Wyoming Born & Bred

by Cathleen Galitz

  “Ever win anything?” Kirk wanted to know.

  “You could say that.”

  Fascinated beyond belief, the boys began shooting questions at him in rapid machine-gun style.

  Patricia cringed at the matching looks of adulation upon her sons’ faces. She hadn’t been married long before discovering that most of Hadley’s supposed accomplishments were nothing more than figments of his overactive imagination.

  She raised a questioning eyebrow at Cameron’s evasive responses to her son’s inquiries. He hadn’t initially struck her as one given to prevaricating, but a man’s ego was a strange and unpredictable thing.

  “And just what is it you’ve won? A race around the barrels on some world-famous Thoroughbred?”

  Thunder passed over Cameron’s face. There was no way to interpret that jab other than as a direct insult to his masculinity. Even the greenest dude knew that barrel racing was a woman’s event.

  He took a step toward her, coming so close that she could actually feel his breath warm upon her cheek. Patricia smelled his scent. The hint of cologne blended with honest sweat forming a musky fragrance that made her head swim.

  He towered over her. Glaring.

  And all she could focus on was the way his mouth looked so firm and inviting beneath that sexy mustache. Would that he would punish her for mocking him with a kiss!

  “I’ll have you know,” he growled. “I just so happen to have won a national title and I’ve got the trophy buckle to prove it.”

  Up until now, Patricia had been too focused on her primitive reaction to the man to pay much attention to his words. When the absurdity of his claim finally penetrated the sweet fog surrounding her brain, she laughed out loud. She’d heard enough of Hadley’s tall tales to recognize this one as a real beaut.

  “Sure, sure you have,” she said, playing along in exaggerated tones and flicking the brim of his hat. “And I bet you paid a bundle for it at the pawn shop. Does it match that ten-gallon hat attitude of yours? Gosh, how embarrassing for a man of your stature to be working here of all places on an emu ranch. How humbling!”

  Cameron snapped his mouth shut over the expletive blistering the roof of his mouth. Had a man thrown such a sucker punch his way, he’d have lit into him with the force of a freight train.

  “Hey, if it’s any consolation, I had a heck of a time myself selecting you from among all those other rodeo stars who applied for this job—and the movie stars, too.”

  The risk of being stomped into oblivion before thousands of voyeurs was nothing compared to the pain of hearing Patricia’s laughter directed at him. The sound wrapped itself around his heart like barbed wire. The fact that she didn’t believe him evoked a flood of bitter memories of all those who’d had no faith in the power of his dreams.

  His blue eyes narrowed. Never in a thousand years would he have taken this sweet-faced mommy for the kind who finds a debilitating shot to a man’s crotch on those stupid home video shows the height of hilarity, but the sound of her tinkling laughter confirmed it. He was working for a closet castrater. Of course, he suspected that in their secret hearts all women were. Bonnie sure as heck had been.

  His eyes took on a steely glint. His jaw a proud set.

  “Go ahead and laugh,” he told her, hurt that she neither recognized nor believed him.

  Up on the roof he’d had a weak moment and actually considered coming clean about his covert plan to buy her out, but her barbed jeers cinched it, but good. As far as he was concerned, it would serve Patricia Erhart right to lose the whole damned ranch for nothing more than back taxes.

  Just wait and see who had the last laugh.

  Chapter Six

  Still fuming about the razzing Patricia had given him earlier, Cameron swaggered up to the dinner table like a bear with a sore paw. He looked fully prepared to take up where they had left off—back at the Showdown at the EMU Corral. To his surprise, however, his hostess merely smiled as pretty as you please and asked him how he liked his steak cooked.

  “Rare.”

  Thinking he looked as if he could eat it raw, Patricia chirped back in her best imitation of a short-order cook, “Coming right up!”

