The Great Montana Cowboy Auction

by Anne McAllister

  All the way to the ranch Jack had bombarded him with questions. He'd twitched and fidgeted and had asked a thousand things. And Sloan answered every one.

  He'd said he would show Jack the horses and the barns as soon as they got there. And when he'd taken them into the house first, Jack had been impatient. Polly had given him a stern look and he'd subsided until Sloan's foreman, a bandy-legged grizzled cowboy called Davy turned up, got introduced, and had some things to discuss with Sloan.

  Then Jack had said plaintively, "I thought we were gonna go to the barn."

  "Jack!" Polly warned.

  But Sloan nodded. "We are. You an' me and Davy. You can come if you want," he said to Polly.

  But she declined. "I'll just make a cup of coffee and enjoy the quiet."

  "You know how to deal with the stove?" He looked a little concerned. "I can do it for you."

  "Artie and Maudie had one for years. I know how to use it. I'll be fine. Go on. Behave," she said to Jack.

  Jack looked affronted. "I always behave."

  Sloan ruffled his hair. "He'll be fine."

  Polly hoped so. She hoped Jack didn't pester. "Would you like me to start some dinner?"

  "I didn't bring you to work and wait on us," Sloan protested. "Maria, Davy's wife, keeps stuff in the freezer."

  "I'll look," she said.

  "Only if you want. Take a rest. Relax," he urged.

  Polly wasn't sure she remembered how. But when the door closed after them, she felt a sense of peace settle over her. She looked around. It was a warm kitchen, a homey one. Not at all what she—or most any of those groupies who'd bid on Sloan—would have expected. They might have been appalled at the remoteness of the ranch, at the somewhat primitive conditions. But Polly found it gave her more to like about Sloan Gallagher than she would have imagined.

  A dangerous notion, she reminded herself. She was finding far too many things to like.

  She began to fill the coffeepot, but her attention was caught by the sight of him and Jack, a tall and dark-haired man with his hand on an equally dark-haired boy's shoulders as they walked with the old cowboy through the snow to the barn. Sloan's head was bent to listen to something Jack was saying. Asking, no doubt, Polly thought with a shake of her head. With Jack, everything was a question.

  Thank God Sloan was patient. He would be a good father. Someday, she thought hollowly, he'd no doubt have children of his own.

  She turned away from the window, drank her coffee, then looked around the downstairs of the house. On the walls and on the bookshelves there were old photos of the ranch in its early days. There were also pictures of several generations of lean, hard men with stubborn Gallagher jaws, and a smiling woman with dark hair and eyes just like Sloan's. His mother, she was certain.

  On the mantel there were pictures of Sloan himself as a boy with his parents and another of him about junior high age with a couple of boys she thought were probably Gus Holt and his brother. They were grinning like fools and holding big belt buckles they'd apparently won at some small local rodeo. Just looking at it made Polly smile. The house contained so many early memories.

  But there were no later ones. The photos stopped before his mother had been killed. The ranch had been sold only a couple of years later. And only after he'd had success as an actor had Sloan been able to buy it back. He'd restored the early photos—or maybe whoever had bought it had left it the way it was.

  But as far as Polly could see there were no photos, no memorabilia, nothing at all of the actor Sloan.

  She finished her coffee, then found the freezer and rummaged through it. There were several tubs labeled venison stew and several packs of beef and a couple of casseroles. She got out the stew and put the frozen block in a heavy cast iron pot. Then she worked with the stove until she had a low fire going. Putting the frozen stew on a back burner, she set the table for three, assuming that Davy would go home to his wife.

  She thought they'd be back soon, but a couple of hours passed, the stew was ready to eat. She'd found a loaf of bread and had sliced it and set the table. When they still didn't appear, she went looking for them.

  Davy's truck was still there, and she could see him in the tack room. But the high-pitched sounds of excited young boys drew her to one of the sheds. There she found Sloan and Jack and another boy messing with a tractor engine.

