The Cowboy and the Calendar Girl

by Nancy Martin

  His patience ran out and he interrupted her. “Look, I’ve got work to do. If you get this truck turned around, you’ll find the main road in a couple of miles.”

  “But...but...I’ve already made all the arrangements with your sister to take your photograph.”

  “My sister,” said Hank Fowler, “is not my keeper.”

  “But—”

  “Forget it.” He turned back to his horse.

  Carly felt the beginnings of anger start to steam behind her eyelids. “Look, Mr. Fowler,” she said, “I’ve communicated with your sister on this matter and I thought we’d reached an agreement. A ten-thousand-dollar agreement. Perhaps you’d better give me directions so that I can settle the details with her.”

  He tilted his hat and shot a measuring glance at Carly from beneath the brim. “Why don’t you take a picture of yourself, Miss—what was your name?”

  “Cortazzo. Carly Cortazzo.”

  “Right. Now, your picture might actually sell.”

  Carly felt herself flush. “Is that a compliment, Mr. Fowler?” It hadn’t felt terribly complimentary.

  With an easy swing, he climbed back into the saddle. An unsettling ghost of a grin flashed briefly across his rugged features as the magnificent horse danced beneath him. He put two fingers on the brim of his Stetson in a John Wayne salute before saying, “Take it any way you like, Miss Cortazzo.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to work.”

  “But...but...you can’t leave like this!”

  “Can’t I?”

  Carly gritted her teeth. “I...I...oh, hell.” Throwing pride to the four winds, she said, “I’m lost! I’ve been wandering around these same three godforsaken counties all afternoon, and I’m darn sure I’ll never find my way out of them without Sacajewea to guide me.”

  “All right, all right,” he said, perhaps hiding a grin. “Maybe you’d better not try driving back to town before dark. Something tells me you’ll get worse than lost. Go up to the house.”

  “What house? I never saw a house.”

  He pointed. “Backtrack a mile. Take a right at the clump of pine trees, go two miles and you’ll see the ranch. Becky’s there. The two of you can wrangle this out.”

  “But you—”

  “Get along, Miss Cortazzo,” he growled, reining the horse around. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  And he left her in a cloud of dust. With a gulp, Carly watched him go, forgetting her troubles. Dazzled by the glare of sunset and the vision of manhood that disappeared as magically as he’d come, she stared after him, entranced. Her heart pounded along with the rapid strides of the galloping horse.

  “Wow,” she breathed.

  Thundering into the corral, Hank Fowler let out a whoop.

  Of terror.

  Then his horse jammed his forefeet into the ground, and Hank tumbled head over heels over the animal’s head.

  He landed in the dust at his sister’s feet and lay stunned at the impact.

  “You’re a diaster!” Becky exclaimed, not moving from the spraddle-iegged stance that was as natural to her as breathing. Becky was the real cowhand—the one who’d been born to run a ranch. When the horse reared over Hank’s prone body, Becky grabbed the loose reins to keep the panting beast from trampling Hank into a million pieces.

  “What the hell,” she demanded, furiously glaring down at her brother, “do you think you’re doing, Henry? Don’t you know how valuable Thundercloud is?”

  He spat dust from his mouth. “That stupid horse of yours ran away with me!”

  “I told you. You have to show him who’s boss!”

  “I tried!” Hank cried, painfully sitting up on one elbow. “But you know how I hate horses, and they must be able to feel it! This isn’t going to work, Beck.”

  “It has to work, Henry. I need the money!”

  Gingerly Hank felt along his ribs to make sure none of them were broken. “I can’t believe you talked me into this,” he muttered. “I swore I’d never come back to this damned ranch as long as I live. And the charade you came up with gets more ridiculous by the minute! I’m just not a cowboy!”

  Becky hunkered down on her heels and grinned at him. “But you’re still going to help me, right? Look, we’ll practice with Thundercloud all day tomorrow. I promise he won’t run away with you again. By the time that lady from the calendar company gets here, you’ll look like a real cowhand.”

