The Cowgirl & the Stallion

by Natasha Deen

  “And your parents knew all of this, at the moment you were born.” A doubting note crept into her voice. Suspicion joined in and turned her emotions into a duet of mistrust. He’d used Denis’ name, but could she really trust this man?

  He grinned, and despite the logic of her doubts, her stomach gave an excited flip.

  “I was an active child—even in the womb. They figured they should name me after someone just as active. Good thing I was a boy. Had I been a girl, they would have named me Gypsy Rose, and I would have been doomed to a life as a Rockette or a burlesque dancer. All things considered, I got off lucky. I have hairy legs.”

  She pursed her lips to keep from laughing, but they quivered and fluttered.

  “Are you going to shake my hand?” His teeth, straight and white, gleamed against the rich, toasted shade of his skin. “My muscles are starting to twitch.”

  Aya stuck out her hand, too aware of strong, warm fingers wrapping around hers and the way his sinews moved under his muscled forearms. With a small step, he moved closer, and stamped her consciousness with the spicy scent of soap, the warmth of his body, and the raw, masculine power he exuded.

  Even if he wasn’t a St. John henchman, he still presented a danger. She just wasn’t sure which was the greater threat—the one to her land, or the one to her libido?

  “Nate Love, ma’am. Pleased to meet you, Miss—”

  “Ayashe Michaels, but everyone calls me Aya.”

  “Unusual name.” He paused, as though he would say more, then he smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting at a sexy angle that stole her breath.

  “My grandmother chose the name. It’s from the Chippewa. I’m part Ojibwa—” Damn. Part Aboriginal, and all idiot. She was babbling.

  Aya shut her mouth. She wanted to step back, to give herself room to breathe. He confused her thoughts, obliterated her senses, and the sight of him had her stomach jumping and jiving. Her body hadn’t been subject to such a sensual attack in years, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d do something rash—like rip his clothes off and lick him all over, just to see if he tasted as good as he looked.

  Her sense of survival urged retreat, but pride cemented her feet in place. “What is this about Denis?”

  Nate let go of her hand and stepped back. She ignored the sense of loss his action caused.

  “He mentioned you needed help and asked me if I wanted to lend a hand. I was looking for a change, and I have experience with dairy farming. He said he would set things right with you. I’m sorry, I thought he would have called by now.”

  “He didn’t call,” Aya sighed, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. Knowing Denis and his close friendship with Pops, he’d probably sent Nate as a pity gift—a way of helping her save the farm. And she needed all the help she could get; she just wasn’t sure she could accept charity. Her gaze took in Nate’s hard, muscled body, and his melt-her-inhibitions smile. Well, maybe she could accept a little charity. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

  He grinned as he folded his arms in front of him. “Are you, now?”

  His eyes never left hers, but she had the distinct impression she’d been checked out and approved. Her chin gave an instinctual lift. Fantasies were one thing, but she was a woman in a man’s world, and she couldn’t afford anything but his respect and deference.

  “I don’t know how Denis runs his ranch, Mr. Love. But on this farm, we don’t mix business with pleasure. I’ll thank you to save your flirting for the ladies.”

  “Forgive me.” He grinned. “I thought I was.”

  The clatter of hooves behind her saved him from an icy retort.

  “What’s going on, here?”

  Aya turned to answer her grandfather’s question. “This is Nate Love, from Hollister Ranch. Denis thought we could use his assistance.”

  The wind ruffled Nate’s hair, tossing black curls against his forehead. Aya’s fingers twitched with the urge to run her hands through his thick locks, not to tidy them, but to mess them even more, to press her lips against his and feel the surge of adrenaline and attraction course through her.

  Pops jumped from his horse, walked over, and shook his hand. “That’s right. He called last week and said he was sending you to us.”

  Aya frowned. “He did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I did,” the older man snorted. “You were probably too busy cursing Mason St. John to hear me.” He turned back to Nate. “Denis is a good man. I’m always pleased to call one of his friends my own. If you’ll just excuse me a minute, I’ll go phone him, let him know you got here.” The stairs creaked and groaned as he climbed them.

