by Renee Roszel
DARE TO KISS
A COWBOY
Renee Roszel
Copyright © 1994 by Renee Roszel Wilson. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Don Congdon Associates, Inc.; the agency can be reached at [email protected].
To Hope and Blake Wilson
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER ONE
ANNA HAD NEVER EXPECTED to be standing in the grand foyer of the main house of the famous Bent River Ranch—certainly not for this awful reason. It was deathly quiet, and she shivered, more from anticipation of the scene to come rather than the coolness of the air-conditioning. Her stomach twisted with anxiety as she envisioned how Mr. Dare would take the news that she was waiting to see him.
The very idea that she was here because her brother had stolen from Mr. Dare tore her up inside. To pay off a gambling debt no less! She squeezed her eyes shut, still not wanting to believe it. What could Steven have been thinking? Clearly, he hadn’t been thinking at all.
Unfortunately her brother had always been a me-first, hotheaded young man, all too like their father. Steven’s rashness had gotten him into lots of trouble when he was growing up. But Anna had thought—hoped—he’d outgrown it.
Before he left home two years ago, Steven had become an excellent cutting-horse trainer, with visions of being a big-money winner, like their uncle Bud had been twenty years before. But the national spotlight hadn’t come fast enough for Steven’s ego, so about a year ago, he’d decided to get rich quick—by gambling. He’d won some, but he’d lost, too. And his losses had been greater than his wins.
When she and Uncle Bud were forced to put a second mortgage on the family ranch to cover the debt, Steven had promised he wasn’t going to gamble anymore. He’d sworn he’d get help. But last night, when Mr. Dare’s lawyer had called, looking for Steven, Anna had been horrified to learn that Steven was still gambling, and in deeper trouble than he’d ever been before.
She glanced around, trying to calm herself as she took in the grandeur of the imposing entrance hall. Painted a pristine white, which contrasted nicely with the dark polished stairs, railing and floor, the place spoke subtly of wealth. Two white Corinthian pillars soared to the high ceiling, and just behind them, in an artistic counterpoint, the serpentine curve of a spiral staircase streamed upward past a second- and third-floor landing, to a belvedere at the top of the house. At least, that was what Anna had read once in a national architectural magazine article about the place. All she could see from her vantage point was the spiral staircase leading up beyond the first floor. She hadn’t dared intrude far enough into the house for a better look.
Glumly dropping her gaze to her scuffed boots, she prayed she’d see more of the house—and that Mr. Dare wouldn’t simply have her thrown off his property without listening to her proposition.
“DUSTY, BOY?” A familiar scratchy voice broke into the master of the mansion’s surly thoughts, adding cautiously, “I need to talk with ya, son.”
Dusty Dare had swiveled his leather chair away from his desk to face the windows.
“Dusty?” Max said again, sounding troubled.
Wearily Dustin turned in his chair. The old codger standing in the doorway looked about as unhappy as a man could look without a bullet hole in his gut. He appeared even more bowlegged than usual, if that was possible, in his ill-fitting tuxedo. And his weathered features were so miserable the curse that had made its way to Dusty’s lips died there. The old hand was loyal, and he loved Dusty like a son. He didn’t deserve to be shouted at, no matter how badly Dusty needed to shout at someone.
Working to keep his voice even, he asked, “Are the wedding guests gone? I’ve had about all the pretentious snobbery I can stomach for one day.”
“They’re gone, son,” Max said in his gravelly voice, closing the carved oak door behind him.
“Thank heaven for that, anyway,” Dusty muttered. When he’d learned of the theft last night, he’d been livid, and the silly pomp of his older brother’s third wedding had hammered closed the lid on his ability to be civil. After maintaining a polite facade for as long as he could, he’d escaped to his den, thrown his tuxedo jacket and bow tie at the wall and wrenched open his ruffled shirt. He hoped this would be the last time one of Brett’s brides required such high-toned baloney. This best-man chore, done for a brother who was way too casual with relationships, was wearing thin.
