of meds he doesn't take.”

Wyatt nodded. “Wouldn't surprise me a bit. He's a stubborn old cuss.”

Sonny returned a few moments later, an assortment of pill bottles stashed in a sling made from the front of his T-shirt. “He's got lots of them.”

Wyatt examined the bottles, one by one. “Judging from the dates on these, he hasn't taken them in months.”

There it was again—that fatalistic
I'm already dead, so why bother
attitude. Calvin obviously subscribed to it, but that didn't mean the rest of us had to like it. I could sense Wyatt's frustration—the expression in his eyes, the tautness of his stance. Oh, yes. I knew that feeling quite well. The utter futility of trying to save someone who didn't want to be saved.

Nevertheless, they had saved Calvin—at least for the moment. When he regained consciousness, he might thank them or he might hate them for interfering. Grandpa had threatened to come back and haunt us if we ever resuscitated him. I wondered if Calvin had voiced his opposition to having an AED in the building. Obviously it was there to be used on anyone who might need it. Bull and Joe both appeared to be in their forties, and though they seemed healthy enough, Bull was also a smoker, and it wouldn't be the first time a man their age had heart trouble. Calvin, however, was still the most likely recipient.

One glance at Wyatt proved he was itching to do more. Although firefighters had first responder training, Wyatt didn't seem satisfied even with that skill level. I could see the need in his eyes—even the way he breathed—he wanted to start an IV, whip out a scalpel, and perform open heart surgery right there on the bunkhouse floor.

And this man was a cowboy?

No doubt cowboys had plenty of opportunities to display their heroism. They rescued strays from ravines, killed rattlesnakes, and delivered calves and foals. Back in Wild West days, they went after rustlers and thieves. But Wyatt?

He might as well have had
To Protect and Serve
tattooed on his chest.

Perhaps there was a bit of Wyatt Earp in him after all.

I heard other voices, although no sirens as yet. Two of the cutest people I'd ever seen rushed in, the woman tiny and dark-haired and the man of medium height with longish blond curls. No doubt these were the owners of the ranch.

What a way to meet the boss.

“I checked on the ambulance,” the woman said. “They're about twenty minutes out. How is he?”

“He's breathing and has a pulse, but that's about all I can say,” Wyatt replied. He held up a prescription bottle and shook it. “Might be in better shape if he'd been taking these like he should.”

The woman knelt beside Calvin and stroked his forehead. “Stubborn as an old mule.” She blew out a sigh. “Just like Dad.”

“He's not coming down here, is he?” Wyatt seemed slightly alarmed at the prospect.

“You think I could make him stay away?” she said with a snort. “He went to get the truck. I'm surprised he didn't beat us here.”

The squeal of brakes and scattering of gravel heralded the patriarch's arrival.

“That'll be him now,” the blond man said. He looked at me as though he had only just noticed me standing there. A frown flitted across his brow, then he held out a hand. “I'm Dusty Jackson. This is my wife, Angela.” He paused as the epitome of the crusty old rancher came through the door, no doubt moving much slower than he would have liked. “And that's my father-in-law, Jack Kincaid.”

Jack stared at Calvin, lying on the floor. “Is he dead?”

“Not yet,” Wyatt replied. “I just hope that ambulance gets here soon.”

“Think we oughta load him in the truck and meet them?”

“To be honest, I'd be afraid to move him,” Wyatt said. “Better wait for the medics.”

The old man nodded. Even he seemed to defer to Wyatt's authority, and he didn't strike me as the type to defer to anyone. Barely missing a beat, he turned toward me. “Now that we have that settled, will someone please tell me why this woman is in the bunkhouse snuggled up with a naked cowboy?”