by Lisa Norato
Michael nodded encouragingly. “Tonight.”
“Tonight?” This was a nightmare. This day had produced one nightmare after the next. “I can’t believe this. What’d I tell you all about playing matchmaker? I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear.”
“All right, all right, cool your saddle. I’ll let Cat explain.”
“Explain what?” Caitlin asked, oblivious, as she came strolling in with a tray and set a frosty tumbler before Shelby. She took one look at her sister’s face and uttered, “Uh-oh. What’d you tell her, Michael?” Turning, she narrowed her eyes at her husband. “You can’t keep a lid on anything for more than ten seconds, can you?”
“I didn’t say a word, honest. She’d already figured it out for herself.”
“How could she have figured it out?” Cat balked, then turned to direct the question at Shelby.
Shelby’s jaw dropped slightly. “Then it’s true? You tricked me. You’ve set me up on a blind date. For tonight. My first night here. I’ve barely gotten through the door. Hey, why stop there? Why not display my picture in the dining hall next to a fish bowl so all interested parties can drop in their business cards?”
“Yeah, actually, it did kinda go down something like that,” Michael clarified.
Caitlin barked a sharp warning. “Michael.”
Shelby shook her head. She swirled the ice in the tumbler with her straw, totally confused, totally upset. How had they got onto the subject of blind dates when she’d asked Michael a question about the ancestry behind the ranch?
Jorge’s loud barking could be heard from the back of the lodge along with the sound of someone entering through the back door. The clip-pop of boot heels echoed off the wide plank floor together with a faint musical chime.
Meanwhile, Michael and Cat were arguing, and the lodge was full of noise as though all hell, along with Shelby’s emotions, had broken loose. Shelby felt her insides begin to shake and sucked down a mouthful of Mojito iced tea through the straw, hoping to quell the tears that were sure to spill this time.
“No blind date,” she mumbled over the straw in her mouth. “Absolutely not. No, no, no.”
Caitlin set down her tray of iced tea with a bang. “Look what you’ve done, Michael.”
“Me? I keep telling you to butt out of other people’s lives. If Shelby doesn’t agree to meet him, Ruckert will be insulted. What if he decides to leave early? We have a bunkhouse full of wranglers, not to mention thirty guests arriving in a week, who are all expecting a horse clinic with the famous Hoss Man.”
Shelby spat out the iced tea, making Michael jerk back to avoid the spray. “Hoss Man?”
And then she saw him, standing at the bottom of the staircase with her bags—a suitcase in one hand, her garment bag in the other and a beauty case tucked under his arm. His face was burned to a golden bronze beneath a black western hat. Blue-black hair curled over his forehead and a five o’clock shadow hugged the hard edge of his jaw. He stared back at her with thickly lashed, sage-green eyes, eyes that were both gentle and strong, honest and fearsome.
Ruckert? Ruckert. Gone was the mustache, but Shelby recognized his navy pullover as the same shirt he’d been wearing on their original meeting, though now he wore it over a stylish pair of well-fitted jeans. His biceps flexed with the weight of her luggage as he lowered it to the floor, and Shelby winced because she knew how heavily she’d packed those bags.
He removed his hat as he stepped forward. His black hair was relatively short in back and on the sides, longer on top, obviously cut by a pricey stylist.
“Yeah, I thought it a c-c-crazy idea myself,” he said, his western drawl devastatingly deep and sinfully rich. “I’ve got obligations waiting for me in California, horses I need to get back to, yet I stuck around for your visit. W-what made me stay? I don’t know anything about you, but when Cat showed me your picture, I found myself drawn to you. I don’t know how I know, but I feel this is where I’m supposed to be.”
Shelby was experiencing an intense moment of deja vu. Her heart beat so fast, she could scarcely draw breath, and she seemed to have completely lost the ability to speak.
With a trembling hand, she reached up to tuck a fall of hair behind one ear. She couldn’t take her gaga eyes off him, and though he stared just as intently back, she was too overcome to as much as offer him a smile.
