One Hot Cowboy

by Cathy Gillen Thacker

  “That’s right.” Sabrina smiled gently as she ushered Maggie into a chair. “There have been many changes in your life since then, haven’t there?”

  Maggie sat down before she fell down. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “But still no man in your life.” Sabrina shook her head.

  Maggie leveled a curious look at the fortune-teller. What timing, to have Sabrina come back into her life now, Maggie thought. “You said I’d marry a cowboy.”

  “And you shall.” Sabrina studied her. “You are skeptical?”

  Maggie shrugged her shoulders. “I admit it all seemed magical when I was a kid,” she allowed. “It still does. But as for anyone having the power to see into the future…” Maggie’s voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, Sabrina, I don’t mean to offend you, but I just don’t believe in palm reading.”

  Sabrina smiled. “That is all right, Maggie. But indulge me as I gaze into my crystal ball,” she said as she waved her hands over the top and sides of the sphere. As they peered down into it, Sabrina spoke of a startlingly beautiful vista. Maggie knew at once, by the description of the stark flat landscape, the acres of dark brown fence and Brahma cattle, that it was Texas. Though she only saw the warped reflection of the paisley tablecloth through the orb.

  “In the distance, I see an outcropping of trees.” Then Sabrina became serious, frighteningly so. “Beneath it, a wreath of well-tended flowers surrounding a fenced-in area with two graves.” A chill went down Maggie’s spine. Was this her resting place she was seeing? Was Sabrina predicting her death?

  “Your fate is already decided,” Sabrina told Maggie. “I see him. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a Stetson, lingering outside the white picket fence that surrounds the graves…now he is gone…another image is appearing…it is becoming clearer…yes, yes, now I see you, Maggie.”

  Thoroughly caught up, Maggie leaned this way and that. But try as she might, she could not see what Sabrina was describing. “And now you and this cowboy, together.”

  Maggie accepted that the whole hocus-pocus atmosphere was just a bit of gimmickry, drawn from Maggie’s long-ago professed desire to marry a cowboy, and her recent, very public proclamations that she was retiring from modeling and returning to her native Texas.

  Sabrina gazed raptly into the crystal ball. “I have much work to do,” she murmured softly. “Not just for you, Maggie, but for Hallie and Clarissa, too— wait.” Sabrina waved her hands over the murky surface of the crystal ball. “Another image is appearing,” she murmured urgently.

  The practical side of Maggie knew this was all nonsense; nevertheless, she was on the edge of her seat, trying to see what Sabrina was seeing, if for no other reason than to satisfy her own considerable curiosity. “Is it Texas again?” Maggie persisted, for it was clear from the utterly mesmerized look on Sabrina’s face that Sabrina was seeing something.

  Sabrina nodded. “You will marry a man and have many children with him…half a dozen, in fact. Some with light hair, some with dark…” Sabrina paused, frowning.

  “But there’s a catch, right?” Maggie said, aware she was as captivated by all this as she was mistrusting.

  Sabrina nodded, affirming this to be true. Her voice dropped a mesmerizing notch.

  “First, you must mend his broken heart.”

  Chapter One

  He caught sight of her on the video surveillance monitor mounted on the dash of his pickup truck, slipping through a little-known side gate and onto the Rollicking M Ranch as though she not only owned the place, but knew it well.

  She was wearing a flat-brimmed straw hat to ward off the September sunshine, dark denim figure-hugging jeans, a white cotton blouse with a narrow band collar, and a vest in the same caramel hues as her knee-high western boots.

  A smile of anticipation curving her full lips, she guided her horse through the golden Texas meadow with the easy grace of an expert rider. She was, he thought in bemusement, completely unaware she had tripped the silent alarm and her image had been picked up and transmitted via state-of-the-art color monitors to several locations on the ranch.

  Beside him, the shortwave radio crackled before Harry Wholesome’s deep voice boomed, “We’ve got company.”

  “I know,” he grumbled back, wishing for the millionth time that great wealth did not attract such lunatics—even the stunningly beautiful ones. “I see her.” I may wish I didn’t, but I see her.

