In A Cowboy's Embrace
Charlotte Maclay
Who's been sleeping in my bed?A simple question, yet Cliff Swain knew his reaction to the slumbering beauty couldn't be easily explained. After all, he hadn't looked, let alone thought twice about a woman in years. And here, temptation lay in his bed, her tousled hair spread across his pillow…Tasha Reynolds had come to Montana to repair a broken heart and to cook and clean for Cliff. The deputy dad had an opening, allowing Tasha and her daughter to make a temporary home on the Double S ranch. Only, Tasha hadn't dreamed what she would find in this cowboy's embrace…and couldn't conceive leaving behind…
Instinctively Tasha snuggled into the warmth of the man beside her
She relished the steady beat of his heart and the warm feel of his skin beneath her palm. She felt secure. Cherished. Infinitely at ease, as though she’d been lost for a long time and had finally come home.
She squeezed her eyelids closed against the press of sunlight. Morning, she realized. Time to get up, and she wasn’t anywhere near ready to give up the snug place she’d discovered.
Slightly shifting, she wished—
Everything about her stopped, even her breathing.
There was a man in her bed. A big man with a broad chest and muscular arms. A familiar man who smelled faintly of spicy aftershave mixed with the scent of sagebrush.
Her eyes flew open. “Cliff!” she whispered sharply. Mortified, she tried to shake him awake. “Cliff, wake up! You’re in the wrong bed!”
Dear Reader,
May is the perfect month to stop and smell the roses, and while you’re at it, take some time for yourself and indulge your romantic fantasies! Here at Mills & Boon American Romance, we’ve got four brand-new stories, picked specially for your reading pleasure.
Sparks fly once more as Charlotte Maclay continues her wild and wonderful CAUGHT WITH A COWBOY! duo this month with In a Cowboy’s Embrace. Join the fun as Tasha Reynolds falls asleep in the wrong bed and wakes with Cliff Swain, the very right cowboy!
This May, flowers aren’t the only things blossoming—we’ve got two very special mothers-to-be! When estranged lovers share one last night of passion, they soon learn they’ll never forget That Night We Made Baby, Mary Anne Wilson’s heartwarming addition to our WITH CHILD…promotion. And as Emily Kingston discovers in Elizabeth Sinclair’s charming tale, The Pregnancy Clause, where there’s a will, there’s a baby on the way!
There’s something fascinating about a sexy, charismatic man who seems to have it all, and Ingrid Weaver’s hero in Big-City Bachelor is no exception. Alexander Whitmore has two wonderful children, money, a successful company…. What could he possibly be missing…?
With Mills & Boon American Romance, you’ll always know the exhilarating feeling of falling in love.
Happy reading!
Melissa Jeglinski
Associate Senior Editor
In a Cowboy’s Embrace
Charlotte Maclay
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHARLOTTE MACLAY can’t resist a happy ending. That’s why she’s had such fun writing more than twenty titles for Mills & Boon American Romance and Mills & Boon Love & Laughter, as well as several Silhouette Romance books. Particularly well-known for her volunteer efforts in her hometown of Torrance, California, Charlotte’s philosophy is that you should make a difference in your community. She and her husband have two married daughters and two grandchildren, whom they are occasionally allowed to baby-sit. She loves to hear from readers, and can be reached at: P.O. Box 505, Torrance, CA 90501.
Books by Charlotte Maclay
MILLS & BOON AMERICAN ROMANCE
474—THE VILLAIN’S LADY
488—A GHOSTLY AFFAIR
503—ELUSIVE TREASURE
532—MICHAEL’S MAGIC
537—THE KIDNAPPED BRIDE
566—HOW TO MARRY A MILLIONAIRE
585—THE COWBOY AND THE BELLY DANCER
620—THE BEWITCHING BACHELOR
643—WANTED: A DAD TO BRAG ABOUT
657—THE LITTLEST ANGEL
684—STEALING SAMANTHA
709—CATCHING A DADDY
728—A LITTLE BIT PREGNANT
743—THE HOG-TIED GROOM
766—DADDY’S LITTLE COWGIRL
788—DEPUTY DADDY
806—A DADDY FOR BECKY
821—THE RIGHT COWBOY’S BED* (#litres_trial_promo)
825—IN A COWBOY’S EMBRACE* (#litres_trial_promo)
Reed County Register
Around Town with Winnie
by Winifred Bruhn
Eligible Bachelor Brothers
Bryant and Clifford Swain have recently set Reilly’s Gulch on fire with rumored bedroom shenanigans!
As you know, the brothers Swain co-own and operate the Double S ranch outside of town. And with any number of virtuous single young women residing in our fine community, these two gentlemen have seen fit to take up with outsiders! What is wrong with the wonderful young women right here in Reilly’s Gulch, I say!
And as if this weren’t enough, apparently there has been a mix-up in the two Swain boudoirs! Ella Papadakis from Los Angeles was dating brother Clifford, but somehow ended up in Bryant’s bed. Her sister, Tasha Reynolds, claims she was merely hired to be brother Clifford’s housekeeper, but seems to have interpreted “keeping house” quite differently!
