by Cindy Gerard
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Contents:
Prologue
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11
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Prologue
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Women had always held Clay James's interest. They amused him. Sometimes they amazed him. But no woman had ever rubbed him in all the wrong ways like Maddie Brannigan.
With a smug sort of satisfaction, Clay watched Maddie cross his brother Garrett's backyard, a cold can of soda in her hand. He thumbed back his tan Stetson, hooked a thumb in the belt loop of his pressed denims and spared a moment to pity Joe Benyon, the poor schmuck who was putting up with her lip today.
The party was in full swing. The whole family, as well as a bevy of friends, were celebrating Garrett and Emma's eleventh wedding anniversary. The two of them had experienced some rocky times recently. You'd never know it to look at them now, but it had gotten so rough that Emma had actually left Garrett a few month ago. With a wry grin, Clay remembered his part in the kidnapping the James boys had staged to help get the two of them back together.
Fortunately it had all worked out, and the brothers hadn't ended up in jail like their notorious outlaw ancestors—although at one point in time some would have argued that the population of Jackson Hole would sleep better at night if the James boys were out of circulation.
Clay agreed that may have been a valid concern once, but Maya James Bradford's boys had mellowed some over the years. Especially Garrett. Clay watched with a smile as Garrett held eight-year-old Sara on his hip and pulled Emma to his other side. That was a man in love if he'd ever seen one, a man happily and completely mired in his family. More and more often, Clay found himself wishing for what Garrett had with Emma.
It had been a long time coming, but at thirty-one, he was finally ready to settle down. And Veronica Evans, he told himself as he tucked the pretty blonde under his arm and smiled into her cool blue eyes, might finally be the woman he wanted to settle down with.
Involuntarily his gaze strayed back across the lawn to Maddie. Automatically his mind clicked into comparison mode. Veronica was exactly the kind of woman that Maddie, with her wild mop of dusky brown curls, her flashing black eyes, bohemian life-style, and razor-sharp tongue would never be. Veronica, he assured himself, ignoring an uncomfortable little niggle of dissent, was the kind of woman he'd been looking for all his life. She was drop-dead gorgeous, had impeccable taste and a sensible head on her shoulders. She was demure, solicitous and baked the hell out of every one of his favorite dishes. And she wasn't driven by her art the way Maddie was. She wasn't even particularly embroiled in her career. She was an officer in her daddy's bank and had made it clear as crystal that she could walk away from the position without a qualm if the incentive was right. She'd been subtle but not shy about clarifying that for Clay.
So what if she wasn't a brilliant conversationalist? Who cared if she wasn't overly imaginative and didn't seem to have many original thoughts? She was focused and centered, and what she was centered on was making him happy. Maddie Brannigan wouldn't know centered if it sneaked up and bit her on her saucy little tush.
The tush in question turned his way, presenting Clay with an unobstructed view of a tidy bottom packed into a pair of snug, bibbed, denim short shorts. The tiny flame-red T-shirt tucked under the bib hugged sweet, saucy breasts and left her midriff bare—just like the shorts bared tanned, toned legs that, as short as they were, were shapely and much more sexy than they ought to be.
"I don't know about you," Veronica said, the cool silk of her voice drawing his attention away from the trim little package of trouble and back where it belonged, "but I'm getting thirsty. Stay put. I'll get us some lemonade."
With a quick, adoring smile, she headed for the table loaded with refreshments, her pastel sundress swishing softly around her calves.
Clay braced to take a good-natured razzing when little brother Jesse sauntered up beside him.
"So it's lemonade, now, is it? My, oh, my. Last I knew, a cold beer was more your drink of choice. Amazing what a good woman can do for a sorry sinner."
Like all the James boys, Jesse's dark hair was thick and supple, even if it was a little longer and a little more recklessly styled than his own or Garrett's. The wide mouth that grinned at Clay mirrored his own—as did the electric blue of Jesse's eyes. Unlike his older brothers, however, Jesse's eyes were so full of mischief and mayhem, one look provoked mothers to hustle their daughters out of sight and lock them away until he blew back out of town.
