Always a Cowboy

by Linda Lael Miller

  She allowed herself a few minutes to study the man. He sat his horse confidently, relaxed and comfortable in the saddle, the reins loosely held. The well-trained animal stood there calmly, clipping grass but not moving otherwise during their discussion.

  Drake broke into her reverie by saying, “Guess I’d better take you back before something happens to you.” He leaned toward her, reaching down. “Climb on.”

  She looked at the proffered hand and bit her lip, hesitant to explain that, despite her consuming interest in horses, she wasn’t an experienced rider—the last time she’d been in the saddle, at summer camp when she was twelve, something had spooked her mount. She’d been thrown, breaking her collarbone and her right arm, and nearly trampled in the process.

  Passion for horses or not, she was anything but confident.

  She couldn’t tell him that, not after the exchange they’d just had. He would no doubt laugh or make some cutting remark, or both, and her pride smarted at the very idea.

  Besides, she wouldn’t be holding the reins, handling the huge gelding; Drake would. And there was no denying the difficulties the weather presented, in terms of trailing the stallion and his mares from place to place.

  She’d gotten some great footage during the afternoon, though, and made some useful notes, which meant the day wasn’t a total loss.

  “My backpack’s heavy,” she pointed out, her drummed-up courage already faltering a little. The top of that horse was pretty far off the ground. She could climb mountains, for Pete’s sake, but that was small consolation; she’d been standing on her own two feet the whole time.

  At last, Drake smiled, and the impact of that smile was palpable. He was still leaning toward her, still holding out his hand. “Starburst’s knees won’t buckle under the weight of a backpack,” he told her. “Or yours, either.”

  The logic was sound, if not particularly comforting.

  Drake slipped his booted foot out from the stirrup to make room for hers. “Come on. I’ll haul you up behind me.”

  She handed up the backpack, sighed heavily. “Okay,” she said. Then, gamely, she took Drake’s hand. His grip was strong, and he swung her up behind him with no apparent effort.

  It was easy to imagine this man working with horses, delivering breach calves and digging postholes for fences.

  Settled on the animal’s broad back, Luce had no choice but to put her arms around Drake’s cowboy-lean waist and grip him like the jaws of life.

  The rain was coming down harder, and conversation was impossible.

  Gradually, Luce relaxed enough to loosen her hold on Drake’s middle.

  A little, anyway.

  Now that she was fairly sure she wasn’t facing certain death, Luce allowed herself to enjoy the ride. Intrepid hiker though she was, the thought of trudging back in the driving rain made her wince.

  She hadn’t missed the irony of the situation, either. She wanted to study wild horses, but she was a rank greenhorn with a slew of sweaty-palmed phobias. Drake had surely noticed, skilled as he was, and he would have been well within his rights to comment.

  He didn’t, though.

  When they finally reached the ranch house, he was considerate enough not to grin when she slid clumsily off the horse and almost landed on her rear in a giant puddle. No, he simply tugged at the brim of his hat, suppressing a smile, and rode away without looking back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WHEN DRAKE CAME in for supper that night, he was half-starved, chilled to the bone and feeling as though he’d worked like an old cow pony and still achieved next to nothing.

  He’d seen the mare he’d bought for a small fortune and personally trained, out there on the range that day, but he sure hadn’t won her back. Which only added insult to injury. That whistle had always brought her right to the pasture fence at a full run for an apple or a carrot and a nose rub. It had almost worked today, but not quite, not with that young stallion keeping watch.

  Drake hadn’t found the latest missing calf, either. He’d repaired one of the gates on the north pasture—and discovered he had exactly the same problem with the one just east of it. Then he had to call the vet to come out because he had a cow dropping a calf and she was in obvious trouble...

  Every single minute of the day had brought new problems.

  Add to that the young graduate student who, for some reason he couldn’t understand, was now living in the same house. His house. He’d deposited her near the porch when they got back, and he’d ridden away. Surely that was polite enough. Especially since he wasn’t interested in being part of her “study.”

