Taming A Texas Heartbreaker (Bad Boy Ranch Book 4)

by Katie Lane

  Before Aunt Gertie could get after him for being late, Reba jumped in. “Seeing as how this is your first night and thirteen piglets is something to celebrate, we’ll overlook your tardiness.”

  Mr. Cooper bowed. “I’m forever grateful, my lady.” He straightened and swayed on his feet for a few seconds before he stumbled to the empty chair on the other side of Aunt Gertie.

  “Wait a minute,” Mr. Peterman said. “Why should he get to stay? You made it very clear in your ad that drinkers would be immediately disqualified.”

  “Disqualified?” Reba turned to her aunt. “And what ad is he talking—”

  Aunt Gertie thumped her fist on the table. “Did I or did I not say that no business would be discussed in front of my niece, Mr. Peterman?”

  Mr. Peterman tossed his napkin onto his plate. “I just don’t think it’s fair that Mr. Daniels and I need to abide by the rules while another man gets to break them.” He pointed a finger at Valentine. “And how does he play into this?”

  Reba was at a complete loss. It was like she was in a play that she hadn’t read for. “What is going on here? What kind of business are you doing with these men, Aunt Gertie? Wait. Did you put an ad in the newspaper for help without asking me? Is that what these men are doing here? You know we don’t have the money to hire anyone.”

  “I’m not hiring these men with money,” Aunt Gertie said.

  “Then what are you hiring them with? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand either, Miss Dixon.” Mr. Daniels placed his napkin on the table. “Why is it that we need to keep a secret from your niece? If she’s part-owner of the business, she should know about your plan to give away half of the boardinghouse.”

  Reba popped up like a jack-in-the-box—only she was the one surprised. “Half of the boardinghouse? You intend to give one of these men your half of the boardinghouse just for helping me mow the lawn and do odd jobs?”

  Aunt Gertie snored. “I’m not that stupid. They have to do a hell of a lot more than just mow the lawn and do odd jobs to get my share. They have to pass muster and prove that they’re the type of man worthy to be your helpmate. Not just at the boardinghouse, but also in life.”

  “My helpmate? What are you talking about?”

  Valentine set down his napkin and spoke. “I believe the word your aunt is looking for isn’t helpmate, but rather soul mate—as in husband.”

  Reba’s eyes widened as the truth dawned. “A husband? You’re buying me a husband with your half of the boardinghouse?”

  “Of course not. You can’t buy someone a husband. Love either happens or it don’t. But it certainly isn’t going to happen when you closet yourself off in this boardinghouse and don’t ever go out and meet men. So I thought I’d bring men to you. Give you an opportunity to find one you like and make your choice.”

  While Reba stood there in stunned shock, her aunt glanced around the room. “But it’s obviously a lot harder than I thought to find a good man. Mr. Davenport was a liar.” She shoved a finger at Mr. Cooper who was watching the proceedings with a sloppy grin on his face. “This one is barely out of diapers.” She pointed at Mr. Peterman. “And this one is just a complete horse’s behind.”

  Mr. Peterman’s eyes widened as he jumped to his feet. “Well, that is just fine with me because I did not come here to be tricked into marriage. I came here because your ad led me to believe that you were looking for a hotel manager who, after he proved himself through hard work and dedication, would be given half-interest in this hotel. But this is not a hotel. This is a pathetic little boardinghouse in an even more pathetic little town. And you must be crazy or senile to think that half of it would be worth marrying your fat, hillbilly nie—”

  He didn’t get to finish because Valentine punched him right in the mouth, knocking him over with the chair.

  Aunt Gertie cackled with glee. “Strike three and you’re out!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Valentine glanced at the time in the right hand corner of his laptop, surprised that it was already after eleven o’clock at night and he’d only written a few pages. And those pages weren’t even that good. Probably because his mind was on other things.

  Like Reba.