Perturbed by Max’s frown, Dusty turned his chair to face his desk again, placing his fists on the polished expanse. “What’s wrong, then?” he demanded. “Is my brother’s new wife already asking for alimony? That should be a record, even for him.”
“No, Brett and Miss Patty—that is, Mrs. Dare—they’re off.”
A bitter chuckle rumbled in Dusty’s chest. “Don’t tempt me. I might have to agree.” Noting his hired man’s continued solemn expression, Dusty became guarded. “Okay, if the guests are gone and my brother and wife number three are off on their world tour, what’s the problem? Is it Patty’s daughter? Is she upset about having to stay here?”
“Miss Nicole’s been looking a mite like a sparrow who can’t find no worm hole, but right now she’s gone off to take a swim.” Max cleared his throat, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing the way it always did when the old man had to give his boss disagreeable news.
Apprehension tightened Dusty’s gut. “What?” he growled. “Did you find something else missing? Damn Andrews! I trusted him, gave him a job. When I get my hands on him, I’ll—”
“No, no,” Max cautioned in a strained whisper. “No. It’s ... you have a visitor.”
Dusty wondered why Max had hesitated; he was normally so hard to fluster. Yet as he stood there, shrunken and timeworn, his droopy gray eyes showed surprising distress.
“Who the devil is it?” Dustin cursed inwardly. What else could go wrong?
Not only was he CEO of Cherokee Natural Gas, which required him to oversee its burgeoning operation, he and Brett owned one of the most successful cutting-horse ranches in Oklahoma. And suddenly, thanks to Brett’s honeymoon and Steve Andrews’s thievery, Dusty had no managerial help for the stable. What now? he wondered again. By the look on Max’s face, it would seem that someone with designs on his liver was standing outside.
Max’s Adam’s apple bobbed again as he whispered, “It’s a female.”
Dusty frowned. A female? What could be so bad about that? “And?” he prompted. “Is she wielding a chain saw and screaming, ‘I want body parts’? If not, show her in.”
Max motioned for Dusty to lower his voice again, admonishing, “Dusty, son, you don’t understand. It’s ... it’s a Miss Andrews. Anna Andrews.”
“Andrews?” he echoed in a disbelieving roar. “Blast it! Andrews? Any relation to the sidewinder who stole from me?”
Max’s expression grew more pained, and he lifted both gnarled hands in a plea for restraint. “Yes, she’s the, er, sidewinder’s younger sister, I’m afraid.”
Dusty vaulted from his chair and stalked around his desk. “Well, don’t keep her, Max. Send the lady in.”
Shaking his head at his employer’s show of anger, Max counseled, “She seems to be a sweet thing, Dusty, boy. Having ’bout as much fun as a baby with a bellyache. Don’t bite the filly’s head off. It’s plain she’s tryin’ to help. ’Sides, her comin’ here shows she’s got a pile a grit i
n her gizzard.”
“Maybe so,” Dusty said, his tone grim. “But does she have a half-million-dollar Ross Sixkiller carving sticking out of her purse?”
Max shrugged helplessly. “Dusty. I’m asking you—don’t chew her up and spit her out till you hear what she’s got to say. Give me your word? She looks about as harmless as a newborn calf.”
Dusty scowled at Max, his righteous anger rising to near-explosive levels. He cherished very few things the way he did the carving Steve Andrews had stolen—only his land and his horses were more valuable to him. This Anna Andrews had unknowingly arrived at a dangerous time, and from Max’s worried expression, his deadly frame of mind was showing.
Poor Max. Over the years he’d broken up more than one fight between Dusty and some mouthy jackass. Usually it was after Dusty had been called something like “half-breed” or “wild savage.” Even in Oklahoma Native Americans were in the minority, and there was always somebody who tried to feel superior by name-calling.
Dusty was proud of being half-Cherokee, and though his hot temper had nothing to do with being “wild” or Native American, as a boy he’d always obliged a bully—no matter how big or tough—by jumping him and pounding him into the dirt.
One thing became apparent as the years passed—Dusty rarely lost when he was mad. Dustin Ross Dare was the fighter in the family, while Brett, it appeared, was the lover.
