The Trouble With Cowboys

by Melissa Cutler

  Kellan hadn’t seen Vaughn so off his game in a while. “Did something happen with you and Rachel? Some kind of bad blood?”

  Vaughn wiped his palms on his jeans. “I need a cigarette.”

  “No, you don’t,” Kellan said. “You quit smoking in January. You’re almost at your one-year anniversary. How about another beer instead?”

  That earned him a wry huff. “Isn’t that like fighting one vice with another?”

  “I suppose. But beer won’t give you lung cancer.” He was already headed toward the refrigerator.

  Chris wagged a finger in Vaughn’s direction. “You said you logged a lot of hours at the Sorentino farm, so you must’ve spent a fair amount of time around Rachel. Why don’t you like her?”

  Vaughn ignored the question and motioned to the snack spread on the coffee table, a plastic-looking smile glued to his lips. “What’s the deal, Kellan? It’s half-time and I’m starving. You want me to fix the steaks myself? A man can’t live on cheese alone.”

  After a split-second consideration, Kellan decided to follow his friend’s lead. If Vaughn couldn’t give voice to whatever was bothering him, then the least Kellan could do was play along with the topic change. “Nice try, but you know good and well no one touches that beef except me. I hand-picked the steer from my herd to butcher, then dry-aged the T-bones to perfection.”

  He marched to the kitchen to grab his grilling tools and the steaks resting on the counter. Something on top of the fridge caught his eye. The manila envelope. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he glanced over his shoulder. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the half-time report on the television screen.

  “A quick peek,” he whispered, grabbing it. “Who’s the unlucky bastard this time?”

  He tipped the contents onto the counter. Several photographs fluttered to the floor. Kellan bent to retrieve them, but stayed doubled over, the wind knocked clean out of him as he looked on the whiskey brown eyes and full lips of the woman who’d been on his mind all weekend.

  Amy Sorentino.

  Amy’s hands moved unflinchingly as she piped filling over long strips of raw pasta she’d rolled out on the counter. Pumpkin puree seasoned with cloves, coriander, cinnamon, and pancetta tempted her nose and she hummed with delight. After folding the pasta over the filling, she pressed the edges, then rummaged in a drawer for a pasta cutter.

  Jenna’s fingers paused over the laptop’s keyboard. “That smells amazing, sweetie. Which recipe are you working on today?”

  “A dish I developed at Terra Bistro. Pumpkin ravioli with a sage cream sauce. Give me about twenty minutes and I’ll plate a sample for you.”

  “Good deal. I’ll be ready for a break by then, anyway.” She resumed typing. “The oil litigation attorney I’m contacting this week will want copies of our financial statements and the Amarex contract. I haven’t found the contract yet, but I’ve got a few more places to look on the computer and in the attic.”

  “How’s your progress with Dad’s financial records going?”

  “How do you think?”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Jenna chortled. “He didn’t leave any sort of trail for us to follow to figure out what he did with the money. The money he got from the second mortgage he took out, his and Mom’s IRAs, their savings accounts—it’s all gone. He leveraged everything he and Mom owned. You’d think if he’d gambled it away or had an addiction, we would’ve found some evidence. But I haven’t found anything.”

  Amy rolled the pasta cutter between the bumps of filling. “All I know is Dad left Mom high and dry when he died. It’s no wonder she had a nervous breakdown.”

  “I wish she would’ve opened up to Rachel and me about the money problems. She didn’t need to shoulder that burden alone. We could’ve helped her.”

  Amy peeked into the pot on the stove to see how close to boiling the water was, then plunked onto a chair. “If there’s one thing we’ve learned, Jen, with Dad dying and Mom’s depression, it’s that we can’t let the what ifs get the best of us. Even when it’s the toughest thing in the world, we have to keep moving forward.”

  “You’re right, but it’s so hard. Especially with the lawyer requiring us to dig up the past. That was brutal, talking to a complete stranger about Mom’s condition. I understand his need to know everything to prove in court she needs a permanent guardian, but sitting there yesterday, describing the morning we found her . . .” She scrubbed a hand over her cheek, her eyes turned glassy with moisture. “That was rough.”