  He remembered to take off his boots in the nick of time, leaving them on the porch. Harry would lynch him if he mucked up her floors, after delivering a loud lecture of the how-many-times-do-I-have-to-tell-you variety. In his sock feet, he hung up his coat and headed for his room. A long shower and a hot meal would solve some of his problems.

  But not all of them.

  He met Luce Hale as soon as he’d rounded the corner and stepped into the hallway. Actually, he practically body-slammed the woman and would have sent her sprawling if he hadn’t been so quick to grab her by the shoulders.

  Getting another look at her, he realized she was a hell of a lot prettier than he’d thought at first, now that she’d shed her rain gear. In fact, she was very pretty, with her long chestnut hair and incredible tawny eyes, and that tall, toned and athletic body of hers. Seeing her in the formfitting jeans and pink shirt she’d changed into, he could believe she’d done plenty of hiking.

  He, on the other hand, probably looked as if he’d been hog-tied and dragged through a mudhole. He might’ve had to do some hiking himself earlier, come to think of it, when a bolt of lightning spooked his horse while he was checking out a broken gate. On foot, he’d managed to catch hold of the reins just before Starburst lit out for the barn and left him behind—no matter how loudly he whistled.

  “S-sorry,” she stammered as she hastily stepped back. “This place is the size of a hotel—I keep getting turned around.”

  This part of the house did involve quite a few hallways and bedrooms. The plantation-style setup was hardly a cozy bungalow. The size of the place meant it was easy for Drake and both his brothers—and now Slater’s wife, Grace, plus her stepson—to continue living there without colliding at every turn. Each brother had his separate space.

  Slater was out of town half the time, anyway, filming on location. Mace sometimes slept at the winery in his comfortable office, and Drake was out all day. So while they lived in the same house, they often didn’t see one another except at dinner. The situation was a little different now, since Slater and Grace had a baby on the way, but Grace and his mother got along well and spent a lot of time together.

  “Dining room is that way.” He pointed.

  Luce, evidently, was in no hurry to get to the table, and her project was very much on her mind. “Do you normally get home this time of day? Will you be going back out?”

  Oh, great. So it begins. The “study” of his movements and the inquisition that would undoubtedly follow.

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, obviously making a note of his answer.

  Drake had an urge to sigh, but didn’t. This was not what he needed right now.

  Or ever.

  He was going to have a word with his mother about this situation and her failure to discuss it with him.

  Still, he made an effort to be civil, if not cordial, grumpy mood notwithstanding. “I sometimes eat with the ranch hands—they have their own kitchen, off the bunkhouse—and I have to go out and see to the livestock after supper, close the gate to the main drive, check the stables.” That was enough information for one evening, as far as he was concerned. Under normal circumstances, he didn’t say that many words in a whole day. “Please excuse me, I
really need a shower. Sorry. I didn’t do your formerly clean shirt any favors when I, ah, ran into you.”

  It didn’t help when Ms. Hale grinned as she surveyed his disheveled appearance. “Can’t disagree with that.”

  “It’s been a long day and it’s far from over,” he said as he walked away. Drake wasn’t usually self-conscious, but he was aware that he wasn’t at his charming best, either. If he ever was charming.

  Slater could be charming. Mace was smooth, when he wanted to be. But Drake was no talker, smooth or otherwise. He tended to be distracted and was always either busy or tired, or both.

  Meeting a beautiful woman in the hall while covered in dirt didn’t exactly boost his confidence.

  And judging by Luce’s teasing smile, she thought the situation was funny.

  Well, that was just great. On top of everything else, he was stuck with a city girl who planned on following him around day and night, asking dumb questions and making notes.

  The uncivilized cowboy in his natural habitat.

  He flat out wasn’t interested. Not in the role of lab rat. The woman, unfortunately, was another story.

  And that just made things worse.

