Charlotte's Cowboy

by Jeanne Allan

  “See?” Charlotte appealed to her mother. “He won’t even admit you were subtly asking him to behave himself.”

  “Charlotte Mary Darnelle, your lack of a father is no excuse to behave as if I didn’t bring you up right.” Jewel’s face was pink with embarrassment. “Matthew is a guest in our home.”

  For the second time in one evening Charlotte’s behavior had rebounded on her mother. And it was all the cowboy’s fault. Provoking her into thoughtless speech. Not that her mother was likely to excuse her on that account. Knowing it was useless, Charlotte muttered, “It’s all his fault. I want him to go away.”

  “I know you do, Chickie. You want the whole situation to go away.” Jewel patted the sofa beside her. “Come here.” When Charlotte complied, her mother reached over to caress her daughter’s cheek with a shaking hand. “If you only knew how often I prayed for this. Your father loved the ranch. No, Chickie—” she correctly interpreted Charlotte’s dismay “—I don’t care what you do with the ranch, sell it, give it away, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is learning about your father. Go for a visit. See the land Chick loved so much, where he grew up, his room. Some of his things may still be around. There must be pictures.” After a moment she added softly, “You never knew your father, and I’ve been able to give you so little of him, a few memories, a couple of pictures—” She broke off.

  Charlotte’s heart sank. She wasn’t the one who needed to know more about the man her mother had loved. She looked at her mother, at the brave smile quivering Jewel’s lips, at the blue eyes glittering with unshed tears, and knew she’d lost.

  They all knew it. Aunt Faye was the first to put it in words. “There’s no point you hanging around waiting for her, Matthew. She’ll need a few days, a week, to get ready. She can fly down. They do have an airport in Durango, don’t they?”

  “Yes. The stage stopped running years ago,” he added dryly.

  “Ellen’s daughter is having a hard time right now with her husband out of work,” Grandma Darnelle said. “She’ll be happy to fill in at the store and earn a little extra cash.”

  “Call me before you leave Denver, Matthew,” said Aunt Faye. “I’ll give you her travel arrangements.”

  “A week, Faye?” Charlotte’s grandmother was saying. “I don’t know if that’s enough time to get her things ready.”

  “She’ll need new clothes.” Charlotte’s mother was radiant. “We can’t have her showing up looking like a poor relation.”

  “Charlie’s place is a working ranch,” Matthew said. “All she needs are a few pairs of jeans.”

  “Men.” Jewel gave him an indulgent smile.

  “And a party dress,” Charlotte’s grandmother said. “You never know. A lady likes to be prepared.”

  “A party dress,” Matthew repeated, shaking his head. His grin as he looked at Charlotte was half malice, half anticipation. “I can hardly wait to see you peeling potatoes or cleaning the barn wearing an outfit like the one you have on.”

  Charlotte couldn’t abide people who gloated in victory. “Don’t push your luck, cowboy. I’m coming to the ranch as the new owner, not as a hired hand. I’ll come and I’ll decide the ultimate disposal of the ranch. In the meantime, since your apparent position on the ranch is errand boy, perhaps it would be wise of you to dwell on the fact that owners run things, not the hired help.” She gave him a blinding smile. “Your special friend, Mrs. Charles Gannen, is not the owner yet.”

  To his credit, Matthew Thorneton did not explode in the middle of the living room. Minutes later the solid front door closed carefully behind him. He’d thanked his hostesses politely. He’d even managed a civil farewell to Charlotte, if one ignored a parting look that positively scorched.

  Charlotte relished the small triumph before heading for her bedroom to indulge in dark thoughts.

  “I don’t think deliberately alienating him is wise.” Aunt Faye stood in Charlotte’s bedroom doorway.

  “Why not?” Charlotte swung about. “What about those cracks of his about my appearance?”

  Her great-aunt surveyed her from head to toe. “You don’t exactly look like someone who’s going to fit in on a ranch. He’s probably frightened to death wondering what in the world he’s going to do with you when you get to Durango.”

  “I doubt if fear is in that man’s vocabulary.”

  “All the same, I’m glad we sent you away to camp all those summers. At least you won’t embarrass yourself on a horse. That should reassure him.”

