The Rancher And The Amnesiac Bride

by Joan Elliott Pickart

  Josie made her way back down the steps, along the sidewalk and headed for the rear of the house. She saw a bright red barn gleaming in the afternoon sun, pristine white corral fences and several small dark brown buildings.

  Now there, she mused, was tender lovin’ care. Max Carter apparently put his money and energy into everything but his house.

  She’d read about early settlers living in tents or sod huts while constructing huge barns. Max must be of that mind-set. It seemed everything on his ranch came before the maintenance of his home.

  Whatever, she thought, with a shrug.

  Josie passed a corral where a horse munched lazily on some scrub grass. She had yet to see a human being and so she kept going in the direction of the barn. When she was twenty feet in front of the wide open doors, a man appeared.

  Max, she thought. He looked exactly as she’d imagined him. Somewhere in his seventies, small and wiry, his skin tanned and weathered.

  He even had bowed legs!

  The cowboy hat he wore had seen better days, and gray stubble covered his cheeks and chin, indicating he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning.

  Josie quickened her step, smiling and extending her hand as she stopped in front of the man.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Carter,” she said brightly. “This is such a pleasure. I’m Josie Wentworth from Freemont Springs.”

  The man frowned, looked at Josie’s hand, her face, then gave her hand a firm, brisk shake.

  “I’ve come all this way to speak to you about a personal matter of utmost importance,” she went on, still smiling to beat the band. “Is there somewhere we could sit down together and have a private conversation, Max? May I call you Max?”

  The man lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

  “You can call me Max if you want to,” he said, his voice gravelly.

  “Splendid, and I’m Josie. So! Shall we go into the house where we won’t be disturbed?”

  “Well, now,” he said, running one hand over his beard-stubbled chin, “I don’t believe that would be proper.”

  “For us to be alone together in the house?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “My, my, aren’t you the old-fashioned gentleman. That is so sweet, so refreshing. Would you be more comfortable if we left the door open?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh,” Josie said, frowning. “Well, we could carry two chairs to the front porch. How’s that?”

  “Nope.”

  “Max, please,” she said with a sigh of exasperation. “Pick a place. Okay? I’ll follow you anywhere. It’s vitally important that I speak to you about this private and personal matter.”

  “There now, you see,” he said. “That’s where we’re running into trouble. It wouldn’t be right and fittin’ for me to be talking about a private and personal matter with you, Josie.”

  Josie planted her hands on her hips. “Why on earth not?”

  A slow grin crept onto the old cowboy’s face. “Because I’m not Max Carter.”

  “What!” Josie said, nearly shrieking. “You’re not Max? Then why did you say you were?”

  “Never did. You asked me if you could call me Max, and I figured I didn’t mind what you called me. The name’s Rusty, though.”

  “Oh, good grief,” Josie said, squeezing the bridge of her nose for a moment. “I don’t believe this.”

  She took a deep breath, willing the frustration that was bordering on anger back under control.

  “Okay. Fine,” she said. “Let’s start over...Rusty. I’m Josie Wentworth from Freemont Springs, and I’ve come to speak with Mr. Max Carter of the Single C Ranch. Is he available?”

  “Depends on what you mean by available. Max is a couple miles north, pulling out a dead tree stump. Don’t expect him in for a spell.”

  “I see. Well, do you have a vehicle you could drive to take me to where he is?”

  “Nope.”

  “I don’t suppose he carries a cell phone in his boot,” Josie said dismally.

  “Nope.”

  “Look, how would you reach him if there was an emergency here at the barn?”

  “I reckon I’d hitch up the wagon and go out there and fetch him.”

  “But you said you didn’t have a vehicle to... Never mind.”

  “Thought you meant a truck or Jeep or something of that nature.”

  “Rusty,” Josie said, striving desperately for patience, “would you please get the wagon you were speaking of and take me to wherever Max Carter is doing whatever he is doing with the dead tree?”

  “I guess I could do that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Then again, Max might not take kindly to being interrupted. You say it’s important, this private and personal matter?”