  Aya turned back to her new employee. “Tell me a little about yourself, Mr. Love.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  His voice reached out and caressed her with soft, warm tones. The immediate response which came to mind was: how are you in bed? She caught his gaze. The fire in the dark depths of his eyes and the knowing smile on his mouth said he knew all too well what she was thinking.

  Aya cleared her throat, pushing her wayward thoughts back, and in the process, lost track of the relevant questions to ask. “Why don’t you grab your bags? When Pops—Jim—comes back, he’ll take you to the bunkhouse. Unless you prefer to stay in town, though, it’s your call.”

  “I’ll stay here. The view’s better.” He held her gaze for a too-long moment, then nodded toward the horizon, where the hills swelled and rolled into each other, emerald jewels glittering under a sapphire sky. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything this beautiful.”

  She frowned. “Denis Hollister’s Ranch lies well outside the Houston city limits, and his view is far better than mine.”

  Nate was silent for a few seconds, then, “It’s not the same.”

  He roused himself and moved away. Reaching into the truck, he pulled out a beat up army duffel bag and a battered tan suitcase. The bags caught on his black T-shirt. As he lifted them from the car, they pulled his clothing up and exposed abdominal muscles so perfect they could have been used for anatomy lessons.

  “Did you bring a jacket?” she asked, looking toward the hills before he caught her staring. “It’s spring, but the nights can still carry a chill.”

  He grinned, his gaze sweeping over her. Like a colt let into the pasture after a long winter, her libido kicked and cantered with excitement.

  “Somehow, I think the view will keep me warm.”

  The crunch of tires under gravel wrenched her attention from him. A yellow school bus barreled to a stop and its doors hissed open. She grinned as Spencer bounded down the steps.

  “Thanks, Bertie!” She waved to the bus driver and headed toward her son. Aya pulled him into her, inhaling the familiar scents of her child: earth and sun, the institutional odors of school—paper, pencil shavings—and the faint aroma of the fabric softener on his clothing.

  “Mom, geez.” Spencer pushed away from her, adjusting his round spectacles with an embarrassed glance at Nate.

  “Sorry.” Only nine, her little man, and already conscious of his image.

  Aya stood. “Nate, this is my son, Spencer—” The words turned to ice on her tongue, freezing her in mid-sentence. Gone was the insatiable flirt from a few minutes ago. In its place, a man who looked every bit like he’d been kicked in the head by a bull.

  “Nate? Are you okay?”

  He glanced at her, his gaze hollow, his face gaunt. Then he shifted, turning his focus from her and directing it to the sky.

  Her girlish rush at his previous attention shriveled like a seedling left in the frost. A bitter smile burned her lips. Nothing like a small child and a single mother to cool the flames of lust.

  She took Spencer by the hand. “Come on. Let’s go get a snack, and you can tell me about your day.” She led him to the stairs, then turned back to face Nate. “There’s a General Store on Main Street.”

  He blinked. His gaze focused back on her for a moment before it returned to Spencer.

>   “Excuse me?”

  “A jacket, Nate. And you should buy one as quickly as possible. You look positively frozen.”

  The weathered front door creaked open and Pops’ outline filled the doorway. With slow, methodical steps, he came down the stairs.

  “He needs to settle in,” Aya said, jerking her head at Nate. “Take him to the bunkhouse, will you?”

  The harsh tone in her voice tightened Mason’s chest, and her words tore his gaze away from Spencer and back to his own ruse. But like a lighthouse’s beacon, the child drew his attention back. The light shed, however, wasn’t one that led him from rocky waves and choppy waters into safe harbors and calm shores. No, this lamp illuminated the shadowed and repressed past of his adolescent life—one of loneliness, want, and maternal abandonment. He turned away, but the light had turned internal, a hundred watt bulb that lit remembrance of the boy he used to be and the childhood he wanted to forget.