  A stab of guilt pierced Amy’s gut as she hugged Jenna. She hadn’t been home when her sisters discovered their mother unconscious in a pasture next to empty bottles of pills and vodka. Rachel had been the one to call 9-1-1 while Jenna administered CPR. Amy had spent the morning peeling and slicing Yukon Golds for a potato challenge on Chef Showdown. She’d flown to the hospital in Albuquerque that night, but it made no difference. The damage to her mother’s brain and body was irreversible.

  Jenna sucked in a slow breath, then seemed to shake off her sadness with a full-body shudder. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I finished designing our Web page last night. The Heritage Farm Web site is ready to launch, pending yours and Rachel’s approval.”

  “I’ve got a few minutes before the water boils. Let’s check it out.”

  Beneath the splashy title Heritage Farm was a description. Amy read it aloud. “‘Heritage Farm allows families to participate in the day-to-day running of a working farm. Guests pick produce grown in the ranch’s garden to be prepared for their dinner, assist in the feeding and care of livestock, and ride the fence line on horseback to take in the sweeping views of one of the most picturesque landscapes in the world.’” Jenna had done a terrific job. Amy had no idea that she was so savvy with computers. “This sounds great. You’ve got a real knack for marketing and the page design is fantastic.”

  “Thanks.”

  Surprised and delighted, Amy read on. “‘Guests of the farm stay in luxuriously appointed rooms in the main house, where they begin and end each day with locally grown, gourmet, multicourse meals prepared by—’”

  Amy blinked at the screen, her stomach churning.

  Jenna finished reading the passage. “‘Prepared by nationally renowned chef and Ultimate Chef Showdown contestant, Amy Sorentino.’”

  Amy pressed a finger to her temple. “I hate that I’ll never live down my appearance on that show.”

  “I know, sweetie, but the sort of publicity we will get from advertising your performance on Chef Showdown might be the key to Heritage Farm’s success. We have to play that card.”

  “It was the worst experience of my life.”

  “Okay, true. But this is our farm I’m talking about. This”—she speared a finger toward the computer screen—“is our last chance to avoid foreclosure, pay for Mom’s care, and keep a roof over all our heads. The producers from the Travel Channel will be arriving in January to film a piece that’ll air around Valentine’s Day. That’s huge. Beyond huge. We have to do everything possible to promote the business.”

  “You’re right. I’m still making my peace with what happened on the show, but I’ll be okay.” She rose and eased the ravioli into the water, then adjusted the heat. We have to keep moving forward. Easier said than done.

  “Have you gotten any nibbles on the job listing you posted?” Jenna asked.

  “Not one.” She’d placed ads online and in community newspapers across the state two weeks earlier, looking for a qualified sous-chef. “Hard to believe no one’s jumping at the chance to work in a start-up restaurant that’s hours away from the nearest big city, working under a failed reality show chef for a pittance.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’ll work out. You’ll see. With the way the economy’s been plummeting the past few years, someone’s bound to need a job. And once they’re here, they’ll sense how successful this little start-up restaurant’s going to be.”

  The skeptic in Amy rejected Jenna’s opt
imistic prediction, but even still, in her heart, she hoped Jenna was right—for all of their sakes. “How about, after you sample the ravioli, I’ll get you up to speed on the beef supply contract? Maybe you can call Slipping Rock’s office tomorrow morning and set up an appointment.”

  “I believe you have a date on Friday night with Slipping Rock’s owner. You can talk to him about a contract yourself.”

  “No way. You have to handle it, Jenna. I can’t be responsible for negotiating a business contract with Kellan. I’m a terrible judge of character—especially when it comes to cowboys. Look at the way he coerced me into going out with him. One kiss and I lost control. If I tried to bargain with him over beef prices, I’d probably bankrupt our business.”

  “Not all cowboys are bad news, you know.”

  Tucking a slotted spoon under her arm, Amy opened the fridge. “Wanna make a bet? You watched what happened on Chef Showdown, right?”

  “I did. It sucked. Brock McKenna was a jerk.”