  Wryly Hank shook his head. “There aren’t enough years left in both our lifetimes to change me, Beck. Besides, she’s on her way.” Hank put his hand up for Becky to help him to his feet.

  Her grip was firm and sure, and she hauled him up easily. “What do you mean?”

  Suppressing a groan as his muscles protested, Hank tried to brush some of the dust off his borrowed chaps. “I met her.”

  “You met her? What are you talking about?”

  “This precious horse of yours practically dumped me in her lap. He tore over the hill and threw me as soon as we were out of your sight. By some miracle I landed on my feet. She was there.”

  “Where?” Becky demanded.

  “Out on the south road. I gave her directions. She’ll be here any minute.”

  “Any minute?” Becky cried. “You’re kidding! Did she fall for it? You didn’t mess things up, did you?”

  “Don’t worry. I kept the script simple.”

  “You talked? First you fell off the horse and then you talked? What did you say?”

  “Nothing intelligent, I assure you. After this four-legged locomotive threw me I was a little rattled, so I improvised, that’s all.”

  Becky groaned. “Oh, no. I thought I’d have at least a week to get you into shape!”

  “A week or a month,” Hank said with a grin. “It wouldn’t help, Becky. I was never cut out for the cowboy life.”

  It was true. Even though he’d spent the first fifteen years of his life growing up on his parents’ ranch deep in South Dakota, Henry Fowler was never meant to live anywhere but a few blocks from the nearest urban transit system. Despite his father’s insistence that he learn to rope, ride and eat beans by a campfire out on the prairie, Henry Fowler had escaped the wide-open spaces for an East Coast prep school as soon as he had been able to get away.

  After prep school had come four blessed years at Columbia University in New York, after which he’d bounced from one journalist job to the next—staying in each city only long enough to get his fill of the culture, the restaurants and the nearest climbing mountains. He’d made friends in every major city in the country and never once looked back on the life he might have had on the family homestead.

  Until his sister, Becky, called with a crazy scheme.

  “I think we’d better call it quits before she figures us out, Becky,” Hank said, reaching for the borrowed Stetson that had rolled under the nearest fence rail. “Nobody’s going to fall for me being a cowpoke.”

  “Don’t say that!” Becky ordered, grabbing his elbow and steering Hank determinedly toward the barn. “We’ve got to make this work! If I don’t get the money, I’ll lose the ranch, Henry!”

  “I thought you were supposed to call me Hank. You said it sounded tougher.”

  “It does,” she agreed hastily. “Besides, if she’s coming from Los Angeles, she might actually have heard of Henry Fowler.”

  “What do you mean ‘might’?” Henry demanded. “My column is syndicated all up and down the West Coast. She’d have to be a hermit like you not to know who I am!”

  Although he was based in Seattle now, Hank had begun to make a reasonably good living by writing his syndicated column—a few short paragraphs of weekly diatribe that resulted from the forays he made into the mountains with so-called celebrities. Mostly Hank invited local politicians on physically challenging outings and wrote about their reactions. His piece on a presidential hopeful had ruined the man’s plan for a national campaign. Good thing, too. A man who threw trash on a mountain trail didn’t deserve to b
e president of anything.

  Over the past couple of years, Hank had begun to attract a loyal following, who now sent him more material than he could use. Every day he received a bucketload of letters that fulminated on subjects ranging from the logic of pasting brassiere advertisements on the sides of city buses to the latest political faux pas committed by an elected dunderhead. Hank used the material to create funny columns that newspaper readers loved.

  “You’re the perfect guy for this column,” one of his former girlfriends had told him. “You hate everything but your precious mountains. And you’re funny about it.”

  “I don’t hate you,” he’d said to her.

  “Not yet,” she predicted, and she’d been right. Soon thereafter, her habit of chewing gum during every waking moment had driven him to distraction.

  Dragging her brother into the privacy of the barn, Becky began to coach him urgently. “All right, the best thing to do is the strong and silent act. Cowhands are always strong and silent.”

  “Aren’t we perpetuating movie stereotypes?”

