Worse, he remembered, an overnight one. Oh, man! No chance to see the brunette again.
“Hi, y’all!” He knew it was wrong as soon as he said it.
Chelsea smirked at him, piling her assessment of him on top of Stan’s sneer and Nathan’s smug superiority.
“You guys,” she corrected him in her typically cheery tone, “are in good hands now, even if Patrick showers with his clothes on.”
Patrick looked down. He was still damp from rinsing off the mud at the horse trough. A couple of the women were looking at him with particularly nice smiles. Maybe he should arrive wet a bit more often.
“Patrick knows some great places to ride. Remember, if you want to take a picture, be sure to stop your horse first and never completely let go of the reins. When you reach camp, the famous Henderson’s Ranch Chuck Wagon will be out to set up a real feed. Have a great time.”
Famous. The marketer in him thought it sounded ridiculous, but she wasn’t bragging. Big brother Nathan had been a top New York chef before bailing out. His chuck wagon had been written up in a half-dozen different foodie magazines—big ones with national circulation—further increasing the ranch’s reputation. Patrick was never disappointed with what Nathan sent out to trail ride camps. Which almost made him forgive his brother for snagging the hottest cowgirl in the entire Montana Front Range as his bride.
Patrick normally helped get everyone saddled, starting to know them in the process—when he wasn’t being distracted elsewhere.
“Thanks, Chelsea. Big hand for her!” He clapped his hands together. The others joined in, half of them dropping their reins on their horse’s withers to do so. The ranch hands had long since learned to tie the rein ends together for beginners for just that reason. Oh, this was going to be such a fun ride.
“Nice of you to show up,” she whispered merrily as she came over to check on the saddlebags that held the group’s trail lunch. He was just lucky that she didn’t have a mean bone in her body.
“Got delayed up ta the big house, little lady.”
“Your John Wayne is showing again,” she was always putting down his attempts to sound more Western.
“What’s a Long Island boy to do?”
“Embrace your inner Billy Joel?”
She’d teased him before with the song line about a boy from Long Island with a six-pack in his hand. And that’s about how naive he’d been when he first arrived here. He was a good rider now, but he still couldn’t get the Western accent down.
He’d wanted to be a film writer and director, not actor, but here he was, stage center in his own life. Weird. No mood lighting. No perfect romance on the horizon. Just a bunch of beginning riders and sun so bright he wondered what had happened to his shades—they’d been perched on top of his hat before, well, before he’d nosedived into a mud puddle. They were either in the mud puddle or at the bottom of the horse trough now.
He looked around, but it was definitely himself playing himself in this surprising role. Too bad. He’d much rather be Sam Shepard in The Right Stuff, about to race his horse through the desert after the laughing Barbara Hershey the night before breaking the sound barrier.
Chelsea waved the closer riders toward the gate.
He nudged Minotaur back a few steps and pointed the way so that the first of the riders would lead the way westward. A spunky thirteen-year-old black girl looked at him like she was going to be definite trouble. They still always seemed to like him and it often took some tactful work to keep the teen girls at bay without upsetting them.
“Watch yourself out there, cowboy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s Chelsea to you, you goofball.”
“Yes, ma’am, Chelsea, ma’am.”
She slapped Minotaur hard on the rump. “Get along, Minnie.”
The horse knew exactly who doled out the hay and oats in the barn—and who to listen to. His horse once more went from standstill to canter in a single motion and only the saddlebags of lunch fixings—now slightly flatter—kept him in the saddle. Several of the other horses tried to follow and, for an instant, the entire beginner’s trail ride hung in a fragile balance. He immediately reined in and talked down the other horses before they tossed their riders in the hopes of a good run.
He ended up having to catch the reins for a woman who must be the thirteen-year-old’s seriously hot mom. If the girl grew up like her mother, she was gonna be even more of a man-killer. Mom’s smile declared that she had man-killer down cold already. No ring. Single mom.
It was going to be a very long ride.