  She was truly sorry about hurting her foreman’s feelings. After all, if the man felt the need to embellish his life with preposterous claims to fame, the least she could do was nod politely and feign belief. Unfortunately, after a lifetime of watching her husband color his world with broad strokes from the most flattering palette, Patricia had become hardened to such “harmless” lies. She hadn’t been married long before discovering, just as her father had warned her, that most of Hadley’s supposed accomplishments were little more than figments of an overactive imagination. He maintained it was a result of kissing the Blarney Stone, but that too was fabrication. The closest Hadley had come to Ireland was Patrick O’Hara’s Corner Bar and Grill.

  Perhaps that was at the heart of why Patricia couldn’t make herself believe Cameron’s outlandish claims. Whether he knew it or not, the man was already proving to have significant impact on her boys. She didn’t want them growing up believing, as their father had, that the ability to spin a good yarn could surpass hard work and a solid education in getting them where they needed to be in the twenty-first century.

  Still she felt a twinge of guilt about being responsible for that injured-puppy-dog look still lingering on Cameron’s face. Hopefully a nice meal would help assuage his wounded pride.

  “Here you go,” she said, setting his plate before him with a flourish.

  Simmering in a puddle of pink juices, the thick steak was cooked just the way he liked it—barely warm. Beside it sat a baked potato heaped with sour cream. Despite his resolve to stay mad, Cameron felt his ill temper beginning to melt like the pats of butter atop a pyramid of home-made biscuits Patricia stacked before him.

  “Funny,” he said, devouring one in two bites. “I had you figured strictly as a granola cruncher. Didn’t think I’d ever be privileged to this much cholesterol at one sitting.”

  “A hard-working man deserves a good meal, and you don’t exactly strike me as the type to be satisfied with just a big, old salad.”

  The simple acknowledgment of his work touched a cold spot deep inside Cameron. His initial disappointment at not being able to rile her was offset by the pull of a smile that was as heady and sweet as wine—and just as addictive, he feared. He studied Patricia thoughtfully as she buzzed about the kitchen. She had changed into a faded pair of blue jeans and a pink, fuzzy sweater. The effect was a decided improvement over those baggy overalls she favored. Why a woman built like her wanted to cover up all those luscious curves was beyond him. Did she know she looked as mouthwatering as anything on his plate?

  He was reminded of a hummingbird as Patricia flitted from one task to another: prompting them to say the evening blessing, pouring the milk, mashing up the baby’s potato with a lightning-fast fork, handing out extra napkins and refilling the saltshaker. Her movements were graceful and efficient.

  Just watching her made him wonder aloud, “Do you ever get to eat a warm meal?”

  Patricia thought it an odd question. One Hadley would never have thought to ask her. “I can’t remember one,” she replied honestly.

  As she brushed aside a stray lock of hair in a gesture that bespoke her weariness, Cameron felt an odd longing to test the silkiness of that unruly strand between his own rough fingers. His mouth curved in a lazy smile.

  “You know,” he chided gently, “with the exception of the little one in the high chair, I’d wager the rest of us are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves. Isn’t that right, boys?”

  Pleased to be consulted in such a grown-up manner, they nodded their heads enthusiastically. Of course. Patricia thought they probably would have agreed to eat a rattlesnake if Cameron suggested it.

  “Why don’t you sit down and enjoy your food with the rest of us?”

  Part of Patricia longed to submit to his perfectly logical suggestion. An
d part warned her to stay well out of striking distance of that killer smile. Deciding it was impossible to feel comfortable beneath Cameron’s potent scrutiny, she self-consciously untied the apron around her waist and draped it over the back of her chair. The tired, old scrap of material looked the way she felt—far more serviceable than sexy.

  Just as she was settling herself into her seat, Johnny blurted out, “What did you do in the rodeo, Cameron?”

  “Bronco busting?” asked Kirk, his wide eyes reflecting his admiration.

  “Bull doggin’?” his brother persisted. “Calf ropin’?”

  Patricia found it easier to cut through the steak on her plate than the tension that suddenly filled the air. She swallowed with difficulty and pointedly glared at both boys, foolishly hoping that they would take her cue and drop the subject.

