by Diana Palmer
He cocked an eyebrow. “You loved him.”
“I could have, I think.” She looked up into pale brown eyes in a hard, uncompromising face. “But you’ve never loved anyone,” she said, reading him with textbook accuracy. “You love women, plural. You love the taste and feel and exhilaration of conquest. But the next day, you can walk away without being tempted to look behind you.”
Both eyebrows arched. “Damn,” he said softly.
She smiled knowingly, her pale eyes intent on his face. “You’re a sad, lonely, lost person.” She sighed. “Like me.”
What began as a potential one-night stand was quickly turning into something else, something totally unexpected.
“You see deep,” he replied after a minute, and with reserve.
She nodded. “I’ve been through a lot in my life. It’s taught me to live for the moment. I don’t look ahead, ever.”
He sipped brandy. He was the same. After his stint in the Middle East, after what he’d been through, he’d lived only in the present. He was damaged. Broken. He would never again be the idealistic, patriotic young man who donned a military uniform and went overseas into combat. His worldview had changed.
“You don’t even remember what they look like, do you?” she asked, bringing him out of his memories.
“What who look like?” he asked blankly.
“The women you’ve had,” she said simply. “They all blend together.”
He frowned. “Is it like that for you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t sleep around.”
His eyes widened. “Then what the hell am I doing here?”
She smiled. “Keeping up appearances. Living down to your cousin’s image of you. Discouraging that young woman in the plain dress.”
He pursed his lips and let out a whistle.
“I dress like a woman on the prowl for a man. I flirt. I seduce. They all think that I’m hot stuff, that I’ve seduced a dozen men for what they have.” She laughed. “I inherited from my first husband. He had millions and millions of dollars and no heir.”
“The one who was gay,” he recalled.
She nodded, her eyes sad. “His lover threw him over for a younger, more adventurous man. He went to see his attorney, made out a will that left me as sole beneficiary, made sure his employees were taken care of. A week later, he went up to the top floor of his corporation’s headquarters building in New York City and stepped out into space.” She drew in a long breath. “I didn’t know about the lover. He was quite discreet. Actually, I thought there was something very wrong with me, because he never wanted to touch me.” She laughed. “He left me a long letter, thanking me for marrying him, for being kind to him. He told me about the lover.” She pursed her lips. “After he died, the lover filed a lawsuit and tried to get ‘compensation’ for my husband’s attentions.”
His eyes twinkled. “What did you do?”
“I set our corporate attorneys on him. It was brutal. He ended up with what he deserved—nothing. And besides that, he even had to pay court costs.” Her eyes darkened. “I hear he went down to Acapulco to ply his trade and fell victim to a gangster. Poor little man.”
“You were fond of your husband.”
She nodded. “He was a good person.” She looked up at him. “People are what they are,” she said with a sad smile. “I don’t think we have the right to tell anyone how to live.”
“Amen,” he agreed, and raised his glass. She raised hers as well.
He set the glass down and chuckled. “Well, as one survivor to another, it’s been a nice evening.”
“For me as well.” She got up and smiled at him. “Sorry if I messed up your plans.”
He shrugged. “I suppose I’m getting old. I don’t really mind.”
“Don’t give me away, please,” she said. “I like being the resident seductive witch. Most men run like hell from the image I present.” She laughed. “They’re afraid they won’t measure up and I’ll talk about them to other people!”
He laughed, too. “No problem. Just don’t talk about me.”
“Oh, I’ll laud you to the skies. The most incredible lover of all time, a monument to mankind, men everywhere should be jealous!”
“Don’t do that,” he chuckled. “I’d never live up to that image.”
“I’ll modify it, just a little.”
“Thanks for the brandy. And the company.”
“I enjoyed it, too.” She studied him quietly. “You’re one of the Griers from over near El Paso, in Texas. You run purebred Santa Gertrudis cattle.”
He nodded.
“But you’re playing at being a cowboy.”
He shrugged. “I got tired of being a walking bankbook.”
“I know that feeling as well. If you get bored, come on over. I play a mean game of chess.”
His pale brown eyes brightened. “So do I.”
She stopped to jot down her number on a piece of paper. “It’s unlisted.”
He gave her his cell phone number. “I’ll be in touch.”
She smiled. “But just friends.”
“Just friends,” he promised.
* * *
BART WAS STILL awake when Cort drove up to the front door and cut off the engine. He felt a little ashamed of what he’d asked his cousin, about bringing Ida home with him. Bart wasn’t a rounder and he didn’t move with the times. Cort never should have made him uncomfortable about his beliefs.
He was hesitant when he got into the living room. It was uncharacteristic. “Listen,” he told Bart. “I’m sorry. About what I asked you.”
Bart didn’t hold grudges. He just shrugged. “Different strokes for different folks,” he said, quoting his late father. “Your private life is none of my business. As long as you don’t try to bring it here,” he added with a grin.