Chapter 2
Lauren nosed cautiously out of her room. It was a lot nicer than her brother’s sprung living room couch. Queen-sized bed, a woven blanket in some Native American style, horse photos on the walls and a view similar to the one out the kitchen window. It also had a shower that she’d spent a long time under, trying to soak her arrival out of her system. Oh-four-hundred this morning she’d been standing in the hot pre-dawn darkness of Pope Airfield, Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and headed for New York. Now thirteen hundred hours—it actually took her a moment to convert that to one o’clock—and she was in Montana.
Soft voices sounded from the kitchen, so she followed them.
She was a step into the kitchen when a burst of laughter cascaded about the room. Hooks was telling a story and made a sweeping gesture that could only be Patrick the Klutz nosediving into the mud puddle. The laughter climbed, holding everyone’s attention on Hooks and away from her. Over a dozen people were gathered around the big table kitchen table. Most looked a little trail worn—these were the ranch’s working hands, not a guest among them. Far more people than she was ready to deal with.
“Want some dinner?” A guy in a chef’s apron was bustling about and was the only one to notice her entrance at the far side of the big room. Handsome, dark hair.
She double-checked her watch—still thirteen hundred hours. She sighed. Still just one o’clock. Her life was moving very, very slowly. “Dinner?”
He grinned hugely and made a show of coming over to shake her hand. Chef strong hands. “East coast or west?”
“Uh, east.”
“Awesome. Welcome aboard. We’ll swamp these Great Plainers and their midday dinner yet. Lunch. Would you like some lunch?”
“I guess,” her retreat cut off, she could only scout ahead.
“Head on over.”
She eyed the table again.
“They don’t bite.”
“You sure?”
“Relatively. I’m Nathan Gallagher, by the way.”
“Lauren.”
“Go get ’em!” Then he hurried back to whatever he’d been working on. A big stack of raw steaks lay on the counter. She hoped that was for the evening meal, whatever they called it, rather than lunch. Maybe that’s how they ate their meat out here in the Wild West.
She reached the table just as most of the group stood. They delivered their plates and tableware to the dishwasher, then headed for the door.
Hooks—Stan—eyed her as if she might be a closet terrorist before heading out with the others. Before the back door closed, she caught a glimpse of the black Malinois that had been waiting outside. It jumped to its feet to follow Stan. The dog was real, not a hallucination. That was a relief at least, but she was glad both of them were gone.
No sign of the klutz.
“Feeling better?” Claudia patted a seat next to her.
Lauren sat cautiously beside her, across from Major Beale, just as Nathan set a big bowl of stew in front of her. “Hope you’re not vegetarian.”
“So not.”
“Good. Dig in! Don’t miss the bread. Fresh this morning. Anything else for you, Emily?” He was on a first-name basis with Major Beale.
When she shook her head, he returned to the working part of the kitchen.
She took the thick slice of crusty sourdough that Claudia had cut off a hefty loaf for her. Lauren dunked it in the steaming stew, then took
a taste.
“Wow!!”
That earned her the attention of both women as well as Michael and Mark, sitting over pressed cider—so fresh its appleness still tickled her nose—and brownies at the other end of the otherwise empty table.
“You like it?” Major Beale looked pleased. “Nathan’s an exceptional chef, but we worked on this one together.” Of course Major Emily Beale wasn’t just beautiful and a legend, but she could cook too.
“Like it?” She dunked the bread again and bit off another dripping chunk though she wasn’t finished chewing the first. “This ain’t no MRE,” she mumbled with her mouth full.
A laugh from the whole table. All military. She liked not having to explain herself.
Meals Ready-to-Eat would keep you alive in the field, but they were no treat. Even discounting her recent return to the U.S. biasing her toward any American food, this was probably the best stew she’d ever tasted. She ducked her nose down close to the surface to breathe in the richness until it seemed to fill her.
“How?” She waved her bread to indicate their shared background in the Armed Forces.