  From shopping centers to sidewalks, millions of children had passed Mason on the street and the shops. But Spencer, with his Christopher Robin gangly limbs, worn but clean clothing, his unruly hair, and the weariness that laid its shroud across his frail shoulders, hit Mason’s defenses like a heavy, jagged rock. It laid a hole in the hull of impersonal charm he hid behind, and the waters of yearning, the need to belong, and the desire for a place to call home rushed back at him. Years of repression had stirred the tide, and now it swept over him with the force of a tsunami. Uncertainty and self-doubt rose in him, and for Mason, who hadn’t felt this sensation for twenty-five of his thirty-five years, the emotion wasn’t just uncomfortable. It was unwelcome, a wave that would wash away his objectives and goals, and leave him alone on the sands of time and regret.

  He shook his head, tossing the painful memories into the darkest corners of his mind, and refocused his attention on his ruse.

  Aya wrapped her arm around Spencer’s shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart.”

  The love in her voice as she addressed her son further undid Mason, pushed him back into the eight year-old child who ached to hear that kind of affection from his mother.

  “Let’s get you a snack.” She whipped a hard look at Mason.

  While the man in him blistered at her scorching contempt, the child within envied Spencer for having a mother who loved and protected him. His mouth opened, then closed. How could he explain his loss of composure to her, when he could barely explain it to himself?

  The muscles of her jaw rippled as she clenched her teeth. With a stiff nod, she went up the stairs. Each board of the steps seemed to squeak with her anger.

  “You ready, Nate?” The grandfather’s voice ripped him from the impetuous desire to run after Aya.

  “Ya, sure.”

  “Let’s take a walk. I’ll show you some of the property before we get you settled in.”

  They headed around the back of the two-story house. Mason’s gaze took in everything from the peeling white paint, the worn porch furniture, and the mended curtains ruffling out of the windows. Poor but proud. How well he knew that life; how desperately he tried to erase it from memory.

  A wide dirt lane led down to a grove of oak trees. Large, knotted bark enclosed them, the leaves and branches swayed and rustled. They walked in silence, until the trees cleared. In the distance, evergreens bordered the cloudless sky.

  “This is the bunkhouse, where the men stay. How long have you been a ranch-hand?” Jim asked.

  “I grew up on a small farm in Kansas.” He recited the non-answer with ease and shook off the sense of claustrophobia which always enveloped him whenever he mentioned his upbringing. “My dad worked on a variety of farms and ranches.”

  “You don’t say,” murmured the old man. “My granddaughter will want to know if you have any experience with cows and dairy farming?”

  “Not much,” he admitted, “but I know enough to satisfy Aya.”

  “We’re a certified organic farm. No meat, just milk and dairy products.”

  “I’m sure I’ll catch on quickly.”

  Jim inclined his head toward the distance where a small herd of cows grazed.

  “See those Jerseys? They look placid, but don’t be fooled. A cow can be just as dangerous—even more so than a horse.”

  He smiled. “I’ll watch myself.”

  “Those cows aren’t Jerseys, they’re Holsteins.” Jim gripped Mason’s shoulder and turned to face him. “For our plan to work, you’ll have to do more than watch yourself. You’ll have to convince Aya you’re the ultimate farmhand, Mr. St. John.”

  Chapter Two

  After Spencer demolished his last chocolate-chip cookie and milk, Aya sent him upstairs to change out of his school clothes. She took the dishes off the table and headed to the sink. Stoneware clattered and tap water gurgled as she rinsed the cookie crumbs from the plates and jammed them in the dishwasher. Blue chips of glaze broke off the saucer and left a white patch along its edge. She swore and slammed the lid shut.

  “Señorita, what did those dishes do to upset you like this? Tell me, so I don’t do the same thing.”

  She turned at the lyrical voice of their housekeeper, Destina.

  Holding a sack of potatoes in her hand, the plump woman stood by the island. “At my age, I don’t think my bones could handle such rough treatment.”

  “It didn’t do anything.” She sighed. “It’s just better to break a plate than to smash someone’s face into tiny bits and pieces.”

  If the confession of violence elicited any shock or surprise, Destina restrained herself admirably. There were no gasps of horror or looks of condemnation. Her expression remained as cheerful and placid as ever.

