Boss Man from Ogallala

by Janet Dailey

  "Then you'd better forget the Mr. McCallister and call me Flint." Casey watched his smile transform his face from mocking sureness to devastatingly charming good looks. "Since this is my first night here and "I'll probably never have another opportunity of a night free from paperwork, I'd like to show my appreciation for the meal by helping with the dishes."

  "I take care of that for mother." With this statement, Casey broke her self-imposed silence.

  "And she hates every minute of it!" Mark laughed.

  The truth of his gibe was all too accurate, but it was a chore that Casey's conscience had insisted she undertake to make up for her lack of help in other household duties.

  "In that case she'd probably be glad of some help for a change." For all the lazy regard of his eyes when they rested on her, Casey could feel the piercing challenge in his gaze.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse any assistance from him, but the picture of him in front of a sink full of dishes was too beautiful to deny. The thought of him with one of her mother's decorative aprons tied around his waist brought an audacious twinkle out of the depths of her brown eyes as she accepted with mock demureness.

  The dishes were started in silence with Flint electing to wash since Casey would know where the dishes belonged once they were dried. Strangely enough, Flint didn't look in the least out of place standing in front of the sink. He seemed to sense Casey's desire to keep a businesslike remoteness between them.

  "I noticed the hay field in the west section is about ready for cutting." He finally broke the silence.

  "The first of next week, I imagine," Casey agreed stiffly, loathing to agree with him on anything. "It seems earlier this year, but we did cut that field the second week of June last year."

  "Your plane is out of commission. I would like to get an aerial view of the ranch so I can get a better idea of the layout." Casey felt his glance rest on her for a minute. "Would it be possible to borrow a plane from the neighbors?"

  "I'm sure the Smiths would lend me theirs. I don't know how they'd feel about lending it to a stranger, though." She enjoyed getting her little dig in even if it didn't seem to penetrate his thick skin.

  "I didn't intend to fly it myself. Your mother told me you were just as much at home in an air, plane as in a saddle." The gray eyes met her star-fled glance with only the slightest betrayal of amusement. "Naturally I can't see as much of the land as I want if I'm behind the controls."

  "I see." She saw all right. She saw that she was going to be at close quarters with that man for two or three hours. And with growing irritation, she also knew that his inspection of the ranch would be very thorough. "When did you want me to arrange this tour?"

  "Tomorrow."

  Casey's hand paused as she started to withdraw the meat platter from the rinsing water. He certainly wasn't going to give her a chance to get used to the idea.

  "I'll check with them to see if their plane will be free. They might have something scheduled."

  "They might," Flint agreed, but Casey could almost visualize his tongue pushing at the side of his cheek.

  She had been attempting to stall and she was uncomfortably aware that he knew it. The damp towel refused to wipe over the already dry platter again, its balking drawing Casey back to the work at hand. On tiptoe, she stretched her arms toward the third shelf of the cupboard above the sink. Holding the platter in one hand, she tried to push the bowls out of the way with the other. A group of plastic lids cascaded down on her head just as she pulled the glass bowls too close to the edge and they started to fall. Casey leaned heavily against the sink, trying to gain all the extra inches she could, angrily aware that her shirttail was dragging in the rinsing water. As she was trying to figure out how to set the platter down and still rescue the bowls, she glimpsed Flint reacting to her predicament.

  His superior height allowed him to reach the third shelf easily. But to do so, he had to stretch his lean frame over the top of Casey's head. The muscular hardness of his body pressing against her brought an incredible rigid tenseness as she tried to control the tingling of her body where it came in contact with him. From outside there was the slamming of a door and Mark's jubilant cry of welcome.

  "Hey, Smitty! I figured you'd be over tonight," Mark called in a voice that rang all too clearly in the kitchen. "The new man's giving you some pretty stiff competition. He's already in the kitchen helping Casey with the dishes."

  The bowls had been rescued and the platter in place behind them. Casey's face had turned an amazing shade of red as Flint turned his speculating gaze on her and stepped back. She had one fleeting thought of running out on the porch and strangling her loud-mouthed brother before she chose instead to pick up the lids scattered around the floor.

