by Natasha Deen
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Cowgirl
&
the Stallion
by
Natasha Deen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Cowgirl & the Stallion
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Natasha Deen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by RJ Morris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Yellow Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-362-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-363-6
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
All thanks to my editor, Stacy Holmes,
for her help in polishing this novel until it shined.
Chapter One
In Houston, Texas, where the sky was big and open, and the dreams of those who slept under it even bigger, Mason St. John—all six feet, seven inches of him—had found home. Lounging against a marble pillar, glass of champagne in hand, he surveyed his paradise. Crystal chandeliers—diamond-bright and sparkling—poured their warm, yellow light on the party attendees. Alongside the hum of conversation and Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 played by the string quartet, silk and satin rustled with the distinct crinkle of old money and nouveau rich.
Amidst the socialites and business moguls who filled the ballroom, he spotted his vice-president of acquisitions. Arun threaded his way through the crowd, a slim, brown needle amid a fabric of black tuxedos and ballroom gowns. That he had rushed back to Texas in a hurry—evidenced by his jeans and maroon crewneck shirt—turned ripples of unease into an undertow.
Mason set his flute of Dom Pérignon on the linen table. Feigning a casual smile and easy stride to cover the wariness rising in him, he slalomed past his guests and tracked his friend through the crowd.
“Mason, quite the turn out.” Arun held out his hand and offered him a smile that didn’t quite cover the anxiety in his dark eyes. “I’m sure the Texas Children’s Hospital will be grateful to you for hosting this gala and raising funds.”
He grasped his friend’s hand. It felt cold and clammy, another sign of a deal gone bad. “I see you couldn’t keep yourself away.”
“And miss the champagne? Heaven forbid.” Arun leaned close, and in his trademark, understated tone, said, “It’s the Michaels woman. There’s trouble. Nothing you can’t solve, but this sale will need your personal touch.”
The words bracketed the undercurrents of his fears, breaking them into manageable waves, but they didn’t stop the swelling tide of irritation. He couldn’t afford more delays. Conscious of the reporters and the crowd, however, he kept his smile on and his casual attitude wrapped around him. Any show of distress—even if the source was personal, rather than professional—would cast its specter over his business. Since many of his guests also held shares in his Fortune 500 company, distress was an emotion too expensive to show.
“Why don’t we get you into something more appropriate?” He dropped his voice and added, “I’ve got a suite booked for tonight, let’s go and you can tell me everything. You’re sure this is easily solved?”
Arun nodded.
“Okay, good.”
Mason patted him on the shoulder and then followed his employee, their pace painfully slow in comparison to the questions rocketing through his mind. He kept up a patter of inane conversation and Arun followed his lead. As they ascended the curved, marble staircase, he spied Mable Daughtry, one of the hospital’s biggest contributors coming toward him with a petite, brunette woman in tow.
Despite having youth and strength on his side, the sight of the willowy eighty-three-year-old sent Mason’s adrenaline into overdrive. He gripped Arun by the elbow and propelled him up the stairs, through the double French doors, and into the hotel lobby.
“Why are you rushing?” his vice-president asked as he dodged out of the path of a bellhop. “I told you the Michaels issue is easily handled.”
“It’s not that.” Their pace, just shy of warp speed, swept them to the elevators. He shoved Arun into one. Then he hit the button for the penthouse, and breathed a sigh of relief when the doors hissed closed and the elevator began its ascent. “It was Mabel. If I have to go through one more painful blind date on behalf of the hospital, I’m going to scream—or cry. Either way, it’s going to mess with my macho image.”
Arun’s laugh echoed along the paneled walls of the elevator. “The last one was a kleptomaniac, wasn’t she?”
Mason winced. “No, a nymphomaniac—tried to shuck my oysters in the middle of dinner, if you know what I mean. The kleptomaniac was two fundraisers ago, and thanks for digging up that painful memory. Now, I’ll be tormented by nightmares of her sticking the cutlery from Detante’s Bistro down her blouse.”
“Cowboys don’t run from a fight.”
Mason scowled at the floors. “Cowboys would not only have run from Mabel’s attempts to match-make, but they’d do it squealing like a little girl who just had a snake tossed on her lap.”
“Coward.” His friend chuckled, leaning against the wall.
“I have no protection. All I have is a smart phone, credit card, and if things get really dangerous, dental floss.”
“Flavored?”
“Of course.” The elevator chimed with each floor they passed.
“Well, then, who needs a gun?” He shot Mason a quizzical glance. “Really? Dental floss?”
“Dad says it comes in handy, no matter what.”
Arun’s laughter faded as his gaze filled with concern. “How is he, anyway?”
A hard, sharp stone of sadness grated Mason’s Adam’s apple, and an acidic sensation burned his heart. He rubbed his eyes, telling himself they watered because of the dry, circulated air of the hotel.