  “Bull riding,” Cameron replied tersely, tossing daggers in Patricia’s direction.

  It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. Of course, he would pick the most dangerous event to impress the boys.

  “Wow!” Johnny exclaimed. “And you’re a national champ—?”

  “Save room for cake,” Patricia interrupted, “before you get filled up with a bunch—of other stuff that might be hard to digest.”

  Cameron’s knife clattered onto his plate.

  “Like a diet of crow?” he asked, burning a hole right through her with his piercing blue eyes.

  “Chocolate cake?” Kirk interrupted, blissfully ignorant of the strain between the two adults.

  Patricia nodded. “Double fudge.”

  “Devil’s food, I’d wager,” Cameron interjected, feeling sure it would have to be the color of the eyes that mocked him. And just as tempting.

  “I made it in your honor,” Patricia replied in a saccharine tone as she sashayed out of the room.

  She didn’t bother asking if he wanted any, just returned a moment later with a huge slice of deep dark chocolate cake topped with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream. Her eyes were too bright to be trusted as she shoved it in front of him.

  A traitorous stomach overruled injured pride. What man could resist such sinful goodness? It took only one bite for Cameron to succumb to one of the primal forces of nature—chocolate.

  Taking a long look at the vision in pink before him, he mumbled through a mouthful of calories, “Heaven.”

  He just couldn’t seem to stay mad at a woman who stood her ground with such moxy. The truth of the mat ter was he liked the lady’s sass. In his lifetime, Cameron had met few people who could give back just as good as he gave out. Men were afraid of his fists. Buckle bunnies just wanted in his pants and his wallet, never daring to counter anything he said, no matter how ridiculous. Bonnie’s loose lips had been better at kissing his supposed friends than providing stimulating conversation. Seldom was Cameron given the opportunity for the kind of verbal sparing that Patricia threw his way. Finding it oddly arousing, he wondered how many married couples engaged in such skirmishes as a form of foreplay. His mind traveled the short distance to the woman sitting across the table from him and—

  “If you wouldn’t mind helping with dishes again tonight, I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  Shaken from his mutinous thoughts by the unexpected request, Cameron hoped the lady wasn’t a mind reader. Not that she had to be when he’d been so blatant about looking at her like that decadent piece of cake he’d devoured in all of three bites.

  “Sure,” he replied in a tone of forced nonchalance.

  “You boys are excused from the table,” their mother told them. “Just take your plates to the sink when you’re done and get started on your homework right away. You can work in the living room.”

  Johnny and Kirk needed no encouragement to escape the drudgery of doing dishes. They were out of the room faster than Cameron could blink. Oblivious to her brothers’ hasty departure from the dinner table, Amy was up to her elbows in chocolate cake. She appeared to be decorating herself with it. It was in her hair, smeared all over her face, and dangling like earrings from her small lobes. Two green eyes peered at Cameron behind a nut-brown mask.

  He ventured an observation. “She looks like Curious George.”

  It struck Patricia funny that this rough-and-tumble cowboy had referenced back to one of her children’s favorite stories. She giggled at the image.

  “I’ve called her a little monkey more than once myself,” she admitted. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just let her enjoy her food for a little while. That way you and I can talk in peace before World War III erupts when I try giving her a bath.”

  Cameron not only saw the logic in her reasoning, but also admired it. He detested persnickety mothers who followed after their children with dustpans and washcloths, ever ready to attack every crumb. Never allowing a moment of dirt and fun, it seemed to him that they were constantly scolding their charges for any childish play. He supposed such children grew up to be fine accountants and lawyers but doubted whether any stood a chance at becoming anything as undomesticated as a cowboy.

  Clearing the table in silence, he wondered what Patricia had to say that she didn’t want the boys to hear. Was he going to receive his walking papers? Or possibly an apology for calling him a liar in front of the children?

