by Lori Wilde
Strangely enough, he made her feel as if she were the naked one.
Who was this man? Did he live here? Was he one of Dutch’s cowhands?
Even though he was sitting up and she was standing, he seemed to tower over her. He would tower over her when he was on his feet. Of that she was certain. Almost everyone towered over her.
The steady pressure from his strong fingers stirred a bizarre fluttering inside her. Her stomach quivered. Unnerved, Mariah marshaled her courage, gritted her teeth. “Please let go.”
His smile exploded, exposing straight white teeth. This cowboy possessed serious star quality. “What if I don’t?”
“I’ll dunk your Stetson in the water.”
His devilish eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Her knees wobbled. She was scared witless, but she learned a long time ago to hide her fears behind bluff and bravado and act brave whether she felt it or not. Ignoring her sprinting pulse, she swept the cowboy hat off his head with her free hand. A thick tumble of inky black hair, two months past the point of needing a trim, spilled out.
“Try me,” she said as tough as she could, hoping her voice belied her trembling legs.
His hard laugh clubbed her ears as he slowly released her. Mariah slapped his hat down on his head and snatched her arm back, held it across her chest. He hadn’t hurt her at all, but his sizzling body heat had branded her.
“What’s the deal?” She glared. “You don’t have indoor plumbing?”
“You’re funny,” he said. “And I don’t mean ha-ha. Who are you?”
His ebony voice unnerved her. That and his big, lean, bare body. It occurred to Mariah that she was completely alone here with this stranger. If this were a slasher flick, she’d be in deep trouble.
She swallowed hard, notched up her chin, and silently repeated the mantra her mentor and former boss, Destiny Simon, had taught her. Never let ’em see you sweat. Then again, Destiny had been the one to put her in the sweatbox, so what did she know? “I should be asking you that question.”
“Oh yeah?” An amused smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Why’s that?”
She drew herself up to her full five-foot-one. “Because my name is Mariah Callahan and this”—she swept a hand at the land around them—“is my ranch.”
“Oh yeah?” he repeated.
“Yes, and you’re trespassing.”
“Am I?” He lowered his eyes half-mast. Bedroom eyes the exact color of the cup of strong coffee she’d snagged at the Starbucks drive-through in the last big town she’d passed.
“You are.”
He studied her as if she was the most comical thing he’d ever seen. As if he wasn’t lying naked in a gold-plated horse trough looking as sexy as three kinds of misdemeanors.
Not that she cared. Not really. She had no room in her life for men—especially those of the cowboy persuasion. She knew just enough about cowboys to know she never wanted one.
“You sure about that?”
His words gave her pause, but, determined not to let him intimidate her, she plunged ahead. “I just inherited this ranch from my father, Dutch Callahan, and I’d appreciate it if you’d remove yourself from the premises immediately.”
“Okay.” He made a move to hoist himself up.
“No wait.” She shielded her eyes with her hands. “I don’t need to see that.”
He chuckled, clearly finding her amusing, and sank back in the trough. But beneath the incongruous smile, she spotted the shadows that dug into the hollows beneath the angular blades of his cheekbones.
“Your father, huh?” he said.
“Yes.”
“That’s funny. I don’t ever recall you coming to visit him.”
Was that an intentional dig? Or just an innocent observation? Mariah glanced over at him. There was nothing innocent about this guy. “You knew my father?”
He crossed his middle finger over his index finger. “We were like that.”
She felt envious, melancholy, and irritated. “We were estranged.”
“And yet he left you this impressive ranch. I wonder why?”
Sarcasm. From a naked cowboy. The guy was cocky.
Mariah shifted her weight, feeling like she was being indicted or mocked. “I didn’t say it made any sense.”
“That’s because it doesn’t.”
“Look,” she said. “Could you just go?”
He shook his head. “I’m just not buying it.”
“Buying what?”
“That you own this ranch. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Perfect fingernails.” He waved a hand at her. “You look like a Barbie doll.”