“Good, I guess.” He swallowed and cleared his throat, then tried again to speak without the husky edge of despondency. “The chemo’s working, and the doctors say the cancer is receding, that he should be okay. But that’s what they said five years ago, and it came back. I don’t know how much longer he has. If he wants his final days to be in Wolf Point, Montana, then I’m going to give it to him. And if he wants to do it on that farm, I’ll get it for him. What’s her excuse for not selling this time?”
Arun shrugged. “Same reasons as before. The land belongs to her family, and she’s not giving it up without a fight.”
His friend glanced over, his shared pain evident in the uncertain way he lifted his hand and squeezed Mason’s shoulder.
“When I was born,” he said, holding to his brittle emotions w
ith rigid control, “my father had no earthly wealth to bless me, no education to help pave my path. The only legacy Keith St. John had were the values his hero epitomized. John Wayne was a stand-up guy in his movies and his life. He never bowed to the bad guy, never made a fist unless he intended to use it, and he was a man of his word.” Mason took a deep breath and deprived his fears of oxygen. He looked into his friend’s face and said, “All my life, I’ve tried to live up to his reputation and honor my father through my lifestyle. I gave Dad my word; I’m not breaking it.”
His head throbbed. Needles and nails of uncertainty, loss, and pending grief pricked and ripped at his mind, until it pulsed, raw and bloodied. He shifted, pulling away from his friend’s comforting touch. He was failing his father, and he deserved no camaraderie, no leeway. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to gather his failing wits about him. “Did you offer her more money?”
“Three times what the land is worth, but she won’t budge. I left our information in case she changes her mind. When it comes to Ayashe Michaels, though, I don’t think the issue is financial.”
“Of course it’s the money.” He spit out the bitter words. “In the fifteen years of purchasing and selling companies and land, if there’s one thing we know, integrity and honor can be bought. CEOs and landowners talk about the good of their employees, the health of the environment, but give them a gold parachute and they’re jumping out of the plane, the employees and wildlife be damned.”
Doubt chased its way across the narrow lines of Arun’s face. “She seems determined to hold on to the farm.”
The bell of the elevator dinged and the husky feminine voice of its speakers announced their arrival to the penthouse. They stepped out, and Mason preceded Arun down the carpeted hallway and into the spacious suite. He stripped out of his jacket, tossed it on the white suede couch and moved to the bar to fix them both a tumbler of scotch.
Ayashe Michaels’ opposition sent the lightning crashing and the thunder rolling, a tempest which threatened to sweep away his plans to fulfill a dying man’s wish. But Mason had the storm windows in place and the sandbags to stop the rising tides. He would stand against the howling winds and lashing waters, and when the clouds parted, the land would be his.
“My father,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of Glenfiddich and barely registering the blistering path it etched down his throat, “lived a harsh and brutal life. He gave up his dreams to take care of me—” He clenched his teeth against the mounting guilt. “He lost the only woman he ever loved because of me. I’m not going to fail him on this. All he ever wanted was a farm of his own—this farm. One prissy farmer will not deter me.”
Memories overwhelmed him, swept him into their embrace and danced him into the dark fog of the past. He stayed on the edge between then and now, before the images of poverty, constant moves, and defeat coming into focus made him lose his breath and composure. Swallowing another mouthful of alcohol, he let it burn away the specters of his childhood.
“We’ve done the research, the farm is losing money. It’s only a matter of time before the bank takes the land.” He swore, low and vicious. “If I knew Dad could hold on, I’d just wait for the foreclosure, but that might take years. I don’t know my timeframe. Do we know anyone in her bank? Can we push—” The trill of his cell phone interrupted him, and he answered the call. “Mason St. John.”
The voice on the other end brought a frown, then as he continued to listen, a smile replaced the irritation. The triumphant feeling of victory sent a warmth spreading through him that the scotch couldn’t match.
“One moment,” he said and put the caller on hold. He waved the phone at Arun. “Someone else found the information you left at the Michaels farm. What did I tell you? Everyone has a price, and Ayashe Michaels has just been sold.”
****
The trail of dust rose in the distance, pluming feathers of gravel and dirt that signaled the coming of a friend or heralded another run-in with the Conglomerate. Aya squinted, but with the afternoon sun in her eyes, she couldn’t tell what kind of vehicle sped down the gravel road leading to her house. The depressing feeling she was about to go head to head with another one of Mason St. John’s lackeys sent her emotions sinking to her boots. Dragging out her inner-warrior and shoving aside her inner-whiner—who at this moment was making the most God-awful racket in her head—she gripped the reins in her hand and lassoed her dwindling courage.
