A COWBOY'S SECRET

by Anne McAllister

  Then he turned on his heel and headed for the house.

  J.D. stared after him in impotent fury, his fingers balled into fists. All the anger he'd convinced himself he had under control surged up so fast he thought it would take his head right off. He wasn't going to do it! By God, he wasn't going to do it!

  As if he'd spoken the words aloud, Trey whipped around and fixed him with a knowing look. "Or," the old man drawled, "I suppose you could quit. Again." Then with a snort of disgust, he headed once more for the house.

  J.D. ground his teeth. He wanted to kick something. To punch something – someone! He dropped the curry comb and slammed his fist into his palm.

  The gelding whickered, eyeing him nervously. It was a beautiful horse. Smart. Powerful. Good lines. It had all kinds of potential. Potential that he, J.D., could bring out if he had the time and put in the effort!

  And instead the old man wanted him shoveling out a barnful of—

  "No way, José," he muttered and went back to currying. Trey wasn't going to do this to him, wasn't going to treat him like some raw tenderfoot with no more horse sense than a Wall Street banker.

  The door to the barn creaked and footsteps sounded again. J.D. didn't turn around. Let the old man talk to his back. Behind him, there was a shuffling of feet, then the clearing of a throat. It wasn't Trey. He would never have been that subtle.

  "Um, J.D.?" The voice belonged to Skinny, the oldest and most grizzled of the J Bar R cowboys. "I don't mean to rile you none, but Trey … he said I was to, um, put the horse out to pasture an', er … well, watch you."

  J.D. turned and stared at Skinny. "Watch me?"

  Skinny shrugged again helplessly. "T'weren't my idea, J.D. I reckon I'm good for more'n that, even with th' ol' ticker not bein' what it used to. But Trey, he's set on me takin' it sorta easy. An' well, far as you're concerned, he's … um, sorta ticked."

  More than sort of ticked himself, J.D. muttered under his breath. "You're just gonna sit here. And watch? What about the baling? I thought you were baling hay today?"

  "Was s'posed to," Skinny agreed readily. "Drivin' the tractor ain't so bad. An' Trey, he said we would. Later. He figured there'd be plenty of time after you quit."

  If anything would get J.D. shoveling, it was hearing that Trey Phillips figured he'd quit!

  His teeth came together with a snap. "Well, you just sit yourself down over there, Skinny." He pointed toward a stack of bales in the corner. "An' settle in. You're gonna be here awhile. This is gonna be the cleanest damn barn you ever did see."

  He'd show Trey Phillips who was a quitter.

  * * *

  The barn was just the beginning. Then there was the corral fence. He got to paint the corral fence.

  Idiots painted corral fences!

  Then he got to change the oil in the trucks. And clean out the insides. And sweep the front porch.

  "You sure you don't want me to do a little laundry while I'm at it?" he asked Skinny bitterly.

  Skinny consulted his list and shook his head solemnly. "Not today, J.D."

  J.D. ground his teeth.

  But he wasn't quitting. No matter what.

  It was close to dusk by the time he rattled down the road to his own place.

  To Lydia Cochrane's place, he corrected himself savagely. He was bone-tired, muscle-aching, dust-covered, and hungry as a wolf at the end of a Montana winter. He wanted a cold beer, a hot shower, a plate of last night's leftover canned stew and a soft bed – in that order.

  What he got was Lydia Cochrane.

  "Hell."

  He jammed on his brakes at the sight of her car beside the house and the woman herself on his front porch steps. The last thing he needed was Lydia Cochrane tonight! He didn't want to deal with her now.

  He didn't want to deal with her ever!

  "Since when has the world given a damn what you wanted," he muttered. Then, resigned, he stomped on the gas pedal once more.

  The truck spun out, kicking gravel as it shot down the hill directly toward the house – directly toward Lydia Cochrane. With luck she would back up, turn tail. Scram.

  Instead she stood up on those mile-long legs of hers, tucked her hands into the pockets of her jeans and faced him head-on.

  At the last minute J.D. jammed on the brakes, and the truck skidded to a stop ten feet in front of her. He glared at her through the windshield.

