by Lori Foster
Maybe it was something city boys learned. “You want something?” She raised one eyebrow and wished she hadn’t. Damn, that bruise hurt! She hoped Frank hadn’t broken anything when he’d hit her, but the swelling still hadn’t gone down.
“I’m headed to bed. A shower sounds really good about now. Just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything else I could do for you.” He grinned, and she felt it right where she shouldn’t.
“I’m good,” she said, wishing she didn’t have a long list of things she’d like for him to do to, uh, for her. “See ya in the morning.”
He actually looked a little disappointed. Wasn’t the guy tired? She’d had Miguel work Mark’s ass off today, hoping to wear that smile off his face, but he hadn’t balked at a single thing. He’d curried and saddled horses and adjusted stirrups and helped little kids with the ponies. He’d been so damned good-natured through it all, so good-looking, she’d almost forgotten who he was—a city boy, a twink dressed up to look like a cowboy.
As right as he was, she just wished he wasn’t so wrong.
Wrong on the most important level of all. She’d give him maybe a week before he turned tail and headed back to New York. The last thing she needed was getting all hot and bothered over a guy who was nothing more than a damned tourist.
Besides, he probably looked at her beat-up face and thought of her as local color. Or else he thought she was a complete idiot for getting beat up in the first place. Which she was.
“You going to be up much longer?”
Betsy Mae blinked. “You still here?”
He grinned. “That I am. I was going to ask if you had any bandages.”
He held his hands out and she just about puked. There were blisters all over his palms, a couple of them deep enough to bleed. “Crap. Why didn’t you say something?” She slammed the laptop shut and stood. “You need those cleaned up and bandaged. They get infected, you won’t be any good to anyone.”
Turning on her heel, she headed for the bathroom at the end of the hall.
“It’s nice to know you care.”
His dry comment made her snort. Damn, she did not want to like the man. “I do,” she said, opening the door for him. “I care that if your hands are screwed up, I’ll get stuck mucking out the stalls.”
She followed him into the bathroom, put the lid down on the commode, and started rummaging through the medicine cabinet. He just stood there. “Sit.” She pointed to the closed toilet seat.
“Yes, ma’am.” Chuckling, he sat.
She grabbed the antibiotic ointment and some thick bandages, rinsed a washcloth in warm water and took his right hand. “Hands as soft as these, you should have been wearing gloves.”
“You’re right. I didn’t even think about them.”
“Even when the blisters started breakin’?” She glared at him, shaking her head. Stupid man. Carefully, she began washing around the blisters, cleaning away the dried blood.
“I guess I was having too much fun.”
She snorted again. Perfect. Ladylike sound like that, he’d think she was a complete hick. Carefully, she patted his hand dry, covered the open blisters with antibiotic cream, and bandaged the worst of them. Then she repeated the process on his left hand. “There,” she said, grabbing up the scraps of paper left from the bandages. “Keep them clean. And come with me. I’ve got some gloves that should fit you.”
She led him across the hall to her bedroom, and he followed close behind, waiting patiently while she rummaged around in a box of crap she’d found after Frank left. “Here. These should fit.” She held up a pair of beautiful deerskin gloves. She’d planned to send all this stuff back to her ex, but to hell with him. Mark needed them worse than Frank.
Quietly, he took the pair and slipped them on. They appeared to fit just fine. “Perfect,” he said, flexing his fingers inside the soft leather. “You sure you don’t mind if I use these?”
She grinned. “They’re yours now. They belonged to my ex. He’s not getting them back.” She shoved the box back in her closet. When she turned around and glanced up, Mark was holding the gloves in one hand, staring at her.
“What?”
“Is he the one? Did he do that to you?”
Oh, crap. She nodded. Lord, it was so embarrassing to admit. “Yeah, and you don’t need to remind me how stupid I was to go back to him. I’ve already heard it all, ad nauseam, from Will and Annie.” She stood up, prepared to show him out.
He touched her shoulder. “Not stupid, Betsy Mae. I imagine you were just hopeful things really would work, right?”
