Once Upon a Cowboy (8 page)

"They're all pointy."

"The one way in the back. With the mustache. It looks just like Gabby. The snow hangs off that ridge the same way his droopy ol' mustache hangs off his face. And see that top part? Those are his bushy eyebrows. I'd know them anywhere."

"You have a mighty vivid imagination for a cowboy." Holt dismounted and dropped his reins to the ground. He snagged a fallen section of barbed wire and stretched it to the nearest post, hammering it in place. "You'll find those hills take on a whole new appearance with each season."

"Wish I could be here to see it." She leaned across the pommel and watched him. His efforts pulled his cotton shirt tight, the muscles across his back and shoulders rippling with each blow of his fence tool. "I can't get over how beautiful this part of the country is."

He spared her a quick glance. "You haven't been out here before?"

She shook her head. He'd touched on a sore subject, one she preferred to avoid. "Aside from Texas, I haven't been anywhere but Virginia. And to be honest," she admitted in a low voice, "I barely remember Texas. I was three when we left."

He tipped back his hat and rested his forearms across the top of the post. She read a sympathetic warmth and a certain gentle humor reflected in his dark eyes. "That would be after you fell off your horse and broke your arm?"

Cami laughed. "Yep. Right after that." Her smile faded. "Actually, Momma decided to return to Virginia when Poppa died. So, I spent my formative years there." She shrugged carelessly, hoping to conceal her pain. "Sad, but true."

She could tell she hadn't fooled him. He sheathed his fence tool, giving her a moment to collect herself. "If you grew up back East, explain the accent," he said, steering the topic onto a more neutral course.

"I'm a Texan," she said kindly. "The accent's a birthright."

"Like your cowboying skills?"

She ignored his dry tone. "Exactly. I haven't had the opportunity to use those skills, is all. Which is why they're a mite rusty. But don't you worry. I'll catch up faster than buckshot chasing a varmint's tail."

His lips twitched. "Tell me something."

"If I can."

"Why wait so long to act on your cowboy birthright?"

She frowned. "Momma... Well, let's just say Momma wasn't suited to ranch life. It would have hurt her something fierce if I'd up and left. I couldn't put my own interests first. But this seemed the perfect solution." She ticked off on her fingers. "It's temporary. It'll give me the opportunity to see if I'm truly suited to the life. And it fulfills my dream."

"And if it ends in two weeks?"

She gave him a level look. "I'm like my yo-yo. I may take to spinning and getting tied up in knots, but I always come back."

"Which means?"

"Which means that if this doesn't work, I'll try again. And again. And again. Eventually, I'll get it right." She tugged her hat lower on her brow. Feathers burst from the hatband, caught in the breeze and spun in little circles around her head. "But you know what?"

His dark eyes glittered with laughter. "What?"

She firmed her chin. "I'm not leaving in two weeks. And, mister, you can bank on that."

The humor faded from his eyes and he straightened away from the fence post. "Banks in these parts have a history of folding. You'll have to excuse me if I prefer to wait and see."

He climbed onto Loco and hesitated. With a muttered exclamation, he reached into his saddlebags and rummaged for a tube of lotion. "Haul your tail over here, Tex. You forgot to lather up that nose. You're starting to look like Rudolph."

Cami urged Petunia closer and held out her hand. To her amazement, he snatched off her hat and hung it on his saddle horn. Then he squeezed a generous dab of zinc oxide onto his finger and with great care smeared the ointment across her nose. "This sun has given your freckles freckles." His voice dipped lower, acquiring a rough edge. "Lots of itty-bitty pinprick freckles."

She froze, his tone unsettling her, reviving a keen awareness between them, along with an aching tension that left her confused and wanting. Why did she have to feel this way about Holt? Why couldn't he be older? More of a father figure, like Frank? She could have learned the necessary skills without the distraction of so much...
man
.

He was so different from other men she'd known. Tough. Lean. As strong and intimidating as the mountains around them. And equally as impervious. Just the way he stared at her, with those riveting black eyes, burning with the merest hint of passion.

She was out of her depth and knew it.

She eased away from his touch. "Thanks for the nose job. My freckles are eternally grateful."

He dropped her hat back onto her head and a few more feathers bit the dust. He nodded in satisfaction. "Won't be long now."

"Won't be long until what?"

"Until that hat starts looking like a hat again, instead of something out of a chicken's worst nightmare."

"You don't like my hat?" she asked, insulted.

"I like it just fine. Except for the color and the feathers. Hats should be black or brown, and feathers belong on birds."

There didn't seem to be an adequate response to that. Holt turned Loco east along the fence line, and after a moment she followed. They dipped into a deep ravine, muddy from spring runoff. At the bottom, he drew up short.

"You hear something?"

She listened carefully. "Sure do. Sounds like somebody's crying." She pointed toward thicker brush. "That way, I think."

Single file, they picked a path through the scrub. In a small clearing they found a cow and her calf. The calf bawled its head off. The cow, bogged down in mud, simply stood looking miserable.

Alarm swept through Cami. "What do we do?"

"We pull out the cow," Holt stated, matter-of-factly.

She couldn't conceal her relief. Of course. They'd pull out the cow. She knew he'd have the perfect solution. A sudden thought occurred and she frowned. "How do we pull her out?"

"With a rope."

