KILLER COWBOY CHARM

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  The scent of wood smoke lingered in the air, and ashes under the grate told her Clint had used the fireplace recently, maybe last night. Horse-related books and magazines lay on the well-used pine coffee table.

  Meg felt as if she'd landed on Mars. If Clint indeed had a girlfriend, then she'd be left with the games on her laptop. She couldn't imagine an evening spent looking at a fire and/or reading about horses, probably with no sound except the popping of the wood. She'd go nuts.

  Or maybe she was just cranky from lack of caffeine. The remedy for that was waiting for her out on the porch, so she opened the front door and stepped outside.

  Clint had been sitting on one of the rustic wooden chairs but he got up when she appeared, his coffee mug in one hand. "Everything all right?"

  "Fine." The air was cooler than it had been before, but a hot cup of coffee should keep her from getting chilled. "The coffee smells great." She walked over to the chair that was obviously meant for her, sat down and reached for the mug he'd set on a table between them.

  Warm, fragrant vapor rose up as she lifted it to her lips. She took a sip. It was without doubt the strongest coffee she'd ever tasted in her life, and she'd had some mean espressos over the years. She tried not to choke.

  "I make it strong," he said.

  "Yes, you do." She swallowed and wondered if it would devour her stomach lining in five seconds flat. One thing was for sure, it would satisfy her caffeine craving.

  "Sure you don't want some of that half-and-half?"

  "Oh, heck, why not? You only live once, right?" If she drank the whole mug of coffee without something to cut the motor-oil consistency, her days could be numbered.

  "Be right back." Clint left his mug on the small wooden table between their chairs and went inside.

  After he left she peered into his cup to see if he'd diluted the coffee with half-and-half. He hadn't. He must have a cast-iron stomach.

  It was also a nice flat stomach. As a veteran guy-watcher, Meg paid attention to those things. From what she could see, everything about Clint Walker was premium-grade.

  He returned with the carton of half-and-half and handed it to her. "I apologize if the coffee's too strong. When you asked about espresso I figured I was safe to make it my normal way."

  "It's a good, hefty brew, that's for sure." She poured a serious dollop of half-and-half into her mug, nearly causing it to overflow. "How many cups do you drink in a day?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Maybe eight or ten." He settled back in his chair.

  "Eight or ten? I'm amazed you're not jitterbugging across the porch!" Maybe he was so hopped up on caffeine that he didn't notice how boring his life was. Yet he seemed steady as a rock, no tremors.

  He shrugged. "I'm one of those people who's not real susceptible to caffeine. And when you've grown up drinking chuckwagon … see, my dad drank strong coffee, too."

  "Your dad was a rancher?"

  "The best."

  "But you didn't follow in his footsteps?" She'd slipped into interview mode, another habit she couldn't seem to break.

  He looked away. "Pretty hard to do. Those days are disappearing."

  She knew an evasive answer when she heard one. On the show, people reacted that way when they were hiding something. "Then I guess it's a good thing I made it out here before the cowboys are all gone."

  "Right."

  Interesting how much emotion could be packed into one word. She was used to reading inflections, gauging reactions. He didn't like this contest, but why not? If he was the business major he claimed to be, then he should appreciate good old-fashioned marketing techniques.

  She decided to hit the problem head-on. "You wish we weren't doing this."

  His blue eyes became unreadable. "I'm happy to help out."

  "Bullshit! You don't like this cowboy contest one bit, although I'm not sure why. You're not a cowboy."

  His mouth twitched, as if he might be holding back a grin. "Right."

  "What's so funny?"

  "I'll bet you don't get to say bullshit on the air." The grin began to peek through.

  "No, I don't, but you're evading the issue." And damned if that didn't fascinate the hell out of her.

  "Yeah, I am."

  "Why?"

  His gaze was assessing. Finally he seemed to come to a decision about her. "George Forester owns the Circle W now. What he wants, he gets."

  Her heart softened. "He bought your family home out from under you, didn't he?"