“I’m not tall enough to be Barbie.”
“Barbie’s sidekick then.”
“Sidekick?”
“I don’t know what they call Barbie’s sidekick. Tonto Barbie. Doc Holliday Barbie. Sundance Barbie. Pick one.”
“Are all your references movie cowboys?”
“Pretty much. Except the Barbie one. I could call you Calamity Jane instead if you prefer symmetry.”
Seriously annoyed, Mariah sank her hands on her hips. “Do I have to call the cops?”
“Do you?”
What a jerk. “I’m calling the cops,” she threatened, pulling her cell phone from her purse.
“Are you always this friendly?”
“Whenever I find a naked cowboy in my gold-plated horse trough I am. I’m pretty sure there’s laws against public nudity, even in this backwater place.”
“First off, I’m not naked,” he said.
She couldn’t stop herself from raking a gaze over his amazing body. “You look naked.”
“Appearance can be deceiving. For instance, you look stuck-up.”
“Sometimes appearance can be deceiving, but on the whole, I’ve found that generally what you see is what you get.”
“So you’re saying you are stuck-up?”
“I’m saying you look like a drunken derelict.”
“Hungover derelict,” he corrected. “I’m not drunk anymore.”
“Excuse me for missing the distinction. I’m sure your mother is so proud.”
“I have underwear on,” he offered.
“How comforting.” As if a little strip of soaking wet cotton cloth hid anything. Why she should find that even more tantalizing than full nudity, she had no clue, but she did.
And that bothered her. A lot.
“Secondly, this isn’t public,” the cowboy continued. “It’s private property.”
“I know,” she said. She couldn’t believe this conversation was happening. Had she driven down a rabbit hole when she wasn’t looking and ended up in Wonderland? She half expected to see the White Rabbit pop up at any moment, muttering about being late. “My property.”
“Thirdly, it’s not your horse trough.”
Her finger hovered over the keypad. Should she call the cops? By challenging him, was she making things worse? Maybe she should just walk away and let him get out of the horse trough at his own pace. She was thirty-six hours without sleep and hungry and sad and strung out from the road and she wanted to find a place to curl up and take a nap, but first she had to set things straight with this cretin.
Before she could make up her mind whether to call the cops, a sheriff’s cruiser motored up the road.
“Ha! Apparently someone else has already reported you,” she said. “Nice of them to save me the trouble.”
“I wouldn’t gloat too hard,” he observed. “The deputy will be on my side.”
“Why’s that? Just because you know each other? The good old boy network in action?” Mariah clenched her teeth. She’d had enough of cronyism in Chicago.
“Nope. The deputy is a woman.”
“Then why are you so sure she’ll side with you? Did you sleep with her?”
“Does that bother you?”
“Why should it bother me? I don’t care who you sleep with. Why would I care about who you slept with?”
“Y
ou tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Why you’re upset at the idea that I slept with a lady deputy.”
“I’m not!” She snorted.
“You look upset.”
“I’m upset because you’re naked in my horse trough.”
“This conversation is going around in circles.”
“No kidding.”
“It’s not your horse trough.”
“It is.”
“Nope, because it’s not your ranch.”
“It is and I can prove it.”
“It’s not and here’s the reason why. My name’s Joe Daniels, this here is Green Ridge Ranch, and I have a sneaking suspicion you’re looking for Stone Creek.”
Chapter Two
Don’t judge people by their kinfolk.
—Dutch Callahan
At first glance the woman looked so much like Becca that for one heart-splitting second when he first opened his eyes, Joe thought his dead wife had come back to life and the last two years had been nothing but a terrible nightmare.
For one brief moment he’d felt it. Magic. Followed by a quick breath of utter joy.
But now that he’d gotten a good look at the woman in the early morning light, and saw past his throbbing headache, she didn’t resemble Becca nearly as much as he’d initially thought.