  He studied the woman’s model-perfect features and pale golden hair. Damn, she was a looker. Tall. Slender. With gently curving breasts, a trim waist, and long sexy legs. Clearly, she was the most beautiful—and widely photographed—intruder they’d had yet. What she didn’t know was that he and Harry and the rest of the ranch hands had been tipped off by a photographer at the Houston newspaper, and had been expecting her to show up.

  Unfortunately, he was not in the mood for this. He’d spent the morning halterbreaking a colt no one else was having any luck with, including him as it turned out, then fine-tuning the funny little rattle out of the engine on Harry’s pickup. Which was what he got for being a jack-of-all-trades, he supposed wearily—all the jobs on the ranch no one else wanted. Though they’d be standing in line for this one, he thought with a shimmer of heartfelt anticipation, still watching the woman pick her way through the field of rippling yellow grass.

  Especially since, two years after her muchpublicized engagement to a New York City real estate developer had ended with a whimper instead of a wedding ceremony, she was very much on the lookout for a new man. Reportedly a wealthy native Texan this time, like herself.

  Course, he could—on some level—understand that, too. The trespassing supermodel knew her looks would not be bringing in the big bucks forever. At age thirty, she had a couple good years left, and then she’d be on the downside of the money curve. Which was also no doubt why she’d made such a big splash announcing her “retirement” in the press. She probably wanted to be lured back temporarily by the best money she’d earn yet. Though the grandstanding ploy might work, it was all pretty shallow, in his opinion. As no doubt, was she.

  On the other end of the shortwave, Harry sighed impatiently. “Want me to cut this little episode short and call the sheriff?” he barked, ready to take action, as soon as he got the okay.

  His gut tightened as he continued to watch her. He didn’t know what it was about her—but he understood why she was so successful. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He doubted any other man could either.

  “No. I’ll take care of it,” he volunteered reluctantly, tossing down his work gloves and watching as the intruder guided her mount swiftly up over the rise and headed for the sprawling hacienda-style ranch house, with its white stucco walls and red tile roof.

  Women had been breaching the MacIntyre domain for years, but never, he thought, as the beautiful woman dismounted, pulled something from the top of her boot, and covertly reached for her mare’s right foreleg, as brazenly as this!

  Continuing to watch her fiddle knowingly with her horse’s shoe, he shook his head and grinned. Considering the caculatedness of her actions, perhaps it was time he traded this pickup for a horse and taught her a lesson of which Old Man MacIntyre was sure to approve.

  ALTHOUGH SHE WAS pretending mightily to be a perplexed damsel in distress as she knelt next to her borrowed palomino, crooning softly and petting Buttercup all the while, Maggie spotted the down-and-out ranch hand on the spotted Appaloosa the moment he topped the rise.

  In a sweat-stained denim shirt and jeans, disreputable-looking boots and hat, he sat his horse in a lazy, all-male way that made her throat go dry. As he closed in on her, she could see he was covered from head to toe with a fine film of ranch dust and a few splatters of black grease.

  He was handsome, his deeply suntanned face sexy, his square even features slightly angular. But the dark stubble clinging to his jaw, coupled with his thick brown mustache and the calmly assessing glint in his deep chocolate brown eyes, only added to his dangerous appeara
nce.

  “Just as I thought,” the sexy cowboy drawled, swinging lithely off of the saddle. Letting go the reins, he shook his head at Maggie in a way that immediately gave her second thoughts about her plan. Still looking her up and down, his gaze covering every inch of her, he swept off his dusty Stetson and slapped it against one thigh. “The boss is not going to like this.”

  She had no choice but to brazen it out, even as she took in his rumpled sable brown hair and a face that had not seen a razor for several days. She gave him the smile that had graced many a magazine cover over the years. “The fact my horse lost a shoe?” she asked.

  The cowboy set his hat on his head and tugged it low on his brow. He smoothed the ends of his thick mustache and gave her a warning look that was very much at odds with the heat in his eyes. “The fact you’re trespassing,” he replied.

  Something about the way the disreputable cowboy was looking at her—as if she were a dessert he was dying to taste—caused her pulse to quicken. “Jake MacIntyre is that mean?” Maggie asked.