  Jack looked up at the sound of her footsteps. "Hey! Mom, look. Sloan's showin' me an' Eric how to fix the tractor. This is Eric—" he nodded to the dark-haired boy about his size "—him an' me are gonna help feed the cattle tomorrow morning. But Sloan's gotta get the tractor fixed first 'cause they use it to haul the wagons. Davy said maybe he'd let me drive it. If you said it was okay. He said I could practice tonight. An' he said he'd teach me to build a loop an' rope a calf. Eric's got a calf dummy. An' he said I could spend the night. So can I, huh? Please?"

  Polly blinked, trying to take all that in. Her forehead wrinkled. "I don't—" she began, not wanting Jack to impose.

  "He was invited," Sloan said easily. "And not just by Eric. He's Davy and Maria's grandson. Their place is about a mile over the hill. Eric lives with them, and Davy's turning him into a real fine hand, right?" He grinned in Eric's direction.

  The boy beamed and nodded. "Jack can come. My grandpa said it's okay."

  "Please, Mom!" Jack implored. He had a smudge of grease on his nose and a desperate light in his eyes.

  Polly didn't know when she'd seen him so eager, so happy. Jack wasn't usually unhappy, but she realized for the first time how much he was missing with just her and a houseful of women.

  "Drive a tractor and rope a calf dummy?" She looked thoughtful as Jack's eyes begged her. "What more could a guy want?" she mused, smiling. "Sounds like a deal to me."

  Sloan didn't believe it was going to happen.

  There would be some cataclysmic event, some natural disaster—something!—that would come along and prevent him from making love to Polly McMaster.

  He was sure of it.

  Or if there wasn't, she could always just say no. He could close his eyes and see her saying it, politely but frankly. Thank you, but no.

  So he didn't dare ask. He didn't want to hear that answer.

  And if the truth were known, he didn't know what to say.

  It had been years since Sloan Gallagher had had to wonder if a woman actually wanted to go to bed with him.

  More often he was tossing over-eager women out of his room, changing his locks and bolting his door. Or, if he was attracted, he played along, whispering sweet nothings that meant exactly that—nothing. It didn't matter because all he and the woman in question really wanted was a roll in the sheets, a physical release and not much more.

  Well, some of them had wanted more. Lots thought it would be a coup to be Mrs. Sloan Gallagher.

  But Sloan had never been interested.

  He'd been carrying a memory of Polly around in his head for twenty years. Whenever he thought of settling down, of having children, of committing himself to a woman—she was the woman he saw in his mind.

  He'd obviously imprinted at an early age, he thought wryly. And for a fourteen-year-old, he'd had damn good taste.

  Of course, Polly wasn't the same as she had been at seventeen. He didn't need to see her naked to know that. He didn't need to see her naked to know she'd improved with age. She was all that she had been—and more.

  And she was here with him in his home—and for the first time since he'd known her, they were really alone.

  Sloan had dreamed about this for years. And now that the moment was at hand, like an awkward teenager unable to ask for a date, he couldn't seem to find the words.

  Polly was in the kitchen dishing up the venison stew. "It's ready when you are," she'd said after they'd seen Jack off to spend the night with Eric.

  "Right." He'd cleared his throat. "I'll just wash up." That would give him time to think of something to say.

  At least, he'd hoped it would. But coming back to the
kitchen to see Polly there, her gingery hair like spun copper in the light of the kerosene lamp she'd placed on the table, made him forget whatever he'd thought of.

  All he could think then was how right she looked there, how much he wanted to touch her, how little he cared about eating venison stew.

  But Polly was dishing it up. "Sit," she commanded, and she sat down opposite him.

  He sat. He ate. Mostly he stared at her.

  If she noticed his inarticulateness, she didn't comment. She talked enough for both of them—about the ranch, about the house, about Jack. She went on and on, and at some point Sloan realized the same thing was happening to her that had happened to him. She was as nervous as he was—but she dealt with it by talking nonstop while he retreated into silence.

  He grinned. In fact he was so relieved he almost laughed.

  Polly stopped midsentence. "What?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing."

  "You're laughing at me," she accused him, but she didn't sound angry.