He looked down at her with those silvery eyes of his, and there was no condemnation, no sense that he meant anything other than what he’d said. Something inside her sort of came undone.
“I was.” She stared straight ahead. “But I was wrong.”
His hand dropped away from her shoulder and she thought about asking him to put it back. It had been so long since anyone had touched her with kindness. Not because he wanted anything, not because he was trying to make a point or take a swing at her. No. It appeared Mark Connor was a lot nicer guy than she’d been giving him credit for—and here she’d been acting like an absolute bitch.
Damn it all.
four
Mark pulled the saddle off of Blue, the roan gelding Miguel had assigned to him the day after he’d arrived at Columbine Camp. He and Blue had gotten real well acquainted in the past two weeks.
The horse shook from nose to tail like a big dog, and as soon as Mark tugged the bridle off, Blue trotted to the center of the corral and rolled over in the dirt.
Feet high in the air, he rubbed his back, kicking dust in every direction. Then with a loud grunt he rolled on over and slowly stood up, shook off the excess dust, wandered back to Mark, and head-butted his shoulder.
“For an animal that can’t talk, you sure manage to get your point across.” Laughing softly, Mark filled the trough with a scoop of grain, then grabbed the curry comb and brush. Blue buried his nose in the grain. As Mark started brushing the animal’s withers, Blue groaned and shifted his weight to three legs while he cocked the fourth, prepared to enjoy the process.
Mark certainly enjoyed it. Currying his horse after a full day in the saddle was totally relaxing—as was the life he was leading. After two full weeks working at Columbine Camp, his hands were finally developing a thick set of calluses, his skin had lost that pasty, city-boy look, and his hair had bleached out so much it was almost silver.
Either that or he was going gray. Of course, dealing with Betsy Mae Twigg was enough to give anyone gray hair. He glanced at the house and wondered what she was up to this afternoon. He knew she’d spent the last couple of hours checking out their guests as everyone packed up and went their separate ways.
His fascination with her had grown throughout the last two weeks. He’d learned right away that she wasn’t the dumb blonde everyone pegged her as—she might occasionally act like a ditz, but her mind was going a mile a minute. It was more than obvious—to Mark, at least—that she knew a lot more about what was going on than she ever admitted.
She hadn’t said much about the job he’d done. Instead, like a good businesswoman, she’d added to his chores until Mark was working harder for free than he’d ever worked for a paycheck.
And he’d never had more fun in his entire life. He’d even enjoyed the dudes, though he’d been really careful about calling them guests or wranglers. Columbine Camp was, after all, every kid’s, and grown-up’s, fantasy—a chance to live and work like a real cowboy for an entire two weeks.
They’d done trail rides and rounded up cows, fixed fences, and gone swimming in the waterhole Will had dammed up alongside the creek. No one had guessed that the cowboy leading their trail rides, tightening the cinches on their saddles, or teaching them the fine art of wrangling was really a city boy straight from New York—and Mark hadn’t enlightened a soul.
He’d talked to Michelle once, when she’d called to tell him everyo
ne was over the bug and wondering when he was moving over to the Double Eagle. When he’d explained how Will and Annie had bailed out the minute he showed up, Michelle had laughed so hard she couldn’t talk for way too long.
Then she’d said she hoped he survived Betsy Mae and she’d see him when he needed a break.
He hadn’t needed one yet. No. If anything, he wanted a little bit more time with that blond firecracker. She fascinated him—all rough edges and attitude—and yet he felt as if there was a lot about the woman he didn’t know at all. A lot he wasn’t seeing, as if she’d built a wall against the world.
Why, he wondered, had it become imperative that he scale that wall, climb over the top, and find out just who was hiding on the other side? Now that they had the ranch to themselves, Mark intended to do exactly that.
He flnished up with Blue and turned the horse out in the pasture behind the barn. After that, he checked on one of the heifers who looked way past her due date. There’d been a half-dozen calves born during the week without trouble, but Betsy Mae’d been worried about this one in particular because it was her first and she looked like she might be carrying twins.
