Charlotte's Cowboy

by Jeanne Allan

  Charlotte’s Cowboy

  Jeanne Allan

  Dear Reader,

  For many years I dreamed of being a writer. One day my husband wisely pointed out I needed to quit dreaming about writing and do it. So I did, but the dream came first. Now I’m lucky because I can dream in print.

  My books are pure flights of fancy, the characters wholly imaginary, and yet, all my stories draw in some way from my own experiences. Charlotte grew out of my love of old linens and lace. I knew she would appreciate the care and love that goes into the creating and preserving of such family treasures.

  Charlotte personifies the strength and gentleness that combine in every woman. Naturally I wanted the right man for her. Being a firm believer in the old adage “Opposites attract”, I wasn’t surprised when a rugged rancher rode up. Maybe at first Matthew and Charlotte weren’t each other’s idea of a “dream come true”, but I quickly set them straight. Well, not too quickly. I had some fun along the way and I hope you do, too.

  Jeanne Allan

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE cowboy was back. Charlotte watched him from beneath lowered lashes. This was the third time he’d approached Romance and Old Lace. He had yet to enter the store. The first time he’d stood outside looking through the plate-glass window. She’d been showing a customer the old embroidered pillowcases displayed in the window and had felt his eyes on her. He was a stranger, tall with hard-edged good looks. Something about him made her nervous, and she’d been happy when he’d walked away. The second time, Charlotte had looked up to see him studying her through the store’s open doorway. There was a frown on his face, and when their gazes met, she thought he intended to speak to her, but a prospective bride with her mother in tow had swept past him into the store. Charlotte greeted them, and when she’d looked at the doorway, he was gone.

  Now he was back and staring at the contents of the show window. While Charlotte was immensely pleased with the romantic all-white vignettes she’d contrived from odd bits of china, old linens and flower-bedecked hats, she found it difficult to believe the display was holding this particular man in thrall. He was obviously waiting for her current customers to leave.

  On the other side of the small store, two women about Charlotte’s age discussed their husbands’ inability to wax romantic and the relative merits of several finely tucked lawn nightgowns. Charlotte had shown them all she had in their sizes and moved away while they made up their minds.

  She was free to speculate on the man’s recurrent appearances. Straightening a fragrant display of soap that earlier customers had disturbed, Charlotte considered the possibility that the man was a husband, determined to purchase something of an intimate nature for his wife, but shy about it. Somehow he didn’t seem the shy type. He looked more the type to wade right in, the devil with the consequences. Charlotte moved to a table heaped with silk scarves. The colors glowed under the store lights; the fabric glided smoothly over her skin. Another stealthy peek through lowered lashes located him still on the other side of the showcase window.

  He was beginning to irritate her. If he was a customer, he should come in. Except she knew he wasn’t a customer. He was one of those darned throwbacks from another century. Men who still played with cows and horses and thought rules of polite behavior were for other people. Men who grabbed what they wanted and rode off into the sunset when they didn’t want it any more. Men who were hard and unforgiving, whose emotions were as dried up as the dusty pastures they lorded over. Charlotte knew all about those kind of men, and the cowboy was definitely one of them. From the wide brim of a dark felt hat down to dusty boots, all six feet plus of him absolutely reeked of self-assurance. Totally absorbed in his own thoughts, he was oblivious to the curious and flirtatious looks passing women flashed at him. Oblivious or accustomed to women reacting to the sheer masculinity of rugged good looks and a powerful frame. Whatever else he was, he was all male, with long legs encased in tight jeans that accentuated strong-looking, muscular thighs. His kind was always disgustingly good-looking. It came with the territory. Rearranging floral china sugar bowls, Charlotte wondered what color his eyes were. Not that she gave a hoot. Blue-eyed, green-eyed or brown-eyed, cowboys left her cold.

  Movement outside the store told her she wouldn’t have to worry about this particular cowboy. She watched him stride away down the mall, the rigid set of his wide shoulders registering annoyance. Charlotte felt like shouting after him she couldn’t be expected to eject everyone from the store to suit his convenience. All that sitting on a horse looking down must make a man think he was above the rest of the world. What a shame to waste rugged good looks on a man who doubtless possessed a brain as bovine as the cows he normally associated with.

  “I’ll take this one.” The dark-haired woman smiled and held up a Victorian-style gown. Charlotte quit speculating about the stranger and turned her attention to business.

  The cowboy returned a few minutes before closing time, once again scanning the shop’s interior through the display window. Framed by the unabashedly romantic showcase, the contrast of rugged male and delicate linens forcibly struck Charlotte. This man would never consider buying a froth of lace for his wife to wear. Good old-fashioned flannel, that’s what he’d select. The cowboy walked into the store, his nostrils flaring in mild distaste at the exotic-smelling scent of potpourri perfuming the air, all the while his gaze intent on her. He’d removed his hat, and a tanned face and sun-bleached highlights in chestnut brown hair confirmed he spent long hours outdoors. A real cowboy, she thought, not a drugstore cowboy dressed up to impress women.

  Apprehension flooded over her. Please let him be a customer. She cleared her throat. “May I help you?”