  "That's business. My dad couldn't afford the place anymore."

  "And your dad … he's…"

  "Died five years ago. Mom a couple of years before that."

  "I'm sorry." So this complicated guy had dealt with his share of sorrow. She was a sucker for a man who'd weathered pain.

  "In some ways, it might be better. Their way of life was getting harder to maintain. Dad died shortly after he sold to George. I think losing Mom and then the ranch took the heart out of him."

  Meg cradled her coffee cup, getting all the warmth from it that she could. The lower the sun sank, the colder it became. But the coffee had surely taken care of her caffeine deficit She was ready to tackle anything or anyone. Like this hottie, for instance. "I can imagine how hard it must be to work for something all your life and then lose it."

  "Yep." He took a swallow of his coffee. "I'm sure you've paid your dues to get where you are."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Looks like you're in good shape, though."

  She had a choice of turning his comment into something suggestive or taking it the way it was meant. Until she knew whether he had a girlfriend or not, she was safer with option two. "Not as good as it might seem. The woman who's filling in for me on the show would love to steal my spot."

  "Do you think she can?"

  "It depends on how she does while I'm gone." She was grateful to him for taking her seriously instead of thinking she was paranoid. Maybe a guy who'd lost his family ranch understood that sometimes the worst really did happen. "The thing is…" She paused and considered how candid she wanted to be about the falling ratings and the rumors about lack of chemistry between her and Mel.

  When she didn't continue, Clint said nothing—didn't ask her what she'd been about to say or prompt her to keep on talking. Instead he sipped his coffee and looked out across the valley.

  That was the unique thing about those blue eyes of his, she realized now. They were the eyes of a man used to distance and open spaces. He seemed very comfortable with all that emptiness stretching out in front of him. He was comfortable with silence.

  She tried seeing the landscape through his eyes, a view he'd known since he was born. There was a kind of peacefulness to looking out over miles and miles of uninhabited land. She wasn't used to peacefulness, but a person would be used to it if he grew up that way.

  And she could understand wanting to hang onto a place you were used to. Her parents didn't want to leave their bungalow in Brooklyn, even though she now had extra money and could help them buy a nicer house. So the extra money she was earning had started piling up. That might be a good thing, because she could soon be unemployed.

  "Those big mountains across the valley are the Santa Ritas," Clint said.

  She hadn't asked, but it might be good to know for the broadcast. "How about the mountains in back of the ranch?"

  "The Mustangs."

  "Perfect." She was already composing her intro in her head. I'm talking to you from the historic Circle W Ranch, which is tucked right up against the Mustang Mountains.

  She'd better check out the historic part, though. "How old is this place?"

  "The ranch itself, or this house?"

  "The ranch."

  "My great-grandfather, Clemson Walker, bought the land in nineteen-twenty."

  Definitely historic. "I can see why it's rough to have it pass out of the family, then."

  "I'm adjusting."

  But not well, she'd bet. "Forgive me if this is too nosey, but wouldn't it be less
painful to get the heck out of here? I would think living on the ranch and knowing it belonged to some rich dude from New York would be a constant heartache."

  At first it seemed as if he wouldn't answer. Then he sighed. "I've told myself that, but if I left, George might let the place fall apart. He's only interested in subdividing when the land value's high enough for him."

  "But if he's going to subdivide eventually, then so what? Aren't you only delaying the inevitable by staying on?" She'd always been the type who wanted a bandage yanked off fast and bad news delivered immediately. Her motto was to get the agony over with ASAP.

  "You're right, of course. Stupid as it sounds, I keep hoping for a miracle so I can buy it back before that happens."

  "Into lottery tickets, are you?"

  "Yeah, I do that."

  She thought of George Forester, a paunchy guy she'd met once at a cocktail party. For him this ranch was mere financial speculation, a chance to increase his considerable fortune if he timed the sale correctly. But for Clint, this was about hanging onto his heritage. She wanted Clint to win the lottery

  "You getting cold?" he asked.