  He shook his head. "I'm not. Or maybe I am. But if I am, I'm laughing at both of us."

  She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Their eyes caught and held, and he felt sure she read in his what he wasn't saying. Flustered, she looked away.

  "I don't—" she began.

  "Don't you?" he asked softly.

  She didn't answer at once. In the fireplace the burning wood hissed and popped. Otherwise there was only silence—and wanting.

  "Jack—" she began again.

  "Is happy as a pig in slop."

  She smiled. "I guess he is." She looked a little wistful. "This has been very good for him. Thank you."

  "You're welcome. I didn't do it for him." Their eyes met again.

  "I know," Polly said quietly. And this time she didn't look away.

  Polly wasn't sure when she'd made the decision. Had it been when she'd let Jack go to Eric's for the night? Had it been when she'd agreed to come away for the weekend? Or had it been even longer ago than that—after Celie's weekend with him, when he hadn't taken from her sister what he could have, when he'd kept his promise and come back?

  Polly tried to sort it out, but she couldn't. She knew it wouldn't last. Knew it was ridiculous to hope.

  Yes, he'd once suggested marriage, but Polly wasn't a fool. He'd been in her bedroom at the time. He'd been angling to sleep with her, to satisfy some long-remembered fantasy. He still wanted to satisfy it.

  And so did she.

  Sloan Gallagher had reawakened desires and needs in her that she hadn't felt since Lew had died. She'd thought it possible that they'd died with him. She'd loved him so long and so deeply that she wouldn't have been surprised if they had.

  She wasn't exactly sure she was glad they hadn't.

  Waking up in the middle of the night now, she felt longings that she couldn't assuage with memories of Lew. And during the day sometimes she felt a kind of emptiness that didn't simply grow from grief. She felt a need to connect again.

  It scared her. She hadn't wanted to lose her memories of Lew. So she'd fought the feelings. She'd fought herself.

  And since Sloan had come, she'd fought him.

  She was tired of fighting.

  She was tired of being lonely.

  She didn't expect marriage. She was willing to settle for one night of love.

  In the end Sloan didn't need words. He didn't need to ask.

  He got his answer, and could scarcely believe it was true.

  They stood on either side of the table, then stepped around it into each other's arms. He kissed her slowly, savoring the taste of her, reveling in the softness of her hair as it tangled in his fingers, then nuzzling her neck, nibbling her jaw, driving himself wild with wanting her.

  And she didn't just stand there. She didn't simply endure his touch. She touched him, too. Her hands slid up his arms, they roved over the expanse of his back, they skimmed down his sides and came up again to rest against his chest. She lifted her face to his kiss. She opened her mouth to his exploration. She did some exploring of her own.

  And the knowledge that she was as eager as he was made him even more desperate. He pulled back, bit his lip, groaned.

  "What?" Polly whispered. "Is something wrong?"

  "Not a thing," his voice sounded ragged even to his ears. "It's been a long time since everything was so right." He drew her into his arms again and kissed her once more. And then he dared to ask the question because he thought he knew the answer. "Will you come upstairs with me?"

  Polly touched his cheek with her fingers. She cupped his jaw and looked a long time into his eyes, and then she gave him the answer he wanted. "Oh, yes."

  Usually when he fell into his bed at the ranch, Sloan's eyes closed almost before he hit the pillow. He rarely came here unless he came to work, to put in long hours, to make the ranch what he wanted it to be, to recontact his roots.

  He'd never brought a woman here. He'd invited only one before—Mariah Kelly—and for entirely different reasons.

  Mariah had written a wonderful article as a result of spending most of a week here. But theirs had been a purely professional relationship, though in the course of the week they'd become friends. Mariah had never been in his bedroom.

  No woman had. Except Polly—in his dreams.

  When he'd bought the place five years ago, he'd dreamed of making the ranch the family spread that once upon a time it had been. He would bring his wife here, he'd decided. They'd raise their children here.

  But whenever he considered who that wife might be, whenever he'd daydreamed about it—Polly was the woman in the dreams.