  Amy snorted as she rummaged for something to dice, finding a bag of celery, cabbage, and garlic she hadn’t remembered buying. “Jerk is too nice an insult. That no-good, lying, cheating, rotten bastard tops the list of reasons I hate cowboys. But it’s not only him. We can add Dad and every boyfriend I had in high school to that list. And every boyfriend you ever had. And pretty much every other cowboy I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

  “Then why do you keep sleeping with them?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.” She kicked the fridge door closed and slammed a bunch of celery on the counter. “Look, sis. I get how ridiculous an obsession it is. There’s just something about cowboys. I can’t explain it.”

  Grabbing a plate, she fished the tender ravioli out of the water with the slotted spoon, drizzled sage cream sauce over them, and set the plate under Jenna’s nose. As Jenna dug in, moaning with bliss, Amy took her MAC knife in hand and got busy dicing, hoping to forget her problems for a while.

  Too bad her thoughts kept slipping to Kellan’s kiss that morning. Damn him. She couldn’t even dice in peace since he had swaggered into her life. She dumped handfuls of diced celery into a bowl, frowning. Friday night, when he arrived to pick her up for the date he insisted on, a date she’d never agreed to, she’d have to find the guts to ask him to leave her alone. How hard could it be?

  She grabbed a second bunch of celery from the fridge. Okay, time to be honest with herself. Telling Kellan to go away was bound to be near impossible, especially if he showed up in a truck, wearing that Stetson. She rolled her tongue over her bottom lip at the memory, felt a telltale rush of blood to her inner thighs, and picked the MAC up again, moving the knife over the cutting board with reckless speed.

  Maybe she should make an exception to rule number one. Maybe she needed to give herself permission to satisfy her ridiculous desires with one more roll in the hay with the hottest cowboy she’d ever laid eyes on before sending him packing. It was a moral compromise that might work, but only if she kept her emotional boundaries in place. Because Amy’s real problem wasn’t so much about getting horizontal with cowboys, but her penchant for falling in love with them . . . and her heart had the scars to prove it.

  Chapter 5

  The clock was nearing midnight as Kellan approached the Texas state line en route to Amarillo. The deteriorating, neon-signed motels and trinket shops of Old Route 66 took on an aura of eerie vacancy in the shadowy darkness, like a ghost town from one of those low-budget horror movies Chris and Lisa were fond of. This was where the pretty young actress’s car would break down, or where zombies would strike unsuspecting tourists.

  The real-life demon lurking among the shabby buildings was the march of time, which is why Kellan hated this drive, always had. Nothing spelled defeat in his mind more than the route’s crumbling businesses, with their desperate bid for survival by evoking nostalgia in an era when no one cared to look back. It was depressing as hell.

  His truck was ushered into Texas by a gusty night wind that swirled and whipped the snow over the dull, dark landscape of endless flat plains. He reached across the center console to the passenger seat and ran his hand over the Sorentino file.

  Thinking of Amy left him feeling dizzy, detached. Like he’d been dropped headfirst down a well. He’d proclaimed to everyone, from his friends and Rachel to Amy herself, that all he wanted was casual sex. But nothing about his attraction to her was casual. Not remotely.

  One look at Amy at church and a ravenous, incendiary hunger replaced his every rational thought. One look and he’d wanted to drag her away and ravish her. He wanted to pleasure her with his tongue and fingers and cock until she was hoarse from screaming his name. Nothing casual about that.

  So he’d kissed her after the service. Crushing her against the church office wall, he’d taken her mouth as he’d fantasized about for the previous hour straight.

  That kiss scared the shit out of him.

  Not because of his loss of control, as disconcerting as that was for a man who prided himself on maintaining careful command of his life, but because the moment their lips met, a deeper knowledge had overwhelmed his lust. Hope. Ridiculous, irrational hope that maybe, despite his aversion to drama and dysfunctional families, he and Amy might have a future together beyond their lust.

  What a crock that hope had been. He wasn’t at liberty to have a relationship, sexual or otherwise, with a defendant in a lawsuit by the company he was set to inherit. And if that wasn’t frustrating enough, the minute Amy learned of Kellan’s Amarex connection, she was going to hate him. He might be able to handle the sticky ethical issues, but he didn’t have it in him to handle Amy’s hatred.