  “Very important.”

  “Well, it’s your hide if you’re trying to sell him something. Max won’t be losing any work time yapping with a saleslady, even one as pretty as you.”

  “I solemnly swear to you that I’m not selling anything, Rusty.”

  The old man nodded. “Then I guess I’ll go get the wagon hitched up.”

  “Thank you,” she said, managing to produce a pleasant—albeit phony—smile. “I’m most appreciative of your efforts on my behalf.”

  Josie rolled her eyes heavenward as Rusty turned and ambled back into the barn, moving so slowly she decided he might very well fall asleep on his feet. She folded her arms over her breasts, tapped one foot and waited.

  And waited.

  When the last ounce of patience she possessed was gone, she started toward the entrance of the barn—just as Rusty reappeared leading a plodding horse by the reins.

  Look at that beast, Josie thought, aware of a hint of hysteria creeping in around the edges of her brain. The horse must have come sailing over on the Mayflower at the same time Rusty did.

  Behind the swaybacked horse was a rickety wagon with a springboard seat. Rusty climbed up on the seat, then adjusted the reins.

  “You coming?” he said.

  “Yes, of course,” Josie said.

  She hiked the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder and marched to the side of the wagon. After two failed attempts, she finally managed to plunk herself on the hard board, feeling like a toddler who’d just crawled up the stairs.

  “All set?” Rusty said.

  “Yes. Thank you,” she answered, then folded her hands primly in her lap.

  “Yo. Yip,” Rusty said, flicking the reins on the horse’s wide back.

  The animal took off like a shot.

  “Oh, no!” Josie screamed.

  She nearly fell into the wagon bed, saving herself at the last second by gripping the front edge of the seat.

  “Slow down!” she hollered, as they barreled out of the barnyard.

  “Can’t,” Rusty yelled. “This horse has two speeds—half-dead slow and full steam ahead. He gets you where you want to go, though, no doubt about it.”

  “Why me, why me?” Josie murmured, her eyes wide with terror. “Oh, good night. Oh, my gosh. Oh. Oh. Whoa. Whoa. Oh.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed and hung on for dear life, trying to ignore the pain as her bottom bounced on the unyielding board.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Rusty bellowed a hearty “Whoa.” The horse came to such an abrupt halt that Josie nearly toppled forward onto the sweaty beast.

  She opened her eyes slowly, taking a deep, steadying breath in the process.

  She blinked, then closed her eyes again, wild thoughts racing through her mind.

  Something had jarred loose in her brain during the ride from hell, she thought frantically. She’d just seen the most gorgeous, blatantly masculine, ruggedly handsome man her imagination could conjure up. Where in her subconscious had he been hiding?

  With her eyes still shut, she could visualize in crystal clarity every inch of his six-foot body.

  He had shaggy black hair creeping below a sweat-stained Stetson, ebony eyes, tanned skin, wide shoulders and long, muscular legs, lovingly h
ugged by faded jeans.

  Those jeans were resting low on narrow hips below a bare chest covered in moist, dark curls. Taut muscles accentuated his perfectly proportioned arms. One large hand was wrapped around the handle of a shovel that was planted on the ground next to an enormous tree stump that was lying on its side.

  Gracious, Josie thought, what a delicious image. Well, enough was enough. She was settled down now with everything back in working order. She was going to open her eyes again, then ask Rusty how she could find Max Carter out here in the...wherever he’d brought her.

  Josie opened her eyes and her breath caught.

  He was still there. The masculinity-personified hunk-of-stuff was still standing there. And he was not a happy person. His eyebrows were drawn together in a fierce frown, making a dark slash above his straight blade of a nose.

  “Howdy there, Max,” Rusty said. “You got company come to call. This lady is Josie Wentworth from over Freemont Springs way. She has private and personal business to discuss with you.”

  This was Max Carter? Josie swallowed a bubble of nearly hysterical laughter. He wasn’t a mirage? He was real? He was Max?

  “That a fact?” Max said, still glowering at her.

