by Jeanne Allan
“And you decided he was never serious about your mom.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t take a brain surgeon. He was going away to war and wanted to make a little whoopee with a pretty girl before he left.”
“Chick wasn’t like that.” Matthew replaced the tools in the bed of the pickup and climbed behind the steering wheel. His eyes fixed on the horizon, he made no move to turn on the ignition. After a long moment, he said, “Fasten your seat belt.” Her obedience taken for granted, the pickup took off with a roar, a wide plume of dust in its wake.
“You just passed some downed fence,” Charlotte shouted. “Isn’t this your land?” A particularly deep rut smashed her teeth together; they barely missed chomping down on her tongue. She decided, under the circumstances, even her mother wouldn’t expect her to make polite conversation. By the time Matthew brought the pickup to a skidding halt, he’d zigged and zagged, traveling down one unfamiliar, dusty road after another, until she had no clue where they were.
Matthew waved his hand down the road before them. “This is Gannen land on your right. The other side of the road, that used to be Maywell land. Connie sold it to some guy from Denver after her folks died. By then, Charlie didn’t care, but twenty-five years ago, all he could think about was how Maywell land would become Gannen land once Chick and Connie got hitched.”
“Are you trying to tell me Chick hadn’t gotten around to mentioning Mom to his father because of some stupid land?”
“Land is never stupid to a rancher. Chick knew what his marrying Connie meant to Charlie, and he wouldn’t have taken his dad’s dreams lightly. He knew exactly what he was giving up for love. Proving he loved your mother very much. Proving he would have returned for her.”
“You haven’t proven anything. In fact, one could conclude exactly the opposite,” Charlotte said slowly. “If this land meant so much to Charles Gannen, and by extension, his son, then all the more reason to believe Chick would never have married my mother instead of Connie.”
Matthew gave her a penetrating look. “I think I’ve been missing something here. It was clear you had no love lost for Charlie, but I never realized you hate your father, too.”
“Don’t be silly.” The pickup cab was too confining. She jumped out and walked over to the fenced field. Matthew followed her. “I don’t have any feelings about him at all.” A scraggly wild rose fought for existence beside an old log fence post, the plant’s blossoms bright pink against the gray, weathered wood.
Matthew snapped off one of the blossoms and handed it to Charlotte. “I was out riding one day and saw Chick digging. I rode over to see what he was doing. He’d been checking fence, a pasture where they were getting ready to move some cows in. Chick was digging up some kind of flower. I could see it wasn’t locoweed or anything poisonous to cows, so I asked him why he was digging it up. I can still see him, standing there, one foot on the shovel, his hat shoved back, while he explained he was taking it, a wild rose, to his mom for near the house because, ‘Cows don’t appreciate beauty, Matt,’ he said. Most cowboys would have passed the rose without thought, or at the most considered it a shame the cows would trample it, but not Chick. He took the time and trouble to move it.”
“I don’t see the point of—”
“Chick had two dogs. One he picked up along the road after a car hit it. Never did find the owner. Charlie thought they ought to shoot the poor thing, put him out of his misery, but Chick drove him in to the vet’s. That dog turned out to be the best darned cattle-herding dog. Chick named him Trey because he got along better on three legs than most dogs do on four. Hunter showed up during duck-hunting season. He was a bird dog, been shot in the head, blinded in one eye. No one claimed him, either. There were other dogs, earlier dogs, before my time. My dad said hurt critters just naturally found Chick.”
“So he was a paragon.” Rose petals dotted the ground at her feet. “Big deal. If you think babbling a bunch of maudlin nonsense is going to make me put Chick Gannen up on some marble pedestal, you’re wrong. I don’t care if he kicked dogs or rose them from the dead.”
“No,” Matthew said mildly, “but your mom might.”
“She already worships the ground he walks on.” A bee buzzed loudly in the stark silence. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Charlotte said at last.
“Your mom must have suffered a great deal when Chick was killed. Never marrying, raising a child by herself...your mom’s had a difficult time. Resenting the man who left her in that situation is understandable.”
“She doesn’t resent him.”
“No, I don’t suppose she ever did.”