  He couldn’t quite believe her aunt had put an advertisement in the Dallas Morning News and the Houston Chronicle offering part ownership of her hotel to the best applicant—all in an effort to find Reba a husband.

  He chuckled. The old gal was a character. He’d give her that. Although Reba hadn’t thought it was funny. He was sure she had given her aunt a piece of her mind after Mr. Peterman stormed off and the dinner broke up. Mr. Peterman. Even now, Val’s fists clenched just at the thought of the arrogant ass calling Reba fat. One punch didn’t seem like near enough. Although one punch was more than enough for Mr. Peterman to press charges or sue him.

  But it had been well worth it.

  Accepting that he wasn’t going to get any writing done tonight, he shut down his laptop and closed it. A cool breeze swept in through the open French doors. The cooler nights were the only indication it was fall. If he were in New York, he would already be wearing thick sweaters and leather jackets. Here, he could still wear short-sleeves.

  He didn’t miss the cold. Or the bustling city and numerous activities. He didn’t even miss his apartment. When he’d first leased it, he’d hired a decorator. After one meeting, she’d chosen a modern décor with a subdued palette. At first, he’d loved the magazine-worthy look. Now it just felt sparse and cold. He’d often wondered if that was how the decorator had seen him: a cold author with no warmth.

  The garden room had warmth. He didn’t doubt for a second that Reba had decorated it with the pastel floral prints, the scarred antique furnishings, and the comfy comforter and down pillows. It was as soft and inviting as she was. This evening when they had been setting the table together, he had wanted to touch that softness. He had wanted to touch her in a bad way. And if he’d read the invitation in her eyes correctly, she wanted him to touch her too.

  But it wasn’t that simple. Reba was a complicated woman who had a lot of scars from the past. She needed a man who could heal those scars and share her dream. Val had his own scars and his own dream. It wasn’t a little boardinghouse filled with ghosts . . . and one beautiful redhead.

  But even as he thought it, he couldn’t help picking up his phone and scrolling until he found the picture he’d taken of Reba in her nightgown. He should delete it. That would be the gentlemanly thing to do. But how could he erase such beauty? She looked like a fiery-haired sea siren standing on the moonlit deck of a pirate ship. An Irish woodland nymph caught in an enchanted garden. A defiant mythical goddess surrounded by moonbeams.

  A movement in his peripheral vision had him glancing out the open doors into the garden. He expected to see the branches of a tree swaying in the breeze. Instead, he saw a flutter of white that quickly disappeared down the winding path.

  He should ignore Reba’s midnight stroll and go to bed. He didn’t need to see the sea siren, woodland nymph, and mythical goddess in the flesh. But just like he couldn’t erase the picture, he couldn’t stop himself from getting up and following her into the garden.

  He thought he would easily catch up with her. But every time he caught a glimpse of white and quickened his pace, she seemed to disappear. When he finally reached the caretaker’s cottage, she had already gone inside. He should turn around and leave. Instead, he moved toward the soft glow of the window and peeked in like some deviant stalker.

  Reba must’ve been in a hurry to get to bed. She was already tucked in with plump pillows stacked behind her back and her hair falling around her face and shoulders in a wild disarray of burnished curls that made his fingers twitch to touch it. In her hands was a book. Not just any book, but his book. He would recognize the cold, empty smile on the back cover anywhere.

  A mixture of happiness and intense fear gripped him. Happiness that it was his book she was reading and in
tense fear because it was his book she was reading . . . . and possibly hating. He must’ve made some kind of sound because she glanced toward the window. He ducked back in the shadows. When a few minutes passed and her face didn’t appear in the window, he released his breath and moved away.

  “What are you doing?”

  He froze and slowly turned to find her standing in the doorway of the cottage. She wore pink print pajamas with alarm clocks and coffee cups all over them and he wondered how she had changed so quickly from the white gown he’d caught glimpses of earlier. She looked absolutely adorable. And he felt absolutely ridiculous.