“Fair enough.” He sat down heavily. “I guess I really am getting old. Women don’t hold any mystery for me these days.”
“Even the happy divorcée?” Bart asked with a chuckle.
He shook his head. “She isn’t what she seems.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” Bart replied, thinking of his friend Mina.
His face tautened. “That ‘friend’ of yours is a walking irritant,” he muttered. “What the hell was she doing at a high society party in the first place? I’d bet real money that her dress came off the sale rack at some bargain basement clothing store.”
Bart almost told him. Almost. But it was fun watching his cousin make assumptions. When it came, the end result was going to be hilarious. “Oh, they invited the whole community,” he said instead.
“It was supposed to be for some up-and-coming author, they said,” Cort returned, “but I never got introduced.”
“Too many people,” Bart said easily. “I just stood in a corner with the Callisters and Mina.” His mouth pulled down at one side. “None of us drink.”
“Your loss,” Cort chuckled. “They had some fine liquors.”
“I like my brain functional.”
“So do I, but the occasional drink helps to give it a brief vacation,” his cousin quipped.
Bart chuckled. He got to his feet. “Well, I’m off to bed. I’m not much for parties, and I’ve got a man coming over in the morning to look over my yearling bulls to see if he feels like spending some money.”
“Your stock is outstanding,” Cort said. “I like your breeding program.”
“Well, it’s not quite up to Grier standards,” Bart said with a grin, “but I make enough to keep the ranch going, even if I do run Black Angus instead of Santa Gerts.”
“All you need is a wife, and a few kids to inherit the place when you’re gone.”
“Chance would be a fine thing,” he said, sighing.
“That ‘friend’ of yours seems to like you enough,” he r
eturned with a scowl.
“I told you, there’s no spark,” Bart returned with a sad smile. “It’s like dancing with a sister. Nothing like I felt with the woman who married and moved away. I have the damnedest bad luck with women.” He shook his head. “I guess some of us just aren’t destined to help populate the planet. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. See you in the morning.”
“Yeah. See you.”
Cort went into the guest room and stripped down to his shorts. He wasn’t sleepy. In fact, he hated sleeping, because the dreams came. Every time, he was back in the war, back in the horror, the blood, the carnage. He pulled up the covers and rolled over. Maybe, just maybe, tonight he could manage to sleep without dreaming at all.
* * *
MINA STOOD QUIETLY by while the local veterinarian, Ted Bailey, checked the stitches he’d put in her young bull.
He stood up and smiled. “He’ll do, Miss Michaels,” he said after a minute. “No evidence of infection and he seems to be healing well. But I’d keep him up for a few days, just the same.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks, Dr. Bailey.”
“No problem.” He shook her hand and went to his truck. She followed him outside after another glance at her young bull. She was grateful that Old Charlie hadn’t done any worse damage to him.
Bill McAllister had just loaded Charlie onto his horse trailer, with a little help from her other part-time cowboys and a few false starts. The old bull hated trailers. He fought the ropes and the cowboys, but they managed to get him into the trailer without anyone being injured.
“Well, that was an experience,” Bill chuckled.
“I noticed,” Mina said with a grin. “Thanks for the help, guys,” she told the part-timers, who nodded and went back to work.
“I’ll get Charlie home and into the pasture, then I’ll be back. Thanks again, Miss Mina.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” she told him with a warm smile. “I’m just happy we don’t have to put him down. He’s been around here for a while. Since I graduated from high school, in fact.” Her face tautened at that memory of what had come before her graduation.
“You’ve got a good bull crop, and more expected,” Bill said at once, hoping to wipe the frown off her face. He smiled. “You’ll have ranchers milling around here like cattle, hoping to buy them on sale day.”
She grimaced. “My operation isn’t big enough for sale days, I’m afraid,” she said. “Bart and I are going to go in together and do it at his place. He’s going to get Dan Carruthers out of retirement to cook steaks for it. Dan’s got that secret spice recipe,” she added with a grin. “I’ve been after it for years.”
“It will be buried with him,” Bill predicted. There was a loud clang from the horse trailer. “I’d better get going. Be back soon.”
“So long,” she said.
She watched him drive off. She’d just finished a chapter of her new book that morning and she needed some fresh air. She saddled Sand and climbed into the saddle, dressed in jeans and boots and a red plaid wool shirt under a leather jacket, with a cowboy hat on her loosened hair. She’d meant to put it up, but Bill’s arrival with the horse trailer had interrupted her. It didn’t matter anyway, she considered, because nobody would see her except her part-timers, and even then from a distance.
She rode along the fence line, through the lodgepole pines, toward the boundary she shared with Bart Riddle’s ranch. They ran the same breed of cattle, Black Angus, so there was no worry of crossbreeding if a bull wandered through a downed fence. Besides that, it was the wrong season for breeding. Her cows, and Bart’s, would be dropping calves soon, just in time for spring grazing. While she rode, she looked for breaks and posts that needed replacing. She noted them on her iPhone with GPS, so that she could tell her part-timers where to find them.