  "I take it your boyfriend is here," Flint stated, returning to the sink and the remaining pan.

  "It's…it's Smitty," Casey tried to say with some degree of composure which had been disturbed by his potent, masculine virility, "Our nearest neighbor."

  "The one you're going to borrow the plane from?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. We can find out tonight if it's available."

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  Chapter Six

  CASEY HAD MADE a concentrated effort to monopolize Smitty and the conversation that evening. She had deliberately steered the subject toward people and places that were known only to them, thus ignoring Flint McCallister. But Smitty had either been obtuse or stubborn, because he had continually switched it back to ranching. Casey had sat back in fuming silence while they discussed seed bulls, irrigation, feed grains and the effects of the weather. And Flint had given her no opportunity to ask permission to use the Smiths' plane. One politely worded question was all it had taken, and Smitty had volunteered almost ecstatically. Afterward, when Smitty and Casey had been left alone by the discreet Mr. McCallister, she had derided Smitty about it.

  "The way you acted when you told him he could have the plane any time he wanted it was positively disgusting," Casey had declared. "I could almost see you having a plaque made that says 'Flint McCallister sat here.'"

  "Oh, Casey," Smitty had moaned in exasperation, "why do you persist in making mountains out of molehills? Our plane has been at your disposal ever since yours went on the blink. McCallister didn't know that, since you obviously didn't tell him. All I did was assure him of our assistance."

  Casey had snorted at Smitty's statement. It had become apparent that she was alone in her stand against Flint McCallister. In one day she had seen the defection of her younger brother. She was quite sure that her mother had fallen under the charm of his rugged good looks. And now Smitty had joined the throng of admirers.

  TWO FLEECY WHITE CLOUDS drifted above the Cessna aircraft while Casey stole a glance at the man seated in the passenger seat. She immediately looked into a pair of gray eyes that had been watching her grow more sullen as each of her thoughts had grown more depressing. They had been flying for more than an hour now.

  "What else did you want to see?" she asked, refusing to be disgruntled by the fact that he had been staring at her.

  "Let's take another run past that pasture in the south section. Make it a little lower this time."

  Casey nodded her compliance and expertly put the plane in a side-slip before completing her turn and leveling out eight hundred feet above the ground. Flying was one of her loves. There was exhilaration in feeling the plane respond to her lightest touch, as quickly as a well-trained reining horse. Plus there was a sensation of being detached from the world. In a small plane, there was a serenity that couldn't be duplicated on the ground.

  "You're an excellent pilot," Flint told her.

  "I know," Casey answered calmly and without conceit.

  "Your father told me you're almost indispensable. And he doesn't strike me as the kind of man who would say that if he didn't believe it."

  "No, I don't think he would," Casey agreed, feeling a warm glow of pride at the high compliment from her fathe
r. "There's the mesa," she pointed out, crabbing into the wind to hold a straight course. "The pasture's just on the other side."

  "He seemed to think you could run the ranch quite efficiently by yourself," Flint continued, now gazing out his window at the Sand Hills below.

  "I could." There was determination in the lift of her chin as she met his brief glance squarely. "I thought you wanted to inspect the ranch?"

  "Partly."

  "And partly what?" she persevered.

  "And partly I wanted to get to know you better, Cassandra." His voice was nonchalant, but there was a seriousness in his expression that told Casey she was the main object in the trip. "I had the distinct impression that if I'd try to corner you at the ranch you would have managed to escape just as you did yesterday." He glanced briefly around the interior of the plane.

  "You must admit that you can hardly walk away from me here."

  Casey's lips tightened grimly. "Let's get this straight, Mr. McCallister. I didn't want you here on this ranch. It wasn't my idea, nor my father's. You're here because the bank wanted a man in charge." There was a suitable emphasis on the word "man." "To be perfectly honest, I didn't like you very much before I met you, and now that I have—"

  "You still don't,' he finished for her. "Your actions have made your feelings perfectly clear. But I'm here. And as they say in war, I'm here for the duration."

  "How unfortunate for both of us!"

  "If that's going to be your attitude, we're going to be in for a rough month and a half." Flint eyed her questioningly. "Or you can accept the fact that I'm merely a temporary stand-in for your father."