  He lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey.” When she only stared at him quizzically, he let his hand fall and tried to explain. “I was just taking a walk in the garden and I saw your light on . . . so I thought I would see if you were still up. And you are.” He mentally rolled his eyes at his stammered speech.

  “I was reading.”

  He cleared his throat. “I noticed. Please tell me that it’s not my most recent book.” She held up the book and he cringed. “Damn. I want you to know that I can write better than that. It’s awful, isn’t it?” He held up a hand. “Don’t answer. I already know it is.”

  “My book club didn’t think so. Almost everyone gave you a five star review.”

  “Who didn’t give me five stars?”

  She laughed. “Are all authors as insecure about their work as you are?”

  Her laughter made him realize what an egotistical jerk he was being and he grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Most artists are insecure. We see our work as a reflection of ourselves and it’s hard to take criticism about yourself.”

  She hugged the book to her chest and the sight of his picture cuddled to her full breasts made him feel a little lightheaded. “Or about other people, it seems. Why did you hit Mr. Peterman? Him calling me fat wasn’t that big a deal.”

  He lifted his gaze to her face. “It was to me.”

  “Why?”

  He paused for only a second before he told her the truth. “Because people used to call me fat and I know what it feels like.”

  “You were overweight?” She gave him a onceover before she shook her head. “Now who’s lying?”

  “It’s the truth. You can ask any of the Double Diamond boys. I was a chubby, sugar-addicted, nerdy kid when I came to the ranch. That’s why I was bullied and why punching Mr. Peterman felt so damn good.”

  A smile broke over her face. “I’m glad you finally got your revenge. How’s your hand?”

  “A little sore, but I’ll live.”

  She motioned for him to follow her. “Come on inside and I’ll get you some ice. You need to take care of those talented fingers.” He should make his excuses and go back to his room. But his curiosity about Reba’s little cottage won out.

  He was right that she had decorated the garden room. The inside of the cottage had similar décor. The sofa was floral with numerous throw pillows, the furniture antique, and the vibe homey and lived in. There were magazines scattered on the coffee table along with a half-full cup of tea and a notepad and pencil. On the fireplace mantel were a dozen framed family pictures. And draped over one chair was a huge billowing bluish gray dress that belonged in a civil war movie.

  “That’s my Halloween costume,” she said when she noticed where he was looking. “Aunt Gertie started the tradition. She’s a big Gone with the Wind fan.”

  “And I guess you’re Scarlett.”

  “Nope, my aunt has been Miss Scarlett for as long as I can remember. I’ve always been Miss Mellie.” She walked into the small galley kitchen and turned on the light. “Come sit.”

  He took a seat on a wooden stool that had been painted a cheery yellow while she got him the ice. She was as efficient as usual, pulling a baggie out of a drawer and bumping it closed with her hip on her way to the freezer. Only a few seconds later, she was standing in front of him. “Which hand?” He held up his left and she rested it in her palm while she pressed the baggie of ice to his knuckles. “Do you always punch with your left or are you a leftie too?”

  “You’re left handed?”

  “For most things.” The sensation of the cold ice and Reba’s warm hand was comforting. And distracting. He tried to focus as she continued. “I had to learn to twirl my baton right handed because it threw off the squad’s routines.”

  “You were a baton twirler in high school?”

  “And a cheerleader, softball and volleyball player, and secretary of student council four years running.”

  “So you were popular.”

  “I wouldn’t say popular. Just an overachiever who didn’t like to fail at anything I tried.”

  “Case in point, this boardinghouse.”

  She blew out her breath in a long sigh. Her breath smelled like the sweet peppermint candies he used to get in his Christmas stocking. “This might be the one time I have to accept failure. Especially with my aunt working against me.” She pressed on the baggie of ice a little too hard and he cringed. “Sorry.” She lightened her touch. “I’m just so mad at her. Can you believe she is willing to sell me into marriage?”

  “I wouldn’t call it selling. Once she interviewed the men and chose the most suitable one, it sounded like she was going to let you make the final decision.”