  "Why?"

  "You shivered."

  "I guess I am a bit chilly." But sitting here talking with Clint, she'd ignored the cold so that they could stay on the porch a little longer. Purple and blue shadows crept over the valley, and even though she wouldn't want to spend a whole lot of time looking at them, they were kind of pretty

  "Let's go in. José will be starting supper any minute, and I need to get the fire ready."

  "José cooks on a wood stove?" If so, she should get Jamie up here on the double, to take footage of that happening.

  Clint laughed. "Nope. My grandmother used to, but we've had electricity for a long time. Dinner and the fire aren't connected, except that I like to have a fire in the evenings, and if I set it up now, all I have to do is light it later."

  "Oh." She had the insane desire to hang around and watch him build the fire, maybe because the cowboys in her dad's beloved Westerns were forever building fires. It seemed like such a manly chore. "Then maybe I'll go in my room and start working on my script for tomorrow."

  "What time will you do the first broadcast?"

  "Early. We have time on the bird at seven-thirty."

  He laughed. "That's not early, but what in God's name is time on the bird?"

  She pointed skyward. "Satellite. We only get so long to beam up there from the live truck, or as Jamie loves to call it, the nest. We can't miss that time, or we're screwed. But we'll try not to disturb you."

  "You won't. I'm up by five."

  "Why? I thought your foreman ran things around here."

  He looked like a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar. "Uh, I'm just an early riser."

  Yes, he was definitely playing games with her and hiding significant information. Okay, girlfriend or no girlfriend, he deserved to get zinged for that. "I like that in a man," she said. "Someone who'd be up and ready for anything." Then she waited for him to blush, the way he had earlier.

  Instead his eyes darkened, his nostrils flared, and his voice dropped to a sexy drawl. "You might want to be more careful how you use that tongue of yours. It could get you into trouble."

  Her pulse hammered. He was flirting with her! That might mean he didn't have a girlfriend. That would be a very exciting discovery. She decided to push the envelope a little more. "Maybe I like a little trouble now and then."

  His smile was slow and full of meaning. "Lady, nothing around here qualifies as little."

  She gulped. Maybe she'd underestimated this guy. But she was determined to have the last word. "I'm delighted to hear it. I'm a girl who likes her thrills super-sized. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to do some work before dinner." Then she whisked through the front door and hurried down the hall.

  Back in her room, she closed the door and stood there breathing hard. Good grief. She'd imagined herself in control of the situation, and then wham! Tables turned. She'd better decide for sure how she wanted this to go between them before he stole the decision right from under her … on top of her … and behind her. Damn.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  Clint didn't follow Meg into the house right away. He didn't trust himself not to go down that hall after her. He shouldn't have said what he had, but she brought out that side of him and made him think along dangerous lines. What a spitfire. An exciting, arousing bundle of woman. He wondered if she'd meant any of it, or if toying with guys was what she did for amusement.

  Probably the latter. He'd be well advised to keep away from someone who had Manhattan by the tail. Hell, he'd seen her picture on the front of one of those celebrity magazines at the barber shop the other day. The last thing he wanted was to get mixed up with someone who had that kind of visibility.

  He shouldn't be fooled because she'd sat on the porch with him and shared some conversation over a cup of coffee. She didn't have anything else to do at the moment. Still, she got his blood pumping more than any woman had in a long while.

  She was also starting to see right through him. He didn't know if she'd figure everything out before she left, but she already had a pretty good idea that a business degree wasn't the whole story with him. He hadn't counted on her being this sharp.

  Apparently he'd made the mistake of watching her for five minutes on TV and thinking he had her pegged. She was more complicated than that, more fascinating in person than she had been as an image on a television screen. But no matter how attracted he was, he'd be better off leaving well enough alone.

  He had enough troubles without making matters worse. No telling how George would react if he found out Clint had been fooling around with the TV lady. And that was assuming she'd allow any fooling around. She might have no intention of following through on any of her suggestive comments.

