by Carol Grace
Chloe nodded and Wilma went to the back room to look.
“She doesn't seem the least bit suspicious,” Chloe whispered.
“That's because you're with me,” Zeb explained, examining the hand-tooled belts hanging from a rack. “The last tourist who came to town was tarred and feathered.” He raised two fingers in the air. “Scout's honor.”
“I didn't know you were a Boy Scout,” Chloe said as she plopped down in the wide woven hammock stretched between two poles in the middle of the store.
He walked over and gave the hammock a push. Chloe closed her eyes as she swung back and forth. He stared down at her, mesmerized by her copper-colored curls against the dark green fabric, noting her fair skin, dark lashes, freckled nose. Wondering how far the freckles extended, trying to remember.
“Sure am,” he said absently. “Kind, courteous, brave, thrifty.” He left out trustworthy. Didn't mention honest. On purpose. Good God, she was beautiful, lying there in that hammock that was big enough for two. What if he lay down next to her... What if the hammock formed a V, the way hammocks do, the contours of the fabric shoving them into each other's arms, the way hammocks do? Their hips would be thrust together, her breasts pushed against his chest. Their lips would meet, they'd exchange long, hot kisses, the kind he'd sampled that morning.
He'd rip her clothes off, she'd tear at his. Then, swinging back and forth in the middle of the dry-goods store, they'd make mad, passionate love all day long as customers came and went. He wiped a bead of perspiration off his forehead with his handkerchief. He took a deep breath, reached out and grabbed the edge of the hammock and brought it to an abrupt halt. Her eyes flew open.
“I almost fell asleep,” she said, sighing so seductively his heart rate doubled.
If Wilma hadn't come back with an inflatable mattress in her arms he might have jumped right into that hammock and damn the consequences. That's how far gone he was. Gone crazy over some woman he didn't know and didn't want to know. He had to get away from her. Or better yet, she had to get away from him. Far, far away.
Chloe got up out of the hammock as if nothing had happened, bought the mattress and the hammock and, with his help, loaded everything into the back of his truck.
“I don't suppose...do they have a coffee shop around here or anything?” she asked.
“No,” he said brusquely. “Just a bar.”
“You don't think they have coffee in the bar, do you?” she asked wistfully.
“Absolutely not.” He opened the passenger door to the truck and waited impatiently for her to get in.
“Why don't I just have a look,” she said with a certain stubborn look in her brown eyes he was beginning to recognize. And while he watched, she sashayed down the street and disappeared behind the swinging doors of the vintage Western bar, as if he didn't exist. As if he hadn't just told her they didn't serve coffee.
Now she'd find out they did. In fact she was probably already sitting at the bar, surrounded by randy cowpunchers, ordering a double latte, or whatever the hell they drank in San Francisco. And drinking in the damaging information about Paradise Springs along with it.
He jammed his hat on his head and followed her down the street and through the swinging doors. He paused to let his eyes become accustomed to the gloom. She was sitting at the bar, sipping coffee from a thick ironstone mug with a blissful expression on her face. But she was alone except for Barney, who was polishing glasses behind the bar.
“Zeb,” Barney said, putting the glass down. “Didn't expect you till Friday.” He gestured to a poster advertising the weekend special: Live Music and Steak Dinners. Zeb flinched. He wanted to fling himself at the wall and block the picture of the sizzling steak platters and the band. But it was too late. She'd seen it.
“Imagine all this going on in a little town like this. I had no idea,” she said, shooting an accusing glance in Zeb's direction, doubtless angry he hadn't let her in on the local excitement “Why that sounds like fun,” she said.
“Yep,” Barney said. “Zeb had the idea about the dinners. He's providing the meat. If it works, we'll do it every weekend. If it don't...”
Zeb knew what he was going to say. “If it don't, we'll cancel the order for a hundred pounds of steak and let the musicians go.'' But if it worked, it would provide Zeb and Sam a local outlet for their prize beef. It had to work. He was going to see to it that it worked, if he had to cook those steaks himself.
Chloe set her cup down and walked up so close to the poster he figured she must be nearsighted. “What time does the music start?” she asked.
“Late,” Zeb said
“Can anyone come?” she asked over her shoulder.
“No. Invitation only,” Zeb said, noting Barney's perplexed expression out of the comer of his eye.
Her big brown eyes widened, making her look so sad, so hurt, an ordinary man would have melted, invited her, offered her a ride. “Friday? You'll be...” He almost said “gone by then,” but what if she wasn't? “You'll be too tired,” he said instead.
She leaned against the wall, one hand on her hip, the other holding her cup. For one moment in the subdued light it looked like she was part of the poster, part of the band, part of the party. In reality, she was not part of anything. Except a big-city hospital.
“I sometimes stay up past nine,” she told him. “After all, I'm a big girl.” Her voice was as soft as a caress.
“I noticed,” he muttered, his heart thudding against his ribs. He noticed everything about her. Noticed the way her jeans hugged her long, shapely legs. The way she licked her lips, leaving them wet and soft and kissable. She was a big girl and he was a big boy and he didn't like where this was heading.