  You could never fill his shoes, Casey thought bitterly.

  "It's really up to you, Cassandra. You can treat me as an outsider or a fellow rancher, much like your neighbors, the Smiths. In either case, I'd like to remind you of that old Indian saying, 'Don't judge a man until you've walked ten miles in his moccasins.'"

  Her hands clenched the wheel, as she railed inwardly at his arrogant philosophizing. Part of her could recognize the truth of his statement, but the biggest share of her resented the need for any conversation with him.

  "As you say, we're both going to have to make the best of a bad situation," she agreed through gritted teeth and a tight smile. "Should I head the plane back to the ranch?"

  Flint nodded, his keen gaze missing none of the smoldering anger in her snapping eyes.

  "And another thing," Casey added. "From now on you either call me 'Hey, you' or Casey, but don't you ever call me Cassandra again. I hate that name!"

  THE DOCTOR HAD ASSURED THEM that John Gilmore was progressing very well. And Casey had to admit that he was in excellent spirits. After Sunday morning church, Flint had volunteered to drive Casey, her mother and Mark down to Scottsbluff, and if Mrs. Gilmore had no objections, he would drive on into Ogallala to visit his parents and pick the Gilmores up that same evening after visiting hours had closed at the hospital. Her mother had quickly fallen in with the plan.

  There was a bit more color in her father's cheeks, Casey decided as they walked into the room. His dark eyes sparkled brightly as he grasped his wife's hand and drew her down to lightly brush her lips in greeting. The whispered exchanges of "I missed you" brought an immediate feeling of family warmth to Casey, but it didn't stop her from glancing at Flint McCallister to see if he had heard the exchange. He had seen them all to the room as a matter of courtesy and to look in on John Gilmore.

  The solemnity of his expression assured Casey that he had overheard. Against her will, she had to appreciate the fact that he was remaining in the background until the family had had a chance to exchange "hellos," even though he must have been anxious himself to greet John Gilmore and leave to see his own family.

  "You're looking much better, Mr. Gilmore." Flint firmly shook the hand extended to him.

  It grated Casey to hear her father addressed so respectfully. She would have much preferred that Flint had adopted a superior attitude, one that wouldn't have earned the look of approval in her father's eyes.

  "I'm feeling much better," he acknowledged. "And the name is John, Flint."

  "I'm on my way to visit my parents," Flint smiled after nodding his acceptance of a more familiar attitude between them. "I wanted to let you know everything's running smoothly at the ranch, except for a few long faces over your absence."

  His glance around the family served as a further explanation of his words, although Casey felt that his gaze rested a little longer on her than the others. But she refused to feel guilty.

  "I appreciate your stopping by. I know you must be anxious to be on your way—" John Gilmore smiled broadly "—so I won't keep you with endless questions. I'll save them for Casey." Her father winked at her.

  But Casey had difficulty meeting Flint's gaze and the dubious look in his gray eyes at her being able to give him an unbiased account.

  With a casual statement that he'd be back about eight, Flint left. The promised questions from her father didn't come, because Flint had no more than left and the Smiths arrived.

  "I've been trying to make up my mind why Casey wore a dress today." Her father laughed heartily as he shook Smitty's hand. "At first I thought it was for me. Then I decided it was for McCallister. Now you've turned up, Smitty, and I'm thoroughly confused."

  Casey colored slightly in anger as she glanced down at the maroon flowered dress she was wearing. It was styled after the dresses worn in the forties with a wide rounded collar and short sleeves that nearly reached her elbow, only the skirt was much shorter than the original version. The style was becoming to her, but not the color, which was too dull.

  "I wore the dress to church this morning, dad," Casey stated. "You know how Reverend Carver frowns on pants."

  "Oh, that's the reason." But the twinkle in his eyes teased her outrageously. Casey was furious with herself for failing to respond with the same humor. But, even in jest, it was disgusting for her father to think that she might have worn a dress to impress Flint McCallister. She was the only one who took more than passing notice of the remark and the subject was quite quickly dropped, much to Casey's relief.

