Cowboys Are For Loving

by Marie Ferrarella

  Because he was going to ride out again soon, he didn’t lead the horse to the stable. Instead, he secured one rein around a post to keep Whiskey from wandering off.

  His attention wasn’t on the horse. It was on the annoying woman he was being saddled with. “Where did you learn to ride?”

  “New York.” Brianne laughed when she saw the dubious look on his face. “They have horses in New York.”

  “Central Park.” He said it contemptuously, as if there was a caste system involving horses and the ones in the city were the lowest of the low.

  “And upstate,” Brianne pointed out. His view of the East seemed to be as narrow as some people’s view of the West. Maybe the people who were going to read her article weren’t the only ones in for a learning experience, she mused.

  “You don’t sound like you’re from New York.” His tone was almost accusing, as if she’d somehow tried to trick him.

  Brianne ran her hand over Whiskey’s muzzle. The horse whinnied, but kept still. “I’m not.”

  “But you just said—”

  Since she was going to be intruding into his life, she thought it only fair that he know a few things about hers. Unlike Kent, she wasn’t particularly jealous of her privacy. On the contrary, her life was an open book.

  “That’s where I learned how to ride, not where I lived. At least, not for long,” she amended. “We traveled around a lot when I was younger.” “We” meant herself, her father and whatever nanny happened to be with them at the time. Because of the frequent moves, she’d had more than her share. “My father went wherever the money was.”

  If she thought he was going to get suckered in by this poor-little-rich-girl scenario, she was about to be disappointed. Whatever she had or had not endured in her past meant nothing to him. And he wasn’t about to begin trading information, if that’s what she was after.

  Still, she had made him just the slightest bit curious. He couldn’t see his father and hers as best friends. They sounded as if they came from two different worlds. “Just what is it that your father does?”

  In the beginning, it had been anything, in order to get by. Brian Gainsborough had seen no shame in trying his hand at a great many ventures, just to see what would take off for him. He’d finally found what turned out to be his true calling when Brianne was ten years old.

  “I guess the best way to sum it up is to say that he’s an entrepreneur.” And what went into that would take a whole afternoon to explain. For both their sakes, she decided to skip it. “But I’m not here to do a piece on my father. I’m here to do one on you—that is, on the ranch,” she added quickly before his face darkened completely. Patting the horse affectionately on the rump, Brianne took her camera out of its case and stepped up to Kent’s front door. She offered him her best smile. “Show me your place?”

  He placed his hand over the lens of the camera, which was dangling from the strap at her shoulder. His eyes met hers. His were somber. “As long as you don’t take any pictures of it.”

  He had to be kidding. That was the whole point of seeing the house. “But—”

  Kent didn’t waver. “This part isn’t negotiable. You can take all the photographs you want of my parents’ house. They seem to like the idea.” Though how, he didn’t understand. “And the ranch belongs to all of us, so I can’t very well stop you there, either.” He jerked a thumb behind him at the door. “But this is mine. You can come in, you can look around.” He probably couldn’t stop her, anyway.

  “But no pictures, understood?” He looked intently into her eyes. “Do we have a deal?”

  “I—”

  He could see the protest, the makings of a debate there in her eyes. Eyes that could make a man sweat if he let his imagination go to places it had no business going.

  “Do we have a deal?” he repeated.

  Brianne sighed reluctantly. If there was no other way. “We have a deal.”

  She knew she had no choice at the moment. Maybe, if things went smoothly, she could talk him out of his stand later. If not, well, she supposed she could live with this bargain. She could understand the need to keep a part of yourself tucked away. Everyone needed a tiny space to retreat to, a piece of your soul that was yours alone. Kent’s was just larger than most.

  His hand remained on the lens. He looked as if he didn’t believe her, she thought.

  He didn’t. If she was supposedly giving him her word, he wanted backup. Proof. He pointed to the case. “Put the lens cap on.”

  Brianne wasn’t accustomed to being distrusted. “What?”

  He was hot, sweaty and at the end of his temper. “You heard me, put the damn cap on.”

  For a tiny fraction of a second, she toyed with the temptation of telling him what he could do with his order. But the feeling passed quickly. It was compromise that won ground, not opposition. Still smiling amiably, she took out the cap and moving his hand out of the way, snapped it over the lens.

  “Not very trusting, are you?”

  Kent didn’t care for the amusement in her eyes. Like she was laughing at him. He watched her tuck the camera back into its case.

  “That all depends on who or what we’re talking about. I trust my horse. I trust my family, my friends—” his tone dropped as his eyes unintentionally flickered over her mouth “—my instincts.”

  She cocked her head to one side, studying him. “And what do your instincts tell you?”

  That was easy. There was no mystery about that. “That you’re trouble and to run like hell.”

  She just looked back at him as if she knew all about him. “But you’re not going to.”

  “I don’t run.” He shrugged, then deliberately kept his eyes on hers. “And it seems to mean a lot to my parents to have me be nice to you. Unfortunately, part of that means letting you tag along.” He blew out a large breath. “So all right, you can tag along.” The warning was in his expression before it was ever on his lips. “But the first minute you get in the way—”

  “I’m history.” It wasn’t a guess. She knew. At the first infraction that rubbed him the wrong way, he’d dump her like so much unwanted, dirty laundry.

