He dropped his hand, the moment gone. “You haven’t even been here twenty-four hours yet, Carly. You’re hardly in my hair.”
“Oh,” she said with a grin, “give us a minute or two. Having an eight-year-old around is a singularly novel experience. I’m sure you’re not used to sharing your house with a whirlwind.”
He gestured around the spacious room with his coffee cup. “It’s a big, empty house. It could use a little noise. But then, maybe you’re anxious to get to that job waiting in Ohio.”
Ohio seemed a million miles away just now, and the last thing on her mind. “Right. The job.”
“What did they say when you called them?”
“Oh, well...” She picked up her coffee and took a sip, remembering the phone call she’d made from the hospital. “They were very understanding. Generous. They told me to take whatever time I needed.”
“That’s good,” he said, sipping his coffee, too. “Because you’re welcome to stay as long as you need to.”
Carly wondered how much time she would need. A week? A month? How long did it take to put the past behind you? Would it be as painless as shedding that plaster around her leg? Somehow, she doubted it.
“Hey,” she said brightly, “you haven’t seen the latest.” She hauled herself up on her crutches and demonstrated her new ability, hobbling around the kitchen. “Cruise control.”
When she looked up, he was grinning at her. She returned his smile, feeling some of the awkwardness dissipate.
“Congratulations,” he said, “Better watch out, though. You’ll be causing pileups on the highway before you know it.”
The phone on the wall jangled, and Rafe reached for it.
“Yeah? This is Kellard. Oh, right.” He shifted the phone to the other hand and moved away from her, lowering his voice. “One o’clock? That’s fine. Tell him I’ll be there. Thanks, Betty.”
He hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment, slugged down the remainder of his coffee, then turned back to her.
“Gotta go get cleaned up. I’ve got a few things to do in town today. I’ll be back by suppertime. How’s a pizza sound?”
Disappointment filtered through her. Of course he had things to do. A million things to do. It was selfish of her to want to spend time with him. “Pizza? Fine. Evan loves pizza.”
“Sold. I’ll pick one up on my way home. Anything to keep Gus out of the kitchen. Coffee is his only talent.” He gestured at her cast. “Stay off that leg today, Carly. That’s an order.”
She sent him a playful salute. “Yessir,” she told him, and then he was gone.
Rafe had come here to beg, and though his knees hadn’t actually hit the floor, his pride was practically awash with hunter-green carpet fibers.
Damn his pride, he thought, watching Jed Stivers lean back in the tufted leather chair behind the desk and chew on the stogie in his mouth. Rafe would do whatever he had to do to save his spread.
Stivers was thinking about his offer. He could see numbers clicking behind the old man’s eyes. Just shy of sixty-five, Jed still had a remarkably full head of silver-gray hair, and the lean edge old cowmen acquired after a lifetime of brutal physical work.
His hard work had paid off handsomely, Rafe thought, glancing around the well-appointed office. Besides running a spread that was the envy of nearly every rancher within a thousand miles, he now employed a couple dozen hands to do the manual labor for him.
He was on the far side of ambition—a concept beyond Rafe’s grasp right now. But that very fact that Stivers was finished building his empire, he suspected, was what stood between Rafe and cutting a deal to save his ranch. He shifted in the smaller leather chair across the desk from Jed and ran a finger around the too-tight collar of his white shirt.
Finally, Jed spoke. “You know I like you, Rafe.”
Rafe’s heart fell a little. He knew that if Jed started out with that, he was sunk.
“Hell, if it was just about friendship—if I needed that adjacent parcel you’re offering—well...” He shook his head and sent a cloud of bluish smoke haloing around his head. “But Sunimoto Corp. is bleeding money, and just beggin’ for someone to sop it up. They’re offering me a fast-cash buyout for that little piece of land, and frankly, I’d be a fool to turn it down.”