  He’d pored over her family’s file that night after his friends left, studying the leasing contract between Gerald Sorentino and the oil company, analyzing photographs of expedition drilling sites all over their acreage, and parsing out the data of the expedition results until he’d memorized it. What he discovered chilled him to the bone.

  Amarex was preparing to bankrupt Amy’s family in order to buy their land. Of course, the legal jargon didn’t phrase matters quite so bluntly, but it was all there in the oil leasing contract Gerald Sorentino signed. A clause stating that in the event of a foreclosure, Amarex had the opportunity to purchase every square inch of the Sorentino family’s three thousand acres at a fraction of the market value. The fastest way to induce foreclosure was to drain the family’s already meager coffers with a costly lawsuit.

  What Morton wanted with the Sorentinos’ oil-free, seemingly useless plot of land was anyone’s guess. Sadistic as he was, perhaps the land itself didn’t matter except as a means to provoke Kellan, as he was so fond of doing. No matter the reason, Kellan had two ways out of the situation. Either he could convince Morton to drop the lawsuit and void the oil leasing contract, or he could involve the law.

  He fingered the digital recorder in his jacket pocket. Plan B. Involving the law didn’t sit well with him because it would thrust him into the public eye along with his family’s dirt. He had to try for Plan A, which was why he’d forfeited sleep and driven through a snowstorm to Morton’s Amarillo estate.

  The driveway of Morton’s gated compound began twenty miles west of Amarillo and snaked through miles of desolate desert before ending at a brick wall fitted with a wrought-iron entrance gate. Instead of buzzing the intercom, he dialed Morton’s number on his cell phone.

  “Kellan, my boy, are you phoning to tell me you’ve convinced the Sorentino family to sell?” Morton sounded fresh and alert, despite the late hour. The security cameras would’ve shown him at the gate, so Kellan didn’t get why Morton was putting on the ignorant act.

  He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Buzz me through.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone was weighted. He could see, in his mind, Morton’s smug, sinister smile. “Certainly. What an intriguing surprise.”

  My ass.

  The gate retracted. Kellan ended the call and eas
ed off the brakes. On the winding quarter-mile drive to the main house, Kellan reviewed his strategy. The worst mistake he could make tonight would be to let slip any clue of his personal relationship with Amy. If Morton got a whiff of Kellan’s feelings, there was no doubt in his mind he’d redouble his efforts to destroy the Sorentinos, if only because it would torture Kellan.

  He crested the final hill to see Morton’s southwest-style, sprawling single-story estate shrouded in darkness, save for the faint glow of light from behind a thickly curtained window. The yard’s desert landscape seemed to cower beneath a dusting of fresh snow. The moment Kellan’s truck hit the cement pavers of the circular drive, four glaring floodlights clicked on.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pressed RECORD. The tape would be uploaded to his computer, as had his every conversation with Morton for the past ten years. Regardless of whether he ever made use of them, it felt good—powerful—to have an ace up his sleeve. Hunkering into his jacket, he crunched over the pavers while wind and snow slapped at his body. One of the double doors opened, silhouetting Morton’s stocky frame and buzz-cut hair.

  Morton squinted at the sky. “Looks like it’s going to be a wild one tonight. Helluva storm brewing on the plains.” He gave the door a push and backed off so Kellan could pass through. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  An approaching rumble of dogs barking—either with excitement or menace, Kellan could never decide—greeted his arrival. With one decisive whistle, Morton commanded three huge, muscular brown dogs to heel a few feet behind him. The dogs sat, but protested with a string of low growls, their beady eyes locked on Kellan.

  Morton rubbed a hand over the nearest dog’s head. It continued to growl, its gums dripping with saliva. “Has the snow reached Quay County yet?”

  Kellan shoved past the dogs, each of whom probably weighed almost as much as he did, and moved farther into a Spanish-tiled entrance hall. The house was cool, cold even, and smelled of cigars, furniture oil, and the residual odor of a long-ago fire in the hearth. “Blew in a couple hours ago. The forecast said the real weather’ll pick up around three.”