He could see it now. He'd be flinging steaks on the grill in the kitchen while every single man in town was eyeing her, waiting for the opportunity to put the moves on her. And tell her all about the plans for her property. And nobody would be appreciating his prime aged beef. Damn her.
Why couldn't Horatio's only living relative have been an eighty-year-old widow with no desire to travel to the wilds of Colorado, instead of a shapely, heart-stopping wench with melting hot-chocolate eyes? Eyes that studied him over her coffee cup. Dark eyes that were brimming with understanding. That told him more than any words could that she understood there was some reason he didn't want her there on Friday, but that she was going to be there anyway.
“Aged prime beef courtesy of the Bowie Brothers.” She read aloud from the poster.
He ignored the comment. “Ready?” with a pointed look at the cup in her hands.
Instead of setting her cup down and heading for the door, she took another sip and walked toward the bar. “What kind of music does the band play?” she asked, her back against the polished mahogany.
“Does it matter?” he growled. “Let's go.”
But Barney had to put his two cents in. “Country, Western, whatever your pleasure.”
Zeb glared at him. He'd like to leap over the bar, grab the towel out of Barney's hands and stuff it in his mouth. The guy hardly every said more than two words to a stranger. Now he wouldn't shut up.
“Great band,” Barney said enthusiastically. “You gotta hear these guys, Miss....”
“Hudson. Chloe Hudson.”
Barney reached across the bar and extended his hand. “Not any relation to Horatio?”
Zeb clenched his teeth. If he acted fast, he could still throw her over his shoulder, run down the street and dump her in the back of his truck.
But before he could move, she was shaking Barney's hand and saying, “I'm his great-granddaughter.”
“No kidding,” Barney said.
“No kidding,” Zeb echoed. “Now, if you're finished, I gotta be getting back.”
“Of course.” She turned to Barney. “Thanks for the coffee. I'll see you Friday. I'm looking forward to it.”
Zeb breathed a sigh of relief. It could have been worse. Much worse. If he hadn't been there, if they'd continued their c
onversation Barney might have spilled everything. He and Chloe walked down the boardwalk to the truck in silence. Zeb stared morosely into the distance, wondering how in the hell he was going to get rid of her, now that she had a sleeping bag and a hammock.
Chloe, on the other hand, had a spring to her step that belied her sleepless night. She'd discovered a bar straight out of the Old West, a bar with authentic music and hopefully real, authentic cowboys that would be an attraction for her guests, give them something to look forward to on the weekends. She'd check it out and write it up for her brochures.
So Zeb Bowie raised prime beef, and was entrepreneurial enough to sell it in town, getting his name out. Not just a tough rancher, she thought. Not just a gorgeous macho man who exuded sex appeal. He was a businessman too. But why didn't he want her to be there on Friday night, to hear the music and eat his steak? Was he afraid she'd get in his way? Come between him and someone else? After all, a guy like that was bound to have a girlfriend or two. She had to assure him she'd leave him alone. That she had no interest in him other than as a neighbor.
She glanced in his direction and was shocked by the rush of sexual desire that made her shiver in the warm summer air. She wanted to touch him. Badly. To plant her hands on his chest and feel his heartbeat through his shirt. Shove his hat off his head and tangle her hands in his sun-streaked hair again. But he had a girlfriend. He must have. That's why he didn't want her hanging around him on Friday night, looking at him like he was her dream of a cowboy come true. He was her neighbor. Nothing more, nothing less. She understood that. She really did.
“The bartender was friendly,” she said, seeking a safe subject.
“He's not the bartender, he's the owner.”
“Well, he couldn't have been nicer,” she said.
“So you don't believe he was about to tar and feather you when I walked in and saved you.”
She shook her head. “He didn't even think I was a tourist. Which I'm not.”
He looked down at her. “Hah. New jeans. Ordering coffee instead of whiskey. You give yourself away every time you open your mouth. 'Can anyone come?”' he mimicked.
She flushed. “I don't care what you say. The people are nice.”
He unlocked the door of the truck for her.
“I hate to take up any more of your time,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat and wedging herself next to the door. “But I really need to pick up some food. Is there a grocery store anywhere around?”
“Nope,” he said curtly. “Most people grow their own vegetables. Raise their own meat.”
“What about a roadside stand? Or a farmers' market?”
“Saturday mornings.”
“Oh.”
“I guess we could swing by the co-op,” he said reluctantly.
“It will only take a few minutes.”
Chloe told him he didn't have to come into the store with her. She would have liked a few minutes to herself. But he wouldn't leave her alone. He followed her around like a shadow while she forced herself to think about staples like rice and flour and powdered milk.
“You got enough stuff,” he said once they were back in the truck.
“I realize I came woefully unprepared.”
“For what?”
“To do what I want to do.”
“You haven't told me what that is.”
“You're sure you won't laugh? Scout's honor?” she asked.
He held up two fingers.
She took a deep breath. “I want to make the resort into a health spa.”
“Paradise Springs a fat farm?” He threw his head back and roared with laughter. “A fat farm, that's good. You're not serious?”
Chloe took a deep breath. She clenched her hands into fists, and turned to glare at him. “You promised,” she said. “How could you? You're no Boy Scout, are you?”
