Dear Reader,
I can still remember the first rodeo I ever attended. I was fourteen and had recently moved from the very un-Western state of Connecticut to Scottsdale, Arizona—what was then called “The West’s Most Western Town.” Despite being that age, when being cool didn’t include anything having to do with cowboys, I got my first horse and embarked on what would become a lifetime filled with cowboys, horses, wagons and riding.
I can also remember the day my editor approached me about being part of Harlequin American’s continuity THE CODYS: THE FIRST FAMILY OF RODEO. I couldn’t have been more excited. Not only would I have the opportunity to write about something I loved, researching tie-down and team roping, the rodeo event in which my very sexy hero Dusty participates, would be a snap. All I needed to do was look over the fence and watch the men rope at my neighbor’s practice facility.
I’m also fortunate to have worked with five other talented and delightful ladies on this continuity—as well as editors who willingly turned over the reins (no pun intended) and let us run with the story idea to create what is truly a memorable series. I hope you enjoy Dusty: Wild Cowboy. I certainly enjoyed writing it.
Warmest wishes,
Cathy McDavid
P.S. I love hearing from readers. Visit my Web site at www.cathymcdavid.com to drop me a line.
Dusty: Wild Cowboy
CATHY MCDAVID
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cathy makes her home in Scottsdale, Arizona, near the breathtaking McDowell Mountains where hawks fly overhead, javelina traipse across her front yard and mountain lions occasionally come calling. She embraced the country life at an early age, acquiring her first horse in eighth grade. Dozens of horses followed through the years, along with mules, an obscenely fat donkey, chickens, ducks, goats and a pot-bellied pig who had her own swimming pool. Nowadays, two spoiled dogs and two spoiled-er cats round out the McDavid pets. Cathy loves contemporary and historical ranch stories and often incorporates her own experiences into her books.
When not writing, she, her family and friends spend as much time as they can at her cabin in the small town of Young. Of course, she takes her laptop with her on the chance inspiration strikes.
Books by Cathy McDavid
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
1168—HIS ONLY WIFE
1197—THE FAMILY PLAN*
1221—COWBOY DAD
1264—WAITING FOR BABY
1294—TAKING ON TWINS*
To Kevin, the best looking, hardest riding cowboy I know. Thanks for all your help with the research for this book and for giving me two beautiful and wonderful (if occasionally recalcitrant) children.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
The big black horse skidded to a stop, rose high on its rear legs and dumped its rider headfirst onto the arena ground. He landed with a dense thud and a loud “Oomph.”
“Daddy!”
Terrified, Maryanne Devonshire flew toward the open gate, silently cursing her Gucci heels, which sank like lead weights into the soft dirt. Frustrated, she kicked off the shoes and ran barefoot the rest of the way. She reached her father just as he was pushing himself to a sitting position with the help of a tall, lanky cowboy.
“You’re not dead,” she blurted.
“Not yet.” Gil Devonshire dusted off his pant legs and stood with a grunt. “I don’t think dead people hurt this much.”
“Is anything broken?” She inspected him closely, touching his arms and shoulders. Not that she had the first clue what fractured bones looked or felt like.
“Just my pride.” He rubbed the back of his neck and his left side. “But only in one or two places.”
The horse, the devil incarnate as far as Maryanne was concerned, stood nearby, quietly chewing on the metal thingie in its mouth. A bit, right? And the leather straps attached to it were called…reins. Yes. Three days at Cowboy College, and she’d learned two whole new vocabulary words. Maybe by next week she wouldn’t feel like everyone was speaking a foreign language.
Maybe by next week her father would come to his senses, and they could leave this place. He had no business whatsoever tie-down roping, a rodeo sport dominated by men decades younger than him. And with good reason. Rodeoing was intended for individuals with youth, not those trying to recapture their lost youth.
“Daddy, you have to quit this nonsense before you really do kill yourself.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Cookie.”
She sighed. Asking her father not to use her childhood nickname did no good. He’d only apologize, then turn right around and use it again. Her mother, on the other hand, had always called her Maryanne. Except once three years ago—on the day she died. Her last words to Maryanne’s father had been, “Take care of Cookie.”
Funny, it had turned out to be the other way around. Maryanne was always taking care of her father. Like now.
“I think you should have a doctor check your neck. You could have whiplash.”
He laughed. “I was thrown by a horse, not rear-ended by a car.”
A pair of cowboys at the other end of the arena herded the loose calf her father had been attempting to rope into a pen with other calves. Flapping their arms, waving their hats and shouting, the cowboys reminded Maryanne of squawking hens. Probably not the image they were trying to convey.
“Go on, walk it off.” The lanky cowboy clapped Maryanne’s father good-naturedly on the back. “You’ll be fine.”
Walk it off? What kind of insane advice was that? Did he not realize her father was pushing sixty-three? Not to mention his high-blood pressure, high cholesterol and increasingly frequent gout attacks.
She turned to stare down the cowboy and give him a piece of her—okay, sometimes very opinionated—mind. Instead, she was rendered momentarily dumb. The guy was gorgeous. Blue eyes, dark blond hair to his shirt collar, killer smile, kind of gorgeous.
