by Cassie Miles
Gabby decided not to stick around and find out. The crazy girl in the nightgown might decide to get dressed and come after her. The best move would be to run through the drizzle toward the neighbor’s lights in the hope of finding reasonable people.
She waited until Crazy Girl went into the house and then made a dash for the road. Leaping across the two narrow lanes, she came to the barbed wire fence on the opposite side. Until now, she hadn’t noticed cows or any other wildlife, but it was a good bet that the barbed wire had been erected to keep something penned in. Growing up in Brooklyn, Gabby had zero experience with cattle, but she knew they weren’t violent. Cows ate grass, not people.
Carefully, she poked one bare leg between the strands of barbed wires. She lowered her shoulders to squeeze through, and she almost made it. The back of her hoodie snagged. She pulled. The fabric stretched but didn’t release. After another pull, she was hooked in two other places. The sweatshirt had to come off. She unzipped the front and wriggled her arms free. Balancing on one foot, she climbed through.
The lights from the neighbor’s house were still a long way from where she was standing, and she was freezing cold. The dribbles of rain were already soaking through her long-sleeved cotton T-shirt, which was one of her favorite items of clothing. Her best friend, Hannah, had painted a romantic sketch of the Eiffel Tower on the front.
Gabby needed the hoodie for warmth. She peered at Great-Aunt Michelle’s house and saw no sign of Crazy Girl. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of seconds to untangle the sweatshirt. She gently maneuvered the fabric, detaching it from one of the barbs, then another. She almost had it free when she snagged the sleeve of her T-shirt. Damn, she didn’t want to ruin this shirt that Hannah had worked so hard to make. Quickly, she peeled it off over her head.
Unsnagging the material took a careful touch, but Gabby was accustomed to working with fabric. She manipulated the threads and gently pulled. Both shirts were free and still no Crazy Girl. But someone was approaching. Gabby could hear them getting closer. She turned to face the new threat, clutching her hoodie and her shirt to her breasts to cover her leopard-patterned bra.
A cowboy on a dark horse rode toward her. He wasn’t like anything she’d ever seen before. Frankly, she would have been less startled by a zombie attack.
Lightning flashed behind him, outlining his broad shoulders and long legs. When she glimpsed a chiseled profile under the brim of his hat, her heart did a weird little tango. He looked angry. But he was also gorgeous.
Chapter Two
Zach Sheffield dismounted and approached the woman who stood at the edge of his property wearing a pair of shorts, a leopard bra and nothing else. He’d never seen anything like her before. She stared with eyes as big as saucers. Her arms and legs gleamed white against the darkness. She was shivering and talking so fast that he couldn’t separate her words into anything coherent.
Whatever she was babbling about didn’t matter. All he wanted to do was get her dried off and warmed up so she could go back to Michelle’s place where she belonged. Without speaking, he took off his denim jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said, “thank you, thank you.”
The rain dripped down her forehead, streaks of eye makeup marked her cheeks and her lips quivered. She looked as pathetic as a wet cat, but he didn’t waste any sympathy on her. There was a spark of energy in those dark brown eyes that told him she wasn’t a helpless damsel in distress.
“You can come with me,” he said.
“Where are we going?”
“My place. After you get dried off, I’ll take you back to your home.”
“Home? I really hope you aren’t talking about Rousseau’s Roost. I can’t go there.” She jabbed an accusing finger at the house across the road. “There’s a crazy girl in there. She shot at me.”
He’d heard the gunfire, but that wasn’t why he’d responded. “The crazy girl is Charlotte Potter. She called my house to tell me what happened. After you ran off, she checked your ID and decided you weren’t lying about being Michelle’s niece.”
“Why would anybody lie about being me?”
He shrugged.
She clasped his hand in an attempted handshake. Her fingers were like ice. “I’m Gabriella Rousseau. Everybody calls me Gabby.”
The name suited her. “Zach Sheffield,” he said.