  Lydia brushed a windblown lock of honey-colored hair away from her face and smiled at him.

  Smiled! Like he should be glad to see her!

  He jerked open the door and got out of his truck. "Bring your clipboard and your checklist?" he said sarcastically.

  Her smile faltered a little. "What?"

  "That's why you're here, isn't it? Come to check up on me like the good judge said?" And damned if he didn't spot a clipboard – right there on the porch beneath some large round red tin. J.D.'s scowl deepened and he jerked his head at the offending red tin. "What's in there? The whip you're gonna crack?"

  "Actually," Lydia said, "it's cookies."

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  "Cookies?" J.D.'s jaw dropped. He stared at her, incredulous.

  Lydia snatched up the tin. "It seemed polite," she said frostily. "Obviously, I was wrong." Clutching the tin tightly against her breasts, she attempted to slip by him to get to her car.

  Instinctively J.D. snagged her arm.

  The cookie tin went flying. Lydia spun around against him so they stood toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose – and with a few other body parts in clear and obvious alignment, as well.

  J.D.'s whole being went on alert. His body instantly, his mind, a little slower on the uptake, took a few seconds to realize what had happened: he was aroused – by Lydia Cochrane!

  He couldn't believe it.

  And judging from the sudden panicky fluttering of Lydia Cochrane's lashes and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts – against his chest! – she couldn't believe it, either.

  J.D. thrust her away from him at once and took several quick steps back. Lydia was looking at him, her mouth a small O of amazement and confusion and something that looked almost like panic.

  "I didn't mean… It wasn't… I wasn't…" he said gruffly. But the truth was he had been. And he was sure she knew it.

  "Look, I'm sorry. I—" He took his hat off and rubbed his hand through his hair. "It's been a hel – heck of a day and I wasn't expecting…" He groped for a word – any word – that would let him off the hook.

  "Cookies?"

  "What?" He stared at her, dumbfounded.

  "You weren't expecting … cookies?"

  Was she joking? It didn't seem likely.

  Teasing? Flirting?

  Lydia Cochrane?

  Hotshot lawyer Lydia? The county whiz kid and former brain of Murray High. Former pain in the butt, J.D. thought, remembering the times she had turned up just when he and her sister, Letty, had been about to get hot and heavy.

  He remembered Lydia as someone with no sense of humor at all, let alone interest in the opposite sex.

  Had she changed?

  Of course she hadn't. No more than he had! They couldn't be more opposite. She had to just be offering him a polite way out of a bad situation.

  Carefully ungluing his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he said the only thing that he could. "Yeah. Cookies. I didn't expect … cookies."

  It was only the truth. There might be a whole lot of things going on at the moment that J.D. didn't expect, but cookies was definitely one of them.

  Lydia gave a brisk nod. "I thought, under the circumstances, it would be a good idea. A peace offering."

  "Peace offering?"

  "Because I bought the ranch. I know cookies are hardly a substitute. But I felt … guilty."

  She felt guilty? He grinned. "Well, salve your conscience. Sell it to me."

  Without hesitation, Lydia shook her head. "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't want to sell."
>
  "Why not?"

  "I want a ranch."

  "You're a lawyer!"

  "There's no law that says lawyers can't own ranches."

  "You don't have to own mine. There's other ranches for sale. You could buy any of them."

  "So could you."

  "I want this one!"

  "Well, so do I!" The vehemence in her tone surprised him. So did the intensity of her gaze as her eyes locked with his.

  Then, as if she were just as surprised as he was, abruptly Lydia looked away. Her fingers knotted into fists. "That's why I feel guilty," she muttered.

  J.D. scratched his head. It didn't make sense. "But it doesn't mean anything to you," he argued.

  She knotted her fingers together. Her lips clamped tight. She looked away again and didn't say a word.

  "It doesn't mean anything to you," he repeated.

  "Yes. It does."

  He shook his head, still uncomprehending. "What?" he demanded. "What does it mean?"