This is where I’m supposed to be. The words struck a chord in her heart, but dare she believe? She gazed at this raven-haired, gorgeous hunk of a buckaroo and raised a slim, auburn brow.
Michael made the introductions. “Er, Shelby, this is Ruckert St. Cloud. Ruckert, meet my sister-in-law, Shelby McCoy. That little black fur ball by your feet there is Jorge.”
The teeny Pomeranian was peering up at Ruckert, tongue hanging out in an eager pant, and in the dark pools of his eyes, Shelby saw unquestionable recognition. Jorge turned those eyes on her, waiting for her to react.
“It’s great to meet you,” Ruckert St. Cloud told her. He smiled, and Shelby was treated to an unobstructed view of his firm lips and straight white teeth without the mustache.
She smiled in return, letting out a long exhalation as she fell into a moment of joyful reflection. Her mind slipped to a place where she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Her brain had splintered into a thousand shards of jumbled thought. Those weeks at the Flying Eagle while she was falling in love with Ruckert, Ruckert was actually here waiting for her to arrive?
An awkward silence had filled the room.
Michael chuckled nervously. “Yup, that’s our Shelby. The real McCoy,” he heckled, shooting her a pointed glare.
Caitlin reached for a tumbler from her tray. “Um, Ruckert, would you like to join us for some iced tea?”
He looked too big for Cat’s little nook and certainly not the sort to sip tea, iced or otherwise. Without wavering from their locked stare, he waved Caitlin off with a gesture that said, All set, thanks, with that all-too-familiar ability of his to make himself understood without uttering a word.
He dug into his front jeans’ pocket and pulled out Shelby’s car keys, which he dropped on the nook table.
“Yup, like I s-s-s-said. C-crazy. Well, you have a nice visit, Miss McCoy. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy. I w-won’t be getting in your hair.”
He’d misunderstood her silence, and turning, strode out through the dining hall.
Shelby felt the void the moment he exited the room, but she was left with an adrenalin rush that kick-started hopeful excitement pulsing through her being. She listened to his footsteps up until the moment the front screen door slammed shut.
“Um . . . uh . . . who was that?” she asked, dazed.
Cat gave her a gentle slap upside the head. “That! That is only one of the most internationally acclaimed horse trainers ever. He’s given clinics across the country and has written articles for every major horse magazine. He owns a ranch in northern California and heads an organization that rescues abused and unwanted horses. Just mentioning his name in connection with our guest ranch has brought in more business than all our tourism brochures, advertising and website hits combined. And all you can do is gawk at him like he has three heads. Was it too much to offer him a simple hello?”
“And to answer your earlier question,” Michael piped in, “yeah, Ruckert is a direct descendant of the original cattle ranchers. And though Cat and I manage operations of the guest ranch, we actually own the Flying Eagle jointly with Ruckert’s mother, Rose. In addition to everything he’s doing promotion-wise, Ruckert has supervised the purchase and training of our Quarter horses. No small task. So, not only is he talented and successful, he’s a genuinely cool guy. And if you can quit being overly cautious, if you can drop the attitude and the preconceptions long enough to give the guy a shot, you’ll discover you’d be pretty lucky to hook up with him.”
Wow, Shelby thought. That was a mouthful for Michael. And she had to agree with him. She might never be able to put this surreal experience into pers
pective, but maybe she could take what lessons she’d learned and move forward from here.
“I thought you didn’t butt into other people’s lives,” she teased affectionately, but for once her brother-in-law was dead serious.
With a breath, she turned her attention from Michael to her sister. “So, Cat, Ruckert really liked what he saw in my photograph?”
Cat nodded, her eyes widening with enthusiasm. “It was a photo of you from last summer. You’re standing beneath the cottonwoods on the little red bridge off the west terrace, looking into the sun, your hair windblown.”
Shelby thought for a moment, then shook her head, unable to recall.
“You’re wearing that khaki, western-theme cardigan Mom and Dad gave you for Christmas, the one with an embroidered yoke,” Cat clarified.
