Must Love Cowboys (7 page)

“Yeah. Wrenched it a few days ago. Hurt like a son-ofabitch while I was driving.” He raised his shoulder and rotated it a couple of times.

Clearly he hadn't meant to hug me at all.

Story of my life.

“I keep telling you to go see a chiropractor,” Bull said. “Why doesn't anybody ever listen to me?”

“When have I had time to go to a chiropractor?” Wyatt retorted. “Besides, you know how they are; they want you to come back twice a week or some such bullshit.”

“It's not bullshit if it helps,” Bull snapped. “But you always were a stubborn bastard.”

“A heating pad or a massage might help.” Once again, I spoke without thinking.

I really need to stop doing that.

“Maybe.” What was going on in Wyatt's head was anyone's guess, but the look he gave me could've bored a hole through steel.

Obviously, I should've kept my mouth shut. If he was as stubborn as Bull claimed, he certainly wouldn't take any advice from me.

Electing to drop the subject before I irritated him any further, I started on the second pie. One nice thing about apple pie, it was pretty simple. I'd even found a nifty gadget that would simultaneously peel, slice, and core an apple with a few turns of a crank.

I was mixing the dough for the crust when the guys finished and put their plates in the sink.

Yawning, Bull announced, “I think I'll take a nap until it's time to feed the horses.”

“Good idea,” I said. “You guys must be exhausted.”

Bull headed through the doorway to the mess hall, leaving me alone with Wyatt. I caught myself holding my breath again as he paused behind me. Heat flowed from him like a summer breeze.

“You don't have to do that.” His breath tickled my ear, tightening my skin into tingling goose bumps. “We could eat the rest of the pie and no one else would ever know.”

My laugh was as weak as my wobbly knees. He wasn't even touching me and I could barely stand up. I'd be dropping the pastry blender next. “Think you could get Bull to keep the secret?”

“I dunno. Maybe not.”

“Really? Angela said you could—or that you could at least get him to be quiet.”

“True, but there's a difference between being quiet and keeping a secret.”

I couldn't argue with that, but I didn't think I could take much more of his close proximity without dissolving into a bundle of overstimulated nerve endings. My heart was already beating out of control, flooding my cheeks with warmth.

I wanted him to go away and yet didn't want him to leave. I knew I would relax and breathe easier without him there, but I craved his presence anyway.

So why was he still standing there?

“Uh, Tina,” he began. “Listen, what you said about a massage… That actually sounded pretty good.” He paused, seeming reluctant to admit he needed help and even more reluctant to ask for it. “Think you could…?”

I stared at the bowl of dough. I didn't need to invent a reason why I couldn't stop what I was doing and rub his shoulder for him. But at the same time, I had this itch to get my hands on something other than pie dough.

And some itches
must
be scratched.

“Sure. Just let me wash my hands.” I put a plate over the bowl to keep the dough from drying out and turned on the tap. After letting the water run until it was good and hot, I washed my hands, then dried them with a dish towel. When I turned toward Wyatt, my worst fears were realized.

He'd taken off his shirt and stood facing me, the broad expanse of his muscular chest, lightly dusted with dark, curly hair, fully exposed. “Where do you want me?”

Right here. Right now.

Heat sliced through my pelvis, stealing moisture from my mouth to send it gushing from my core. My attempt to swallow failed utterly. “There at the table is fine.”

He would probably smell bad after being on the road all night and most of the day. Bad smells usually put me off immediately. I figured I was safe. But when I moved closer, he smelled fine. Not freshly showered, perhaps, but nice. “Do you have any ointment to put on it?”

“There's probably something around here somewhere, but for now, just use a little olive oil.”

I was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud. Getting my hands on a hot, studly cowboy might make my temperature soar, but by the time I'd smeared him with olive oil, he would smell like a salad.

Not sexy at all.

Unfortunately, after dribbling oil on his back and placing my hands on his shoulders, I was forced to revise that assessment. Wyatt would've been sexy even if he'd smelled like a barn. And salads, on the whole, were quite tasty.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the image of the powerful-looking muscles in his back and shoulders, but I couldn't hide them from my hands. His hair, although relatively short, curled at the nape. Using the excuse of massaging his neck, I touched it. For some peculiar reason, that affected me even more than touching his skin had done—the gesture was more intimate, somehow.

Eventually, I found the sore spots in his upper back and shoulder and kneaded them hard. Wyatt's groans and sighs were like candy, enticing me to keep going until I'd thoroughly massaged every muscle in his body. Twice.