The “little piece of land” to which Jed referred was more like a thousand acres that lay smack-dab across the northernmost corner of Rafe’s land. It also boasted the last dependable source of water for his property following three straight years of soil-sucking drought. Rafe had held the lease on it for the past three years. In four weeks, that lease formally expired. And, along with it, Rafe’s dreams of a future.
“...and now that my son James has come back from school,” Jed was saying, “and wants a bigger part in the ranch, I’m steppin’ back. The truth is, the missus has an itch to travel. She’s tired of ranchin’ and, after all these years, she deserves it.”
Betty Stivers, whose high school homecoming-queen looks had long ago faded, deserved every thing she could get, in Rafe’s book. She’d taken the back seat to Jed’s career, and paid the price.
“No argument,” Rafe said grimly. “But I still have one month to come up with the money, according to my option. All I’m asking is a little more time. You know that without that piece of land, without access to that water, my land is practically worthless. Every other source has dried up, and you know it, Jed.”
“What about the banks?”
“Two of them have already turned me down,” he admitted. “I’m still waiting on the last two. But I’m working on another angle. Something that’s more up my alley.”
Jed gnashed the end of his cigar between his teeth and leaned forward, knitting his thick fingers together. “You know I’d rather sell to you, Rafe. Hell, the whole damn countryside is goin’ foreign.” He gave a good-old-boy shrug, intended to shed any real or imagined responsibility. “James sees dollar signs. Mergers. Business opportunities. I see a way of life disappearing. But that’s the way of things, isn’t it? Out with the old, in with the new.”
He stood slowly and extended his hand to Rafe. “Look, if there’s any way I can hold them off, I will. I can promise you one more month. Beyond that...”
Rafe stood, too, and took his hand. “Thanks, Jed. I appreciate whatever you can do.”
Outside, the cool air collided with his overheated temper like a slap, but he jerked off his navy sports coat and flung it over his shoulder. Winter was making way for spring. Buds dotted the naked branches of the cottonwoods lining Jed’s circular gravel drive. Blue Stellar’s jays flitted from tree to tree in a mating ritual as old as time. The world was starting over, just as Rafe’s had begun closing in.
Ripping loose the tie at his throat, he gave the top button of his collar a savage twist. He stalked to his car and resisted the temptation to hit something. Anything.
He’d find a way. He had to. He couldn’t fail again. Not in front of Carly.
Jamming the key into the ignition of his truck, he cranked the key and got—nothing. With a curse, he slapped the steering wheel. No. Not the truck, too! He stared hard at the thing for a moment, as if he could will it into submission.
One more time, he cranked the key. This time, the engine hesitated, then coughed to life. “Thank you,” he muttered tightly under his breath. With a growl, he headed for town and the half-dozen errands that stood between him and the woman he’d left back at his ranch.
“I hear you’ve got company out at your place,” Chicky Green said as she tallied up Rafe’s feed bill. The middle-aged woman with startlingly red hair grinned as she spoke. “Fe-male company.”
“You heard that, did you?” Rafe said, banking his amusement with a blank expression. Chicky’s past life as the bartender of the now defunct Smokey Joe’s Suds and Spuds on Main had served her inquiring mind well. She seemed to know all the gossip before even the folks who were being gossiped about knew the scoop. She had a good heart, and he liked her, but he d
idn’t want tongues wagging about Carly when the situation was purely innocent.
She grinned. “You denying it?”
“What, and spoil your fun?”
Chicky winked at him, intrigued. “So who is she? Is she cute? Married?”
Rafe sent her a flat look intended to discourage her. It failed miserably.
“I heard you flagged Jim Noble down in the middle of the night to hop his air-express plane to Nevada. She musta been somebody important.”
He slipped a couple of bills out of his wallet and laid them on the counter. He and Carly had happened long before he’d known Chicky, which was the only reason Chicky hadn’t already pegged Carly. “Just an old friend. Nothing more.”
Chicky waggled a red eyebrow and collected his money. “So...she’s single, then.”
He decided to throw a wrench in her machinations. “If you don’t count her son.”