Three years older than Dusty, Brett hadn’t cared much for the aggressiveness of the business world. He simply wanted to train cutting horses for competitions. But Dusty had never been able to do anything halfway. He was a mover, a shaker, a winner. He had to be the best at whatever he did, or he saw no reason for doing it at all. Six years ago, when he took over Cherokee Natural Gas after his father’s death, he’d turned a local success into a sprawling giant, adding branches to the Tulsa firm that stretched from Louisiana to Utah. It had been the same way with Bent River Ranch. Despite Brett’s laidback attitude, Dusty had molded the spread into one of the most highly regarded cutting-horse stables in the Midwest. First as a boy and now as a man, when Dusty fought, he won.
He was thirty-six, and he knew he shouldn’t indulge in fistfights anymore, but there were moments when he had the urge. It wasn’t because he’d been called a name, but it was still because of his Cherokee heritage. Part of it had been stolen with the carving, and that not only made him fighting mad, it hurt like the devil.
Exhaling what was very close to a curse, Dusty yielded slightly. “Don’t worry, Max. I may be angry, but I don’t beat up women. Send the lady in.” The word “lady” had come out tinged with malice, and the sound made Dusty realize he’d have to control himself better. Anna Andrews was a thief’s sister, but she didn’t deserve to be convicted without a trial. Less sharply he said, “Tell Miss Andrews she can have five minutes.”
ANNA HEARD the booming voice of an enraged man and fought the urge to bolt and run. She remained rooted to the floor, clasping her hands to keep them from shaking. The man had shouted the name “Andrews” as though it were evil, and she chewed her lower lip with renewed trepidation.
It was obvious Mr. Dare had been told who was waiting to see him, and she could tell by his snarl that he wasn’t charmed by the idea. There was no way—no way on earth— he’d go for what she was about to suggest. She swept her fingers through her bangs, her hand shaking as if with palsy. She realized she was breathing heavily, too, and she’d gone all light-headed and dizzy. She just hoped she wouldn’t fall into a dead faint at Mr. Dare’s feet. Oh, why had Steven put her in such an unbearable position!
After her brother had left home, she and her uncle Bud found it difficult to get work training cutters. Some of the more honest ranchers admitted that they doubted a crippled old ex-cutting-horse champ and a petite inexperienced girl could adequately train their working stock.
For two long years Anna and Uncle Bud had struggled for every job, for every bite of food they’d put on the table, having to prove over and over that they were good at what they did—crippled and frail or young and small. They’d finally started to make some headway, since Anna had gotten older and progressively better as a trainer, but it was not exactly smooth sailing, especially with Steven’s gambling.
Anna was tired of battling, and she’d had it with egocentric fireworks men. First her father and now Steven. They caused trouble everywhere they went, leaving deep emotional wounds along the way.
Anna hadn’t slept well in ages, worried about her ailing uncle, their shoestring business and now this! Her brother was a fugitive from the law, forcing her to crawl and grovel and try to prove that the Andrewses were worthy of being trusted.
Here you go again, Anna! her mind nagged. What if Mr. Dare is no different from the other ranchers? What if he tosses you out on your tail without giving you a chance? “How,” she cried softly to the empty echoing foyer, “could my own brother do this to me?”
She balled her hands into fists, swearing silently to heaven. If one more of those hotheaded types gives me a hard time, I’ll pound the stuffing out of him!
Concentrating on breathing evenly, she chanted to herself, “Mr. Dare will be reasonable. He’ll be reasonable. I’m here to help. I can help. He’ll thank me. He’ll be glad...” She only hoped she could convince herself before she faced the man whose shouts had so recently shattered the stillness of this big house.
Then Anna heard the elderly man’s shuffling tread along the hallway to her left. She took a deep lungful of air to restore her determination and peered that way. His unhappy expression made her shiver. When he reached her, he said very solemnly, “Mr. Dare’s willin’ to see ya, miss.” He gestured in the direction he’d come. “This way.”
Resisting the urge to pull her lips between her teeth and gnaw on them, she nodded and moved down the hall, even though her mind was warning her that this was a crazy idea. Mr. Dare would never go for it.