  His teasing only seemed to make her angrier. “I don’t want the final decision. I don’t want a husband, period!” Once again, she pressed a little too hard and he took the ice bag from her. But for some reason, he held onto her hand and rested their clasped hands on his knee.

  “I was teasing, Reba. I agree that your aunt’s scheme is a little crazy. Although I get where it comes from.”

  “Then explain it to me, because I don’t get it at all.”

  “I think she figured if Rapunzel won’t come out of her tower, she would bring the princes to you.”

  Reba’s eyes widened. “Are you saying I’m a princess who is hiding in her tower?”

  “Maybe that wasn’t the best analogy. But when was the last time you went out on a date?”

  “I don’t exactly have a lot of time for dating.”

  “If you had the time, would you?” When she didn’t reply, he continued. “I get it. Once you’ve been burned, it’s hard to step close to a fire. But fires don’t just burn, Reba. They also give us warmth. Not all men are jerks who can’t see past a woman’s body. And don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that men aren’t sexual creatures. We are. But so are women. Sexual desire is part of being a human being. And while you’ve had some bad experiences with men, you shouldn’t lump us all together. I think that’s what your aunt is trying to get you to see.”

  “Which doesn’t make any sense when she’s done just fine without a man.”

  “Maybe she wants better for you.”

  “By buying me a husband?”

  “Or just offering you choices.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, I don’t want or need those choices. I called the newspapers and cancelled the ads. And I plan to refund Mr. Peterman, Mr. Daniels, and Mr. Cooper their traveling expenses and not charge them for their rooms. Hopefully, they won’t sue us for false advertising.”

  “How is your aunt taking that?”

  “Not well. She says my stubbornness is going to cause us to lose the boardinghouse.”

  He shouldn’t get involved in this drama. It was none of his business. But he couldn’t stand by and watch Reba work herself to death only to fail in the end.

  “Maybe it’s time to give up and move on, Reba.”

  She stiffened and pulled her hand away from his. He felt the loss immediately. “What are you talking about?”

  “You have to realize that Simple is a small town without any tourist attractions. People who come here are usually coming to visit friends or family. And those people aren’t going to pay to stay here when they can stay with their relatives. It’s just a fact. I get that you love this old house. It’s a great old house with a great history. But sometimes yo
u need to know when to throw in the towel and quit.”

  “Quit? You think I should quit?” Her voice shook with emotion.

  “I think this is a big job for anyone. Especially a woman alone.”

  Anger glittered in her eyes. “But if I were a man it wouldn’t be quite such a big job, is that it? You’re sitting there telling me to quit, but I don’t see you quitting after you got all those bad reviews. You’ve spent the last month working your butt off to write another book that will be better than your last sucky one.”

  It felt like she had just stabbed him in the heart. He stood. “Sucky? You think my book is sucky.” He pointed a finger at her. “You were one of the women in your book club who didn’t give it five stars, weren’t you? Were you reading it again to see if it was as bad as you remembered? And what about the new story I told you about? Did you lie about liking it too?”

  She crossed her arms and sent him a mulish look. “I think you should leave.”

  “I’m not leaving until you answer the question.”

  “I don’t have to answer anything. You come into my home and insult me and—”

  “I didn’t insult you. I just told you the truth and you got pissed because you know I’m right.”

  She uncrossed her arms and clenched her fists. “You are not right! I am going to make this boardinghouse a success. And I don’t need any help from anyone. Not some jerk guy my aunt brings here. And certainly not some jerk author who obviously doesn’t have the influence I thought he did since none of his posts were responsible for bringing in guests!”

  “You’d need James Patterson writing ten bestsellers here to keep this place going!”

  “And you certainly aren’t even close to being that popular, are you?”

  That hurt.

  “No, I’m not. Goodnight, Ms. Dixon.” He headed for the door. On the way, he grabbed his book that she’d set down on an end table.