  He hadn't seen her in years. It didn't matter. He'd carried her with him always. He'd never imagined anyone else here. Just Polly.

  And now, at last, she was.

  They'd brought the kerosene lamp with them, and he set it on the dresser. Then he turned to see her standing by the bed, her hair loose and tousled, a gentle smile on her face. She held out her hands to him, and he moved to grasp them.

  "I remember…" he whispered.

  But she didn't let him finish. She leaned into him and touched her lips to his. She slid her hands up his arms across his shoulders and down to the buttons on his shirt. Deftly she undid them, and he felt the cool air of the room touch his heated flesh.

  He shrugged out of his shirt and tugged her sweater over her head. Then, with fingers far less adept than hers, he began to unfasten her buttons. She held still and let him do it, not brushing his hands away, just waiting, watching him gravely. He caught his lip between his teeth as his fingers fumbled, and he muttered, feeling like the desperate schoolboy he'd been so long ago.

  Finally he finished and slid the shirt off her shoulders, felt the silken warmth of her skin beneath his fingers and bent his head to kiss her shoulders. He remembered them golden and freckled. There was barely enough light to see the freckles, only the gold.

  Gently he bore her back onto the bed and wrapped his arms around her, eased off her bra and tossed it away. Their legs tangled, denim on denim, and they fumbled together to unzip, unsnap, unfasten and shed their jeans.

  And finally they were together, skin on skin, flesh on flesh. Heart to heart. He bent close enough to hear hers beating and pressed a kiss to her breasts.

  Polly. His Polly. Here.

  As he'd always dreamed of her—smiling up at him, tracing a line down the center of his chest, splaying her hands on his abdomen, arching her hips against the need of his body.

  Polly.

  His.

  She had thought she would feel awkward, inadequate, a far cry from the girl he remembered, a sad disappointment in comparison to the teenager she'd been.

  But Polly didn't see disappointment in Sloan's hooded gaze. She saw hunger and desire and passion. She saw reverence, too.

  It humbled her and at the same time it made her strong. It made her forget all her supposed inadequacies and made her remember this part of being a woman. She hadn't experienced it since Lew's d
eath. She was grateful beyond words to find it again. It was such a marvelous, wonderful thing.

  "Come to me," she whispered.

  It was all the invitation Sloan needed.

  He settled between her thighs and stroked her, driving her to respond, and trembling himself with the force of his need. And when he was sure she was ready, he came to her, and she drew him down and in.

  Sloan felt a shudder run through him. He stilled. Tensed.

  And then Polly shifted, arched, and pressed her fingers into his buttocks, urging him on. And he began to move.

  He loved her with his body, with his heart and with his mind. He loved her with his memories and with his hopes and with his dreams.

  And Polly, in spite of herself, loved him, too.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  « ^ »

  They were an item.

  And though Polly didn't like people talking and speculating and saying, "Ahhhh," and "Hmmm," in that knowledgeable, smug tone of voice, she could hardly deny it.

  It wasn't just that she and Jack had gone away for the weekend with him. It was that when the weekend was over, Sloan didn't go away. He came back with her.

  He stayed in Elmer. He said he'd go to Gus's if she wanted him to. But, heaven help her, she didn't want him to. So he moved back in with them.

  He did, though, without a murmur, go back to bunking with Jack.

  "For now," he said. "Until the wedding."

  "What wedding?"

  "Ours. You are going to make an honest man of me, aren't you?" He'd given her one of his famous shy, boyish, woebegone looks.

  "Don't be ridiculous," Polly said. "You don't want to marry me."

  He took her face in his hands and looked deep into her eyes. "Don't tell me what I want."

  "But—"

  He kissed her soundly. "Don't tell me, Pol'. Believe me. I love you. I want to marry you. I'll prove it."

  Sloan could feel the fear in her. And outwardly he knew her objections made a certain amount of sense.

  "We live very different lifestyles," she maintained.

  On the surface that was true. She lived in rural Montana. He had a home in Malibu, and for the past six years he'd been jetting around the world from Tierra del Fuego to Timbuktu.