  Despite himself, he couldn’t repress the hint of a smile that flirted with his mouth. “As long as we understand each other.”

  She had her doubts about that being strictly true. It was all one-sided. “In order for that to happen, I think you need to understand me—”

  Kent had no interest in hearing anything she might feel necessary to offer in the way of explanations. He already knew more about her than he needed to. “Oh, I understand you all right, lady.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” A bemused smile playing on her lips, Brianne crossed her arms before her. “And what, exactly, is it that you understand?”

  Since she asked, he pulled no punches. “That you’re here to do some kind of a fluff piece to entertain bored, urban cowboy wanna-bes. Or maybe to feed the daydreams for some equally bored bunch of women who think that there’s something romantic about the kind of life we lead out here.” He had no patience with either group.

  Just what had happened to him to make him view life in such somber hues? Brianne refused to believe that he’d always been this way. People weren’t born with this black outlook—something made them that way. From what she could see, his parents were terrific, so the reason had to be elsewhere. A woman? She rolled the idea over in her mind.

  “Romantic,” she contradicted, “can be anywhere.” She saw the contempt in his eyes, but she pushed on. “Romantic depends on the person, not the circumstances.” She believed that from the bottom of her heart. “A one-room shack can be a romantic setting. A palace can be a cold prison. It’s who you’re with that counts, not where.”

  He wasn’t impressed, she could see that. Well, that was his privilege, but she wanted no mistakes made about her work. She took that very seriously.

  “And for your information, I’m not here to do a ‘fluff piece’ as you call it. If that were
my intent, I could have just as easily accomplished it by working out of my office and using my imagination.” Looking up, she leaned toward him. “I’ve got a very healthy imagination,” she said significantly, “but I’m here for the truth. The dirt and the grit and the work,” she added, when he said nothing.

  Kent snorted as he opened his front door. “You’ll have your share of all three if you follow me around.”

  She smiled serenely as she stepped over the threshold. “I’m counting on it.”

  He sincerely doubted it.

  Morning always seemed to come too early. Kent squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could make the hands on the clock move backward, giving him back a little more time. It didn’t. Kent sighed.

  He was a morning person because he had to be, not because he liked it. What he most wanted at this moment was to cling to his mattress and sleep until the sun was more than just a hint on the horizon. But he knew better than that.

  With another sigh, he threw back the thin covers. There was still a lot of branding to do and fences to see to, not to mention the acquisition of a new Black Angus bull to negotiate. None of that was about to do itself.

  Still more than half-asleep, Kent slowly dragged himself up against the headboard until he was in a sitting position. That accomplished, he next set about gathering enough energy to swing his legs over the edge and have his feet make contact with the floor. It took him several minutes.

  From there, he stumbled off in the general direction of the bathroom. Though right about now it seemed rather barbaric, he knew that the only thing that was guaranteed to bring him back from the realm of the undead was a shower. A cold one.

  In the stall, he gritted his teeth and turned on the faucet. Gooseflesh threatened to overpower his taut muscles as it sprang up all over his body in response to the steely needles of cold water that were assaulting him.

  “God, there’s got to be a better way than this,” he muttered under his breath.

  Braced, eyes finally opened, Kent quickly scrubbed the residue of sleep away. Less than five minutes later he was out, his towel precariously anchored at his waist, watery footprints marking his path, wet hair plastered against his neck. Now that he was awake enough to form coherent thoughts, he remembered why he’d dreaded this particular morning so much.

  She was going to be coming along.

  Not for long, he’d lay odds. Not after Gainsborough saw just what he meant by getting an early start. Early to her probably meant nine o’clock.

  Kent smiled to himself, combing his wet hair out of his eyes with his fingers. Just as soon as he got some coffee into him, he’d ride over to his parents’ house. He was looking forward to waking her up and—

  Kent stopped and sniffed the air.

  Was that—?

  Coffee, he definitely smelled coffee. But that was impossible. The automatic coffeemaker Morgan had given him had died an unnatural death a couple of weeks ago, unable to handle the thick brew he liked to drink. He hadn’t found time to go into town to get himself a new one. Coffee, for the last two weeks, had been coming from an old battered drip pot that took forever.

  Kent dismissed the aroma. Had to be his imagination working overtime.

  But his imagination had never been that good. He could swear he smelled coffee. Strong, rich coffee.

  Curious now, Kent headed toward the kitchen. Maybe Quint had dropped by. The sheriff of Serendipity thought nothing of letting himself into his brother’s house. Of course, it might help if he remembered to lock his doors. But out here, nobody really did. Especially not when they were so far away from everything.

  Kent took three steps into the kitchen, then stopped dead. The woman he was looking forward to dragging from her warm bed was standing in his kitchen, doing something at his stove.

  Brianne turned around at the sound of wet feet padding along a scuffed wooden floor. She smiled brightly at him, acting as if her being here was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Morning. You didn’t answer when I knocked.” Her eyes skimmed over his wet torso. So that was what they meant by a washboard stomach. The towel looked in jeopardy of coming undone at his very next move. Her smile widened. “Nice outfit.”