“A son,” she murmured. “Hmm... The plot thickens.”
“There is no plot, Chicky. She needed help. I helped her. End of story.”
Chicky drummed her long nails against the counter with a Sure-it-is kind of look.
Rafe shook his head, knowing it was hopeless. “Did anyone ever tell you you have an overactive imagination?”
With a look that spoke volumes, she said, “All the time, honey. Listen, if you ask me—”
“I didn’t.” He hefted the sack of grain onto his shoulder.
“If you ask me,” she repeated, punctuating her words with a cha-ching of her cash register, “any woman worth hoppin’ that bucket of nuts and bolts for in the middle of the night has the potential of bein’ somethin’ considerably more than just a friend. And you know, honey, I’ve been tellin’ you for years to find you some nice young thing and settle down.”
Rafe grabbed the second sack of grain and grinned. “Hell, Chicky, I’ve tried, but you keep turning me down.”
Chicky had the grace to blush, as only Rafe Kellard could still make her do. She waved a girlish hand at him and shook her head. “You sweet-talker, you. Some girl’s gonna be knee-deep in it when she finally lands you.” She crossed her arms beneath her ample bosom. “You tell your ‘friend’ I said hello...and good luck.”
Rafe just smiled and headed out to his truck. He was the one who needed luck—to survive the next few weeks with Carly around. He’d spent last night tossing and turning like an out-of-sorts bull thinking about how close he’d come to kissing her.
Kissing her.
Now that would have been a mistake. Make that a calamity. All he needed now was to get involved with Carly again, so that she could walk out on him for a second time. The thought made him mentally groan. Hell, that just might finish him off.
“Hey, Rafe,” came a voice from behind him.
Mel Stratton—a bronc rider who’d spent most of his career nipping at Rafe’s heels on the circuit—sauntered toward him in a loose-hipped walk, thumbs caught on the front pockets of his jeans.
Mel grinned. “Hey, I hear you’re gonna tie the old knot.”
“Ah, jeez—” Chicky was even better than he thought!
“What?” Mel said, all wide-eyed innocence. “Ain’t it true?”
“No!”
Mel smiled. “I’m just teasin’ ya. I did hear about your midnight express to Nevada, though. I reckon everybody has. Ya know, the mill’s gotta chum.” He rubbed his jaw, abruptly changing the subject. “How’s the leg?”
“Fine.”
Mel nodded, and Rafe knew he’d already caught the way he was favoring it today.
“Say, I heard another rumor that I liked even less.”
“What’s that?” Rafe asked, rearranging the sack of grain on top of the others in the bed of his truck.
“That you’re thinkin’ of ridin’ here in town at the PRCA rodeo at the end of the month.”
Rafe stopped and turned around. What the hell? Did they have his place bugged, too?
Mel shrugged. “Pedro told Nate Baxter. Baxter told Jeff Pritcher, Pritcher told—”
“Okay, okay. What if I am?”
“Well—” Mel laughed “—I’m here to discourage you, buddy. Frankly, I don’t need the competition, if you know what I mean.”
“Since when have you been worried about a little competition, Mel?”
“Well, not since you left the circuit, that’s for sure. I ain’t plannin’ to start losin’.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
Mel shifted his feet. “Truth is, Rafe, I’m worried about you.”
“Aw, hell. I’m touched, really, but don’t be—”
Mel grabbed his arm as he started to turn away. “Hey, man, I’m serious.”
For the first time, Rafe realized he was.
“I was there, remember?” Mel said.
Rafe remembered. He remembered that ol’ Tornado had really been Mel’s draw that night five years ago, but Mel had broken his wrist in the first round, and Tornado had been bumped up to Rafe. Nor had he forgotten Mel’s expression when he showed up at the hospital to see him the next day. There were still traces of it in his eyes today.
“Take a load off, Mel,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, I know.” Mel hesitated awkwardly and looked around. “Look, if it’s the money... I mean... Ah, hell, Rafe, times are hard. I mean, I’ve had a few good years, and if there’s anything you need, anything at all...”