Right now she was settled down in the stall, chewing her cud with a look of total bovine boredom on her face. Mark threw some extra alfalfa in her feed trough and headed to the house.
He paused at the sight of a beat-up old Chevy pickup parked in the drive. He hadn’t heard it pull up, but then he’d been at the back of the barn working on Blue.
He let himself in through the front door, moving more quietly than usual—sneaking in, actually, but something felt wrong, and he wasn’t about to ignore a hunch that left the hair standing up on the back of his neck.
He heard a man’s voice, just a low rumble from the back of the house, then Betsy Mae’s, but she didn’t sound happy about her visitor. Mark hung his hat on the rack by the door, but he left his deerskin gloves on as he walked through the entryway and down the hall. His room was two doors down from Betsy Mae’s, so he had every right to go this way, didn’t he?
The door to Betsy Mae’s room was shut. He stood there a moment and then rapped lightly. “Betsy Mae? You there?”
“Mark? Come in.”
He opened the door and she glanced up with such obvious relief on her face that he didn’t feel at all guilty about snooping. Mark nodded at the tall, good-looking cowboy standing way too close to Betsy Mae. He had his fingers wrapped around her left wrist, and he didn’t look at all pleased at the interruption.
“Mark Connor, Frank Williams.” Betsy Mae flashed Mark a grin that looked more like a grimace. “Mark’s helping me out while Will and Annie are gone.” She stepped away from Frank, but he held tightly to her wrist and followed, almost like a cutting horse working a calf.
“Well, isn’t that nice.” Frank sneered at Mark, and he wasn’t nearly as good-looking now that Mark recognized the man and the threat. “I’m here now, sweetheart. You just tell your little friend you don’t need his help anymore.” Frank moved a step closer to Betsy Mae, crowding her even more. He glared at Mark. “Why don’t you just go away?”
“I don’t think so, Frank.” Anger had Mark gritting his teeth, trying to look calm and unconcerned as he leaned against the doorframe with his thumbs hooked in his front pockets. The last thing he wanted to do was put Betsy Mae in any kind of danger. This jerk looked like a loose cannon if ever he’d seen one. “Betsy Mae and I are doing just fine.”
Frank puffed out his chest, reminding Mark of a cocky little rooster. “I said you can leave now. My wife and I were having a private discussion.”
“I’m not your wife.” Betsy Mae jerked her arm, but she couldn’t pull free of Frank’s grasp.
“Let go of the lady. Now.” Mark straightened up and stepped away from the doorframe.
Frank’s laughter deflnitely lacked humor. “Lady? There’s no lady in this room. Nothing but my little whore, right, darlin’?”
Mark had really been thinking about trying diplomacy, but that did it. He didn’t say a word. Just balled up his flsts in those nice deerskin gloves, hauled off, and punched Frank Williams in the jaw.
The man went down like a ton of bricks, taking Betsy Mae with him. Mark caught her before she fell and pulled her close. It wasn’t until she was clinging to him with both arms wrapped tightly around his waist that he realized she was trembling.
“Did he hurt you?” He smoothed the tangled curls away from her face. She shook her head, but her eyes were filled with tears and she was still shaking like a leaf. That alone made Mark want to hit the bastard again.
“Just scared me half to death. I didn’t hear his truck pull in. I had a headache earlier, so I came in to rest. I was asleep when he barged in and said I had to come back to him.”
Mark shook his head. “You’re not going back to that bastard, Betsy Mae. Ever. Understood?”
She nodded. “Oh, yeah.” She shuddered, and tears sparkled at the edges of her lashes. “Mark, I was such a fool. I never should have married him, never should have gone back to him after the first time he hit me, but Will and Annie were so much in love, and Tag was married and I thought maybe, just maybe . . .” She sighed. “Damn it.” Then she glared at Frank, sprawled unconscious on her bedroom floor. “This time I’m calling the sheriff.”
“Good girl. I’ll take care of your friend here until the sheriff arrives.” He started to pull away but made the mistake of glancing down, right into Betsy Mae’s upturned face. The tears still sparkling in her eyes tore him apart.