  Charlotte smiled grimly at the framed ribbons she’d won for horsemanship. “Since the last thing I’m interested in doing is reassuring Matthew Thorneton...” The plan came from nowhere, brilliant in its total clarity. “I wonder. He did seem to dwell inordinately on my clothing. I had the distinct impression that, given a choice between eating live grasshoppers and having me underfoot, Mr. Thorneton would pick the grasshoppers.”

  “Charlotte Mary Darnelle, I don’t trust that look on your face,” Aunt Faye said sternly. “What are you planning?”

  Charlotte widened her eyes. “My vacation wardrobe, of course. What else?”

  * * *

  Charlotte’s stomach plummeted to the level of her painted toenails as the plane dropped down on the large mesa that was home to La Plata County Airport. Informed of the travel arrangements, Matthew Thorneton had said they’d be expecting Charlotte. She intended to meet every single one of his expectations. Circumstances compelled Matthew Thorneton to allow her to invade his sacred stomping ground, but no one could doubt he viewed her visit with the same enthusiasm Charlotte reserved for dental appointments. The command visit didn’t exactly thrill her, either. Forced into it, she’d be less than human if she didn’t look around for someone to vent her frustration on.

  Matthew Thorneton won the grand prize. Not only had he delivered the ultimatum and relished her unwilling surrender, from the moment of their meeting the arrogant cowboy had made it clear he considered her spoiled, selfish and a worthless piece of overdecorated fluff. Charlotte carefully retied the dainty bow at her lace-edged neckline as the plane taxied to a halt. On a scale of people whose opinions she cared about, cowboys rated absolute last. Which is why, instead of proving to him he was wrong about her, playing the role of pampered lady promised much more satisfaction. Charlotte had no intention of suffering alone. Making Matthew Thorneton absolutely miserable for the next two weeks might make being on the ranch almost bearable.

  Aunt Faye insisted Charlotte was making Matthew Thorneton a scapegoat for the sins of the Gannens, but Aunt Faye hadn’t been the recipient of Matthew Thorneton’s contemptuous accusation that she’d shirked her family responsibilities. He’d even admitted he was sitting in judgment on her. He wasn’t such a paragon himself. He was a cowboy, and cowboys always wanted something for nothing, a lesson she’d learned well from Charles and Chick Gannen. Charlotte intended this particular cowboy to pay for what he wanted, her ranch. She grinned. Being a thorn in Matthew Thorneton’s side was worth infinitely more than mere dollars and cents. In the terminal, she spied him waiting on the other side of the gray double doors. His face was a study in disbelief and irritation as she made her way toward him.

  He grabbed the larger of the two bags she was carrying. “At least you traveled light,” he said by way of greeting.

  “It’s nice to see you again, too.” Handicapped by her new four-inch-high-heeled sandals, she struggled to keep up with his long strides. “And thank you for asking, I did have a pleasant flight. And yes, I did travel light.” Matthew headed for the glass doors that led outside. “All I checked was one suitcase and my trunk.”

  He stopped dead. “A suitcase and a trunk.” Muttering under his breath, Matthew wheeled to his right and stalked down a hallway.

  Assuming he was headed for the baggage claim area, Charlotte teetered along behind him, her ruffled peach skirt swirling around her calves.

  “Want me to carry that?”

  Charlotte looked down. The young boy
at her side looked eagerly at her with warm brown eyes under wavy golden hair. He was all skinny arms and legs, his elbows and knees scratched. Charlotte caught her breath. Matthew Thorneton had said nothing of a son. Where did the child fit in? She nodded toward the man striding ahead of her. “You with him?” Her cool voice extinguished the friendly light in the boy’s eyes. Charlotte hadn’t come to win a popularity contest, but she felt as if she’d kicked a small puppy. She handed him her bag. “Thanks. My arm’s about to fall off.”

  His face lit up again, and he hefted the bag. “Food?”

  “Not hardly. Beauty creams, makeup, stuff like that.”

  His eyes widened. “All this?” At her nod, he said, “Aw, you’re kiddin’ me. Grandma doesn’t have half this much stuff.”

  What about his mother? Instead of asking, Charlotte said, “Who are you? I’m Charlotte Darnelle.”

  “I know. I’m Timothy Thorneton. That is, Grandma calls me Timothy when she’s mad at me.”