“I wish we were meeting in different circumstances. I mean, here we are in the middle of the night. In the middle of nowhere.” She winced. “Sorry, I’m not putting down this, um, countryside. I’m sure that in daylight, it’s lovely, and—”
He tapped the stirrup. “Put your foot in here, and I’ll hoist you up.”
“Oh, no, that’s not going to happen.” She took a backward step. “I don’t know how to ride.”
He wasn’t asking her to perform in a barrel race. “You don’t have to do anything. Just sit on the horse.”
“Why are you people trying to kill me?” She stormed around in a tight little circle. “First, the crazy girl shoots at me. Then, you want me to deal with a gigantic animal. That thing must weigh two tons.”
“About eleven hundred pounds,” he said.
“What if it steps on me? It’s not safe.”
Zach had neither the time nor the inclination to stand in the rain, listening to a tirade from a woman who didn’t have the sense to realize that he was helping her. He stuck his foot into the stirrup and swung back into the saddle. “Suit yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You can walk. It’s about a mile to the house. The ground in this field is kind of uneven, so watch your step. And mind the rattlesnakes.”
“Snakes?” She staggered toward him with both arms raised. “I think I’ll take that ride, after all.”
He reached down, wrapped his arm around her and yanked her off her feet. It took all his strength to lift her onto the horse, especially when her long legs got tangled the wrong way around. When his horse snorted, she yelped and flailed as though she was atop a bucking bronco. He wrestled her around until she was settled into the saddle in front of him.
Exhaling a sigh, she leaned against him. The back of his jacket was wet against his flannel shirt, but when he slipped his arm around her slender body, he liked the way they fit together. It had been a while since he’d been this close to a woman. As his hand molded against her bare midriff, her stomach muscles quivered. A vision of her leopard-patterned bra popped into his head as he urged his horse into a walk toward his ranch house.
“Slow down,” she said.
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“We’re really high up. If I fall from here, I could break an ankle.”
“It’s hard to believe you’ve never been on a horse before.”
“I’m from Brooklyn,” she said as though that statement should clarify everything. “I’m not into animals.”
“Except for leopards,” he murmured.
“I guess I owe you an explanation for why I was half-naked when you found me. It’s simple, okay? My clothes got caught on your nasty fence and I didn’t want to rip them to shreds.”
Her body jostled against him. In spite of the cold rain, a pleasant feeling of warmth radiated from his chest to the rest of his body. When he leaned forward in the saddle, he could smell the strawberry scent of her shampoo.
“I bet you’ve got other questions for me,” she said.
“No, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” She wriggled around in front of him. “Did you just ma’am me?”
“Seems appropriate for a lady such as yourself who’s never rode a horse.”
“And that makes you wonder, doesn’t it? What’s a city girl like me doing here?”
Zach already knew the short answer. Gabby was here to claim her inheritance—Rousseau’s Roost. That information was enough for him. He wasn’t the kind of person who needed to rake through other people’s business. “I’m sure you’ve got your
reasons.”
“Colorado isn’t where I’d choose to live,” she said. “I’m into fashion and I specialize in original designs, not haute couture gowns but upscale ready-to-wear. You know what I mean?”
“Yep.” Zach didn’t have a clue and couldn’t care less.
“Anyway,” she continued, “my work means I need to be in New York or L.A. or some other major fashion mecca. When the lawyer called and told me about Rousseau’s Roost, he said it was near Aspen. Is that true?”
“Yep.”
“Aspen means glitz and glamor. I thought that movie stars and European royalty would be my next-door neighbors. Do you know a lot of famous people?”
“Nope.”
They were coming closer to his long, low, ranch house. On the porch, he saw his housekeeper with a striped Indian blanket in her hands. As soon as they got there, he’d turn Gabby over to the care of Rhoda Phillips, who would give her something warm to drink and something dry to wear. That was the neighborly thing to do. Though he enjoyed the way this woman from Brooklyn felt in his arms, they had nothing in common. He wasn’t looking to start up any kind of friendship.