Taking Jesse's ribbing in stride, Clay assumed the wiser brother role and clapped a hand on Jesse's shoulder. "You ought to think about finding a good woman yourself, little brother. One who'd knock some sense into that hard head of yours and make a respectable man out of you."
Jesse, the true renegade of the James clan, just grinned his outlaw grin and thumbed back his black Resistol.
"Respectable?" He affected a full-body shudder. "Bite your tongue. Garrett's respectable enough for the three of us. But something tells me," he added in a speculative aside, "you might be thinking about joining the ranks."
Clay's gaze tracked back to Maddie where she was the center of attention of a gaggle of chest-puffing, macho-posturing males. Disgusted, he sought Jesse's opinion of Veronica. "So what do you think of her?"
Jesse tipped back his long neck then scratched his jaw. "Guess that'd depend on how serious you are."
Maddie's laughter rang on the summer wind like the deep, mellow tones of a heavy brass wind chime, charming the testosterone in the air around her to a new high. It also coaxed back Clay's gaze just as she tossed her hair over her shoulder with a flirty lift of her chin.
An irritating little tick sent a muscle twitching above his left eye. Determined to ignore it and her, he tuned in to Jesse's cryptic comment. "Depends on how serious I am? What's that supposed to mean? Either you like Veronica or you don't."
"I like her fine," Jesse assured him quickly. "It's just … I don't know." He paused to measure Clay's reaction. "She seems a little tame for you is all. Besides, I always thought you had a thing for Maddie."
Clay whipped his head around. "Maddie?" He barked out a short laugh. "What under God's own Wyoming sky, would make you think I was interested in that irritating, infuriating, fire-breathing little shrew?" He threw in a snort for good measure. "If ever there was a woman who would not be on my list of marriage candidates, it would be her."
Jesse grinned. "It's your story, so you can tell it any way you want to. But if I was a betting man, I'd stake my gold buckles you've got a bad itch for that little filly."
Clay shook his head. "These rodeo analogies are real cute, Jess, and your women may fall for that cowboy quaint philosophy, but if you think I'm interested in Mad Dog Brannigan, you've been thrown one too many times and lit on your head just a little too often."
In truth, Jesse's record and current standings in the Pro Rodeo Cowboy Association indicated just the opposite. It took a real bad day and a killer bull to toss Jesse James into the dirt before an eight count these days.
But he was also more astute than his brother wanted to give him credit for. Jesse figured he had a bead on the reason Clay always watched Maddie and for the deep scowl darkening his face when he did. The look on Garrett's face when he strolled over to join them said he had Clay pegged, too.
"I don't know if the neighborhood can stand this much of the James brain trust huddled in one place," Garrett said with a grin. "Care to fill me in on what this little meeting of the minds is about?"
Jesse tipped his half-full beer bottle at Clay. "Our bullheaded brother here is trying to convince me he doesn't have the hots for Maddie."
Garrett snorted. "Oh, that same old saw."
"What is it with you two?" Clay grumbled, slicing a glare between them. "When did I ever give anyone the impression that Maddie Brannigan inspired anything but heartburn?"
Garrett and Jesse exchanged knowing looks.
"Okay," Clay grudgingly admitted, knowing he couldn't completely dodge their accusations. "So she's a hot little number. So maybe I have wondered—on an occasion or two, when I could have been declared temporarily but legally insane—what she'd be like in bed. But that's just curiosity. And I'm not stupid. Neither do I have a death wish. The woman is Looney Tunes. The woman is certifiable. Besides, she hates my guts.
"Forget about it," he insisted, determined not to rise any higher to the bait they were dangling when his brothers exchanged another look. "I know what I want in a woman. I know what I need. I need a woman who will be happy with home and hearth, taking care of me and making babies."
