Once Upon a Cowboy (10 page)

He'd almost stripped her down and taken her right there beneath the cottonwood. Would she have resisted? Something told him she wouldn't have. Something told him, she'd have given herself to him with the same determination and generosity that had characterized her from the minute he'd first seen her.

Of course, if nature had taken its course Frank would have gotten quite an eyeful. Then he'd have had to shoot Frank. Frank probably wouldn't take well to having been shot and feel obligated to do something about it. Plus, Holt would have the small problem of the law frowning on ranchers shooting each other. Once upon a time he might have gotten away with it. But today people tended to frown on it.

He sighed.

"You've got trouble," Frank said.

Holt didn't bother denying it. "Big trouble."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"Keeping my damned hands off her might be a good start."

"A difficult proposition."

"A painful proposition." They both fell silent for a few minutes. In a resigned voice Holt asked, "I don't suppose you've heard of any decent wranglers looking for work."

"I put the word out. The few I heard were free I wouldn't have within a thousand miles of my spread. What about those other resumés you received? Isn't there anyone else you could hire?"

Holt shook his head. "Only one's still available and she's eighty-two. I'd have hired her on the spot, but she's just been released from the hospital following a bout of pneumonia and the doctor won't okay it."

"Which leaves Tex."

"Which leaves Tex and all that damned black hair," Holt agreed.

"And those big blue eyes."

"Not to mention the dimples."

"Or the freckles."

Steel crept into Holt's voice. "Mention those cute little freckles in that tone and I'm like as not to knock you on your arse."

"You've got trouble."

Holt yanked his hat low on his forehead. "Big trouble."

* * *

Cami walked to the side of the ranch house and into the laundry room. Holt had pointed it out the day she arrived and told her he'd recently put in sufficient machines to service the hands as well as the guests. "Feel free to use it anytime," he'd said. "You'll get plenty dirty working around here." He hadn't been kidding.

She bypassed a long folding table covered with a pile of heavy duty commercial towels, several pairs of faded jeans and a neat stack of flannel shirts. Crossing directly to the washing machine, she opened the lid and dumped in her muddy clothes and a cupful of detergent. Her mouth curved downward.

Here she stood, squeaky clean from head to toe and poor Holt rode the range with mud filled boots, a dusty hat and a six-inch coating of muck. By now the muck would have dried beneath the warm spring sun into something akin to plaster. If he hadn't been cemented in place atop his horse, he'd at least be itchy and miserable. And ticked.

And it was all her fault.

With a sigh, she started the washer and turned to leave. Feeling guilty wouldn't help. Nothing she could do would help, except, perhaps, to stay away from ropes, mud holes, and Holt. And considering that cowboying on the A-OK frequently involved all three, her future looked decidedly dicey.

Time to get moving. Time to return to work. Time to give Holt more of her special brand of help. She hesitated, her gaze falling once again on the stack of clean clothes lining the folding table. Inspiration struck. Maybe, just maybe, she'd found a way to make amends.

Snatching up jeans, shirt, and a towel and washcloth, she headed for her horse. Shoving her collection into the saddlebags, she mounted. "Come on, Petunia. Let's find Holt. He sure is going to be pleased when he sees what I've brought him."

They'd be working down by the river, he'd said. To her surprise, she found him in the first pasture she crossed. She pulled up short and watched, her brow wrinkled in confusion. What in the world was going on? Frank and Holt, whistling and hiyahing for all they were worth, pursued a bunch of longhorn cows.

She took another look. Those weren't just cows they were attempting to corral. The herd contained a huge infuriated bull, as well. Cami winced as a wickedly curved horn slashed a path inches from Holt's thigh. This was no place for an amateur, she realized, deciding to sit tight. She didn't dare risk distracting Holt. And without doubt, she seemed to have an uncanny knack for distracting, not to mention riling the man.

An instant later, a huge longhorn thundered by, heading straight for Holt's back. On the other hand... Acting on sheer instinct, she clipped her heels against Petunia's rump and gave chase. She reached for her rope and hesitated, an image of this morning's disaster flashing before her eyes. The longhorn continued on its path of certain disaster and Cami realized she needed to act fast. If she didn't stop the beast, Holt would be on the hurting end of those horns.

Without further consideration, she shoved her hand into her pocket and yanked out a yo-yo. Petunia increased her stride, until they were just behind the cow. Cami hollered a warning to Holt. He whirled around, but she knew it was too late for him to escape those huge horns. She let fly with the yo-yo.

The bright red yo-yo spun to within a hair of the longhorn's nose and jerked back, looping around and around one horn. Cami slipped the string off her finger and pulled Petunia up short. The cow bellowed a protest and skidded to an abrupt halt, inches shy of Holt. The yo-yo dipped and bobbed, dangling from one horn like a giant earring. Completely distracted, the longhorn stood, front legs spread wide, and shook its head, attempting to rid itself of this new annoyance.

A split second later, Holt cut between her and the irate cow, swiftly guiding her clear of harm's way.

"She was going to gore you. It was the only thing I could think of to stop her," Cami explained breathlessly. "I didn't dare use my rope. Not after this morning. Like as not, I'd have lassoed you or Loco instead of the longhorn. And I didn't want to hurt the poor thing, just get her attention off you."

"Fast thinking, Tex," he soothed. "I don't doubt for a minute that you saved my hide. Stay right here. Don't move from this spot. Understand?"

"Sure thing." Her confused gaze moved to the chaotic scene around them. "I don't understand. What's going on?"

"We need to finish corralling that bull and get him to his own pasture. Do not," he paused, holding her gaze with a severe expression, "do
not
help."