  As she filled the sink with sudsy water, he assumed his position as drier. Cameron’s mind went back to a time long ago when he had come down the stairs in this very house and accidentally overheard his parents’ private conversation. Early risers, they shared their morning offering and daily concerns out of their children’s earshot. It had been a sacred time, given to the rituals of lifetime lovers. Hot coffee, sweet, unhurried kisses, and a view through the front window of the sun rising like a fierce gladiator, spreading its dazzling morning cloak upon a cold earth.

  “It’s over, Rose. I’ve lost it all. ” Cameron heard his father’s voice crack with emotion.

  “You haven’t lost me.” Rose Wade wrapped her arms around him as if he were one of her children in need of a hug and a bandage. “You can never lose this family’s love or respect.”

  Cameron’s throat closed around the memory. No child should ever have to witness his hero lose self-respect. From that day forward he came to understand just how different the outside world was from this cozy kitchen with its cheerful wallpaper and homespun rugs. Standing on the threshold of his memories, he felt a fierce desire to recoup that elusive sense of security he had taken for granted for the first decade of his life.

  If he could but buy it back, he intended to make it his for life.

  “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” he asked in a tone that was inexplicably gruff.

  “I want to ask you a...a...favor.”

  Forcing her eyes from the safety of gentle suds to the dangerous territory of Cameron’s piercing blue gaze, she groped for the right words. Tactful honesty was what was called for.

  “You must know that my boys are very vulnerable right now. They’re looking for a male role model, and I’m worried they’ll just latch on to the first one to saunter into their lives.”

  “And I’m the lucky guy.” Cameron’s laugh was dry. “Let me guess—you think I’m setting a bad example for your children. Is that it?”

  Patricia had hoped to avoid phrasing it quite so bluntly.

  “Not exactly,” she stammered, wishing there was some way of explaining without giving a piece of her heart away in the process. “You see, their father was a good man. He just wasn’t completely—” she searched for the kindest word “—honest with them...or with himself for that matter.”

  Cameron put his dishtowel down and gave Patricia the benefit of his full attention. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he was given to...flights of fancy.”

  Reading the perplexed expression on Cameron’s face, she made herself go on. As painful as this was for her, it had to be said. For the children’s sake, if not her own.

  “That is to say he exaggerated. Stretched the truth.
Lied...” There she had said it at last “In order to make himself look bigger in his boys’ eyes.”

  When Cameron remained silent, she plunged ruthlessly onward, hating herself for betraying her husband’s memory. “I must have told him a thousand times that he didn’t need to. We loved him for who he was. A kind man. A funny man. A dreamer who was never meant for a world as grim as this one.”

  Patricia damned the tears glistening in her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  A single tear rolled down her cheek.

  “The point is I’m very sensitive to anything that smacks of a falsehood—no matter how well intended. How seemingly innocent.”

  “You really don’t believe a word I told you, do your?”

  As hard as it was to overlook his injured tone of voice, Patricia could not back away from the truth. “Why would a rodeo star work for peanuts?” she asked.

  Cameron resented the troubled look in those soft brown eyes. Sigmund Freud could not have looked more sympathetic to his plight as a compulsive liar. He raged against the injustice of her unfounded assumptions. He was half tempted to resurrect the silver and gold championship belt buckle that he had packed away, and shove it in her face. Of course, such rash behavior would indeed pique her curiosity as to why he actually had signed on as her hired hand. The timing for divulging that information just wasn’t quite right. He hadn’t made up his mind just how he was going to pull this off yet. It would be far better to just let Patricia find out on her own just how wrong she was. He hoped he had the satisfaction of being there when it happened, and in a community as small as theirs, it was bound to—sooner or later. The frosting on the proverbial devil’s food cake would be her humble, and hopefully public, apology.

  “Fine,” he said flatly.

  “You have to understand,” Patricia continued, stricken by the stony expression upon her foreman’s face, “that I’m thinking of you, as well.”

  His silence spoke louder than words.

  “I’d hate for anything bad to happen to you just because I was afraid to confront you. You see, I’m partially responsible for my husband’s death.”