  Oh, that voice, Josie thought. So deep, rumbly, befitting his size. The man didn’t quit. He just got better and better.

  “Just what is it you want, Ms. Wentworth?” Max said.

  “You can call her Josie.” Rusty chuckled. “No telling what she might call you. She picks a name and sticks it on you.”

  “Mmm,” Max said. “Well? I’m a busy man... Josie. Speak, or go away.”

  Get a grip, Josie Wentworth, she ordered herself. This was Max Carter, the link to Sabrina Jensen. He was obviously long on sex appeal and very short on patience and manners.

  She was going to have to make a good first impression, because she had a sneaking suspicion she was only going to get one shot at speaking with Max Carter.

  “I realize your time...” she started, then stopped and cleared her throat as she heard the squeaky sound of her voice. “I realize your time is valuable, Mr. Carter. If we could speak privately, I’ll be brief and to the point. Oh, and I hereby swear that I’m not selling anything. It’s extremely important. Might we have a few minutes alone? Please?”

  Max sighed.

  Damn, he thought. He’d been a word away from telling Rusty to take Ms. Fancy Britches Wentworth back up to the house and send her packing. There was nothing—absolutely nothing—private and personal he could possibly have to discuss with this woman.

  This extremely beautiful woman.

  Here he was covered in mud, muck and sweat, having strained every muscle in his body to the point of bone-deep pain, and the next thing he knew he was staring at one of the most delectable women he’d ever seen.

  The sun created a halo around her shiny auburn hair. The breeze sifted through it, swinging it back and forth, beckoning to his fingers to join in.

  Her features were delicate, her eyes big and brown, reminding him of a fawn, and her skin was why the phrase “peaches and cream” had been invented.

  And her lips? Lord, those lips. They had to be the most kissable in the state of Oklahoma.

  Full breasts were pushing against her tight little sweater and...

  Max’s frown deepened.

  He took in more details: the designer jeans, the manicured and polished nails, the obvious quality of her tapestry-and-leather purse.

  Quickly he came out of the sensual spell Josie Wentworth had cast over him, and ignored the coiling heat he could feel tightening low in his belly as he stared at her.

  Josie Wentworth was money. And whatever she wanted to talk to him about he wasn’t interested, not one damn bit.

  Oh, yeah, he’d been ready to send her on her way.

  But then?

  Then she’d drawn a shuddering little breath and said, “Please?” in a voice ringing with an unnamed emotion that had been his undoing.

  Damn.

  “Ten minutes,” he said gruffly. “You’d better talk fast, Josie Wentworth, because that’s all I can spare you to deliver your spiel.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr.... Max,” she said.

  “Mmm,” he said, tugging his Stetson low on his forehead.

  “You want me to hang around and take her back up front, boss?” Rusty said.

  “No,” Max replied. “You go on. I’m going to have to come in to get some dynamite. I got the tree stump out, but there’s a big boulder down in that hole that I want gone before we plow this section. I’ll drive her back in the truck.”

  “Gotcha,” Rusty said.

  Josie wiggled to the edge of the wooden seat, then jumped to the ground. Rusty clucked to the horse and the animal once again took off at full speed.

  “Weird horse,” Josie said, staring after Rusty and the beast.

  “He has a mind of his own, but then all of us here on the Single C do.” Max wrapped both hands around the shovel handle and propped one booted foot on top of the blade. “Your clock is ticking.”

  “Yes, well, is there somewhere we could go to be a bit more comfortable? You know, perhaps sit down?”

  “Do you expect me to serve tea and crumpets, too?”

  “There’s no call for being grumpy and rude,” Josie said, planting her hands on her hips. “It was a perfectly reasonable question.”

  “Yeah, right,” Max said, a very sarcastic edge to his voice.

  He pulled the shovel from the dirt, placed it in the back of the truck, then untied a thick rope from the tree stump and a hitch, and tossed the rope in after the shovel. He then let down the tailgate of the truck and leaned on the edge.