  “And then some, I’d say,” the sexy cowboy intoned, moving closer yet.

  Maggie looked past him, at the sprawling hacienda-style ranch house. A place this big was bound to have multiple employees. Surely, someone else would come along soon. Maybe even Jake MacIntyre! The reclusive rancher she’d heard about. All she had to do was stall. “You work this ranch?” she asked, as they continued to square off.

  The cowboy knelt next to Buttercup and examined her newly unshod foot. “Certainly looks that way, don’t it,” he murmured, next examining the smooth, relatively unscathed horsehoe on the ground. He frowned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think this shoe was pulled off!”

  Damn, but this cowboy was trouble with a capital T. Never one to throw in the towel, especially on a battle she could win, Maggie decided to give back as good as she was getting. “Of course it was pulled off,” she admitted brazenly, her cheeks pinkening slightly even as she held the cowboy’s steady, probing gaze. “I pulled it off after it became loose and nearly fell off. I didn’t want poor Buttercup tripping and stumbling over a loose shoe. She might’ve pulled a tendon.”

  “Well, now, that was mighty considerate of you,” he drawled, the devil in his eyes. His eyes still locked with hers, he stood again and towered over her. Which wasn’t easy, Maggie thought. Considering that the heels of their boots were each about two inches thick, he had a good six inches on her, which made him at least six feet six inches. A very handsome and imposing six feet six inches.

  “Thank you,” Maggie murmured, turning her eyes from him.

  “Oh, you’re welcome.”

  Desperate to move his attention away from her horse, Maggie turned the conversation back to him. “You look like you’ve had a hard day, too. Your clothes, and all,” she added hastily, as her glance moved over his solidly muscled chest.

  The Rollicking M cowboy lifted a brow. He rolled his weight from his heels to his toes, until he was leaning over her, emanating warmth. “That’s what happens when you put in an honest day’s work,” he told her significantly.

  Maggie caught the hint of derision in his tone, even as she breathed in the salty tang of his sweat, mingling with the lingering scent of soap and cologne, from a shower she guessed he had taken just hours ago.

  She wondered why he hadn’t bothered to shave, too, even as she propped her hands on her hips and squared off with him. “You probably think I don’t know anything about that,” she accused.

  He shrugged and regarded her facetiously from beneath the shadowy brim of his hat. He gave her a taunting half smile. “Not up to me to say, lady, one way or ‘nother.”

  “Well, I do know,” Maggie continued, offended. She would not have people say she’d had an easy time of it. Modeling was hard, often grueling, work. She had earned every penny she had made and then some. “I have supported myself for years! I put myself and my brothers through college, too.”

  He looked her up and down, taking his time about it, before returning his insultingly frank gaze to her face. Locking eyes with her, he grinned what by now had become a most infuriating smirk.

  “I’ll have to take your word on that, now, won’t I?” he drawled.

  Maggie blew out an exasperated breath. “You surely will.”

  Apparently able to tell he had insulted her, the cowboy slapped a hand dramatically across his chest. “Don’t get me wrong. I think, from what I’ve seen of it, and I’ve seen a lot here on the Rollicking M, that fortune hunting is damn hard work. In fact, it’s a lot sweatier and dirtier than anything I’ve done today,” he continued.

  Maggie swore inwardly and damned him for catching on to her plan so quickly, even though it was none of his business. “What gives you the idea I’m fortune hunting?” Maggie demanded coolly, knowing full well, even if this cowboy didn’t, that she was looking for love, not money. And she wouldn’t even be doing that if it had come her way naturally, as she had long and often wished.

  “Oh, it’s easy enough to figure out, when you show up here like this, dressed to kill.”

  Maggie swept a hand down the simple but very attractive Western attire she’d spent hours selecting this morning. “This?” She shrugged off his backhanded compliment with the same unchecked audacity with which it had been given. “This is nothing.” You ought to see me in Armani or Donna Karan.

  His sable brown eyes darkened unhappily. An Arctic chill wafted between them. Maggie decided they had traded barbs long enough. “Is there a blacksmith on the ranch who can reshoe my horse?”