“Did you know my great-aunt?” she asked.
“Yep.”
She waited for five seconds, and then twisted her neck around. “What can you tell me about her?”
“I liked her.”
Michelle Rousseau was a good neighbor, sociable when she needed to be and not a pest. She’d traveled a lot and was well-read. Zach had spent many pleasant evenings drinking coffee on her front porch and listening to her stories about faraway places and unusual ideas. He’d been glad when Charlotte moved into the Roost a few years ago to help out with the chores when the work got to be too much for Michelle to handle on her own.
“What else?” Gabby asked. “Did she ever talk about family? Did she mention me?”
“Yep.”
He was saved from further conversation when they reached the covered porch where Rhoda stood with her blanket. He swung his leg over the rump of his horse and dismounted. Then he held his arms up to help her.
After the clumsy way she’d gotten on the horse, he expected a struggle, but she surprised him by getting both legs on the same side of the saddle. As she slipped down into his arms, her long, lean body slid against his, descending slowly, until her feet touched the ground. The warm sensations he’d been feeling translated into a sensual heat that didn’t bode well for keeping things neighborly and distant.
“Do you want your jacket?” she asked.
The last thing he needed right now was another view of her leopard brassiere. “Keep it.”
He turned Gabby by the shoulders and pointed her toward the porch. “This is Rhoda Phillips. She’ll look after you.”
Zach took the reins of his horse and walked toward the barn. With each step, he told himself not to get attached to Gabby Rousseau. This woman was nothing but trouble.
* * *
ON THE PORCH, Gabby gratefully accepted the warm, dry blanket that was being held toward her by a round-faced little woman with her gray hair sticking out from her head like a cap of feathers. On short legs, she bustled like a pigeon, and her long plaid bathrobe was belted beneath her full breasts.
“Come inside,” Rhoda said. “We’ll have some nice, hot, chamomile tea.”
“That sounds great.” She glanced toward Zach as he and his horse disappeared around the end of the house. “I think I might have made him angry.”
“Don’t worry about Zach. He’s not a big talker.”
“I noticed,” Gabby said.
“But he’s a good man.” Rhoda ushered her through the door into the log house. “When I first came to work for him, I had two teenage boys and no skills. Zach gave me a chance. He was patient and kind. I like to think that he trained me just like he trains his horses.”
Gabby wasn’t sure if horse whisperer methods were suitable for humans. “Trained you to do what?”
“I basically run the place.” She proudly stuck out her breasts. “I do the bookkeeping, the ordering and the billing. Zach isn’t much good with computers, so I handle all the online parts of the business so he can concentrate on his work.”
“This is a ranch, right? Do you have cows?”
“What? We’re not a cattle ranch. Zach breeds, raises and trains horses. My goodness, Gabby, you don’t know a thing about us, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“Ten years ago, Zach was a star on the rodeo circuit. He got injured, and then started up this horse ranch. He’s one of the most sought-after trainers in the West.”
Though Gabby wasn’t sure what a horse trainer did or what happened on the rodeo circuit, she was suitably impressed. “So, he was a star, huh?”
“But don’t mention it. He doesn’t like to talk about the old days.”
In the pine-paneled living room, Rhoda led her toward the fireplace and indicated that she should sit in a padded rocking chair in front of the brick hearth. The heat from the flickering orange flames in the fireplace was heavenly.
“Take off those silly shoes,” Rhoda said, “and warm up your toes. I’ll fetch the tea.”
Gabby hadn’t realized how chilled she was until she began to thaw. Bit by bit, her body relaxed. She unclenched her fists. The tension eased from the muscles in her shoulders. Her long road trip was over. She’d reached her destination, and the overall picture wasn’t too bad. Though her first moments at Roost hadn’t gone well, Crazy Girl seemed to have a reason for her gun-toting behavior. At least, Zach accepted Charlotte as a rational human being.