Where had he come from?
Not that Maryanne paid much attention to the staff at Cowboy College. No, wait, what were they called? Wranglers. Or hands. That was it.
“Hi.” The cowboy extended his hand to shake hers. “I’m Dusty.” His warm, strong fingers swallowed hers. The sensation was pleasant despite his calluses.
Men in L.A. didn’t have hands like this, and Maryanne found herself intrigued on yet another level. He’d make a great model, and inspiration for an ad campaign popped into her head. She filed it away for later in the day when she could make notes.
“This is Track.” He motioned to a black and white dog sitting obediently at his heels, its tongue lolling to one side.
Maryanne hadn’t noticed the dog before then.
“Do you work here?” she asked. Dumb question, of course he did.
“I’m from the neighboring ranch. I drop by sometimes to teach classes on nonsense.”
“Nonsense?”
“You were saying earlier that your dad needed to quit this nonsense.” His smile widened, revealing a dimple in his right cheek and a flirty twinkle in his eyes.
Maryanne wasn’t normally so captivated by a man’s looks, even one resembling a young Brad Pitt. Working as a junior marketing executive for an eco-friendly cosmetic company, she was surrounded by good-looking people all day, every day, and had grown immune. But it was hard not to be affe
cted by Dusty.
Must have something to do with being plunked down in the middle of nowhere. Okay, Markton, Wyoming wasn’t exactly nowhere. Still, it was a long, long way from L.A., in distance, culture and scenery. Maryanne couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen clear blue skies and unending miles of rugged, breathtaking countryside, except as backdrop for a magazine layout.
“He’s the best there is,” her father interjected. He’d been taking his instructor’s advice and walking in small circles. To Maryanne’s relief, he appeared unscathed. “Two-time world tie-down roping champion.”
“I’ve won once. I still have to qualify for this year.” Dusty’s confidence indicated the technicality was a foregone conclusion. “You got a bit dirty.”
She followed the direction of his gaze to her bare feet. They were filthy. So were the bottoms of her Vera Wang slacks. Did Markton even have a dry cleaner? All she’d seen on her short, uneventful drive down the main street was a feed store, drugstore, tackle shop, a handful of churches and The Spotted Horse Saloon, an establishment she’d likely not visit the entire month she and her father were spending at Cowboy College.
“What happened to your shoes, Cookie?” Her father stopped pacing.
“Cookie?”
Maryanne tried to ignore the amusement in Dusty’s voice. She managed, but the appreciative glint in his expression proved harder.
Being appraised by men was a common occurrence for her. Working in a competitive industry and in a city overrun with glamorous people, she needed to do her best to stand out or, at least, not go unnoticed.
Dusty was definitely noticing her. Though he seemed more focused on her filthy feet than her meticulously coordinated designer ensemble.
“It’s a nickname,” she said. “One my father gave me, which gives him exclusive rights to it.” She sent her dad a loving smile.
He returned it tenfold.
“Seeing as you’re okay—” Dusty gave Maryanne’s father a once-over “—you need to get back on that horse and give it another try. Next time, don’t pull so hard on the reins. That’s why Tiny Dancer dumped you.”
He took hold of Maryanne’s arm and led her back a few cautionary steps while her father mounted and trotted off. “Come on, unless you want to get stomped.”
“Tiny Dancer?” Maryanne had to practically jog to keep up with Dusty’s much longer strides. His dog followed with considerably more ease.
“The horse.”
“Oh.”
“Something wrong?”
“It’s kind of a girly name for a big, um, horse.” She almost added, “mean.”
“Tiny Dancer is a girl and not very big compared to the rest of the riding stock around here. But she’s fast.”
Showed how little Maryanne knew.
“She’s a good horse for beginner ropers like your dad,” Dusty continued. “I trained her myself.”
“Is that what you do for a living? Train roping horses?”
“When I’m not practicing or competing or on location.”
“Location?”
“I help my brother manage our family’s ranch stock. But I also provide specially trained horses for film work. Been in a few myself, too. Nothing big. Mostly walk-on roles. A couple speaking parts.”
“No kidding?” Maryanne was admittedly fascinated. Having had an actress for a mother, she’d grown up on the fringes of Hollywood and was familiar with the industry and its people.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Dusty Cody.” He opened the gate, and she preceded him through it.
“And you’re from next door?”
“Uh-huh.”
All at once, the pieces fell into place. This man was no ordinary cowboy. She and her father had heard all about the Cody family and their six hundred thousand acre ranch just outside Markton across the way during a tour of Cowboy College on their first day there.
The family’s ancestor, Mark Cody, had not only started the ranch, he’d founded the town, named Markton after him. In those days, cattle had been the main source of revenue for the ranch. In recent years, their operation had expanded to include riding stock, rodeo stock and, apparently, specially trained horses. It was natural gas, however, that accounted for the present-day Codys’ vast fortune. They were a modern-day dynasty and the town’s most prominent citizens.