  Looking equally ready to escape from her, the cowboy scowled at her, then at Buttercup. “The Rollicking M does not employ its own blacksmith—”

  “A phone then.”

  His powerful shoulders strained against the damp denim fabric of his shirt. “We got one you could use in the stables.”

  Perfect, Maggie thought.

  Reading her mind, he continued lazily, “which, by the way, are located well away from the main house.”

  Not so perfect. Realizing what he was hinting at, Maggie decided to tackle the subject of her trustworthiness head-on. Tilting her chin at him, she asked, “What’s the problem, cowboy? Think I’ll steal your boss’s china?”

  The sexy cowboy shook his head and taunted her with an insolent grin. “Not very damn likely, with Harry Wholesome around.”

  Maggie focused for a moment on the thin but sensual curve of his lips before returning to his dark-lashed brown eyes. It was a shame his eyes weren’t blue, and that he had a mustache; otherwise he was about perfect, as far as the physical requirements of her wish list went anyway. The personality section was another matter. On that, he needed a major overhaul.

  “Who’s Harry?”

  “The majordomo of the Rollicking M Ranch.”

  Maggie blinked and, aware her heart was racing again, stepped back a pace. “Jake MacIntyre has a male housekeeper?”

  He gave her a cynical look. “Surprised?”

  “Maybe. A little.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Maggie shrugged. “I just figured, a single guy, he’d have a woman working for him.”

  “Well, you figured wrong. He doesn’t want women underfoot, particularly young single ones.”

  Maggie hadn’t climbed to the top of the New York modeling trade without knowing how to take advantage of an opportunity. “Perhaps I should apologize to him in person then,” she suggested breezily.

  “What for?”

  “What else?” Maggie spread her hands wide. “Intruding on his privacy.”

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

  “Now see here, Mr.—”

  “You can call me J.D., if you want.”

  “It’s not wrong to apologize,” Maggie continued with an indignant sniff.

  “Trust me,” he said with a smug, knowing look. “In this case, considering how and why you happen to be here like this, it would be.” He hunkered down beside Buttercup and examining
both her unshod foot and hoof and then the thrown horseshoe, shook his head. “I just don’t get it,” he murmured.

  “Don’t get what?” Maggie asked uncomfortably, wondering just how much this J.D. guessed or knew about her plan.

  He shook his head again. “Usually when a horse throws a shoe, it’s because it is a little worn down, or maybe damaged in some way. This one looks fine, except for being off. Plus,” J.D. moved around and checked all Buttercup’s shoes in turn in excrutiating detail while Maggie restlessly shifted her weight from foot to foot, “the others are all on tight as a drum.” He shoved back his hat with the tip of his finger. Chocolate brown eyes dancing, he peered down at her. “How do you reckon this shoe might’ve gotten loosened to the point where you had to take it off for the horse’s safety, Miss—?”

  “Porter. Maggie Porter. And I’m certain I couldn’t tell you,” Maggie said stiffly, furious he kept returning to this anomaly when she was damn sure he knew that she would rather he not dwell on it.

  “Hmm. Well, I suppose I’ll have to think about that. Nothing like a mystery just waiting to be solved. Meantime, I suppose we better head on back to the barn, if we’re going to get this fixed. Course, you can’t ride your horse, with her missing shoe,” J.D. remarked. “We’ll have to lead her.”

  “Fine,” Maggie said impatiently. “It’s not far anyway.”

  She watched him take the reins of her horse, then gaped as he swung himself up in the saddle of his Appaloosa. She had expected him to walk along beside her and the horses, not ride while she walked.

  J.D. leaned across his saddle and put a hand down to her. “C’mon,” he said, tucking the thrown shoe into his saddlebag, and motioning her up onto his horse with a nod of his head. “Let’s go.”

  Maggie blinked in surprise. “You want me to ride your horse, too?”

  “Would appear so, wouldn’t it?” he drawled, rolling his eyes.

  Maggie bit her lip. She couldn’t imagine being that close to him. Plus, doing so might mean inadvertently transferring some of the dust and grease on his clothes, to hers. “I don’t know about this.”