After a glance at the clock proved I'd been at it for about twenty minutes, I figured it was time to quit or I was bound to do something really stupid—especially since he was getting to me on a level no real man ever had. Surely twenty minutes was enough. Then again, he wasn't asking me to stop. If anything, I got the distinct impression he wanted me to keep going forever.

But I had work to do, a pie to bake, and chickens to roast. “H-how's that?” My voice was hoarse and hesitant, no doubt due to the parched state of my mouth.

Despite his long, shuddering exhale, his throat sounded tight when he spoke. “Good—um, better. Much better. Thank you.”

I took a step back as he got to his feet. “Glad I could help.”

Rather than staring at the floor like I normally did, I made the mistake of tilting my head back and making eye contact. His gaze held mine for a long moment. Once again, what went on behind those enigmatic eyes was anyone's guess. He certainly wasn't giving me any clues.

A flick of his brow signaled the end of the interlude. “Well then. I guess I'll leave you to it.” He slung his shirt over his shoulder. “I might lie down for a bit myself.”

All I could do was nod. I waited until his retreating footsteps died away before letting out the breath I was well aware I'd been holding.

I would get used to him eventually.

Yeah, right. Maybe by the time my car was packed and I was two hundred miles down the road.

Men had always made me nervous, but when it came to getting under my skin, Wyatt McCabe took first prize. Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply for a few moments before resuming my task. I still had a lot to do in the next two hours. Letting Wyatt freak me out wouldn't help get it done.

Although it might have been overkill considering everything else I'd cooked for dinner, knowing how to make my own version of those awesome cheddar cheese biscuits they serve at Red Lobster is sometimes too great a temptation to resist.

Nonetheless, it was while I was making them that I thought of a way to find out who Calvin's next of kin might be. I had forty years' worth of letters between Calvin and Grandpa. Somewhere during all those years of regular correspondence, Calvin was bound to have mentioned a few of his relatives.

It was a daunting task, but at least I would only have to go through the letters Grandpa had received. While his letters to Calvin might be interesting, I doubted they would contain the kind of information we needed. Starting at the beginning would yield the best results. If Calvin was estranged from his family—and the fact that no one knew anything about them led me to believe he was—the more recent letters probably wouldn't mention them.

“Holy shit.” Nick stopped short in the doorway just as I was dousing the biscuits with spoonfuls of hot garlic butter. “What
are
you doing?”

“Yeah, I know it looks kinda decadent, but this is a special occasion—my first time fixing dinner for you guys and all.”

“Oh, I'm not complaining,” Nick assured me. “They smell awesome.”

I couldn't argue with him. I'd been known to wolf down one or two before they ever made it to the table.

“How many do we each get?”

“Two,” I replied. “Just like the cornbread Calvin makes for you.”

He frowned as he counted the biscuits. “Um, I don't think you made enough.”

“What do you mean? There are six of you guys, one of me, and fourteen biscuits.”

“Dunno how to tell you this, but Dusty and Mr. Kincaid are joining us since Angela's gone. They're already in the mess hall.”

As a rule I'd never been one to use profanity, but the
F
word was the first thing that came to mind. “Nice of them to warn me. Guess they figured Angela had said something. Obviously I should've gone with four chickens.”

“Don't worry. We'll make it stretch. If we get hungry later, we'll make popcorn or something.” He snickered. “I heard Bull and Wyatt already had their share of the pie.” He peered at me through narrowed eyes. “You aren't gonna let them have any more, are you?”

“Do you really think I could stop them?” I scoffed. “Although with two extra mouths to feed, the serving sizes are gonna be pretty small.”

Note to self: Never, ever let the guys help themselves to a pie.

I did some quick mental geometry and came up with a solution. “If we cut each pie in sixths, everyone gets a piece.”

He hesitated just long enough to have verified my calculations. “That works.”

“So how do you all usually do this? Line up with your plates like you did last night, or put everything on the table?”

“We usually line up, but putting it all on the table sounds good.” A smile quirked his lips. “More like home.”

I smiled back at him. “Then we'll do it family style. See if you can dig up some serving bowls.”

Granted, it might cause some squabbling and make more dishes to wash, but having eaten at least one dinner with them, I knew they had a dishwashing rotation set up. No way was I doing the cooking
and
the cleaning—not all of it, anyway. I wondered if Wyatt would help out since he'd been slated for dishwasher duty the night before.