  Her father was very well known and liked in the district, so Sundays brought him an abundance of visitors. There was a constant shuffling of people in the room to conform to the hospital's limit on the number of persons visiting a patient at a time. The only one who was excluded from the shifting was Lucille Gilmore. And John Gilmore's hand kept her firmly by his side at all times.

  Just as the Smiths began to take their leave late in the afternoon, Johnny Gilmore arrived. Smitty immediately took advantage of the situation and cadged a ride home with Casey so that he could spend some time with Johnny. The three, Casey, Johnny and Smitty, ended up going to dinner together for a thorough round of old times and catching up on present news.

  "Tell me about this new man," Johnny urged, nearly halfway through their meat. "Dad's roughed me in on his background, but what's he really like?"

  "He certainly isn't the ogre that Casey painted him up to be." Smitty cast a disparaging glance across the table to her before turning back to Johnny. "Flint's really a terrific guy. I've been over there several times this week. I swear to God, Johnny, I don't think there's any new technique in ranching today that he can't intelligently discuss the pros and cons about. But he's not pushy or showy with his knowledge, just matter of fact. McCallister never talks down to you, either." Smitty paused, eyeing Casey hesitantly before he continued. "He's not totally business, though. You get the impression that he's been around socially, if you know what I mean."

  "Is he good looking?" Johnny asked with a knowing smile and teasing glance at his sister.

  "If you like the type," Casey answered in a suitably bored voice.

  "Don't you believe her," Smitty laughed. "He's one of those lean, rugged types that look as if they've just stepped out of a movie screen. You can bet he has any number of girls in his little black book just waiting for him to crook his fing
er."

  "You're disgusting!" Casey exclaimed angrily. "The next thing you know you'll be bragging about your conquests. I can believe that Flint McCallister wouldn't have much respect for a woman's reputation, but you two should."

  "What did we do to earn that outburst?" Johnny looked at her with considerable amusement.

  "Don't mind her." Smitty shook his head. "All you have to do is mention that guy's name and she loses her temper. The first time she saw him she was speeding down the highway and had a blowout. He read her the riot act. Her hair's been up ever since."

  "That has nothing to do with it!" Casey protested, but weakly as she threw her napkin on the table. She fumbled in her purse, finally extracting some bills which she passed to Smitty. "I'm going back up to see dad. Here's the money for my dinner. You two can stay here as long as you like!"

  Flint arrived promptly at eight to take them all home. He made no comment about Smitty riding home with them, just nodding a hello as he held the back door of the station wagon open for Smitty, Casey and Mark. Then he helped Mrs. Gilmore into the front seat beside him before sliding behind the wheel himself. Casey's mother immediately engaged him in a conversation about his visit with his parents, their voices not loud enough to include the three in the back seat. That suited Casey just fine.

  Somehow she had been seated beside the window directly behind the driver with Smitty in the middle and Mark on the other side. Smitty was strangely silent, Casey thought. Mark pulled his transistor radio out of his pocket, turned it on low volume and leaned back against the door, holding the radio close to his ear. She gazed out the window at the orange sun hovering over the horizon. She felt discontented and couldn't figure out why. Her eyes roved back to the man in front of her, examining the brown hair cuffing near the collar of his blue suitcoat. She felt Smitty's arm slide around to settle on her shoulders. It was a warm comfortable feeling to have his arm around her and she turned, a slow pleasant smile lighting her face.

  Dear, darling Smitty, Casey thought, taking his hand that rested on her shoulder and bringing it to her lips where she brushed the tips of his fingers. For some reason probably only known to her subconscious mind, her gaze turned to the rear view mirror on the front dash. Dark, angry thunderclouds from Flint's reflection met her gaze. She was stunned by the violence she saw. Almost immediately her mother said something indecipherable to the driver and the expression in his eyes was quickly veiled as he turned to answer her. The insolent disapproval of his look at the innocent caress brought an equally potent reaction from Casey as she rebelliously snuggled closer to Smitty. Several minutes later she peeped through her lashes, her head resting comfortably on Smitty's shoulder. His eyes, as they briefly met hers, were a lighter shade of gray and remarkably indifferent.