Charlotte played with a barb projecting from a strand of wire, repeatedly snagging the tip of her glove and pulling it away. “All right, yes, I do resent him. Not on my account, but on Mom’s.” His silence goaded her into further speech. “OK, maybe I did hate him for abandoning us, but that’s when I was little. It doesn’t matter any more. Growing up as I did forced me to be independent and tough.”
“Yup.” Matthew flicked one of the huge silk peach-colored roses adorning her hat. “The first time I saw you, I thought to myself, ‘Now there’s one tough cookie.’ It must have been the ruffles that made me think so.”
“For your information, Matthew Thorneton, arrogant, egotistical cowboys don’t have a monopoly on toughness.” Charlotte snapped a photograph of the rose-decorated fence and flounced to the pickup. “Furthermore,” she added loftily, “real men don’t judge their women on how much weight they can bench press. Not everyone’s definition of tough is the ability to push around a bunch of cows, ride a bucking bronco, chew tobacco and skin a buffalo.”
Matthew shook his head, his eyes gleaming with suppressed laughter. “I sure would have loved to have seen you and Charlie go head to head. He’d have gotten you so riled the sparks would have flown from that red hair of yours. Yup,” he drawled, “I figure Charlie’s dying before you got here deprived his friends of a downright entertaining war.”
“My hair is not red,” Charlotte said coldly. “And entertaining the locals was never my goal.”
Nor had her goal been to entertain Matthew. Infuriate him, yes. Entertain him, no. Unfortunately, Matthew, through some ill-deserved twist of dumb luck, had hit upon the one response to Charlotte’s plan that rendered the plan a total waste of time and energy. Matthew was entertained. And amused. And even worse, unforgivably worse, he was patient. She’d begged to assist him, then handed him the wrong tools. She’d dropped a wrench on his toe and spilled fence paint down his back. She’d tripped him, belted him across the rear with a fence board and tumbled against him twice when dismounting Penny. She thought she’d glimpsed a slight tightening of his jaw a couple of times, especially the time she’d shoved him into a cow pie, but to her surprise, he’d yet to raise his voice, much less look as if he was seriously considering slugging her. He accepted her breathless apologies and artless explanations as if he truly believed he was a victim of Charlotte’s overeagerness and inexperience.
Lying in bed at night, Charlotte reluctantly faced the truth that if Matthew weren’t quite so patient, she wouldn’t be escalating her efforts to antagonize him. Not that she wanted him to slug her. She merely wanted to get under his skin. There was no point in falling off her horse and practically knocking Matthew down if he was going to say stupid things such as she shouldn’t be disheartened because he was sure he could see improvement. If Matthew saw any improvement in her riding skills then he was blinder than that stupid dog of Chick Gannen’s. Sometimes Charlotte almost suspected that Matthew, well aware she was deliberately engineering all the “accidents”, was toying with her for purposes of his own.
The man who’d been demanding and abrupt in her store had proven to be patient on his home ground. Charlotte supposed nature was a harsh instructor in the art of patience. Cows and horses gave birth when they wanted, and rain fell when the heavenly conditions were right. Winter blew in when it was ready and gave way to spring only
when it was so inclined. Ranchers, she’d learned, of necessity lived according to the rhythm of their land.
Ranchers, also of necessity, were jacks-of-all-trades. Matthew was as comfortable on a tractor as he was on a horse. And although she doubted the boss routinely fixed fence or changed oil in the ranch vehicles or checked for stray calves, his expertise demonstrated he’d done at one time or another every chore on the ranch. Matthew was part mechanic, part electrician, part veterinarian and part bookkeeper.
And all cowboy, she reminded herself, eyeing his back as he slouched in the saddle on Jay’s back. The gelding’s long stride drew him away from Penny. Charlotte slowed the mare even more, widening the distance between the two horses. The trail rose over a small hill and turned. Matthew and his horse disappeared from sight. “Matthew!” she cried. “Where are you? Matthew! Matthew!” Reining Penny in a circle, Charlotte silently blessed the agreeable mare.
Matthew appeared over the horizon, coming at an easy canter. “What’s the matter?”
“I thought I was lost. I looked around and you weren’t anywhere in sight. How could you go off and leave me?”
“Don’t worry, cream puff. I won’t let you get lost. Where we’re going is right over the hill.”