“Not intentional,” Emily assured her. “Mac, Mark Henderson Sr., is a former SEAL. He and Mark’s mother, Ama—she’s Native American, which is where Mark got a lot of his good looks—are off on a vacation. The high season is tapering off here and, with Mark and me here full time now, it’s their first break in years. Most here aren’t former military: us, Stan, and you. Ranch manager did three tours, but he was regular Navy, so I’m not sure he counts. Mac does make it easy to not have to conform to some set of civilian-boss expectations.”
“Why am I here?”
“You don’t know?” Major Beale barely blinked before she looked past Lauren at Colonel Gibson. “Why is she here, Michael?” Emily Beale had targeted him as quickly as any threat to her legendary helicopter.
“That’s for her to figure out,” he pointedly returned to discussing the tactics of some recent mission with Mark.
“Well, that’s no help,” Emily grumbled. She had shifted to “Emily” in Lauren’s thoughts—though she’d be careful not to use it aloud. Still, it was hard not to like the woman. Despite being a legend, she was unexpectedly real.
“Men so rarely are,” Claudia concurred. “Too bad we love them so much.”
“Too bad,” Emily nodded.
“Did you ever get him to talk about why he is here?” Lauren nodded toward Colonel Gibson. If he overheard Lauren’s question, he gave no sign of it.
“Not a word,” and both women sighed.
Lauren tried to slow down from total-wolf mode on the stew, but it was hard. She couldn’t cook squat, but even her lame palate could appreciate the spoon-soft braised beef, the freshness of the vegetables, sage she decided…maybe, and perhaps some red wine. She didn’t even feel the need to dump in a load of salt to give it some real flavor. Whatever it was, she’d gladly bathe in it.
Which brought to mind the cowboy diving into the mud puddle. It had been her first smile in so long that it had been like a sharp pain in her chest and she’d had to turn away even as he looked up at her from the depths of his puddle. Piercing blue eyes in a handsome face. Hair curling down to his collar, a nice length for a woman to play with. And… She shook her head to clear it, but instead it dislodged a memory that she’d buried deep.
The last time she’d really smiled, Jupiter had done something similar.
She had chucked a Frisbee for him that had found extra lift on an unexpected breeze. Jupiter had spun and leapt at least five feet clear into the air to nab it—the moment before sixty pounds of Malinois had crashed into the set of makeshift clotheslines at the forward operating base. The entire FOB’s laundry had been flopped down into the dirt, tangled around her dog. The Army grunts stationed there had cried out in dismay. Jupiter had finally emerged from the snarl with a lopsided doggie grin around the Frisbee still firmly clamped between his teeth. She’d helped the guys redo and rehang their laundry.
They might have grumbled, but they’d also laughed and petted the Malinois.
The next day he’d been gone.
“Wow! That was an ugly thought, Lauren.”
She ignored Emily’s comment and kept her attention on the stew. Subject change. Need a—
“What’s the klutz’s story?” Not that she really cared, but hopefully it would deflect the topic.
“The klutz?” The chef…Nathan, that was his name—always worth remembering the name of a man who could cook like this—dropped down in a seat beside Emily with a can of Coke in his hand. He bumped his shoulder into Emily’s. “I think she likes our stew.”
Lauren looked down. The bowl was mostly empty.
They shared a close smile before he continued.
“You must be talking about my little brother. What did Pat do this time? Has he found yet a new way to besmirch the Gallagher name?”
“Nosedived into the only mud puddle in the yard the first time he saw Lauren,” Emily said it like a flat statement. But there was some tease in there that Lauren didn’t understand—as if the two events were somehow related.
“Really?” Nathan sipped his Coke. He squinted at her for a moment. “Yeah, I can see how you’d be his type—more than most of the ones he goes for. He’s really into old movies and you’ve got that classic beauty.”
Yet there was no vibe at all in the chef’s manner. It was just an utterly ridiculous statement of fact. Was he somehow focused on the major? But she was married to Mark, who was sitting just down the table. What was it with men who—
“Ignore him,” Emily dismissed Nathan. “He’s getting married next weekend. Can’t even see another woman.”