“I'm sorry,” he said, trying to stifle a grin. “I couldn't help it. I thought those quote, spas, unquote, were luxurious resorts where women went to get pampered and maybe lose a few pounds.”
“They are. And there's no reason why Paradise Hot Springs can't be one of those.”
“There isn't? What about the long hike in, the lack of kitchen facilities, bathrooms or bedrooms?”
“Those are problems,” she admitted, “but they are solvable.”
“With a whole lot of money. Do you have a whole lot of money?”
“That's none of your business.”
He shrugged. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“I don't think you are. I think you're trying to discourage me so I'll sell you the property.”
“I'm trying to get you to be realistic.” He turned onto the dirt road past the hand-carved Bar Z Ranch sign.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “But I've been realistic all my life. I chose nursing because it was a safe profession. Nurses can always get jobs. I married a doctor thinking I'd have a secure future. And now because of great-grandpa, I have a chance to do something new and different and exciting, and nobody's going to stop me from fulfilling my dream. Not you, not anybody.” She bit her lip and her eyes filled with tears.
Zeb froze. She was married. To a doctor. Doctors made a lot of money. More than ranchers, anyway. So that's what she meant when she'd said “I'm not independently wealthy, although...”
He felt like a fool for kissing her, for fantasizing about making love to her. Why hadn't she told him, why wasn't she wearing a ring, and why did she kiss him back? Because she was a thrill-seeker, looking for something new and different and exciting.
He maneuvered the truck around potholes, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white as the truth finally hit home. She was going to turn Paradise Hot Springs into a damned spa for fat women. She was not going to sell him the property. She had deep pockets. And she was married, for God's sake.
“Here we are,” he said, slamming on the brakes at the fork in the road.
She hesitated for just a moment and shot him a brief, puzzled glance before letting herself out.
“I'll unload my stuff here and then carry it down to my place,” she decided.
“You do that,” he said, killing the motor and staying in his seat behind the wheel. Why should he help her unload her things? Where was her husband? In the operating room? So she had a dream. Well, he had a dream, too. To buy Paradise Springs for a reasonable figure. To resell it for a profit and buy a bull who would put him back in business. A dream of holding on to his ranch. A dream that was fading into nothingness.
He watched her in the rearview mirror as she struggled with the boxes and bags until he couldn't stand it any more. Then he got out of the truck, slammed his door shut and, in tension-filled silence, grabbed box after box out of the rear and dropped them unceremoniously onto the ground next to the trail that led to Paradise Springs. When he finished, there was a pile of stuff so high it would take her about three months to haul to her property.
“Thank you,” she said, wiping the perspiration off her forehead. She looked tired, but undaunted. He should have known the first moment he saw her yesterday, that she was the type who didn't give up. He should have known she was married, too. A woman who could sleep on the ground, ride a horse for the first time and still look like a million dollars would be married. As usual, he was a day late and a dollar short. No, a few years late and about fifty-thousand dollars short was more like it.
Chloe stood there, breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. “I don't understand you,” she said at last.
She didn't understand him? Frustration built and threatened to swamp him. “Would this help?” he asked, grabbing her by one arm and hauling her up against him. His fingers tightened around her wrist in a bruising grip. Ignoring her effort to pull away, he jerked her into his arms. He didn't imagine the thudding of her heart against his. It was real. He didn't mistake the look in her eyes for curiosity. He recognized desire, hot, pure and simple. It matched his own.
&nb
sp; His hands moved to her hips, cupping her buttocks, pulling her against his aching erection. She wrapped her arms around him. He kissed her, and with matching fervor she kissed him back. Over and over, as if she wanted him as much as he wanted her. As if she was just as aroused and frustrated as he was.
Her sighs, her soft moans made his blood boil. Her tongue tangled with his. He could take her down on the ground with him right now, make love under the trees, everything else forgotten—her refusal to sell him the land, and the fact that she wasn't free. This was madness. She was married. But she sure as hell didn't act as if she was.
Abruptly he dropped his arms and backed away. “You don't understand me?” he demanded.
“That's right,” she said as she stumbled backwards, rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand as if to erase his kisses. “And that didn't help at all.”
Chapter Four
Adrenaline pumped through her body as Chloe carried the first box down the trail and through the woods to the old resort. It might have weighed twenty pounds, it might have weighed fifty. She was oblivious. She was so mad at Zebulon Bowie she could spit. How had she let this happen?
And all she knew was that she was not going to accept one more favor from the randy, dominating, insulting cowboy she had the misfortune to live next door to. Not if she starved and they found her bones at the end of the summer. Not if she sprained her ankle and lay helpless on the bare ground. She wouldn't call him for help. And if he stumbled on her by accident she'd close her eyes and play dead before she'd let him help her to her feet.
Not that she was going to starve or sprain her ankle, she told herself as she planted one foot after the other on the rough ground. She could take care of herself. She had supplies. She was in good health. She had confidence. Yes, she did. She didn't need him to provide her with food, or rides. She didn't need help carrying her supplies in from the road. She was glad he hadn't offered, because then she would have had to refuse.