  “Don’t talk like that! You can’t—Oh, just keep your mouth shut when she gets here, and—”

  “Have you ever known me to keep my mouth shut?”

  “You’ve got to try!”

  “Listen, Beck, this woman can’t be looking for anything but a pretty face——or in my case, a beaten-up mug. She isn’t going to care if I can ride a horse or swing on a flying trapeze! Trust me. I know these Hollywood types, and all they want is a square jaw to photograph. If she’s so demented as to want mine—”

  “She said she wanted a cowhand. For ten thousand dollars, we’re going to give her a cowhand!” Becky pulled the huge black horse into a stall and proceeded to loop the reins around the hay rack. Then she moved to untie the saddle girth, saying, “Just behave yourself, all right? Can’t you remember anything about ranch life?”

  “I’ve spent the past twenty years trying to forget.”

  Becky sighed impatiently and shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re really my brother!”

  Hank put his arm across his sister’s narrow shoulders, finding them tense with emotion. “Hey, take it easy, Beck.”

  “This is important, dammit! I could lose this place. And it’s my home!” Her blue eyes suddenly flashed with tears. “I really need the money, Henry.”

  “Cool down,” Hank soothed, sorry he’d teased her. “I said I’d help, didn’t I?”

  Becky tried to focus on unfastening the saddle again. “It was a silly idea. I should never have asked you to come out here—”

  “Hey, I had a few vacation days saved up. No problem. I’ll just explain to this calendar lady that I’m not who she thinks I am. I’m sure she doesn’t give a damn about my line of work.”

  “But she does! She wants a real person. She said so on the phone.”

  “I am a real person.”

  “I mean an authentic cattle rancher.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I do. She’ll still want to put my face on her silly little calendar, so—”

  “It’s not just your face, Henry,” his sister interrupted.

  “What?”

  Slowly Becky said, “Maybe I should have told you the whole story before now, but I thought we had a few more days before she actually got here and started—”

  Hank glowered at his sister. “What whole story?”

  “This...this calendar thing,” Becky said uncomfortably. “It’s not just pictures of good-looking guys’ faces. If that was the case, you wouldn’t have made the finalists’ list.”

  Hank felt his mouth go very dry. “What are you talking about?”

  “All those years of climbing and racquetball have done you some good, big brother. She wants to take pictures of the whole package.”

  A pang of dread shot through him. “Hold it—”

  “I sent a bunch of old photos to the contest. She said she liked your look. Your total look.”

  “But—”

  “I know, I know, you’re not as young as you used to be, and there’s a little flab around your middle, but modern photography—”

  Incensed, Hank interrupted, “There is no flab around my middle!”

  “Great,” said Becky. “Then you won’t be afraid to take off your shirt.”

  “Now wait a minute!”

  “Or your trousers.”

  “Just a damn minute!”

  “I hear a truck.” Becky frantically tugged Hank’s bandanna askew and tilted his Stetson to the correct angle. “There’s no time to give you a complete makeover. Can’t you—Oh, don’t you have some tobacco to chew, at least?”

  She dashed out of the barn. Stunned by the information his conniving sister had just sprung on him, Hank stood frozen for a split second—just long enough for Thundercloud to reach around and sink his big yellow teeth into Hank’s arm.

  With a yelp, Hank leaped out of the stall and slammed the door behind him. He could swear he heard Thundercloud chuckle with satisfaction. Fuming, he followed his sister outside.

  Becky was already outside, calling hello to someone.

  “Hi. Miss Fowler?” asked a female voice.

  “That’s me,” Becky replied. “You must be Miss Cortazzo from Los Angeles.”

  “Call me Carly.”

  Hank arrived at the open barn door in time to see his sister clasp hands with the slender young woman dressed almost entirely in black. Her white-blond hair was a dramatic counterpoint to the dark clothes, and her fair skin and pale blue eyes looked gorgeous in the fading sunlight.

  “We weren’t expecting you yet,” Becky said.

  “I’m sorry. My office was supposed to fax you.”

  “Oh, we don’t have a fax machine.”