“This is probably a really big mistake,” he said. Then he leaned over and kissed her. And kept kissing her, as she shifted in his embrace, pressed that perfect cowgirl body close to his, and turned Mark Connor’s entire carefully planned world upside down and inside out.
five
Oh Lordy . . . He kissed as good as he looked and better than she’d been dreaming for the past two weeks. No, even better than that, if it were at all possible. If Frank weren’t beginning to stir on the floor beside them, Betsy Mae might have dragged this damned dime store cowboy across the room and right into her rumpled bed.
But Frank was groaning and mumbling, and she still hadn’t called the sheriff, and there was no way she was letting her ex get away with breaking into her house and threatening her.
Mark seemed to reach the same conclusion at the same time she did, because they parted as if they’d planned to.
Except no way in hell would she have planned anything remotely like kissing this man—not when she’d been so careful over the past two weeks to keep him at arm’s length. She’d been just flne with the fantasies, hadn’t she? Well . . . no. Not really.
But the last thing she wanted was to fall for a guy who was planning to leave. As far as she knew, Mark was just out here to visit Tag and his new wife for a bit.
She did not need this. Still, when she leaned her forehead against his hard chest, she was more than a little gratifled to hear the rapid pounding of his heart.
At least she wasn’t the only one affected.
Unless, of course, he was reacting to the fact he’d just punched Frank’s lights out.
“Dear God in heaven, kissing you was probably a mistake, but I think it’s the best one I’ve ever made.” Mark’s soft words, whispered against her temple, made her smile.
“Yeah,” she said. “Frank’s coming around and I wouldn’t put it past him to come after you when you’re otherwise occupied.”
Mark chuckled softly. “I’ll take care of Frank. You go call the sheriff.” He dropped his arms and stepped back.
She nodded, even though she really wanted to kiss him again or at leastfind out if he had any intention of kissing her. Probably a bad idea. With a glance at Frank, she slipped out of the room. She immediately missed those strong arms and that broad chest—even if Mark did smell a little bit like horse.
She was back a few minutes later. Mark had Frank in the straight-back chair by her desk, wrists firmly bound behind his back with a
pair of nylon stockings. Frank didn’t say a word, but the look he gave Betsy Mae scared the crap out of her.
Mark stepped in front of Frank, blocking her view of the bastard. His eyes were troubled, but he smiled at her. “Sorry about the stockings. They were the only thing I could find to tie him.”
“Good idea.” She glanced around him and glared at Frank. “What made you think of using my stockings?”
Mark shrugged. “I’m an editor. Romances. You’d be surprised what I’ve learned from all the books I’ve read.”
Betsy Mae’d read more than a few romances in her time. She wondered if he’d paid attention to some of the other parts of those books, and then she blushed. A few of them went into great detail with the more intimate aspects of relationships. Graphic detail. “I can only imagine,” she said drily. Then she cast a sideways glance at Mark and caught him grinning broadly at her.
The dog barked out front. Thank goodness. She was beginning to heat up, just thinking of the things Mark might know about women. “Must be the sheriff’s deputy.” Betsy Mae spun on her heel and escaped before she—or Mark—said anything else.
AFTER Frank had been hauled off in handcuffs, Betsy Mae poured herself a glass of wine and handed a cold beer to Mark. Together, the two of them walked out to the front porch. Mark waited until Betsy Mae took her seat on the porch swing before sitting down beside her. Not too close . . . not too far. He took a swallow of his beer while she sipped her Chardonnay.
The sun was beginning to set. Golden light spilled across the valley. Birds chirped quietly, settling in for the evening, and cattle grazed in the tall grass. The guests were all gone, and Miguel and Maria were off for the night.
Everything felt just right. Maybe that kiss had cleared the air more than he realized. At least she wasn’t giving him grief like she’d done for the past two weeks. Mark chuckled, thinking of Michelle’s warning that she hoped he’d survive Betsy Mae. The vote was still out on that one. He wanted her so badly he ached.