“I’ll be back.” Aya tossed the words at her grandfather, kneed Patches in the haunches, and rode from the barn. She turned her concentration to the wind as it sang a sweet melody of freedom and irresponsibility in her ears. She listened to the tune, but family obligations, fear, and debt could not be drowned by the breeze’s lilting voice. Patches sped over the jade-green grass, his speed turning the countryside into a beautiful, blurry watercolor of spring, sun, and warmth. As his hooves churned the ground beneath them, the sound of his breathing filled her ears. The wind knocked the hat off her face; shorter pieces of hair escaped the long braid down her back and lashed her cheeks. Patches vaulted over the wood fence, and Aya pulled on the reins to slow him down as the ground under them turned from grass to gravel.
They reached the house just as the pickup ground to a halt in front of the porch. The wind stopped singing, and in the ensuing quiet, the howling voices of anxiety bayed in her ears.
The driver shut off the engine and an expectant silence blanketed the air as dust settled on to the weathered, balding tires. Rust ate holes in the chipped red paint of the ’53 Ford pickup, and she couldn’t see the driver for the mud spattering the windows. Unless the Conglomerate had shifted tactics, this wasn’t another lawyer, VP, or accountant. Her heart rate eased from thundering to storming, her breathing less labored.
The driver’s side door squealed open.
For a woman who’d had three lovers in her thirty-five years, and who had not felt the touch of a man’s hand against her skin in ten even longer years, Aya knew she was ill prepared for the Adonises and Apollos of the world. This man, however, would have brought Aphrodite to her knees. Had any demi-gods been standing beside her, they would have slunk off, shamed and made inferior by the man’s beauty.
His hair fell into thick waves against his broad forehead and the strands were so black, their highlights glinted blue in the sun. Golden skin, a proud, straight nose, and a sensuous mouth with a full, bottom lip. Long, black lashes framed his obsidian eyes, and he had a jaw-line so strong she could break wood on it.
Zeus himself would have wept for the man’s broad shoulders and muscled legs, and if the stranger had any weakness in him, it didn’t show in his body. That she could still maintain breath seemed a miracle; that she hadn’t fallen off her horse and thrown herself at his feet was only because the sight of him turned her legs to jelly.
“Who are you?” she asked, already knowing the answer. He was her fantasy come true. If she didn’t watch herself, her desires would stampede past the lines of decorum, leaving her vulnerable and unprotected.
He smiled, the gesture slow, easy, and smoldering. Then he shifted, bringing her attention to his long legs and the way the faded jeans hugged the hard muscles. The air trapped in her chest grew even more confused. Some of it tried to escape through her mouth, some through her nose, and the rest remained in the sanctuary of her lungs.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.”
His deep, southern twang was like campfire smoke: full of warmth, crackling with fire and passion, and seducing her with every syllable he spoke. Butterfly wings fluttered in her stomach. In the lower parts of her anatomy, a deeper, primitive urge did more than flutter. It pounded and howled for the attention only this man could give. She cleared her throat, telling herself it was the day spent in the sun which gave her the drunk, drowsy, wanton feeling—not that she believed a lying word of it.
“No.” Her voice squeaked and scratched from the nervous tension he created within her. She cleared her throat and repeated, “No, we haven’t
.”
He leaned against the door of the truck and grinned, as though he knew the reason for her uneven voice. Damn him for his air of confidence. He was a stranger, a trespasser on her land. Yet the atmosphere around him crackled, expectant, and breathless.
His relaxed posture, the easy smile, everything about him said he was used to being the center of attention and the cause behind feminine lunacy. Her libido confirmed her suspicions. It bucked, kicked, wanting nothing more than to jump into the man’s arms.
Aya lassoed her attraction and tied it down with the strong ropes of respectability. “Can I help you?”
“Didn’t Denis tell you I was coming?”
“Denis?” Like Ali Baba speaking the code words, “open sesame,” the man’s use of her friend’s name dropped her defenses and momentarily distracted her focus. Her libido, sensing her weak moment, slipped the bonds of restraint and pranced into the sex field, once again.
“Denis Hollister—Hollister Ranch—”
“Sure, sure, I know who you mean.” She waved her hand, slightly irritated the man maintained coherence, while she struggled to remember her name. Taking a breath, then another, she processed his words. If he was one of Denis’ men, then her farm—and her fantasies—could rest easy. The welcome sensation of relaxed muscles flooded her body and mind.
She smiled at the man, swung her leg over Patches’ rear, and hopped to the ground. Aya looked up at him—then realized she had to look way up. Between his long legs, wide shoulders, and broad chest, not only did he dwarf all five feet eleven inches of her, he seemed to dwarf the sun.
He extended his right hand. “My name’s Nate Love—”
She froze. “Nate Love? Your parents named you Nate Love?”
He shrugged. “Better Nate than Jesse James.”
Aya rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched. “What made your parents name you after one of the most famous African-American cowboys of all time?”
“He was a free spirit, slightly wild. So am I.”
It was a promise and a warning all at once.