  She flicked a quick glance at him, then her gaze shifted toward the house, then on toward the western mountains. He tried to imagine what she was seeing, what she was thinking. He couldn't.

  "When I was a kid," she said finally, "I never felt at home in town. I wanted a ranch when I grew up."

  That surprised him. He'd never thought of her as a country girl. "Okay," he said. "But why this one?"

  "Why not this one?"

  "Because you know I want it."

  "You could have had it."

  Impasse.

  "I don't want to sell."

  "Yet."

  She shook her head. "I won't."

  "I'll bet you will."

  Their gazes locked, baffled.

  "It ain't a job for sissies," he told her.

  "I'm not a sissy!"

  He snorted. "Uh-huh."

  Her fingers clenched into fists. "I'm not!"

  He grinned "Prove it."

  Lydia Cochrane's chin lifted. Her eyes flashed. "All right. I will."

  "C'mon, then. Let's get to work. You got a barn that needs cleanin'."

  He'd shoveled enough today to last him a lifetime, but he was happy to show Ms. Lydia Cochrane what she needed to do. It was a damned shame he didn't keep more horses and make them spend more time in his barn. As it was he only had three and a few cows he was keeping an eye on.

  "You ever shoveled out a barn before?" he asked her.

  "No."

  "Important work. Hygiene's real important. Cows like it real clean," he said solemnly. "Horses, too."

  "And if I believe that, you have a load of manure you're going to sell me?" she said tartly.

  He grinned. "I will have, once you shovel it, Ms. Cochrane, ma'am."

  She took the shovel from him. "Fine. I'll shovel. And you, Mr. Holt, will begin your work. The corrals, I believe?

  Or do you intend to start with the stable?"

  His jaw tightened just slightly. "The corrals, ma'am." He tipped his hat. "Enjoy."

  "It might surprise you," Lydia told him, "to know that I will."

  He hadn't intended to work on the damn corrals tonight. He'd intended to fix himself some dinner, then take a long soak in a tub of hot water and curse Trey Phillips and the whole damn mess.

  Now he had no choice. If Lydia was going to be shoveling, he was going to be working, too. His stomach growled in protest as he stalked off to find the lumber. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the red tin still lying in the dirt. He rescued it and stuck it on the steps. Then, with a glance toward the barn, he pried it open and took a cookie.

  Lydia had never given a lot of thought to the nitty-gritty side to ranching. She had plenty of time to contemplate it while she shoveled out the barn.

  She knew what he was doing and why. She could hardly blame him. He was right to test her.

  Well, she'd show him!

  And, really, how different was it from her lawyerly life? More physical, yes. But more than once Rance had likened what he did all day to cleaning out the barn.

  She worked steadily, always expecting that any moment J.D. would turn up and evaluate her competence. When he didn't, she thought he might have just put her to work and gone into the house. But then she heard the sound of his saw.

  So here they were, the two of them, working on the ranch, just like in her fantasies.

  "Happy now?" she mocked herself.

  But the answer, no matter how she cut it, was yes.

  * * *

  He figured she'd do a half-assed job, then offer some excuse and leave. It was hardly the sort of occupation for a town-bred lady, one who'd probably never got dirt under her fingernails in her entire life.

  But he was the one who had to quit first, when it got too dark to see. He went to find her in the barn. She was nearly finished. Her formerly spotless jeans were a little less spotless. Her hair, which had been knotted neatly against the back of her head, was now trailing tendrils down past her ears. In the sixty-watt electric light of the barn, she looked as if she'd been exerting – and still was.

  "Not finished yet?"

  "Not quite."

  "You don't need to make it so's we can eat off the ground."

  "Hygiene is important to cows," she recited piously. "And horses."

  A corner of his mouth twitched. "I think they can get along with it as is."

  "Do you have a box?"

  "What for?"

  "I thought I'd take it with me. Bette at the café has a garden. She's always looking for fertilizer."

  "You'd want to age this a bit," J.D. told her.

  "All right."

  "You're serious?"

  She nodded solemnly. "Bette will be thrilled."