Her head bobbed up and down. "Yessir. No, sir. I'll wait here and not be a bit of help."

Pulling his neckerchief over the lower half of his face, he pivoted Loco around and disappeared into a thick cloud of cattle dust. She watched anxiously for Holt and Frank to reappear. Eventually they did, guiding a struggling bull into another pasture. Securing the gate, they rode toward her.

"Is everything all right now?" she asked, noting their grave expressions. "What happened?"

Holt took his time answering. He removed his hat and wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his gloved hand. If she thought him dirty before, it didn't come close to comparing to the thick layer of dirt, dust, and muck covering him now. His eyes, angry and dust rimmed, finally turned in her direction. "You see that bull?" He gestured toward the animal ramming the stuffing out of a large aspen in the far pasture.

"I see him," Cami nodded.

"He's a Hereford bull. He's part of the herd raised for beef. See those longhorns?" He pointed to the cattle a short distance away.

"Yes, I see them," she repeated, more warily this time.

"Those are very expensive show cows. I culled them special and stuck them here because they're ready to be bred. Someone," he continued, "and I can't say for sure who that someone is. But
someone
left the gate open between the Hereford bull and longhorn cows. Do you realize how much money it'll cost me if that bull sires an offspring with one of my longhorn?"

She gulped. "No."

"Believe me when I tell you it's a lot." He leaned across his saddle horn, fixing her with a gimlet stare. "If I ever found out who left that gate open, I'd be tempted to shoot the varmint. Because only a varmint would be foolheaded enough to do such a thing. Especially in these parts."

"Why especially in these parts?" she whispered.

"Because in these parts the first lesson kids learn when they crawl out of their cradles is to keep the damn gates shut. First lesson. Shut the gate."

She bit down on her lip. "Got it. Shut the gate. Shoot the varmint."

"Perhaps Tex should call it a day," Frank suggested.

Holt inclined his head. "Good idea."

She glanced from one to the other. "But I'm all clean and ready to get dirty again. Besides, look what I brought you." She clambered off Petunia and flipped open a saddlebag. She pulled out the towel and washcloth. "I figured you'd be dirty and itchy from all that mud and could use the river to clean up. And see?" She yanked out his jeans and shirt. "I even brought a change of clothing and everything." She frowned at the empty saddlebag. "Well, maybe not
everything.
I sort of forgot the soap. But that dirt should come off with a spit and a polish."

"Tex," Holt began.

She clutched his clothes to her chest and peered up at him hopefully. "Yes?"

He cleared his throat. "Thanks. That was mighty thoughtful of you. There's one or two more chores I need to see to. It's a one man job, so consider the next few hours off as a... a sort of bonus."

Her gaze dropped to her toes. "A bonus," she murmured. "Right. Much obliged."

He reached down and tugged the shirt, jeans, and towel from her arms. "I appreciate your bringing these to me. I'll be along in a bit."

Without another word, she mounted and turned the horse toward the ranch house.

"Tex?"

She reined Petunia in. "Yes?"

"Don't forget to close the gates behind you," he said gently.

Cheeks burning, she gave a quick nod. A feather drifted from the hat brim and landed on the tip of her nose. "I won't forget," she assured, blowing irritably at the feather. "Shut the gate and shoot the varmint."

Keeping her spine ramrod stiff, she trotted Petunia across the pasture. She didn't even attempt to steal a backward glance as she passed through the gate and carefully and deliberately closed and latched it behind her.

* * *

Holt lay in bed and settled his arms behind his head. For some reason it felt cold and lonely. He stared out at the starry night, unable to sleep. A huge moon filled the narrow window, nearly blinding him.

Tex wasn't a wrangler, he reminded himself. She'd never be a wrangler. Sure, she was tough. She didn't give up, no matter how difficult it got. But she didn't belong here, at least not on his ranch. Even so, the memory of the kiss they shared stole over him, along with the feel and taste of her. She'd roused a powerful need within him, a desire to make her his in every sense of the word.

What would have happened if she'd been competent? If she'd been able to rope and ride and handle cattle? What excuse would he have found to get rid of her then?

Admit it, Winston
.
It's not just because she's a city slicker. You don't trust any women, not after Gwen.

Even a woman as open and guileless as Cami Greenbush. So what sort of man did that make him? What sort of man took a woman into his arms and possibly to his bed, all the while refusing to commit to her?

A man who didn't trust... no matter how deep the want.

* * *

Cami lay in bed in the cabin assigned to the female hands. So far, she had the place to herself and she didn't like it. It felt cold and lonely. She stared out at the starry night, unable to sleep. A huge moon filled the narrow window, nearly blinding her.

Some cowboy she'd turned out to be. Tears filled her eyes and she gritted her teeth, fighting with every ounce of determination to hold them at bay. Texans were tough, she reminded herself. Texans didn't give up, no matter how difficult it got. Her poppa had taught her that. She squeezed her eyes shut. If Poppa could only see her now. His pride and joy. His little cowboy. The phrase joggled a distant memory and slowly it surfaced.

She'd been tiny. Very tiny. And sitting astride her very own pony. She'd made a successful circuit around the corral and her father had held out his arms to her. "Come here, Camellia bush," he'd said with a laugh. "What a good little cowboy you're gonna make. Daddy's little cowboy."

Daddy's little cowboy. Oh, yeah. He'd be real proud if he could see her now. A tear spilled free, curving across her temple and soaking into her hair. With a muffled sob, she rolled over and buried her head in her pillow.

Real proud.

Chapter 5