"Good. A rope. We have ropes. This will work." Holt continued to sit and study the cow's predicament and Cami gazed at him in concern. "Well, what are we waiting for? That poor baby looks half starved. Let's get to it."

He sighed. "It's a calf, not a baby. And it probably is half starved. But the first thing to learn about cattle, Tex, is you don't go in half cocked. In case you hadn't noticed, cows are big and heavy and dumber than a rock. You need to decide the safest way to handle the situation. Then you do it."

She nodded decisively. "No problem. Plan first. Execute plan second. Tell me what you want and it's yours."

"It can get tricky, so do exactly as I tell you," he instructed in a stern voice. "Understand?"

"Yessir, boss."

"I'm going to wade in and pull the cow's legs loose. Once that's done, we need to put a rope around her horns and haul her out."

He shed his gloves and dismounted. Gingerly he entered the mud hole, sinking in up to his knees. Keeping a weather eye on the distressed animal, he worked his way around her, shoving his hands along her legs and carefully lifting them free of the mud. The cow rolled her eyes and bellowed, struggling against the pull of the ooze.

Cami watched anxiously. She couldn't just sit and do nothing. She had to help. City slickers sat around without a clue. Like Holt said, cowboys,
real
cowboys, formulated a plan and took action. That decided, she freed her rope and twirled it carefully overhead.

Take it easy. Don't screw up. Snagging the bushes won't help the cow.
And more than anything, she wanted to help. This time she took care not to snap her wrist back, but used the natural impetus of the rope to throw it forward. The loop flew through the air and dropped cleanly. Unfortunately it dropped over the wrong animal. With the immediacy of long practice, Petunia danced backward and the rope pulled tight. Holt measured his full six-foot-three inch length in the muck.

"Whoa, stop," Cami shouted, bouncing in the saddle and digging her heels into the horse's sides.

Petunia, seeming to have a mind of her own, ignored the order and continued in reverse. With a loud slurping, sucking sound, Holt popped out of the mud hole and slid across dirt and rock. The horse shifted into neutral.

Slowly, Holt stood. All she could see were two black eyes glaring from a mountain of mud. The mountain of mud whipped off the rope and threw it down. She swallowed. Hard. He took a step toward her and she fumbled for her canteen of water and burst into panicked speech.

"Gee. I'm real sorry about this, Holt. Mr. Winston. Sir."

"Get... off... that... horse."

She unscrewed the top. "You see, Petunia got it into her head to back up and I couldn't stop her."

She aimed the water in his direction, intent on hosing off some of the mud. She might have squeezed the container a bit too enthusiastically. A hard spray of water caught him full in the face. For an instant, neither of them moved. Neither of them even breathed. Even the calf broke off bawling, seeming to sense the danger thickening the air. The water definitely cleaned off the mud. Now she could see quite clearly the full extent of his fury. And then he broke the silence, blistering the air with words she'd never heard spoken before in all her born days.

"Get. Off. That. Horse.
Now!
"

"Yessir. Right away, sir. You think we should get that cow out first? I mean, as long as I'm up here and you're down there all muddy and every—"

"Get off the fool horse, woman!"

She tumbled off Petunia. "Oh, Holt. I'm so sorry. I was just trying to help. Honest, I was. And you said we had to rope the cow.
We.
That means both of us. Like, you
and
me. So, I thought, why not me? You were busy pulling the cow's legs from the mud. You couldn't do that and rope at the same time. Which left me to do it. So I did. Only I missed. And you... I... Petunia wouldn't stop. I said, whoa. I said, stop." She glared at Holt. "Doesn't your horse understand English?"

He started for her and she belatedly shut her mouth, deciding a full retreat was in order. Before she could back out of reach, he grabbed a fistful of shirt with mud-coated hands. The next instant she found herself plastered up against him, stuck tighter than a bug on a strip of flypaper.

His hard, muscular thighs rode her softer curves, his wide shoulders eclipsing her view. His chest heaved and his breath came fast and furious. He seemed to have trouble speaking, but she suspected that wouldn't last long.

She was right.

"You and me are going to come to an understanding, Tex," he informed her through gritted teeth.

"You got it. Anything you say." She peeked up at him hopefully. "Um, do you think we might come to this understanding with a bit more distance between us? Remember? For safety's sake?" She wriggled tentatively. Slippery curves slid over taut, sinewy muscles. It was the wrong thing to do.

She froze. He groaned.

"You haven't been safe from the minute you hit Winston land." His head dipped lower. "And neither have I."

And with that, he kissed her.

Chapter 4

Even though mud covered him from top to toe and most points in between, Cami had never experienced a kiss this marvelous... or this devastating. In fact, if her boots hadn't been in the way, his kiss would have knocked her socks clean off. Instead, he knocked her hat into the dirt. Not that she cared.

She tilted back her head, wrapped her arms around his neck and enjoyed. His mouth took hers, rough in a passionate sort of way, though not in the least hurtful or insensitive. He'd done this before, she could tell. And he'd learned to do it real fine, too. For an instant she considered telling him so, but she couldn't seem to gather her wits sufficiently to speak.

He eased his grip on the front of her shirt, his hands sliding upward to cup her face instead. They were strong hands, hands as quick to calm any misgivings as they were to curb any opposition. Not that she offered much opposition. Not a chance. Why would she fight a touch as smooth and warm as good whiskey? Especially when his brand of whiskey licked through her veins with dizzying speed.