"Sounds logical," Garrett said with a condescending and totally insincere nod. "Not to mention self-serving."
"And boring," Jesse added, making it clear that he thought Clay was dirt stupid and up to his eyeballs in illusion if he thought Veronica would be enough of a challenge. "Kind of like settling for chicken soup when you could have hot chili."
"Just because you've got Emma," Clay grumbled, even though he was happy with Garrett's good fortune for finding someone who was not only all of the things he himself wanted in a mate but her own woman, too. "And you," he added with a clipped nod at Jesse, "just because you've made it your life's work to test drive as many models as is humanly possible before you settle on the one that's right for you, doesn't mean I'm in a position to do that, either.
"Nope," he insisted, building on his conviction and irked that it sounded like he was working harder to convince himself than his brothers. "I don't have your good fortune, Garrett, or your stamina, Jess. Maddie Brannigan? No way, no how, no chance."
Then he walked away to join Veronica, who had been waylaid by the minister who had renewed Garrett and Emma's vows at the church service earlier.
One of these days, maybe he'd have a little talk with Pastor Considine himself, he thought, then scowled as the sight of a brilliant red T-shirt and way too much tanned, bare skin flitted by his peripheral vision and set his eye twitching again.
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Chapter 1
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It wasn't even his birthday, and yet a big fat present had just been dropped in Clay's lap.
"Well would you look at that?" Sporting a huge grin, he slowed his tan Jeep Cherokee to a crawl and pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway.
Slinging his arm over the seat back, he angled a look behind him and backed up to the car stalled by the side of the road.
A beach-ball sun, apricot-gold and rimmed in shimmering silver was just crawling behind the Tetons, settling in for the night and taking the bulk of its warmth with it. Even though it was early August and the temperature had risen to the low eighties in the afternoon, a dusk chill was only a few minutes away. So was darkness. This stretch of blacktop was no place for friend or foe—or fowl, he added with a shake of his head and a chuckle—to be stalled.
He slid out of the Jeep and tugged his Stetson low over his brow. Then, schooling a straight face, he tucked his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and strolled leisurely over to the stranded car.
"Problem?" he asked, leaning an elbow on the roof of Maddie Brannigan's apple red compact and peering down into the open driver's-side window.
The big, yellow chicken behind the wheel clapped her beak together, crossed her wings over her breast, and let out a weary sigh. "It had to be you, didn't it?"
Giving in to the grin, he took a long, thorough survey of the woman trussed up in yellow feathers and a sour scowl. "Call it divine intervention," he said cheerfully and got ready to enjoy himself—really enjoy himself—at her expense.
She looked plump and ready to pluck in that get-up, but he knew exactly what the feathered finery covered—a sweet, sexy little body that he suspected was just short of smoldering with both anger and humiliation. He had every intention of pushing her to flash point. It was, after all, tradition.
From the time they were kids growing up as back-door neighbors on adjoining spreads, she'd made it her life's work to irritate him. Because she did such a good job of it, he'd returned the favor every chance he got and made it his personal mission to tick her off.
"On your way to a poultry convention?" he asked conversationally.
The heat in her eyes mirrored the sun's as she stared straight ahead, her glare fixed on the bumper of his Jeep as if she wished she had the horsepower to ram it into next Sunday.
"I know that riding-off-into-the-sunset scenes are reserved for hero types," she said, her words clipped and just this side of surly, "but just the same, why don't you try to stretch your limits … see if you can make it work for you."
He graced her with a shocked, and thoroughly staged, scowl. "What? You're suggesting I leave you here to fend for yourself? One lowly chicken against the elements? I wouldn't think of it."
She tried to lower her forehead to the steering wheel, but her beak got in the way. He cleared his throat to stall a chuckle and dipped his head in time to see her shoulders droop with her slow sigh of resignation.
"You're never going to let me hear the end of this, right?"
His grin spread wide. "And they say chickens have bird brains."