Different personalities too. He could tell that right from the get-go. Becca enjoyed being the center of attention. She’d been an outrageous flirt, gregarious, naturally bold, never met a stranger. Much as he’d been once upon a time.
Mariah Callahan had more of a shy kitten-with-claws thing going on. Like she was scared, but desperate not to show it.
His wife’s eyes had been stark blue, this woman possessed eyes the color and quality of a melted Hershey bar; her hair a different texture and hue. Thick and golden, whereas Becca’s hair had been baby fine and sandy. Becca had been lean and wiry. This woman’s body curved softly in all the appropriate places. Becca had been a stunning beauty, whereas this one shone in a girl-next-door kind of way.
She was shorter than Becca as well. By at least two inches. Becca had favored tight-fitting Wranglers, cowboy boots, a Stetson, and Western-cut shirts. Mariah wore black slacks, a fluffy light blue sweater, and skimpy black shoes that looked like something ballerinas wore.
No ghost at all, but another woman entirely. Disappointment squeezed his throat.
“Y-you? You’re Joe Daniels?” she stammered, her cheeks flushing a high pink, her fingers clutching the strap of the purse dangling from her shoulder.
“In the flesh,” he said, appreciating how his pun made her color burn even hotter. This tough little kitten riled easy.
“This isn’t my father’s ranch?”
“Nope.” He shook his head. It had been contrary not to tell her his name right off the bat, but he’d been unable to resist the tease. She looked at once defiant, yet gullible.
Plus, no matter how cool he acted, it shamed him to admit he couldn’t quite recall exactly how he’d ended up in his BVDs in the horse trough, and he didn’t know how to get out of it gracefully with her standing there.
The police cruiser pulled to a stop. His sister-in-law, Ila Brackeen, was behind the wheel, no doubt puzzling out what was going on.
“So . . . um . . . where’s Stone Creek?” Mariah asked.
Joe waved at the one-lane dirt road running on the far side of his property. “Keep followin’ that road another mile. Once you cross the cattle guard, you’ll see Dutch’s cabin off to the right.”
“Thanks. Sorry to bother you. I’m just going to”—she jerked her thumb in the direction of her car, her cheeks still the color of bubble gum—“go.”
She spun on her heels and scurried across the grass toward the car, nodding to Ila as she got out of the cruiser. Ila shot her the stink eye. His sister-in-law was suspicious of everyone not born and raised in Jubilee.
Mariah jumped into the Malibu and revved the engine. Joe could feel her humiliation all the way from where he was. She drove away, but not before she turned to glance over her shoulder at him.
One last time.
For no good reason, he had an overwhelming urge to call her back. Ask her to stay a spell. See if he could get her to smile. Stupid impulse, but there it was.
She’s not Becca.
’Course she wasn’t. He knew that. Joe rested his head back against the trough; every muscle in his body ached.
Ila walked up. His sister-in-law was the opposite of her half sister, Becca. Tall and dark and tomboyish, with a husky voice and a tendency toward klutziness, she put him in mind of the actress Angie Harmon. He and Ila had been friends since first grade. Long before he married her younger sister.
“Who’s the misfit?” she asked.
“Dutch’s daughter.”
“Aw, the princess bitch.”
“Aren’t you being a bit hard on her?”
“After how she treated, Dutch? No way.” Ila raised an eyebrow and peered down at him. “How in the hell did you get in this predicament?”
“Mornin’, Il. You’re looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
“Don’t try to sweet-talk me, Joe Daniels. What in the hell happened? When I left last night you promised me you were going to bed. Looks to me like you spent the night in the horse trough again.”
“Jose Cuervo.” He winced against the pain shooting through his skull. He turned his head, letting his eyes stray for a lingering glance in the direction of the car disappearing in a dusty cloud toward Stone Creek.
“One hundred percent city girl,” Ila said, following his gaze. “She’ll have the ranch up for sale and be gone in a New York minute. Nothing to worry about.”