  “You’re Charlotte Darnelle.” It was not a question.

  “Yes.” Her plea was not going to be answered.

  “Your grandfather sent me.” There was a cool challenge in the statement.

  “Is your name Michael?”

  His brows drew together at the faint tinge of mockery in her voice. “It’s Matthew. Matthew Thorneton. Your grandfather—”

  “Grandpa Darnelle died two years ago.” She refused to let him finish. “That’s why I thought your name must be Michael. As in the archangel.”

  “You had two grandfathers. Your other—”

  “I had one grandfather. His name was Richard Darnelle.” Charlotte walked to the doorway. “We close early on Sundays.”

  His frown deepened. “I don’t think you understand, Ms. Darnelle.”

  “It’s not my understanding that’s deficient.” She pulled the metal gate used to close the store halfway across the opening. “Goodbye.” When he didn’t move but stood looking at her, frustration riding his face, she added pointedly, “I can call mall security.” The man moved slowly through the doorway. On the other side of the gate he stopped to watch her fasten the chain. She ignored him, willing him to go away. Looking past the lock she saw his scarred and dirty boots remain adamantly within her field of vision.

  “I didn’t choose to come to Denver. I’m here for your benefit.” His voice was deep. And riddled with irritation. He was obviously a man who wasn’t used to being crossed. He was also an itch that wouldn’t go away.

  Charlotte scratched. “The only thing you can do to benefit me is disappear.”

  “You remind me of Charlie Gannen. Your other grandfather.” His voice underlined the last two words.

  Anger brought her
head up. “That’s not a compliment.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. He could be a real son of...a real pain.”

  Charlotte turned away. This cowboy wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know. Ignoring him, she walked over to the counter and continued her closing-up routine. When she looked again, the man was gone. She threw her pen on the countertop. So that was Matthew Thorneton. She should have guessed who he was the minute she saw him. He was as overbearing and self-righteous in person as he’d been in his letters. The first letter had been a stiffly worded appraisal of Charles Gannen’s health, accompanied by the suggestion, worded more as a command, that, as Charles Gannen’s only grandchild, she come visit the ailing old man. She’d scrawled “Not interested” across the page and sent it back. The second letter had been even less diplomatic. More sermon than invitation, it had taken her to task for her refusal to come. Claiming a dying man needed his family, even if he wouldn’t admit Charlotte was his granddaughter. Telling her she owed it to her dead father’s memory to forgive his father. Chick Gannen was her biological father, but that didn’t mean she owed him anything. By what right did the cowboy judge her behavior? Calling her cold and unfeeling, derelict in family responsibilities. His third letter she’d sent back unopened.

  She had opened the short letter from some lawyer telling her Charles Gannen was dead. The letter had been carefully worded to avoid any suggestion that Charlotte was the old man’s granddaughter. Even in death Charles Gannen had refused to acknowledge their relationship. Was that why the cowboy was here? The old man’s hand reaching from the grave to warn her away from what had been his? Her upper lip curled derisively. As if she’d rush to Durango for her share of the spoils. Spoils. If ever there was an appropriate word. Anything left behind by Charles Gannen was bound to be tainted. She wanted none of it. Just as she wanted none of a tall, hulking cowboy. No matter how golden-brown his eyes were.

  The golden-brown eyes were hidden behind sunglasses when Charlotte walked up to her car. She didn’t ask how he knew which car was hers. A couple of smiles, a couple of lies... The fact he’d been able to ingratiate himself with one of the other shop owners in the mall didn’t mean she had to listen to anything the big hunk of muscle leaning against her front fender had to say. Stepping precisely around his crossed boots, she pulled her car keys from her purse. “If you make one move to touch me, I’ll scream.”

  “I’ll just follow you home,” he said conversationally. “You might as well listen to me now, and save us both trouble.”

  Follow her home. Home, where she lived with her mother, her grandmother Darnelle and her great-aunt Faye. The same home her mother had taken refuge in after finding herself pregnant, unmarried and grieving the loss of her only love in Vietnam. Charlotte hesitated, her fingers gripping a key. In the parking lot three magpies squabbled over spilled popcorn. There was no point in trying to lose him in traffic. He knew her address. “I told you before. Charles Gannen is, was, nothing to me.”

  “He left no descendants. Except you.”

  “Did he say so before he died? Did he leave anything written down naming me his granddaughter?”

  The man hesitated. “No.”

  It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. And he knew it. She’d heard the tinge of pity in his voice. Her voice flattened. “I wasn’t interested in him when he was alive and I’m not interested in him now he’s dead.” She stuck the key in the car door. “And don’t give me any of that drivel you put in your letter about me being his only remaining family. He never considered me so. You admitted it yourself in the letter.”

  “Toward the end, I think he regretted never meeting you. He probably would have asked for you, but he ran out of time.” His lips curved slightly. “It must have come as a hell of a shock to him. Finding out he couldn’t have his own way for once.” His mouth firmed. “I told you in the letter I thought he was willing to acknowledge you if you’d make the first move.”