  Charlotte grinned in sympathy. “I know I’m in trouble when my mom calls me Charlotte Mary. What does your grandma call you when she’s not mad?”

  “Timmy.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “My friends call me Tim. You can, too.” He hesitated shyly. “If you want.”

  “I should think so. You’re carrying my bag. That must make us friends.”

  “Dad said you was lucky you don’t look like Grandpa Charlie. He told Grandma you’re sorta pretty even if your hair’s red.” Innocently oblivious to the uncomplimentary nature of the remark he’d repeated, he added, “Your hair’s the same color as Penny’s and you got almost as many freckles as me.”

  “Grandpa Charlie,” Charlotte repeated slowly. “You mean Charles Gannen was your grandpa?”

  “Yup.” A grin split his face from ear to ear. “Didn’t you know me and you got the same grandpa?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Shock chilled her voice. “I was under the impression I was Mr. Gannen’s only grandchild.”

  Tim gave her an anxious look. “I don’t have to share him.”

  “I have a feeling Charlotte isn’t used to sharing.”

  They’d reached the baggage area. The scornful look on Matthew Thorneton’s face told Charlotte he’d heard the end of their conversation and reached his own conclusions. She lifted her chin. “I certainly don’t wish to share Mr. Gannen. Tim may have him for a grandfather all by himself. I was simply surprised after what you said last week.”

  “In Tim’s case, Grandpa was an honorary title,” he said shortly. “Which bag is yours?” A look of pained disbelief crossed his face. “Never mind. I can figure it out.”

  “Gosh,” Tim said weakly, staring at the luggage carousel. “I thought you was just coming to visit.”

  “A lady has to dress,” Charlotte said. Hauled down from the attic, covered in wallpaper printed with huge red cabbage roses, the large wardrobe trunk was attracting a great deal of notice. Matthew Thorneton might look nonchalant as he heaved it to the floor, but his tanned skin failed to hide the dusky pink tinging his cheeks. Charlotte could hardly wait for him to notice the suitcase. Tim saw it first and started giggling. Almost immediately he jammed his fist in his mouth and gave Charlotte an apologetic look. She winked at him.

  He took the wink as permission and howled with laughter. “Over there, Dad. That one.”

  “I see it,” came the response from between gritted teeth.

  The suitcase had survived the trip amazingly well. Only one of the enormous pink bows had come untied. Charlotte was immensely pleased with herself. “Be careful. Don’t scratch the trunk.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to get this stuff to the truck?”

  “I assumed whoever met me would be prepared.” Ignoring the militant look in Matthew’s eyes, Charlotte took a deep breath and trilled, “Last week I wasn’t too happy about coming, but now I’m here, I know it’s going to be an absolutely enchanting visit.”

  “Enchanting,” Matthew repeated sourly.

  Smiling vaguely in his direction, Charlotte walked with Tim toward the parking lot. As curious as she was about the boy, she refrained from asking questions. She would have plenty of time at the ranch to ferret out the relationships. Tim led her to the now-familiar filthy pickup.

  “I hope you weren’t expecting a fancy stretch limo.”

  The cool, I-don’t-give-a-damn voice came from behind her. Charlotte turned. Matthew had commandeered a loading dolly from somewhere and was lifting her luggage into the bed of the truck. “Did Mrs. Gannen tell you to pick me up in this or was that your own clever idea? I suppose it’s some kind of test, a sort of ritual by dirt, so to speak.”

  He walked away with the dolly, saying over his shoulder, “There was no time to wash it.”

  Charlotte resisted an urge to make a face at his retreating back. “You first, kiddo,” she said to Tim, gathering her skirt and petticoats in front of her. “Get in and haul me up.”

  By the time Matthew returned, they were both belted in the front seat of the pickup, a giggling Tim in the middle, little besides his nose sticking out from an unruly heap of starched crinolines. “Look at me, Dad.”

  Matthew scowled at Charlotte. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you Tim might like to be able to breathe. Take those damned things off, and I’ll tie them in back.”

  “It’s OK.” Tim bounced his arms up and down on the buoyant petticoats. “I think it’s funny.” His mind flitted to another subject. “How come you never visited us before, Charlotte?” As his dad opened his mouth, Tim quickly said, “She told me to call her that.”