“What if she sells the place to some Dallas land developer. Can’t have that.”
“Good point. Better head her off at the pass.”
“I’ve got to convince her to sell the acreage back to me,” he grumbled. “I had no idea Dutch was going to drop dead three weeks after we signed the papers or I never would have traded him the land for Some Kind of Miracle.”
“What if she demands more than the land is worth? She seems like the money-hungry type to me.” Ila snorted.
He loved Ila like a sister—hell, like a brother; she could match any man in the saddle or with a gun or a fishing pole or her knowledge of football—but she had zero tolerance for girlie-girls or big-city ways. “I’d pay it.”
“With what? All your cash is tied up in the ranch and cutting horses.”
True enough. Joe was a millionaire a couple of times over, but it was all on the books. Nothing liquid he could readily get his hands on. “Why’d Dutch leave the ranch to her? Why didn’t he just will it back to me?”
“Maybe he felt guilty for running out on her when she was a kid,” Ila said.
Joe glared, but that made his head hurt worse so he stopped. “It wasn’t Dutch’s fault. He tried. Mariah didn’t want anything to do with him. Dutch finally figured it was best if he just kept his distance.”
“You suppose a child might see things differently?”
“Now you’re taking her side? A minute ago you were giving her the back side of your tongue.”
Ila spread her palms. “You know how I like to play devil’s advocate.”
Joe tried to lever himself from the horse trough, but he was so stiff he was having trouble pushing up.
“Here,” Ila said, and stuck out her palm.
He grabbed hold of her big, solid hand and she tugged him from the trough. His boxer briefs clung to his skin, but he wasn’t self-conscious. Ila was like one of the guys. He didn’t have to worry about the usual male/female sexual tension stuff with her.
“This may seem like a dumb question,” she said, “but how is it you ended up with your pants off, but your boots on?”
“Long story,” he said.
“Let me guess. You’d been into the Jose Cuervo because you buried your best friend two years to the day after you buried your b
ride. You were getting ready for bed, thought of Becca, and slipped on your boots to come out here to kick the horse trough and yell at her for dying, lost your balance, and fell in. It was too much trouble to get out, so you just stayed there.”
Ila knew him too damn well. Becca had bought the garish horse trough at an estate auction a few months before her accident. They’d disagreed about the appropriateness of horses drinking from a gold-plated trough, but Becca had won the argument and the trough stood as a symbol of her triumph. When it came down to it, Joe had never been able to refuse his wife anything.
“Amazing powers of deduction, Deputy.”
“You’re an uncomplicated guy, Joe-Joe.”
She had a point. He’d gotten so drunk he spent the night in his underwear in Becca’s horse trough. Simpleton behavior, true enough. “I miss her something fierce, Il.”
“I know you do.” Ila’s tone softened. “I do too.”
Joe pulled a palm down his face. “And now Dutch.”
“You gotta move on. Jose ain’t the answer.”
“I know,” he said morosely, and bent to pick up the tequila bottle. The morning breeze was cold on his wet skin, and his teeth chattered. Perversely, he liked the discomfort. He had the privilege of being uncomfortable. Becca and Dutch did not. “But for about half an hour last night, I managed to drink every nerve ending into submission.”
“Becca wouldn’t want you grieving so hard.”
“Sure she would. Becca loved attention.”
“I’ll give you that,” Ila conceded. “But we’re talking about your mental health here. Just accept that there’s a bigger plan for your life, even though you can’t see it yet. You’ll love again someday.”
“I’ve had my shot at my one true love. It’s why I’ve thrown my heart and soul into cutting. I was lucky to have Becca for what time I had her. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”
“Tell that to Cooter Johnston. He’s been hit by lightning three times.”
“Because the man doesn’t have sense enough to come in out of a thunderstorm.
Ila cleared her throat, eyed the tequila bottle in his hand. “That’s a bit like Fort Knox calling the horse trough gold.”