“Oh, look at the babies,” Charlotte crooned as they crested the hill. “Can I pet them?”
“If you’ll recall, the last time you wanted to pet some calves, one cow looked at you and you ran screaming at me, knocking me flat.”
“It’s not my fault you keep vicious animals. She did more than look—she charged me.” Charlotte could swear Matthew came close to sighing.
“She was walking toward you because she was curious. She’d probably never seen orange flowers on a hat.” He leaned down to open the gate. “Just stay on Penny, keep her to a walk and try to keep out of trouble.”
“What exactly are we doing here?”
“Well, cream puff, I’m checking stock. What you’re doing here—” he fastened the gate behind her “—I’m not real sure.”
Most of the time Charlotte was no longer sure, either. It was almost as if she and Matthew were engaged in some kind of battle, and leaving him to go peacefully about his work would be the same as conceding he’d won. The distasteful notion stiffened her resolve. This time, for once, when a cowboy went up against a lady, the lady was definitely going to win. Even if she had to abandon a few ladylike ideas such as truth and fair play.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE small pond shimmered in the midday sun. Wild iris flagged blue along the water, and white lilies and blue flax waved breezily from an adjoining pasture. Dark pines and light green aspen mingled on the sides of the distant mesa. Matthew fastened another gate behind them. “We’ll eat lunch here.”
“Here? Am I supposed to share my sandwich with every hungry cow that comes along?”
“Since they’re beef sandwiches, I’d be leery of offering any to a cow,” Matthew said deadpan. “The cow might take offense.”
“I’ll stay on Penny’s back while I eat, thank you very much.”
Matthew laughed, walking up to grab Penny’s reins. “Get down, cream puff. We moved the cattle out of here several weeks ago.” He watered the horses, then moved them to the shade of a nearby cottonwood tree. Returning with a pouch, he held out a small Thermos and a brown sack. “Chow time.”
Hugging her lunch to her, Charlotte slowly pivoted. “You don’t really expect me to sit on the ground, in the dirt?”
“Shucks, cream puff—” he sprawled in the shade of a large bush “—you’re beyond any man’s expectation.”
The ambiguous statement didn’t merit delving into. Looking around, she spotted a large, flat rock. Beside it lay a small leafy branch. Charlotte poked warily at the rock, checking for any unsavory creatures lurking in the vicinity, then she brushed the top with the leafy branch. The area secure, she gripped her lunch sack with her teeth, set her gloves on a nearby bush and tugged a white lacy handkerchief from a breast pocket of her violet linen blouse. Dampening the dainty square with water from the Thermos, she scrubbed at her hands. Matthew was watching her. “Your neck scarf?” she mumbled around the sack.
Without a word he untied and handed her his bandanna.
Charlotte draped the navy blue print square over the rock and carefully sat down on it. She opened her lunch sack.
Matthew munched on a potato chip. “If you’d accept Mom’s offer of a pair of her jeans, a little dirt wouldn’t matter.”
She looked down her nose at him. “I didn’t come here to turn into a cowhand. I’m not going to cut my hair short, wear men’s overalls, chew tobacco or learn to swear with your skill.” She bit daintily into her sandwich, chewed in what she hoped was a refined manner and swallowed. “My mother raised a lady.”
Matthew grinned. “Sometimes I have a sneaking suspicion your last statement would be news to her.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Your mother, nice and sweet as she is, certainly didn’t raise a gentleman.”
“She likes you, too.” He disregarded the rest of her comment.
Charlotte crumbled a potato chip. “I thought she might resent me.”
“Because of the will? She’s always felt bad she couldn’t persuade Charlie to recognize you. She knows the will was Charlie’s way of telling her to mind her own business, but she thinks having you here is worth the price she’s paying. I don’t know how you managed to pull the wool over her eyes, cream puff. Maybe I should have packed her off to the Kenton place, too.”
“Goodness, Matthew, to hear you talk one would think I’m a tornado, bubonic plague and the atom bomb all wrapped up in one.”
“No,” he said slowly, “you’re more dangerous.”
“Don’t tell me I frighten—” she fluttered her lashes at him “—a big, bad cowboy like you.”
“You scare the hell out of me,” he said frankly.