  J.D. wasn't so sure. But he went to find a box. If she wanted to drive home with a box of manure in the back of her Jeep, it wasn't any skin off his nose. Be good for her. She'd better learn to love the smell if she was really going to buy his ranch.

  She shoveled it in when he came back with the box. Then he carried it to her car. "I can't believe you're going to do this."

  "Believe," she said.

  "Any more than I can believe you're really going to stick it out on the ranch," he went on.

  "I am."

  "We'll see."

  They stared at each other. Assessed each other. He knew what she saw when she looked at him – a rough-edged, hardnosed, down-to-earth cowboy. What you saw was what you got with J.D. Holt.

  And with Lydia Cochrane?

  God only knew.

  J.D. sure didn't. He didn't have a clue what to make of a woman like her. She wasn't his type at all – even though his body had, for a few minutes tonight, begged to differ. And that was pure hormones. Nothing important.

  The important thing was getting rid of her.

  "So," he said, "when're you comin' tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow? Well, actually I didn't think I'd come every day. I know that's what the agreement stipulated, but I can see you're working, and it seems a little condescending to make you have me sign it every day." She looked at him hopefully. "It's ridiculous."

  "You think comin' here every day is ridiculous?"

  "I don't want to … hover."

  "When you own a ranch, you're there," he told her implacably. "Every day." He threw the words down like a challenge.

  "You want me to come every day?"

  He shrugged negligently. "Doesn't matter to me what you do. It's your ranch."

  "Yes," she said. "It is."

  But as she said the words, her gaze was skipping all over the place, to the barn, to the pasture, to the hay fields, to the fences – as if she was seeing – really seeing – the place for the first time.

  "And when you get cattle for this ranch of yours, you're going to have even more work."

  "I have cattle."

  "Trey sold you cattle?" Was the old man nuts?

  "A hundred and twenty head is all. But it wouldn't be a ranch without cattle, would it?"

  J.D. shook his head, not in a
nswer, but because he didn't believe this. "You intend to work your cattle?"

  She hesitated. "Well, Trey said I could leave them with his. He asked if he could continue to graze his on this land, and I said yes."

  J.D. nodded. "So what it amounts to is you're not really ranchin' at all. You're playing rancher."

  "I am not!"

  "Of course you are! You're lettin' Trey's hands do all the work."

  "I didn't let them shovel the barn, did I?"

  He snorted. "One night. And you weren't gonna come back."

  "I will!"

  "When? While you're sittin' in your fancy office all day billing people by the minute? How're you goin' to look around and see what needs to be done when you're not even here?"

  "I'll be here! I'll work!"

  "Whatever you say." He gave her an equable, totally disbelieving smile.

  She glared at him.

  He looked back.

  "I'll be here tomorrow. Tomorrow at six. No, I have a late meeting. I can't get here until seven-thirty." She grimaced, then shrugged. "But you might not be here until then, either. Not considering how late you were tonight. So, shall we say tomorrow at seven-thirty, Mr. Holt? Does that suit you?"

  "Don't matter to me, ma'am," he drawled. "I just work here."

  Lydia's fingers balled into fists. "Don't patronize me."

  "Patronize? That's a pretty big word for a cowpoke like me, Ms. Cochrane."

  "Look it up, Mr. Holt," she said sweetly. Then she mustered one of those polite-society smiles he was willing to bet she was damn good at. "Tomorrow. Seven-thirty. I'll see you then." And she bent to retrieve the tin of cookies.

  It rattled with a few crumbs. Her brows lifted as she looked at him.

  He scowled at her.

  "I'll bring dinner tomorrow night," she said.

  And then she was gone.

  * * *

  "So," Kristen said, waving a forkful of coleslaw in the air. "How'd it go? Did you make him notice you? Look at you as if you're a woman and not just the person who bailed him out of jail."

  "How am I supposed to do that? Why do I want to?" Kristen sighed. "Because he's been the man of your dreams for years. And you bought his ranch. You care, Lydia. You want to get married. You—"

  "Who said—"

  "You've said," Kristen cut in firmly. "Lots of times. You always said – all the way through law school – that you didn't want to be consumed by your work, that you wanted a life."