  The air smelled of ozone, and puddles dotted the asphalt. A spring shower must have passed through earlier. Inches from her feet a dark rainbow glittered greasily across the surface of an oil slick. Charlotte shivered as a sudden breeze cooled her bare arms. She should have put on her jacket. Her fingers tightened around the cold metal door handle. “I’m not a good enough actress to play the big reconciliation scene.”

  “You really hated him, didn’t you?”

  “You have to know someone to hate him. I didn’t care about Charles Gannen one way or the other.” She slid behind the wheel. “Goodbye, Mr. Thorneton.”

  He grabbed the edge of the door, holding it open. “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

  “No.”

  “Charlie Gannen sent me.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He left a letter with instructions.”

  “I can imagine. One last curse. One last disavowal of my existence. One last proclamation that his son Chick couldn’t possibly have fathered me.” She reached for the door. “You and your instructions can turn around and go right back to Durango.”

  “I’ll be happy to. If you’ll ever shut up long enough for me to explain why I’m here.”

  “You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Thorneton. I don’t care why you are in Denver. Charles Gannen swore before I was born he’d never have anything to do with me, and whatever else can be said of Charles Gannen, he was a man of his word. It would take more than death for him to break his vow.”

  “He left you his ranch.”

  Charlotte knew her mouth must be hanging open, but she’d lost control over her face muscles. A bubble of laughter rose in her throat. She swallowed hard. “You must be joking.”

  “It’s no joke. His entire estate goes to you.”

  It had to be a joke. It was too improbable. After twenty-four years... She tapped the center of the steering wheel, her mind groping with the astonishing news. More to give her time than because she cared, she asked, “What did he leave?”

  “I thought you weren’t interested.”

  “I’m curious, is all.”

  “Funny how the thought of inheriting a fortune can stir up a person’s curiosity.”

  “Did he leave a fortune?”

  “Charlie was comfortable.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “No gold mines or oil wells.” Behind the tinted glasses, Matthew Thorneton’s face was unreadable. “A house, some outbuildings, a few acres. This and that. It’s all laid out in the will.”

  She stared at him. There was something queer about all this. Matthew Thorneton wasn’t telling the truth. Not the whole truth. It was in his voice. “He died six months ago.”

  “If you filed any claim on Charlie Gannen’s estate within six months of the time the lawyer notified you of his death, the estate was to go elsewhere.” He answered the unasked question in a monotone.

  Charlotte burst out laughing. Even dead, the old man managed to insult her. Matthew Thorneton couldn’t have looked more astonished if she’d grown wings and a tail. Laughing helplessly, she stuck her key in the ignition. The car engine roared to life. “You can take Charles Gannen’s estate and stuff it in his coffin.” She wrestled away the car door and slammed it shut. Her eyes gritty, she tromped too hard on the accelerator, and her tires momentarily spun against some loose gravel before grabbing hold. It wasn’t her fault the idiot cowboy had chosen to stand so close to a puddle of rainwater.

  Traffic whizzed past on the busy streets. Pedestrians strolled the pathways through Washington Park. To the west the sun dipped below the rim of the Rocky Mountains. A typical late May Sunday afternoon in Denver, Colorado. Charlotte laughed again. An insult from the grave. It was too ludicrous for words. Her laughter was too high, too shrill, but laughter was her only defense. The idea of Charles Gannen believing she’d make some claim on him after death when she’d asked nothing of him while he was living... And then offering her his estate. Did he think she’d fall on his gravestone slobbering with gratitude? Did he think she d
idn’t know how he’d treated her mother twenty-five years ago? Amusement fled. Poor Jewel. Pregnant, unwed and called a liar by the man who’d never be her father-in-law. Charles Gannen had adamantly refused to believe his precious son could have fathered a baby out of wedlock. Charlotte’s knuckles whitened as she clung to the steering wheel. Maybe she should have gone to visit Charles Gannen on his deathbed. She could have spit in the old man’s eye.

  The cowboy was too tall, or she would have spit in his eye. Splashing him with rainwater hardly did justice to her feelings. A reluctant smile curved her lips. The cowboy had a definite talent for swearing. His words had followed her halfway across the parking lot. She wondered how he’d become involved. Something about his squared-off jaw and arrogant stance said he was used to giving the orders. So why was he Charles Gannen’s errand boy?

  One look at the mud-splattered black pickup truck parked in front of her house and Charlotte knew she could ask him herself. Two long denim-clad legs unfurled from the pickup and a pair of worn boots were planted in the street. Charlotte debated with herself for less than a minute before marching over to the truck. “You delivered your message. Charles Gannen left me his estate. Thank you for telling me. Now go away.”

  He stood up. “You didn’t let me finish.”

  She despised herself for taking a quick step back. It was just that he took up so much room. She flicked her ivory-colored skirt to one side in a pretense that her recoil was based on fastidiousness rather than uneasiness. “I was finished.”

  He followed her up the long sidewalk. “It’s not quite that simple. There’s a small condition.”

  “Of course there is.” She kept walking. “I suppose I have to prove I’m Charles Gannen’s granddaughter. Forget it. I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

  “He said nothing about proving your parentage. I was to tell you, if you want the estate, you have to go live on his ranch for two weeks, said visit to begin within three months of my notifying you about the will and its condition.”