Cousin Rogan had said that she needed at least one full-time man on the ranch, and she agreed that she did. But it would be expensive to hire somebody, and she wasn’t about to trust her purebred bulls to just some person she knew from a newspaper or trade advertisement. Still, she could afford it now, with the money from the new contract and what she’d get, hopefully, from her yearling bull crop.
Maybe Bart knew of somebody local who’d be a good hire. She wanted somebody trustworthy.
It was a beautiful day, if cold. Mid-March, and her cows would be calving soon, to take advantage of the spring grass, which would hopefully come after the ankle-deep snow melted. The weather was getting warmer. She could see snow melting where the sun hit it, although it was still covering the ground in the shade. Snow in Wyoming was nothing unusual, even up until April or May. But it had been a rather warm winter, all the same.
She came to a gate that sat on the boundary between her land and Bart’s. She dismounted to open it, led Sand through and closed it back. People who left gates open were severely punished in ranch country. Straying cattle could get expensive, especially if they spilled out onto a highway and caused accidents.
She looked around for her cousin. He was supposed to be showing a visiting rancher around, hoping to sell some young bulls. She didn’t want to interrupt him, but it was late morning and he’d probably gotten through his business already. She was going to invite him for lunch. She’d made a tuna salad and put it in the fridge. She could offer him sandwiches and coffee.
Then she remembered his houseguest. Well, the awful man had gone home with the happy divorcée the night before. He might have stayed for lunch. Odd, how it stung to think of him with the glitzy woman. He was jaded and sarcastic and unpleasant, so why should she care if he slept around?
She turned Sand in the general direction of Bart’s house. On the way, she came across a lone calf, lying in the snow.
She climbed down and left Sand’s reins trailing while she went to check the little creature for injuries. There were wolves in the territory who sometimes preyed on lone calves. The result could be horrible, because sometimes the calves were left alive after such an attack.
As she bent down, she heard hooves hitting ground and other hooves, galloping. She ignored both as her practiced, gloved hands slid over the little creature, looking for injuries. It stirred and looked up at her just as a charging cow with horns was diverted by a man on horseback.
“Get the hell away from it!” he shouted.
Shocked at his tone and his skill with the cutting horse, she backed away, toward Sand. The calf got to its feet and ran, bleating, to the cow, obviously its mother. She gave the humans a huffy snort and trotted off, after a feint that the horseman parried neatly.
She was still getting her breath when the horseman abruptly dismounted and stalked toward her.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he raged, raising his voice angrily. “The cow was charging, you damned fool!”
She shivered and backed away from him, keeping her white face lowered. The man was Bart’s horrible houseguest, his cousin from Texas.
She backed even more. Her eyes were wide with fear, but she wasn’t seeing Cort Grier. She was seeing Henry, hearing Henry, waiting for his fist to connect with her, for the belt to come down. She was feeling the pain already, because shouting always brought back the horrible memories of her childhood, of the men her mother brought home...
Cort stopped short when he realized how frightened she was. He scowled. He’d never seen a woman react like that. He wondered who she was. With her head lowered to her chest, her arms crossed over her face, he hadn’t recognized her. Who was she and what was she doing on his cousin’s ranch?
“It’s all right,” he said, his voice dropping to a softness she’d never heard in it. He moved toward her slowly. “I’ve never hit a woman in my life,” he added gently.
She took a deep breath, then another. Her arms came down. She bit her lower lip, still nervous of him and unable to hide it.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said quietly.
She looked up at him from under the brim of her hat, her face still pale, her big brown eyes wide with leftover fear.
He frowned as he suddenly recognized her. This was Bart’s friend, the woman from town who’d stomped on his foot, the woman dressed in a sale rack dress from the party last night. She was wearing boots and riding a horse, the beautiful palomino that was obviously hers.
“You’re Bart’s friend,” he said, not moving any closer. She still looked intimidated by him.
She nodded. She swallowed, hard. Her weakness showed, to her worst enemy. She was ashamed and embarrassed. She swallowed again.
He studied her quietly, his horse’s reins held lightly in one hand. “What were you doing here?” he asked belatedly.
She had to try twice to get her choked voice to work. “I saw the calf down,” she managed. “I was checking it for injuries. We have wolf packs around here. Sometimes they prey on our herds when they can’t find anything else to hunt.”
“The calf was separated from its mother because we were checking the herd and it scattered,” he explained.
She looked up at him, still pale but faintly defiant. “And now I know that, don’t I?” she asked.
He moved a step closer. She didn’t back away, but she looked nervous. She looked fragile, vulnerable, with her long, blond-streaked brown hair loose around her shoulders under the cowboy hat. It was a worn hat, like her stained, warped boots.
“You know about cattle,” he said after a minute.
She nodded. “I own the ranch next door,” she said. “I have purebred bulls, just like Bart does. We have production sales jointly. I was coming over to talk to him about it.”