  Charlotte looked over the boy’s head. “Perhaps you’d prefer Cousin Charlotte.”

  “My preferences have never been considered in this matter,” he said in a clipped voice.

  “Nor were mine,” Charlotte coolly reminded him before ignoring him in favor of his son. Tim needed little persuasion to show off his knowledge in front of the city slicker. His freckled face knew nothing of guile as he chattered about school and his horse while pointing out browsing deer and prairie dogs scurrying among their mounds beside the road.

  Half listening to the small boy’s conversation, Charlotte turned her face toward the passing landscape as the pickup bore her inexorably down off the mesa. The land was green and lush from spring rains. In the distance, dark, billowy storm clouds hung in the late afternoon sky, and the sharp, pungent odor of skunk stung her nostrils. Red-winged blackbirds took flight from the bank of a rushing river. Charlotte envied their freedom.

  Durango was a kaleidoscope of color and sights, a larger river, lilacs in their last bloom, bustling traffic, businesses lining the highway, huge orange poppies, houses clinging to rugged cliffs, and then they were climbing again, red hills walling in the highway. On a different occasion Charlotte might have found beauty in the towering pines and tall cottonwoods and crashing river, but now even nature seemed inhospitable. The pickup crested the hill, and spread before them, fingers of bright green ranch land freckled with cows and horses reached up into the dark forested hills.

  “Is this where we’re going?” Charlotte asked Tim.

  “Nah. It’s a long way. Betcha can’t wait to get there.”

  Fortunately the small boy didn’t require an answer, his attention caught by a magpie feeding on a road kill. Charlotte resolutely focused on the beauty of her surroundings. In the distance the snow-capped San Juan Mountains loomed stark and forbidding. Huge patches of wild iris decorated the pastureland, the delicate blue blossoms in danger of being crunched beneath clumsy bovine hooves.

  “See that?” Tim pointed straight ahead to a low-lying indigo silhouette bracketed by mesas and backlit by the setting sun. “That’s the Sleeping Ute.”

  “Legend says he’ll awaken some day to lead the Ute Indians against their enemies,” Matthew added in his deep voice. He gave her a sidelong look. “I say, let sleeping giants lay.”

  “Or sleeping granddaughters,” Charlotte said tartly.

  “Or them.” />
  If Tim understood the undercurrents of their conversation, he dismissed them, pointing out some calves in a nearby pasture. Matthew slowed the pickup to turn off the main road. Pink wild roses and lavender-blue lupine failed to charm Charlotte. Not with the ranch and the second Mrs. Gannen still to come.

  Matthew pulled into a ranch yard and brought the pickup to a halt. Dust settled behind them. Tim scrambled under the wheel and jumped from the truck in his father’s wake. “I’ll tell her she’s here,” the boy shouted, running for the house.

  Matthew opened the door on Charlotte’s side. His hand closed over the ankle she was extending toward the ground. “Tim’s not part of Charlie’s estate. Leave him alone.”

  His icy voice held Charlotte more immobile than the steel hand imprisoning her ankle. “I beg your pardon.”

  “You heard me. Tim doesn’t need some silly female messing up his mind. He’s a friendly, curious kid and too young to understand the way women like you think. Stay away from him.”

  Charlotte looked down her nose at the hard, closed face, her mind churning furiously with anger. She pasted a demure smile on her face. “My, oh, my, a misogynist. I never would have guessed. What with the second Mrs. Gannen and all.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “This visit could be downright entertaining.”

  “You know, Charlotte, you make me think of a cream puff. Have you ever seen one after it’s been stomped on?” A smile slashed across Matthew’s face. “Play all the games you want with me—” he slid his fingers up and down her calf “—but leave Tim alone.” He traced the strap of her sandal. “Call this a friendly warning, cream puff. Try to be less silly than these shoes.”

  He was being deliberately provocative. Knowing it and ignoring it were two different things, especially when his touch set her leg on fire and caused her stomach to react in alarming ways. Charlotte swallowed hard and stuck out her other foot, searching blindly for the step. “How nice that you intend to be friendly, Matthew.”

  Clasping her around the waist, he pulled her from the pickup truck, holding her so her mouth was level with his, her feet dangling inches above the ground. “You leave my son alone and I’ll be just as friendly as you want, cream puff.”