  Once he’d reached his room, he shut the door hard, kicked off his boots, peeled off his shirt, which stuck to his skin.

  At least he didn’t have a farmer’s tan going, he observed, after a glance in the mirror; what he had was a rancher’s tan. He was brown from elbow to wrist, since he had a habit of rolling up his sleeves when the weather was decent, and the brim of his hat saved him from the famous red neck.

  Tanned or not, he felt about as sexy as a tractor—and why the hell he was thinking along such lines in the first place was beyond him. Luce made for some mighty fine scenery all on her own, but that wasn’t reason enough to put up with her, or have her stuck to his heels 24/7.

  Besides, she was a know-it-all.

  He moved to a window, looked out, drank in what he saw. Even in the rain, the scenery was beautiful.

  Drake’s bedroom was on the eastern side of the house, which was convenient for someone who got up at sunrise, his favorite time of day. He never got tired of watching the first dawn light brightening the peaks of the mountains, of anticipating the smell of damp grass and the fresh breeze. He liked to absorb the vast quietness, draw it into his very cells, where it sustained him in ways that were almost spiritual.

  He loved the sights and sounds of twilight, too. The lowering indigo of the sky, the stars popping out, clear and bright—unsullied by the false glow of crowded communities—the lonely howl of a wolf, the yipping cries of coyotes.

  Drake had little use for cities.

  Sure, he traveled now and then, for meetings and a few social functions his mother dragged him to, but Mustang Creek suited him just fine. It was small, an unpretentious place, full of decent, hardworking people who voted and went to church and were always ready with a howdy or a helping hand.

  Crowds were rare in those parts, except during tourist seasons—summer, when vacationers came to marvel at Yellowstone or the Grand Tetons, and winter, when the skiers and snowboarders converged. But a person got used to things like that.

  Drake left the window, went into his bathroom, finished undressing and took a steaming shower, letting the hard spray pound the soreness out of his muscles and thaw the chill in his bones.

  Afterward, he chose a white shirt and a pair of jeans, got dressed, combed his hair. He considered shaving, but he was blond, so his light stubble didn’t show too much, and anyway, there was a limit to how much fuss he was willing to undergo. He was starting to feel like a high school kid getting ready for a hot date, not a tired man fixing to have supper in his own house.

  Shaking his head at his own musings, he looked at the clock—Harry served supper right on schedule, devil take the hindmost—and then he made for the dining room, which was downstairs and on the other side of the house.

  As far as Harry was concerned, showing up late for a meal was the eighth deadly sin. If he was delayed by an unexpected problem, she understood and saved him a plate—as long as he let her know ahead of time.

  If he didn’t, he was out of luck.

  And he was so ravenous, he felt hollow.

  He had one minute to spare when he slid into his seat. The dogs, Harold and Violet, immediately headed for the kitchen, since it was suppertime for them, too. They had it cushy for ranch dogs, sleeping in the house and all, but they weren’t allowed to beg at the table and they knew it. Plus, they both adored Harry, who probably slipped them a scrap or two, on the sly, just to add a little zip to their kibble.

  Tonight, the beef stew smelled better than good. Harry knew how to hit that particular culinary note. Stew was one of her specialties—great on a rainy day—and he was starved, so when she brought in the crockery tureen and set it in the middle of the table, he favored her with a winning smile.

  Harry didn’t respond, except to wave off his grin with a motion of one hand.

  So far, Drake thought, he had the whole table to himself—not a bad thing, when you considered the extent of his brothers’ appetites.

  Harry left the room, returned momentarily with a platter of fresh-baked biscuits and the familiar butter dish.

  Things were looking up, until Mace ambled in and took his place across from Drake. Slater soon appeared, along with Grace, smiling and sitting down in their customary chairs, side by side. Drake and Mace, having risen to their feet when their sister-in-law entered, sat again.

  If their mother, Blythe, was around, she was occupied elsewhere.