Great. Yet another occasion to bump elbows with him.

I still hadn't recovered from the back rub.

Nick found a huge platter and some serving bowls that didn't look as though they'd been used in a very long time. “Better wash these real quick. They're dusty as hell.”

I stuck my head through the door to the mess hall. “I need somebody to set the table.” The blank stares I received were proof that this serving style wasn't typical. “Come on now. All you have to do is put the plates and silverware on the table. If you can ride horses and rope calves, surely you can do that.”

To my surprise, the old man let out a guffaw that sounded much stronger than he appeared. “Angela said you were gonna try to keep these boys in line. Looks like you've got the hang of it already.”

Dean raised a hand. “I'll do it. Wouldn't want you to think we were a bunch of savages.”

“I'm sure she doesn't think that,” Dusty said. “Although Angela probably does.”

“Oh, she does not,” Bull argued. “She loves us.”

If I'd had to choose the one cowboy Angela probably
didn't
love, it would've been Bull, although he was bound to have a few endearing traits. The fact that he'd gone with Wyatt to the hospital proved how much he cared about Calvin. Hopefully that wasn't his only attribute.

“I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she did,” I said. “How about the rest of you come on in here and grab a dish?”

One nice thing about this job, at least at breakfast and dinner, there was plenty of manpower. Once the table was set, we sat down to eat.

Despite being seated between Nick and Dean with Wyatt directly across from me, I felt considerably more comfortable than I had the night before. My only wish was that when I'd met Mr. Kincaid and Dusty, I hadn't been in the arms of a naked man. Still, as first impressions went, it was certainly memorable.

The good-natured banter between the men died down once everyone was served. I couldn't decide if that was a good sign or not. I thought everything tasted okay, but it wasn't until Dean let out an orgasmic moan that I figured they probably approved.

Mr. Kincaid was more polite. “This is a fine dinner, ma'am.”

“Wait 'til you taste the pie,” Bull said around a mouthful of chicken. “Best thing I ever ate—although this chicken runs a close second.”

“Yeah, well, that's what you said before,” Wyatt drawled. “We'll see if you still feel that way when your stomach's full.” He arched a brow at me. “That is, if Tina lets us have any.”

Something in Wyatt's eyes made me feel as though he was referring to something other than pie. With a blush rising in my cheeks, I was too tongue-tied to respond.

Fortunately, Nick answered him. “We've already got that figured out.”

Avoiding Wyatt's gaze, I focused on my plate as that peculiar awareness of my erogenous zones assailed me once again. Dean might have been sitting as close to me as the situation allowed—I was conscious of his body heat and every move he made—but that one look from Wyatt
did
something to me.

Was he aware of his effect on me? If so, had he been pulling my chain by asking for that massage? Even though Bull obviously knew about the injury, Wyatt could have exaggerated his pain.

I doubted it. As a general rule, men didn't invent reasons to get my hands on them, and I had certainly never offered my services. I didn't need to look any further for a motive. He had a sore shoulder, and, stupid me, I'd mentioned a massage.

“Is there any news about Calvin?” Bull asked.

Dusty shook his head. “Not much. Angela called before I came down for dinner. He's moving around a little but still hasn't said anything.”

“Think he might have brain damage?” Sonny asked.

“Maybe,” Wyatt replied. “Although he was down for less than a minute before we started CPR, and we only had to shock him once.”

“He's pretty old, though,” Sonny observed. “And he's a smoker. Might not take as long for that to happen to someone like him.”

Recalling the bluish tinge around Calvin's mouth was reason enough to expect the worst. Even I knew that was a pretty ominous sign.

Wyatt shrugged. “We'll just have to wait and see.”

“Angela said she wanted to try to locate Calvin's family,” I said. “She didn't seem to think he had any.” I glanced at the men gathered around the table. They had all worked with Calvin—some of them for many years. He was bound to have said
something
about his family. “Do any of you know who his next of kin might be?”

“He had a wife and kids once,” Joe said. “They were killed in a car accident. Never heard him mention anyone else.”

“His whole family?” I exclaimed. “How awful! But you say that like it happened long ago.”

“Before he ever came here,” Mr. Kincaid said. “He told me about it when I hired him. I'd never seen a man look so defeated. He's a good man and a hard worker, but I don't believe a body could ever get over something like that.”

“No kidding.” With that much loss, it was a wonder he'd been able to function at all. Then again, “riding the range” might've been therapy for him. Or a way to avoid getting close to anyone else.