She wondered for the thousandth time how her brother could have been so stupid, running off with the carving—in broad daylight, too. The lawyer had told her there was no doubt about his guilt. Several of the hired hands had seen him speed away, throwing gravel and burning rubber just before the theft had been discovered.
Anna was surprised Mr. Dare had had his lawyer call to give her brother a chance to return the carving before the police were notified. That had been more than fair. But try as she might, she hadn’t been able to find Steven. And so, she was here, frightened out of her wits, to make a desperate appeal on Steven’s behalf—to make a bargain if she could. Anna knew her proposal would sound absurd and that Mr. Dare would probably double over with laughter before bellowing a refusal. But that didn’t matter. Her pride didn’t matter. For Steven’s sake, she had to make the attempt.
Standing before the imposing double doors to what she assumed was a den or an office, Anna watched as the old man opened one of the doors and stepped back, motioning her to enter. She smiled wanly and asked, “I have to walk the last mile alone?”
He smiled back, but it was a sad excuse for a pleasant expression. “Good luck, miss,” he said, his tone gloomy, as though he’d said, “Rest in peace.”
Nodding her thanks, she stepped into the lion’s den. The door clicked shut behind her as her senses gathered up bits and pieces of information about her surroundings. Well-oiled oak paneling, the scent of leather, watercolors of quarter horses, furniture and draperies in shades of green, burnt umber and gold. On one wall a large glass-front display case brimmed with silver trophies. A colossal oak desk hunkered in the middle of the room.
Long arched windows at the far wall drank in gulps of June sunshine. Anna was surprised to see a crumpled gray jacket lying on the polished floor in a shaft of light. Her eyes followed the golden late-afternoon rays up and away from the jacket to fix on a motionless man standing, facing her, before one of the windows. She inhaled shakily at the vision he presented, for her silent adversary was massively tall and gilt-edged by the sun.
Although hi
s features were obscured by shadow, Anna had no difficulty determining she was in the presence of a long-limbed male, elegantly clad and completely intimidating, if a bit rumpled. She felt out of place and shabby in her jeans and chambray shirt.
How was she to know that there would be a marriage ceremony taking place here today? The lawyer had never mentioned it, so she’d been forced to wait an uncomfortable hour outside the gate, at the insistence of the guard, until the guests poured out in a shiny slither of luxury cars.
Now, standing before Mr. Dare, she felt plain and unsophisticated. How could she convince him that she might be of any use to him at all? It was like trying to convince a lion that a mouse could be of service. Of course, that had been done once. Too bad it had been in a fable.
Through the dimness she could just detect a firm jaw that telegraphed a contrary streak, too. She sensed this was a person not easily dissuaded once his mind was set on a course of action—like sending her brother to jail.
“Well?” he asked without preamble, an ominous ring to the one-word question.
She swallowed, taking an unconscious step back. It took all her nerve to face his menacing presence with her head held high. “I...” she started, but her voice failed her. Her cheeks flooding with color, she began again. “I tried, Mr. Dare. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to locate Steven.”
“Damnation!” He ran an agitated hand through thick wavy hair that was the blue-black hue of Oklahoma crude. Then he said with a not-too-subtle threat in his voice, “You know what this means, Miss Andrews.”
She barely nodded, barely breathed. “I... Yes. But I was hoping you’d agree to—”
“To what?” he cut in. “Making it an early Christmas bonus?” Contempt etched his words. “Dream on, lady. Do you have any idea how much a Ross Sixkiller carving is worth these days?”
Anna blanched. His lawyer had already told her the half-million-dollar market value of this particular carving: three wild horses caught in a racing, leaping tableau. The lawyer had also told Anna that the monetary loss wasn’t the most important thing to Mr. Dare. Ross Sixkiller had been his grandmother’s brother, and the piece had been carved to commemorate Dusty’s birth. That had been before the Sixkiller pieces commanded the huge sums they did today. Even so, the lawyer had assured Anna that Mr. Dare was willing to forget the whole thing if the carving, Wind-chaser, was returned in the next twenty-four hours. And that deadline was fast closing in on her.