The offer took Rafe by surprise. He felt it creep up his neck and flush into his jaw. If Mel knew he was having financial troubles, how many others did?
He cursed silently. It wasn’t Mel’s fault. In fact, it didn’t even surprise him that he’d offered. He might have done the same if their positions were reversed. He was the one sinking. Not Mel. But he hadn’t sunk low enough to hit his friends up for money. Nor could he afford any more nasty rumors finding their way back to the last couple of banks he stood a chance with.
“Thanks for the offer, Mel, but I’m fine. I’m just itching to get out of retirement, that’s all.”
Mel gave a quick nod of silent understanding and backed off. “Right. Hey, maybe I’ll see you at the end of the month, then.” He forced a grin. “Maybe I’ll whip your butt.”
Rafe grinned back as Mel walked backward toward his car, pointing a determined finger at Rafe.
“Who knows?” Rafe called after him. “There’s a first time for everything.”
Or a second.
Chapter 5
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
With Rafe gone to town, it had seemed like the perfect time for a shampoo. A simple, steamy, hot-water-running-over-the-head-shampoo in the kitchen sink.
What she got was trouble.
Naturally, the first thing she lost was her balance, clutching the kitchen sink in a death grip while she hopped on her good foot until her equilibrium returned. The second was the shampoo, which she knocked off the counter in her blind reach for it as water ran in her eyes.
Feeling for the towel, she blotted her face with it and spotted the shampoo three feet away and rolling. Carly groaned with frustration, already gauging the amount of energy she’d be required to expend to retrieve it.
She grabbed one of her crutches and stabbed at the path of the rolling bottle, managing only to spin it sideways.
Curses!
With her hair dripping in her face, she eased toward the wayward bottle.
“What in hell are you trying to do? Break your other leg?”
Carly jerked a look toward the kitchen doorway to find Rafe glaring at her. In less than the time it would have taken to say, “Foiled again!” he had the shampoo in one hand and her elbow in his other and was guiding her back to the sink over the now wet floor.
“Rafe! I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Obviously,” he said, shaking his head. “Are you crazy, woman?”
“I can do this,” she argued. “I just knocked the shampoo off the counter.”
“Uh-huh,” he
muttered, setting the errant bottle down on the counter. “Is this absolutely necessary?”
“Only in the interest of my sanity.”
“Your hair looked fine to me.”
“That’s because you’re a man.”
He grinned. “I suppose there’s some logic in that statement, though exactly what it is escapes me.”
She stood there trying to ignore the water dripping steadily onto her T-shirt from her soaking-wet hair. His gaze, however, had no trouble going there. Lingering for a moment on the way her shirt had molded itself against her breasts, those savagely blue eyes swung up to meet hers—decidedly more heated than they’d been a moment ago.
She reached for the bottle. “Okay. Thanks for the shampoo. I can take it from here.”
He held the shampoo away. “I think not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Bend over.”
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“You want a shampoo or not?”
She suspected it was a trick question.
“It’s me or nothing,” he said, still playing keepaway with the bottle.
She hesitated for more than a moment, then gave a tight shrug. “You.”
One dark eyebrow arched significantly. He gestured toward the sink and flipped on the water.
This, a small voice warned her as she did as he bade, is a very bad idea.
The first touch—the one near the small of her back—made her jump. The second, firm and sure against her head, guided her toward the water. With unexpected gentleness, he combed his fingers through her already wet hair, easing her fully under the gush of heat. The hot water felt luxurious against her scalp, and his fingers...well, his fingers felt—
“When did you cut it?” he asked, squeezing shampoo into her hair.
It took a moment to compute the question, with her mind a million miles from haircuts. Oh, yes. “Years ago. After Evan was born.” His fingers slid against the soapy mass with the skill of a masseur. She suppressed a moan of pure pleasure.
“Funny,” he answered, “All these years...I always pictured it long.”
To Love A Cowboy Page 7