She gazed skyward. “I shall treasure this moment forever. The arrogant Matthew Thorneton admitting to fear.” She returned her gaze to his face and asked avidly, “What is it about me that frightens you, Matthew? You must tell me. I’m simply agog to learn how a mere insignificant female can, how did you so delicately put it, scare the hell out of you?”
“It’s no joke, cream puff. You dropped into our lives with painted toes and fancy underwear and expensive perfumes. You smile and swish your ruffled skirts and show off your fancy city ways, and Mom and Tim are mesmerized, fooled into thinking they’ve become your friends, when the truth is, you’re only using them to entertain yourself.”
“That’s not true,” she said, aghast.
“Mom’s so dazzled by you, she actually told me she thinks you’re sensible. Sensible.” He snorted. “You’re playing gracious lady now, but as soon as your two weeks are up, you’ll run right back to the city and forget you ever knew a poor motherless kid and a middle-aged widow. Did you ever stop to think how badly your behavior is going to hurt them?”
All urge to tease him fled. Charlotte looked at her sandwich. “I’m not like that.”
“What are you like, cream puff? You’ve been here over a week, and I’ll be damned if I have a clue as to what makes you tick. You wrap yourself in so many layers of gilt and fluff, it’s hard to tell if there’s a real person inside.”
Charlotte knew she should be congratulating herself for successfully hiding her inner self from Matthew. Except she didn’t feel triumphant. Instead, she felt somehow empty. It was Matthew’s fault, she argued internally. He was the one who’d dismissed her as all-sugar, no-substance cotton candy. He was the one who made her into a nonperson, a person who felt forced to invent herself for his benefit. She whipped up her anger against him, the anger a feeble substitute for the hurt he’d inflicted. He had no right to find fault with the person he’d forced her into portraying. Even if she were all gilt and fluff, which she wasn’t, which he’d know if he’d ever cared to find out, even if she were, she’d never hurt Tim and Helen. He was blind and stupid and a dumb
cowboy. He was also watching her curiously, as if he really expected her to answer his question. “What am I like?” she mused. “My friends think I’m loyal. My grandmother thinks I’m kind. My mother thinks I’m special. My aunt thinks I’m clever.” She gave him a false smile. “Does that answer your question?”
“You omitted a few characteristics.”
“Such as silly? Or ridiculous? Or stupid? It may surprise you, Matthew, but most people don’t think of me in those terms.”
He stretched out on his back, his folded arms pillowing his head. His voice came from beneath the hat shielding his face. “I was thinking more along the lines of hot-tempered, illogical, irritating, contrary and just plain stubborn.”
Charlotte carefully brushed the crumbs from her lap and stood up, stuffing the debris from her lunch into the paper sack. “You forgot prissy.”
“Ah, prissy. I’m beginning to like prissy. And red hair and freckles. I suspect it’s possible I’ll miss all three when you abandon us for the city.”
Her wadded-up lunch sack scored a direct hit on his belt buckle. “I won’t miss your egotistical arrogance,” she snapped.
Matthew raised his hat. “Did I mention hot-tempered?”
One minute he was accusing her of unconscionable behavior; the next minute he was laughing at her. As if she were nothing. As if she were irritating, but basically harmless. She’d show him harmless. She’d show him irritating. And if he was so darned fond of hot-tempered, she’d show him hot-tempered.
Matthew gathered up the horses and led them to the pond. Handing Penny’s reins to Charlotte, he stowed the lunch remains away, then stood at the water’s edge, his back to Charlotte, waiting patiently for the horses to finish. Revengeful was a characteristic he’d missed, Charlotte thought. He should have remembered revengeful. She nudged Penny slightly to one side and screamed. Not a loud, piercing scream that curdled the blood and caused neck hairs to stand at attention. Not the kind of caterwauling scream that stampeded horses. But a little choking scream, just loud enough to startle Penny into turning to investigate. Naturally, as Penny’s front section swung toward Charlotte, her hindquarters swung in the other direction, smack into Matthew’s unsuspecting back. Matthew landed facedown in the lake. For a very brief second Charlotte thought the wild iris were doubled over in laughter. Matthew’s splashing from the pond chased away whimsical thoughts. She schooled her face to show a mixture of sympathy and contrition and held out her hand. “I’m so sorry, Matthew. Are you OK?”