  But he wasn't sure about that, and it drove him crazy, wondering. Ah, to hell with it. This would all be over in two days, and he'd be back to helping Tuck with Gabriel, renting horses to greenhorns and buying lottery tickets every week. With that thought firmly in mind, he went around to the side of the house, gathered an armload of firewood, and took it in through the kitchen door.

  José, a guy who clearly liked his own cooking way too much, was already slicing and dicing for what looked like his famous enchiladas. Hired when Clint's mother couldn't handle the job anymore, José had been in charge of the Circle W kitchen for enough years that he felt the kitchen was his to command.

  He glanced up from the cutting board. "Where's the TV lady?"

  "In her room working on her script for tomorrow."

  José's dark eyes shone with excitement. "Do I get to meet her?"

  "Sure, you can meet her. I thought you'd be having dinner with us, like you always do."

  "Oh, no, I wouldn't want to do that. I know myself. I'd dump my food in my lap while I was busy staring at her."

  "Aw, no, you wouldn't. She's not that scary."

  "Boss, she was in People magazine. I've never come face-to-face with anyone who was in People. I wouldn't know how to act. I'd embarrass myself, for sure. I'd—"

  "You'd better stop chopping that tomato. It's mushed into a pulp already."

  José glanced at the chopping board. "See? Just thinking about her I murdered this poor tomato. No, just introduce me before you start eating, and I'll go back in the kitchen and quiver for ten minutes."

  Clint laughed. "Okay. Your decision. But I really don't think—"

  The kitchen door opened and Tuck poked in his head. Jed and Denny have voted to eat down at the bunkhouse tonight instead of up here. So give us a call when the food's ready and I'll come get it."

  José nodded. "I'll bet I know why. They're all nervous about the TV lady and don't think their manners are good enough."

  "I guess so." Tuck shook his head. "Me, I couldn't care less one way or the other, but they made me promise to stay down there with them and act like we
do this all the time. They're scared, but they don't want her to know it."

  Clint was having trouble comprehending it. Jed, an accomplished steer wrestler, was a bull of a guy who'd never seemed afraid of anything. Redheaded Denny always had girls hanging around and he'd been the first to sign up for the contest. "Are you saying that José, Jed and Denny are all too nervous to be in the same room with her?"

  "Seems like," Tuck said. "Now, the cameraman, he's a different story. They're real tight with him already. He's eating with them tonight, too, by the way."

  "So it's only Meg and me having our meal here in the house?" Clint pictured the two of them at a table big enough for eight. He'd imagined all the hands there, as they usually were, along with Tuck, and the cameraman. Just two of them at that big table would look silly.

  José gave him a pleading glance. "You can handle it, boss. You've been to college and everything. The rest of us are country boys."

  "But Jed and Denny are entering the contest! Don't they want to get to know her better? They'd have a head start over the guys who won't show up until tomorrow morning."

  "I tried to tell them that, too," Tuck said. "They're sure they'll just ruin their chances. They'd rather wait until tomorrow, when they'll be showing off their cowboying skills. They're afraid to have a meal with her, where table manners and such would come into play."

  Clint groaned. "This is getting more ridiculous by the minute."

  "I know," Tuck said. "But that's the situation."

  Clint had a mental picture of him sitting at one end of the long dining table and Meg at the other. Even sitting across from each other width-wise would leave an awful lot of empty space. She'd want to know if he usually ate by himself at that table and he couldn't explain without saying that his hands were too chicken to join her for dinner.

  "Tell you what, José," he said. "Meg and I will set up in front of the fireplace instead of the dining room."

  "Okay, boss. You want me to bring out the card table? It's a little rickety, though."

  "No." Clint was making this up as he went along. A rickety card table was not what he wanted, either. Somewhere in the past couple of hours he'd started worrying about Meg Delancy's opinion. That wasn't a good thing, but it was true.