“Oh . . . that photo. Yuck. I hate that photo. Personally, I hate that sweater.”
“Ruckert didn’t seem to have a problem with it. In fact, he got a little starry-eyed looking at it. It was cute. He’s giving a demonstration for the wranglers later this afternoon, but anyone’s welcomed to watch. And something else, at dinner one evening last week he asked me what you did for a living, and when I told him, he admitted to having a real appreciation for the piano. Then he told me he—”
“Plays piano himself,” Shelby supplied. “In that case, I have a new song I’d like to play for him sometime.” She took advantage of Cat’s momentary shock to quickly ask, “So, why couldn’t you have just been up front with me about him from the beginning? You never even mentioned his name.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” Cat mocked, slightly irritated. “What would you have said—you, with your ultra-conservative tastes and down-on-dating gloom—if I told you I wanted to introduce you to this Zen horse guy, eleven years younger than you, who happens to have a slight stutter?”
“Hmm, he does have a stutter, doesn’t he? I’d hardly noticed. Awesome.”
“Awesome?” Michael scoffed. “That turns you on, does it?”
“Just let her answer the question, Michael.”
Shelby’s eyes had filled again. She was ashamed to admit what she would have said, but . . . somehow . . . Nana Tinkler had transformed her into a more open-minded woman. She’d learned that love was powerful enough to find her even under extraordinary circumstances, at a most unexpected time, in a form she never could have expected.
“I’m not the same person who left my townhouse this morning,” she argued. “My life and perspective have completely changed since then.”
“Then, Shelby, why are you crying?” Cat inquired softly.
As Shelby sniffled, a loud, watery snort emitted from her runny sinuses. “So, you really don’t think Ruckert’s too young for me?”
Michael offered her a box of tissues that had been resting on the windowsill. “I think the real question here is, does he think you’re too old for him?”
Caitlin shot him a look.
Shelby snatched up one of the tissues and blew her nose.
“That shirt Ruckert was wearing,” she began, “was that—”
“Yup, that’s one of the shirts I made from an antique pattern of an army shirt that grew popular with Wyoming cowboys in the late nineteenth century.”
Michael balked. “Hey, I’m wearing the same shirt, but you didn’t notice it on me.”
Shelby had no comment.
“Excuse me,” she said, as she slid out from the booth, then calmly stepped to the dining hall, where she suddenly broke into a run on her way to the front door.
“Try the stables,” Michael called behind her. “Back down the ranch road on your right.”
Shelby didn’t have to look that far. As she hurried down the porch steps and across the lawn, she saw him.
Ruckert was leading a graceful young sorrel, no more than thirteen hands high with an auburn star centered on the forehead of an otherwise entirely white face. They were headed across the ranch road to a pasture southeast of the lodge.
Her heart rate quickened. Time ceased to exist. One day was as a thousand years, and a thousand years were as one day. It could have been the nineteenth century as easily as it was the twenty-first.
“Wait!” she called. “Ruckert, wait!”
He stopped at the sound of her voice and turned. The horse halted by his shoulder, head alert, ears pricked sharply forward, both of them waiting for her to catch up.
Shelby reached them, breathless, and not just from running. “Oh,” she exhaled, struggling to catch her breath and smile at the same time. “Ruckert, hi. Hey, I’m sorry for acting like a space shot in there. I’ve had the most unusual morning, like you wouldn’t believe. Anyway, I apologize for anything you may have overheard while I was talking to Michael and Cat. The truth is, I’m really glad you stuck around and waited for me. Even if I was lured here by well-meaning relatives under false pretenses.”
He studied her beneath the shadow of his hat brim with those sage eyes, a trifle amused, yet weighing the sincerity of her words. Finally, he answered her smile with one of his own.
“I don’t give a rap how or why you came to the Flying Eagle,” he said. “I’m just glad you came.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
Shelby realized she wasn’t missing the mustache. Who knew he had such perfectly formed lips? She stared, a little longer than might have been polite for a man she’d supposedly just met.