  “Your throne, madam,” he said with a sweep of one arm. “And I repeat, your clock is ticking.”

  Josie sighed and walked to the tailgate. She stared at it, wondering how on earth she was going to crawl up onto it in a ladylike manner.

  “Oh, for cripe’s sake,” Max said, pushing his Stetson up with his thumb.

  Josie gasped as Max grasped her around the waist and lifted her up onto the tailgate as though she weighed no more than a feather pillow.

  Instead of shifting away, Max flattened one hand on either side of her and looked directly into her eyes.

  “What’s on your mind, Josie?” he said quietly, his voice very deep and very, very rumbly.

  Mind? she thought hazily. What mind? Dear heaven, she couldn’t breathe, let alone think. Max Carter’s dark eyes were mesmerizing, making it impossible for her to tear her gaze from his.

  He had her trapped by his arms and body; trapped in an enclosure of potent masculinity that was sending currents of heat shooting through her like rockets on the Fourth of July.

  Move, Carter, Max ordered himself. What in the hell did he think he was doing? He was going up in flames—hot, painful flames.

  He was so close to Josie that if he inched forward he could capture those delectable lips with his mouth and taste her, inhale even more of her flowery cologne.

  Lord, she was tempting.

  She was sweet ice cream on a hot summer day, just waiting to be savored slowly, a little enticing bit at a time.

  Josie Wentworth was... Wentworth? his mind echoed suddenly. As in, Wentworth Oil Works? The Wentworths of Oklahoma? Ah, hell, that would explain her fancy jeans, the stylish purse, the professional polish on her nails and... Wentworth. Megabucks. Right out of the slice of society he despised.

  “Wentworth Oil,” he said, straightening and taking a step backward.

  “Who?” Josie said, then blinked. “Oh. Wentworth Oil. Well, I’m not here representing my family’s enterprise. In fact, none of them even know about you or this visit. They believe I’m taking some private time alone with no particular destination for an undetermined length of time.”

  “But you are one of those Wentworths.”

  Josie frowned. “Yes, but you don’t have to make it sound like a disease. I’ve come on personal business. I’m attempting to loc
ate Sabrina Jensen.”

  “My cousin Sabrina?” Max said, surprise evident on his face. “Why? What could you possibly want with Sabrina?”

  Sabrina was Max’s cousin? Josie thought. Well, wasn’t that nice. She wasn’t his wife or lover or lady friend. Sabrina was Max’s cousin. Why did that make her feel so bubbly, so relieved, so—?

  Because of Jack. Of course, that was it. It would be just awful if Jack had fallen in love at long last, only to lose his heart to a woman who belonged to someone else.

  “Come on, Josie,” Max said, folding his arms over his chest. “Spill it. What do you want with Sabrina?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Back up. I asked you a question.”

  “All right,” Josie said with a sigh. “My brother, Jack, was killed recently while on a special assignment with the State Department. Among his personal effects I found a letter from Jack to Sabrina. It was addressed to her in care of you at the Single C ranch.”

  “Let me guess,” Max said. “You read the letter. You just helped yourself, opened it and read it.”

  “Well, yes, because I needed to know—”

  “Have you ever heard of privacy?” Max interrupted. “Of respecting other people’s belongings? That letter was Sabrina’s, not yours. What right did you have to read it?” He shook his head. “Oh, wait a minute. You’re a Wentworth of the millionaire jet set. You do whatever you damn well please, don’t you?”

  “You don’t understand,” Josie said, her voice rising. “There was a blue velvet box holding an engagement ring in Jack’s belongings, too. I have to find out if he intended to ask Sabrina to marry him.”

  “What difference does it make?” Max shouted. “The man is dead.”

  Josie shivered from the pain of the stark reality of Max’s shouted words, then she allowed her anger to have full rein.

  “Because, you dolt,” she said, hopping down off the tailgate, “if Jack was in love with Sabrina and intended to ask her to marry him, then she is, in my opinion, a member of our family. She could bring a great deal of comfort to me, to my grandfather and—”