  Once settled, everybody eyed the soup tureen, but nobody reached for the spoon. In the Carson house, you waited until all expected diners were present and accounted for, or you suffered the consequences.

  “Where’s Ryder?” Mace asked. They all liked Grace’s teenage stepson and considered him part of the family.

  “Basketball practice,” Grace replied, arranging her cloth napkin on her lap. Drake and his brothers would have been all right with the throwaway kind, or even a sheet of paper towel, but Blythe and Harry took a dim view of both, except at barbecues and picnics.

  Luce trailed in then, looking a little shy.

  Slater, Mace and Drake stood up again, and she blushed slightly and glanced down at her jeans and shirt—blue this time—as though she thought there might be a dress code.

  Drake drew back the chair next to his, since there was a place setting there and his mother always sat at the head of the table.

  Luce hesitated, then seated herself.

  Harry bustled in, carrying a salad bowl brimming with greens.

  “Go ahead and eat,” she ordered good-naturedly. “Your mother’s having supper in her office again. She’ll see all of you later, she said.”

  Having delivered the salad, the housekeeper deftly cleared away the dishes and silverware at Blythe’s place and vanished into the kitchen.

  For a while, nobody said anything, which was fine with Drake. He was hungry, fresh out of conversation and so aware of the woman sitting beside him that his ears felt hot.

  He helped himself to stew and salad and three biscuits when his turn came and hoped Luce wouldn’t whip out a notebook and a pen and make a record of what he ate and the way he ate it.

  There was some chitchat, Grace and Slater and Mace all trying to put Luce at ease and make her feel welcome.

  Relieved, Drake ate his supper and kept his thoughts to himself.

  Then, from across the table, his younger brother dragged him into the discussion.

  “So,” Mace began, “have you warned Luce here that she ought to be careful because you like to swim naked in the creek some mornings?” He paused, ignoring Drake’s scowl. “I’m just saying, if she’s going to follow you around and all, certain precautions ought to be taken.”
>
  Drake narrowed his eyes and glared at his brother, before stealing a sidelong look at Luce to gauge her reaction.

  There wasn’t one, nothing visible, anyway. Luce seemed intent on enjoying Harry’s beef stew, but something in the way she held herself told Drake she was listening, all right. She’d have had to be deaf not to hear, of course.

  Drake summoned up a smile, strictly for Luce’s benefit, and said, “Don’t pay any attention to my brother. He’s challenged when it comes to table manners, and he’s been known to dip into his own wine vats a little too often. Must have pickled his brain.”

  “Now, boys,” Grace said with a pleasant sigh. “Let’s give Luce a little time to get used to your warped senses of humor, shall we?”

  Slater met Drake’s gaze, saying nothing, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

  Mace pretended to be aggrieved, not by Grace’s attempt to change the course of the conversation, but by Drake’s earlier remark. “My wine,” he said, “is the finest available. It won’t pickle anything.”

  “That so?” Drake asked. In the Carson household, bickering was a tradition, like touch football was with the Kennedys. He was beginning to enjoy himself, and not be so worried about the impression all this might make on Luce. “I seem to remember a science project—the one that almost got Ryder kicked out of school last term? Something about dissolving a tenpenny nail in a jar of your best Cabernet.”

  “Stop,” Grace said, closing her eyes for a moment.

  Luce giggled, although the sound was nearly inaudible.

  “Why?” Mace asked reasonably. Like Drake, he loved Grace.

  “Because it wasn’t a tenpenny nail,” Grace replied, looking to Slater for help, which wasn’t forthcoming. Her husband was buttering his second biscuit and grinning to himself.

  “Your problem,” Mace told Drake, “is that you are totally unsophisticated. To you, warm generic beer from a can is the height of elegance.”

  Let the games begin.

  “I’m unsophisticated?” Drake raised his brows. “This from a man who wore different colored socks just the other day? That was sophisticated, all right.”