When she turned abruptly toward him, her beak cleared the open window and jabbed him in the nose.
He let out a surprised yelp and made a big show of checking for damage. "No need to get hostile. I'm here to help, so put that thing away."
"Oh, just stow it, James," she grumbled, then sent him scrambling when she shoved the door open.
Large orange chicken feet hit the pavement with twin slaps. A flurry of yellow feathers swirled above striped orange chicken legs as she flounced out of the car and started plodding down the highway.
Standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his weight slung on one leg, he enjoyed the sight for a moment before offering helpfully. "You know, if you flap a little harder, you might get some lift under those wings and save yourself a few steps."
"Ha-ha. Why don't you stand in the middle of the highway?" she suggested over her shoulder. "If you're lucky, the next vehicle by will be a semi. The impact will be quick and relatively painless and then we'll both be out of our misery."
Grinning openly now, Clay lazily sprinted the ten yards it took to catch up with her. "I'd be happy to give you a lift."
She snorted. "I'd rather take my chances on becoming road kill."
He laughed out loud. "Isn't that a little like biting off your beak to spite your face?"
"Humph."
"Oh, come on," he wheedled, snagging her by a wing. "It's ten miles to town. It'll be dark soon, and then you'll be a prime target for some myopic duck hunter."
Though she dragged her three-toed feet, she finally let out a defeated sigh and grumpily let him steer her back to the Jeep.
"There," he said, patronizing and sympathetic to a fault when she settled with a disgruntled flurry on the passenger side. "Is this so bad?"
She stared straight ahead as he buried the clutch, shifted into low and eased back onto the pavement.
He knew he should probably feel guilty for getting such a bang out of needling her. He even considered backing off. A second was about as long as that malevolent thought lived, though, before it died a quick and unremarkable death. If the situation were reversed, he knew that Maddie Brannigan, with her blade-sharp tongue and snide little smiles would be enjoying herself every bit as much as he was so he was going to milk this opportunity for all it was worth.
"Not one more word," she warned him, when he opened his mouth to make another crack. "I was on my way to a costume party, okay?"
"Whatever you say," he conceded, but with enough skepticism to earn another flouncy sputter.
A fuzzy yellow feather floa
t by his nose. "What—now you're molting?"
Silence.
"So," he began again, relishing the prospect of ruffling a few more feathers, "you were going to a costume party…"
She eyed him with suspicion, then shrugged and filled in the blanks. "And the apple sputtered, stuttered and died."
"Maybe it's allergic to—" he paused to flick at another piece of yellow fluff that drifted over to attach itself to the brim of his hat "—poultry."
Her smile was snide and long-suffering. "You're a Kentucky-fried bucket full of laughs, James. Just take me home and I'll call the garage to come and get my car." Then she muttered under her breath something to the tune of, "If the batteries hadn't died in my cell phone, I wouldn't have to put up with his lip or his twisted sense of humor."
"You want me to turn around and take you to the party?" he offered, as if the thought had just struck him. "Were they counting on you for … eggs or something?"
He swore he saw smoke wafting up from the top of her head as she slanted him a look that warned she would pluck his eyes out if he made one more crack.
Then she sat in martyred silence, refusing to give him so much as a glare while he whistled the jingle to a fast-food chicken chain the rest of the way into Jackson.
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Two weeks later, Maddie Brannigan perched on the edge of the chair behind her overflowing desk in her tiny office at Necessities, and tried to ignore a month's worth of book work. She hated the business aspect of Necessities but loved everything else about the gallery she'd opened seven years ago to showcase her own original pieces of pottery and to promote multiple-media work by local artisans.
The gallery was thriving today. She could proudly and without reservation claim that it had been her own sweat and determination, a natural eye for art, and what people described as a knack for salesmanship that had made Necessities so successful.
Luck, she freely admitted, had played a part in it, too. But she figured a little luck enhanced most success stories and anyone who disputed that factor was either a fool or an egomaniac.