She had to force her attention elsewhere and turned a loving gaze to the animal at his side. “And who’s this beautiful girl?”
Stepping closer, Shelby slipped a hand beneath the filly’s long, pinkish forelock and rubbed her face.
Ruckert looked on curiously. “This . . . th-this is Cat’s horse. She hasn’t been named yet, Cat was waiting—”
“Cameo,” Shelby informed him. “Her name is Cameo. Cameo because she has a face as pretty as a cameo.”
“I have no argument with that,” Ruckert admitted.
The filly blew softly, ducking her head, then quickly raising it in a nod.
They turned to each other and laughed.
“Think Cat would mind sharing her with me?” Shelby asked.
“Cat’s been too busy lately to ride, and, er . . . Cameo here could use the exercise. Maybe you’d both care to j-j-join me for a ride?”
Shelby grinned. “I’d like that. But first, if you don’t mind, I need to have lunch with my sister.” There was music in her voice and happiness in her soul.
“You do that, Miss McCoy,” he said. “I’ll saddle the horses when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.”
“My p-p-pleasure.”
“Good.”
“G-good,” he agreed.
“You shaved off your mustache,” she ventured.
He gave her a big, white smile. “You’ve been talking to Michael. I haven’t worn a mustache in months.”
Shelby grinned. “I like looking at your face.”
“Same here.”
They continued to gaze adoringly at one another, not quite sure what to say, but not anxious to be moving on either.
And then Shelby did something out of character, something daring and impulsive. She plunged ahead, throwing caution to the wind, saying yes to this chance for love and all that came with it. She flung herself at Ruckert with opened arms and kissed him.
He caught her by the waist. His wide, strong hands encircled her, fingers spread to clutch her tightly, while he drew her closer still and returned the kiss.
He took the initiative and followed through with skillful, persistent lips and tender kisses, until several moments later when they came up for air.
“If you’re going to kiss me like that, I think you should call me Shelby. Only my students call me Miss McCoy.”
“Shelby, then,” he whispered, lowering his head for more. “That’s some sassy mouth on you, and I intend to kiss it again.”
And to Shelby, it felt exactly as though they were kissing—not like two people who had just met—but as two lover
s who had found each other after what seemed like a hundred years of searching.
About the Author
Lisa Norato lives with her family on the New England coast in a cozy historic village with homes and churches dating into the eighteenth century. She finds inspiration in the quaintness of small town life, the changing seasons and visits to the nearby seashore. She also contributes to the Colonial Quills blog, promoting early American fiction and blogging about life and trivia of both the colonial and federal eras.
For more, visit Lisa’s website at http://lisanorato.com/.
Other books by Lisa Norato
I Only Want To Be With You
The Sea Heroes of Duxbury novels:
The Promise Keeper
Prize of My Heart
One final note. . . .
Thanks so much for reading Where Eagles Fly. Please keep reading for the first chapter of I Only Want To Be With You.
Excerpt
I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU
Chapter 1
Would an urban professional woman leave an exciting career with a major New York magazine publisher to settle in the English countryside as the wife of a vicar?
Yep, you bet she would.
Crazy, huh? Marcella Tartaglia didn’t comprehend such a match, having left her own small Italian neighborhood on Providence’s Federal Hill for the great adventure of working in New York. But hey, that didn’t mean she wasn’t all for the union.
In fact, she saluted the cupid who’d shot his arrow in this bizarre twist of kismet. She lifted her cocktail glass in his honor.
Tomorrow, when Senior Editor Lynne Graham married the Reverend Henry Swann, the position of Senior Decorating and Entertainment Editor at Gracious Living magazine would be up for grabs.
There was only one obvious choice for a replacement. Only one woman at the magazine possessed the creative genius, innovative thinking, and leadership skills needed to fill Lynne Graham’s sophisticated designer pumps. One woman, with her obsessive-compulsive work ethic and tireless dedication to organization and design, embodied the editorial integrity of Gracious Living magazine.