According to Adele Donnelly, manager of Cowboy College, Dusty Cody was the wayward son, more interested in having fun and appearing in movies than being part of the family business along with his sister and three bothers.
She needed only to gaze into Dusty’s incredible blue eyes to know the rumor was true.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” she said, drawing on her vast schmoozing experience to smooth out the awkward moment.
Hopping over obstacles in her path, most of which consisted of horse and calf droppings, Maryanne wondered what in the world had possessed her to kick off her shoes. She could only imagine the thoughts running through the heads of the two dozen or so students and wranglers milling about—not to mention Dusty.
He stopped suddenly and bent to pick up her shoes. He didn’t seem to mind that they were covered in muck. “Here you go.”
She took them gingerly, loath to put them back on and yet loath to remain barefoot. Then there were her pants. She’d probably wind up tossing them out. Well, her friends back home had warned her to take more than a single pair of jeans.
At least the shoes weren’t a total loss, she thought upon inspecting them. With some cleaning and polishing and a weeklong airing out, they’d be good as new.
“You can wash up over there if you want.” Dusty pointed to a big metal tub the horses drank out of.
Lovely. Used horse water. “Maybe I should go back to the cabin.”
“You’ll miss your dad.”
Considering the fall he’d just taken, Maryanne decided she should probably stick around. If only to call 9-1-1 in case of an emergency. Removing her cell phone from her pocket, she checked the screen. Service at the college was sketchy at best. Finding two bars, she relaxed…for about a second.
Markton didn’t have a hospital. How long would it take for an ambulance to arrive from the next closest town?
“Here. You can use this to wash up.” Dusty removed a faded red bandanna from his back pocket and gave it to Maryanne. Not something she imagined the heir to a vast fortune using.
“Thank you.”
“You’ve got time. Debbie and Tamara are up before your dad.”
It still amazed Maryanne that women participated in tie-down roping. They weren’t allowed to compete in sanctioned rodeo events but apparently did on local levels. Some of them were very good. The girl Debbie weighed no more than a hundred pounds, yet she kept up with men twice her size.
While washing her shoes in the trough, Maryanne observed Dusty meander over to the fence. In classic cowboy stance, he pushed back his hat, hooked a boot on the bottom fence rail and rested his forearms on the top. The dog sat close to his side, ears twitching with interest each time his owner spoke. She could easily picture the pair of them on a billboard advertising men’s cologne or western wear and winning the hearts of millions of women.
With a heavy sigh, she returned to her task and submerged the bandanna he’d given her in the murky water.
“Oh, gross,” she murmured.
Wringing out the bandanna, she wiped away the worst of the dirt on her shoes. Her feet were next. Holding on to a pole, she balanced on one leg. When she was done, she slid her marginally cleaner feet into her shoes. More than once she caught Dusty and the others watching her. Wonderful. Afterward, she draped the bandanna over the side of the trough to dry.
Soaking for an hour in warm bubble bath was definitely on her agenda when she returned to the cabin.
Feeling slightly better, she joined Dusty at the fence to watch her father, ignoring how her feet slipped around inside the damp shoes.
“Hi.” He winked and gave her another dr
op-dead gorgeous smile.
Her heart immediately performed a somersault.
How ridiculous was that? The guy was obviously no amateur when it came to flirting. She should know, she encountered players every day in L.A. and recognized them a mile away.
Feeling a cold nose pressing into her palm, she looked down to see the dog nudging close to her.
“Hey, fellow.” She patted his head. “What kind of dog is he?”
“Border collie.”
“They’re herding dogs, right?” Maryanne liked dogs, though she hadn’t owned one in years.
“Yeah.” The look Dusty gave her said he was surprised she knew that.
“We used some once in an ad campaign.”
“Was it successful?”
“As a matter of fact, it was.” She smiled. “Nothing sells like a cute dog.”
“Nothing?” He flashed her another killer sexy grin.
Though totally unnecessary, Maryanne reminded herself that she was leaving Wyoming in a month and not interested in a short-term, doomed-from-the-start relationship with a notorious, albeit wickedly handsome, player. She also reminded herself that she hadn’t always chosen wisely when it came to men. Twice she’d attempted long-distance relationships, and twice they’d ended badly. Maryanne had learned her lesson.
And Dusty, for all his kindness toward her father and friendly charm, was exactly the kind of guy she should avoid at all costs.
DUSTY WATCHED GIL DEVONSHIRE ride to the end of the arena and line up Tiny Dancer in the box. Everyone grew quiet as he checked his lasso one last time, placed the pigging string between his teeth and straightened himself in the saddle. When he was ready, he gave a quick, short nod to the wrangler.
With a whoosh, the chute gate flew open. The calf bolted for freedom and his buddies at the other end of the arena. Tiny Dancer gave chase, going from a standstill to full gallop in the blink of an eye. Clumps of dirt exploded from her hooves as she anticipated the calf’s next move, changing direction on a dime. Gil didn’t have to worry about anything except roping the calf. The horse knew what to do even if he didn’t.
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