“Nope!” Nathan agreed happily, then bounced back to his feet with an energy more appropriate to a New Yorker than the slower moving Montanans she’d seen so far. He hurried back to his steaks.
“Is he always like that?” She whispered to Emily. She wasn’t sure if she was questioning his behavior with Major Beale or his East Coast energy.
“No, he’s usually worse. He was a top chef before he showed up on our doorstep. Fell in love with the cowgirl next door, but that hasn’t slowed him down at all.”
“And Patrick?” she dropped “the klutz” because it was getting a little strange to think of him that way—too…personal. She didn’t want to be anyone’s type. Yeah, being forward deployed with Delta Force meant that it had been a long dry spell and that every single man in The Unit hoped that he was her type. But for whatever reason she was here, spreading her legs for a cowboy wasn’t on the list. Once she’d done whatever Gibson had brought her for, she’d head back to New York and start figuring out the rest of her life.
If Patrick had fallen into a mud puddle because she was “his type,” that was his problem. He so wasn’t hers…at least she didn’t think so. Lauren wondered if she had a “type” anymore. She couldn’t come up with one. The fantasy of that had died when she’d caught her “perfect match” fiancé having “one last go” with Lauren’s maid of honor. That Lauren had been Lynn’s maid of honor just three months before didn’t seem to bother either of them. Lynn’s husband had merely shrugged when she’d told him. Lauren had demanded the diamond ring he’d been holding onto as best man. It had been a long throw, but she’d managed to chuck it into the East River from their venue on the high perch of the Brooklyn Bridge pedestrian walkway.
“Patrick joined the ranch while I was still flying firefighting helos,” Emily kept going as if that wasn’t a whole conversation in itself. “But Chelsea—our horse manager—said he fit in from Day One, once he learned to ride a horse. Who would expect a boy from New York to slip into ranch life so smoothly?”
“You flew firefi—” and the gears in Lauren’s head jammed. “Wait. New York? As in Upstate or as in The City?”
“Long Island,” Nathan said as he cleared away her empty stew bowl and topped up Emily’s lemonade. “Suffolk County out near Stony Brook. Mom and Dad are both professors
there.”
She hadn’t really tasted the last half of the stew and regretted missing out. It wasn’t weird enough that Colonel Gibson had brought her to some retired military horse haven in deepest, darkest Montana. Now there were two guys from The City, or close enough. What else was whacked about this place?
“Do you fish?” Henderson called from the other end of the table.
Apparently a lot else.
A quick glance at Emily and Claudia made them both raise their hands in a “no way” gesture. She was about to side with them when she saw the Colonel’s intent look. If she wanted to get to the bottom of why she was here, she knew that she was going to have to confront him before she’d be free to go back to New York.
“Fishing?” She grabbed the last brownie off the plate, which Nathan immediately swooped in and cleared away. “Sure. Those little carnival machines where you plug in some quarters and fish the little crane around the glass box to snag a stuffed animal? I’m a pro. Got a whole collection.” Or had once. After fifteen years in the military, her parents retiring to Florida, and her brother moving in with some guy much to everyone’s surprise except hers, she wasn’t sure if she still owned anything other than the contents of her duffle. She didn’t even have a POV because what use did a girl from The City have for a personally-owned vehicle?
The colonel’s eyes crossed trying to figure out how to answer her explanation.
But Mark Henderson grinned happily, “Perfect. Let’s go.”
And that’s how she ended up alone in the back of the helicopter ten minutes later with Emily’s good wishes, three fishing poles, and a box of tackle.
One minute everything was perfect.
After a big picnic lunch from a sunny vista, Patrick had scouted out a small herd of North American elk and brought the trail ride up to them along the riverbed from downwind. The river here ran just thirty feet wide and a foot or so deep—a rushing burble over rounded boulders. There was a smooth ford about a mile upstream that they’d be crossing for the excitement of “crossing a river.” Here, protected by high hills to either side and a bend in the river, it made a secluded spot for grazing and bathing that he knew the local herds favored.
Big Sky, Loyal Heart Page 3