  She stepped to the sink and emptied the burlap sack of its potatoes. “Señor St. John, again? What has el Diablo done this time?”

  “No, not St. John, someone else.” Aya grabbed a potato in one hand, a brush in the other, and tried to scrub her mind free of the mouth-watering images of Nate.

  Destina’s brown forehead wrinkled with confusion. “What can be worse than—oh, aye.” She laughed, clapping her small hands together. “Amor.”

  “No—that’s...it’s not love—I barely know him. Honestly, one—” Her hands stilled as her mind spun, trying to find a word to describe Nate’s jaw-dropping, knee-weakening, here-are-my-panties effect on her. “One passing—and transient—blip of physical reaction can hardly be termed love.”

  Destina’s smile faded and exasperation twisted her rosebud mouth. “Madre de Dios. Only you would rather fight than love.”

  “Would you stop using that word? It’s incorrect—and inaccurate.” She scrubbed at the potato, pushing the vigor of her words into action. “That term is so wrong, you’re almost lying. Isn’t that terrible, a good Catholic woman like you, lying. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “If I’m such a liar, why are you rubbing a hole into that potato?”

  Aya stared at the brush marks etched into the white flesh of the vegetable, starch and carbohydrate evidence of her perjured words. Rinsing what was left of the potato, she laid it in a plastic bowl and reached for another tuber.

  Destina’s fingers encircled hers. “Stop. I will take care of it. You keep going, and we won’t have anything left for dinner.”

  She dumped the brush into the sink. “What’s wrong with me? One sight of a good-looking man, and I’m fifteen all over again.”

  “Repression.”

  Aya sighed. “My kid’s been talking to you about Freud again, hasn’t he?”

  “Spencer, esta muy intelligente.” Destina smiled.

  “He’s a little too intelligent, if you ask me.” She clenched her eyes shut as the familiar, unwanted throbbing of a tension headache began. “Kids should read comics and worry about recess, not pore over psychological texts trying to figure out why their father abandoned them.”

  “Some niños collect stamps and baseball cards. Spencer collects theories.”

  “He’s amassing neurotic tendencies. It’s not right.�
� The throbbing increased pressure until a sharp pounding reverberated through her temples. She pressed her fingers into the pressure points at the base of her neck, but the massage did nothing to ebb the pain.

  “Here, let me.” Destina’s strong fingers dug into the knotted muscles of Aya’s shoulders, then worked their way up. “You worry too much about everything—about the farm, Spencer, me, your abuelo...”

  Aya grabbed the older woman’s hand, squeezed, and turned to face her. “You’re my family. I have to take care of you.”

  Destina sighed. “If you paid attention to yourself—to your needs as a woman—” She caressed the term, as though being female wasn’t just a sexual identity, but a sacred, glorious, gift. “—then maybe, you wouldn’t be scarring my potatoes.”

  “Let’s not start this, again.” Aya turned back to the vegetables in the sink.

  “Amor, it calms, strengthens.” Her housekeeper’s fingers poked her in the side. “You are so tense; you need all the calming you can get.”

  “As soon as I save the farm from Mason St. John, I’ll be so peaceful you’ll think I was dead.” She shut off the water.

  “If you keep fighting him over dirt, you will be dead. Just sell the farm—we can start new, somewhere else.”

  “Right. I’ll just give up the land that’s been in my family for hundreds of years, and all for a fat cheque and some stock options.”

  The sound of the front door opening and closing precluded Destina’s response. Her housekeeper jerked at the sound and surreptitiously checked her reflection in the window.

  “You look beautiful,” Aya said.

  Large, brown eyes, full of feigned innocence met her gaze. “Que?”

  “Nice try.”

  Destina sniffed and drew herself up to her full four feet, eleven inches. “No comprendo.”

  “Comprehend this: you have it bad for my abuelo.”

  She said nothing, only scrubbed at the potatoes.

  “Destina?”

  “Si?”

  “You’re wearing a hole in that potato.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “See?” Gleeful, she pointed to the deep grooves forming in the vegetable. “Right there.”