  “Well, I guess you really wouldn’t need one out here,” said Carly Cortazzo with a smile. She glanced around the barn and corral and let her gaze travel to the view of the Black Hills beyond. “This is beautiful country. I almost enjoyed getting lost in it.”

  “Hen—I mean, Hank says he gave you directions to the ranch. Maybe he should have led the way.”

  “Oh, I don’t think Hank wants to get too friendly with me.”

  She turned and met his eyes with a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Hank hadn’t gotten a good look at her before. His terror of Becky’s runaway horse had muddled his head. But now he had a chance to give her a thorough once-over, and he liked what he saw.

  Carly Cortazzo had self-assurance in every sinew of her lean, athletic body. Her blue gaze was confident, and her clothing had a cosmopolitan flare of drama. Hank liked the way her light hair wisped around the sharp contours of her face and emphasized the slender grace of her long neck. She had a businesslike manner—belied only by the lush curve of her sensual lips that lent a vaguely vulnerable cast to her face.

  She wasn’t one of the fresh-scrubbed country girls Hank had grown up with in South Dakota, but had an energetic kind of beauty accompanied by a slight gleam of cynicism in her gaze.

  He felt a shiver of excitement zap through his body as their gazes held and crackled with electricity.

  Almost too late he remembered he was supposed to be a cowboy, so he lounged against the barn door and pulled his Stetson a little lower over his forehead.

  “Nope,” he drawled laconically, doing his best Wyatt Earp imitation. “I don’t aim to get too friendly. Not just yet, anyway.”

  Carly raised one elegant eyebrow and seemed undaunted.

  Becky cleared her throat noisily and gave Hank a what-the-hell-are-you-doing glare. Then she said, “How about if my brother takes your gear up to the guest room, Carly? I’ve got a horse to tend at the moment.”

  “Don’t let me keep you from your work,” Carly replied, still eyeing Hank with laserlike intensity. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Fine. Hank, will you—”

  “Sure,” said Hank, pushing off from the barn door and moseying over to the Jeep. He grabbed two large suitcases from the front sea
t. Together, they weighed almost as much as a Hereford steer, but Hank pretended he was accustomed to carrying much heavier loads as he hoisted the leather strap of one suitcase over his shoulder. “Think you packed enough duds, ma’am?”

  “I wasn’t sure what to expect,” she retorted. “So I brought a little of everything.”

  “Always good to be prepared,” he shot back in his best cowboy drawl. “You never know what might happen out in these parts.”

  Maybe his cowboy act wasn’t as good as he’d hoped. He thought he heard Becky give a little moan of dismay as he led Carly Cortazzo toward the house.

  Two

  It was all Carly could do to keep from ogling Hank Fowler as he led her up the plank steps of his modest farmhouse. He had the nicest butt she’d ever seen encased in dusty blue jeans. And those leather chaps seemed to—well, she wanted to rip open one of her suitcases, get out her camera and start the test shots immediately.

  “After you, ma’am,” he said, pushing open the door and stepping back a pace.

  “Thanks.” Carly preceded him into the small house and hoped he hadn’t guessed where her thoughts had lingered. She glanced around to get her bearings in the house.

  The main room was humble, with heavy wooden beams supporting the ceiling, but it was cozily decorated with calico curtains at the windows, rough-hewn furniture scattered around a stone fireplace and a hand-carved checkers game set out on a low coffee table that was also strewn with magazines, enamel coffee cups and a well-used sewing basket.

  Very homey, Carly thought. Very country. Frankly, she hated the look, going in for the uncluttered modern mode of decorating herself. But it was definitely... homey.

  From the connecting room wafted the rich aroma of hot food slowly steaming on the stove. A multicolor braided rug lay on the floor, and a large woolly dog snoozed contentedly by the fire.

  Upon their arrival, however, the dog got up and growled. He was the size of a small pony, with a ragged gray coat snarled with shaggy tufts that gave him the appearance of a huge porcupine that had been tumbled in a clothes dryer.

  “Don’t mind Charlie,” said Hank, behind her. “He’s too old to do any real damage.”