Could she believe his opinion? Her first impression of his gorgeousness remained intact. If all she’d wanted was to sit and stare at him, she would have been perfectly content, but she wasn’t sure that she could trust the former rodeo star. Rhoda was a lot more forthcoming.
The housekeeper bustled into the room carrying a tray, which she placed on a coffee table beside Gabby’s rocker.
“Herbal tea,” she said. “And oatmeal cookies. I did some baking this afternoon when it started clouding over. I just love the way it makes the house smell.”
The last time Gabby ate was hours ago—a greasy taco and a milk shake. She pounced on the cookies, which tasted healthy in comparison to her diet for the past several days on the road. The lightly sweetened chamomile tea soothed her throat.
“Oh, Rhoda.” She licked her lips. “This is fantastic. Can I live with you?”
“Don’t be silly, dear. You’ve got a wonderful adventure waiting.” Rhoda sat in the overstuffed chair beside her and tucked her short legs underneath her. “I’m guessing the Roost is going to be a different life than you’re used to.”
“I don’t fit in,” Gabby said. “Is it that obvious?”
“The leopard bra and fancy sandals are kind of a clue.” Rhoda grinned. “Your great-aunt told me that you’d spent your whole life in the city. She said she didn’t know you very well, but she thought you had inherited some of her artistic talent.”
“Me?” Gabby took another bite of oatmeal cookie. “I wonder why she said that.”
“You’re a designer, aren’t you? That’s art.”
Claiming to be an artist seemed pretentious when her most lucrative source of income was alterations like taking up hems and letting out waists. Still, she was flattered. “I guess my work could be called creative.”
“Wait until you see the inside of the Roost. There’s a studio that you could change into a workroom for sewing and an office and a tremendous view.”
“And Charlotte Potter,” Gabby said. “What’s her story?”
“Her parents—a couple of mean, nasty people—threw her out, and Michelle offered her a place to live in exchange for doing some light chores. Charlotte was devoted to your great-aunt.”
Which didn’t necessarily mean that she wasn’t loony tunes. “She seemed to think that somebody was threatening her, and that they sent me to do their dirty work.”
“Treasure hunters.”<
br />
Gabby almost choked on her cookie. “Say what?”
“It’s your family history. Haven’t you ever heard of the Frenchman’s Treasure?”
Holding the mug of tea to her lips, she leaned forward. “Tell me about it.”
“A long time ago,” Rhoda said, “way back in the 1870s, your ancestor moved to Colorado to prospect for gold. His name was Louis Rousseau. He always wore a gold hoop earring like a pirate, and he was supposed to be a dashing, handsome man.”
Gabby had a vague recollection of a formal photograph in a family album. “He had a wife and two children. And they came from Wisconsin. Was he a trapper?”
“A trapper or a trader. Nobody knows for sure, but he had enough money to buy a huge parcel of land, build the first structure that was called Rousseau’s Roost and start a cattle ranch.”
If Gabby had known that her ancestor had a treasure, she would have taken more interest in her heritage. It seemed unimportant after her parents were killed in a car accident when she was thirteen. Family, what family? She and her brother were left to be raised by the elderly great-aunt who was Michelle’s sister. Aunt Rene had done her best, even though she was in her eighties when she got stuck with a couple of angry teenagers. She was the one who taught Gabby to sew. She’d passed away when Gabby was twenty-one.
“Louis’s wife,” said Rhoda, “might have been a Sioux Indian, but nobody knew for sure.”
“I might be part Native American?”
“A very small part.”
“Still,” Gabby said, “that’s cool. At Thanksgiving in elementary school, the kids who had a Native American background always got to play special parts.”
“Back in the 1800s, it wasn’t considered cool.”
“Tell me about the treasure.”
“As it turned out, Louis’s wife was very good at raising cattle and children. She had five more while her handsome husband was off on prospecting trips, combing the hills for gold or silver. Though he never filed a claim, he always had cash, which led people to believe that he had a secret stash. The legend grew. People followed him on his trips, but no one learned the secret of the Frenchman’s Treasure.”