Still, he'd corresponded with Grandpa for years—probably ever since returning from Vietnam. That was one connection he'd maintained. Surely there were others.

“I thought I'd take a look at the letters he sent to my grandfather. He's bound to have some cousins at least—maybe even a sibling or two. He might've mentioned them.”

“If he does, I'm guessing they don't get along,” Joe said. “He never talks about them. At least, not to me.”

I glanced at Wyatt. He hadn't offered any ideas on locating Calvin's family, and judging from his expression, he never would. His gaze appeared unfocused but filled with such pain, he should have been crying out in agony. Was his shoulder bothering him again, or was it something else? Something much deeper and more lasting than mere physical pain? I recalled the way he'd reacted when the firefighter issue had been raised. Calvin wasn't the only man there who'd suffered. I could see it in Wyatt's eyes as clearly as if he'd been telling us his own life story.

As if he ever would. As little as anyone knew about Calvin's past, I had a pretty good idea nobody knew much about Wyatt's history, either.

“I'll start going through those letters after dinner,” I said. “Even if I don't find anything there, I can do an online search of the census data or one of the genealogy sites. Does anyone know his full name and where he was born?”

“I can tell you his full name,” Mr. Kincaid said. “Calvin Joseph Douglas. But as to where he was born or where he grew up…” The old man shrugged. “We might have it written down somewhere, but I couldn't say offhand.”

I groaned. “There are probably a bajillion people in this country with the same name. Wish we at least knew which state he came from.”

“We might find something in his room,” Dean suggested. “Pictures or letters or something.”

I smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand. “We've already
got
letters—tons of them—and they're probably still in the original envelopes. There's bound to be a return address on some of them. Calvin told me he'd kept all the letters he received from Grandpa too.”

“Shouldn't be hard to find,” Dean said. “He's only got a dresser and the one closet.”

“I'll check the letters I brought with me first. I don't like digging around in other people's stuff.” It had been tough enough going through Grandpa's things. Mom and I had chuckled over a few items, but there were so many more that had made us cry. Reading the letters he'd sent to Calvin would probably have me bawling in no time.

Then I remembered that a search of Calvin's room would be unnecessary because the letter-filled shoe boxes were still out in my car.
Great.
I'd hauled those boxes all the way from Louisville and hadn't bothered to deliver them.

Yet.

Wyatt cleared his throat, drawing the eyes of everyone present. “If I had to guess, I'd say Calvin was originally from Texas. Considering how long he's lived in these parts, his accent has probably faded some, but he still has traces of it.”

I was pleased to note that Wyatt's stricken expression had been replaced with something more normal for him. Although he still seemed a bit grim, for the time being, he appeared to have overcome whatever ghosts from his past had reared their ugly heads.

“Thanks,” I said. “That'll give me someplace to start in a search—if it comes to that.”

Wyatt's gaze had nearly reduced me to jelly yet again when Dean gave me a nudge. “I'll give you a hand with those letters.”

As I thanked him for the offer, I couldn't help wondering why someone as blatantly flirty as Dean didn't have a similar effect on me. Being unused to male attention, I couldn't explain the difference.

To my surprise, when I rose from the table, each and every one of the men practically leaped to his feet. The sudden display of manners was probably due to the presence of two of the ranch's owners, although I doubted they would've behaved the same way if Dusty had been there without Mr. Kincaid.

“It's very kind of you to take an interest in Calvin,” Mr. Kincaid said. “I realize you don't know him very well, but…” Despite his gruff tone, there were tears shimmering in his eyes.

I had to blink back a few tears of my own. “He was my grandfather's friend—one of the few, actually—and probably the one he'd known the longest. Grandpa would want me to do whatever I could to help him.”

“You're a good girl, Tina.” The rough edge to his voice was even more pronounced. “I'm sorry I doubted you last night.”

“No worries,” I said. “Given the circumstances, your reaction was understandable.”

Nodding, he glanced at Dusty. “Think I'll head back to the house now.”

Dusty evidently took the hint. “I'll walk back with you.”

I wished them both good night and watched them leave. Jack Kincaid must've been a tough dude in his day. The remnants of his commanding nature were still there, although softened by time and age. Twenty years ago, he probably would've thrown me out on my keister and booted Dean out the door if he'd caught us together like that. Now he shuffled toward that same door on the arm of his son-in-law. I didn't have to think long to conclude that he didn't like the idea one little bit.