  3

  With a start, Kent clamped his hand on the knot that was slipping, inching its way farther down his hipbone.

  He glared accusingly at Brianne. “What are you doing here?”

  She looked at him, her smile as bright as a newly minted silver dollar, as innocent as fresh snow. “Making coffee.”

  Kent gritted his teeth together. “I mean, what are you doing here?”

  Was she too obtuse to get his meaning? She had no business being in his house like this. Why wasn’t she where she was supposed to be? In bed, asleep so that he could wake her up.

  Maybe this wasn’t a good time to tease him, Brianne decided. She had come armed with all the provisions that went into making a hearty breakfast, courtesy of his parents. Jake had figured it was the best way to arrange a truce between her and his son and had said so. Brianne had no problem with making a meal or two if it meant that things could go more smoothly between them. She believed in doing whatever worked.

  Wrapping a pot holder that had definitely seen better days around the handle, she eased the coffeepot off the stove.

  “Your mother said I should come in if you didn’t answer the door on the third knock. She told me that sometimes you were very hard to rouse in the morning as a boy. Your father said strong coffee usually did the trick, so I made coffee.” Jake’s exact advice was to pour it on Kent if all else failed, but she didn’t think Kent wanted to hear that. Holding up the pot, she looked at him brightly. “Want some?”

  Yes, he wanted coffee. Badly. But there was something he wanted even more. Where the hell did she get the gall to come barging in like this? And why had his parents suddenly ganged up against him? “What I want is privacy.”

  “I didn’t come into your shower, did I?” Her eyes sparkled with laughter that made him want to wrap his hands around her very pretty throat and squeeze.

  He could see her doing it, too. Walking right into his shower stall as if she had every right in the world to invade it. “I guess I should be grateful for small favors.”

  Brianne was busy opening cupboards. She found what she was looking for on her second try and took out a mug. He looked like the mug type, she thought No fancy little cups for Kent Cutler, just something sturdy he could wrap his hands around.

  Her eyes touched his face fleetingly. “Now you’re catching on.” Filling the mug to the rim, she moved it across the counter toward him. “Coffee’s hot. Thick and black, the way you like it,” she added when he made no move to take it.

  It was a short battle. The need for caffeine got the better of him. Kent picked the mug up in both hands and took a long, hearty gulp. He nearly scalded his tongue, but it was worth it. Every nerve ending had snapped to attention.

  Revived, he studied her suspiciously over the rim. “How would you know how I like it?”

  “I asked,” she answered simply.

  She’d asked a lot of questions about him last night over supper with his parents and one of his brothers. Between Zoe, Jake and Will, an interesting picture of Kent Cutler was beginning to emerge. Whether he realized it or not, that picture fit right into the stereotypical image that some people had of the vanishing cowboy.

  Why not? she mused. Stereotypes were all based on something.

  Pausing to take a sip from her own mug, Brianne couldn’t help noticing that coverage was receding from his hipline again. Kent was going to have to move fast if he wanted to maintain his modesty.

  She raised her eyes demurely, catching her tongue between her teeth. “I think your towel is heading due south.”

  Kent made a grab for it, but not quite soon enough. It was at his knee before he knew it. Swearing, he jerked it back into place. Annoyed, embarrassed, he half expected to see a flash and hear the grating sound of Brianne’s camera as it c
ommemorated the moment, despite their agreement.

  But when he looked, her hands were empty.

  It wasn’t hard to guess what he was thinking. On some levels, Kent Cutler was not as complicated a man as he undoubtedly believed himself to be. She tried very hard not to grin.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not into that kind of photograph.” She glanced at her watch, wrestling silently with her conscience as she tried not to let her line of vision drift his way again until his dignity was restored. The word magnificent, she decided, had been created with Kent Cutler in mind—in every sense.

  She nodded toward the front of the house and what lay beyond. “I thought you said you wanted to get an early start.”

  The only way Kent could be sure that the incident wouldn’t repeat itself was to keep one hand on his towel at all times. He grasped the mug with the other. Before he could drain the contents, she was filling it again.

  “At what, strangling you?” he growled.

  “At doing whatever it is you planned to do today.” She moved back toward the stove.

  For the first time, he saw that there was a large frying pan on one of the burners. Kent became aware of other aromas mingling with the scent of coffee. Aromas that teased his senses, whetted his appetite. Some he could place and connect directly to what she was doing at the stove.

  But one scent in particular, the one that clung to her, rose above the others, eluded definition.

  Maybe it was best that way.

  “Why don’t you get dressed?” she suggested pleasantly, flipping a golden pancake over on the pan. “I’ll stay here and make you breakfast.”

  He wanted no part of any meal she made. It probably tasted like stale, burnt cardboard anyway. A woman who looked like that couldn’t possibly cook, too. Besides, if he caught his father’s drift, she was well-off. She probably had a housekeeper.

  “I’ll get dressed and make my own breakfast,” he shot back at her over his shoulder.