One must hope, as members of one of Reilly’s Gulch’s leading families, that the brothers Swain will resist temptations of the flesh in favor of setting a strong example for the young people of our community.
Meanwhile, at Sal’s Bar and Grill, this reporter is troubled to note…
Contents
Chapter One (#uf5d6c178-6535-543d-a9ec-2bb395c0e722)
Chapter Two (#uba1d031c-2d9f-5a3a-a3ae-814991797ca4)
Chapter Three (#ua94dd1e1-dac4-5678-9b99-7a74e36e4a5f)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
“Daddy! Daddy!” Five-year-old Stevie came running into the kitchen from the back of the house. “Goldilocks is sleeping in your bed! And she brought her mother with her!”
Clifford Swain cupped the back of his son’s head. He’d had a long day rounding up cattle on the Double S and branding this year’s crop of calves on the ranch he and his twin brother jointly owned. He wasn’t at all sure he had the energy to deal with another of his son’s flights of fancy.
Still, a stranger in the house would explain the silver-gray BMW parked out front. No one in the small Montana town of Reilly’s Gulch drove a car like that, certainly not one that was five years old and looked brand-new. Pickup trucks and sport utility vehicles were the favored mode of transportation in this rugged, northwestern part of Montana.
Except for Chester O’Reilly. He’d gotten it into his ninety-year-old head to buy a Mazda Miata from Cliff’s sister-in-law, Ella, and then started a taxi service with it.
“Come on, bucko,” Cliff said to his son. The crime rate in Reilly’s Gulch was so low, he didn’t imagine whomever Stevie had spotted—real or pretend—would pose much of a danger. He should know. When he wasn’t punching cattle, he was a Reed County deputy sheriff and had filed the papers to run for election as county sheriff. “Let’s find out what’s going on.”
“Do you think they ate up all our porridge?”
Cliff grinned at the boy, whose blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “Don’t think you’re going to get out of eating your oatmeal for breakfast if they have. I’ll just buy some more.”
“Aw, gee…” He did a little skip-hop to catch up with Cliff. “Sweet rolls are better.”
“That gooey stuff’ll kill you, kid.” As well as give the boy a sugar high that he didn’t need. Where Stevie was concerned, energy was rarely in short supply.
The sprawling ranch-style house had large rooms and wide hallways. He and his wife had wanted a big family and plenty of space to spread out. But Yvonne had died nearly three years ago. They’d never built the second story, which had been in the original plans.
They’d never had any more kids, either, and that still hurt almost as much as having lost his high school sweetheart.
Cliff peered into the guest room. Actually he’d been sleeping there since Yvonne died. At first there were too many ghosts, too many memories in the master bedroom. Then it simply became a habit to sleep across the hall.
“See, what’d I tell you,” Stevie whispered.
Yep, definitely Goldilocks and her mom, both of them sound asleep on top of the covers, a paperback novel open on the night table. The girl’s hair was tousled with blond ringlets, her face like an angel, but it was the woman who drew Cliff’s attention. Her hair spilled over the pillow like a waterfall made of white gold. At rest, she looked vulnerable. Approachable. Tempting as hell.
Thick coils of heat whipped through Cliff, and he had to fight an instinctive urge to flee…or to join the woman lying on his bed.
A grown-up Goldilocks far more alluring than a younger version. He must have made a sound because the woman stretched, arching as lazily as a sleek cat. Her eyes blinked open. Blue as a Montana sky. A slow smile curved lips specifically made with kissing in mind. She gave him an assessing look, then her gaze slid to his son.
“Hi. You must be Stevie.” A low, seductive voice, husky with sleep.
The boy nodded. “You’re sleeping in my dad’s bed.”
“I am?” She eyed Cliff again with a warm, blue-velvet gaze.
“Did you break any of our chairs?” Stevie asked.
A fascinating little inverted V appeared between her nicely shaped eyebrows. “Chairs?” Effortlessly, she rose to a sitting position, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her skirt swirled into position, settling like silk across her lap, draping the quick flash of leg that he’d glimpsed. With easy grace, she picked up a silver hair clip from the nightstand, twisted her long hair a couple of times and piled it on top of her head, snaring it in place in a sexy, casual do.
“He thinks you’re Goldilocks’s mother,” Cliff explained, his throat strangely tight and his voice as husky as hers had been.
She glanced at her sleeping daughter, and her smile blossomed into something radiant. Madonna and child with a measure of laughter mixed in. “More like an overtired minx, I’m afraid. We’ve been driving for days and then I got lost.”
From the looks of her long fingernails painted a raspberry red, to her perfectly oval face and her flawless complexion, not only was this woman lost, she’d wound up about two thousand miles off target. Hollywood should have been her destination.
She slipped her bare feet into a pair of leather sandals on the floor beside the bed, her toenails the same bright shade of raspberry as her fingernails. When she stood, she extended her hand to Cliff. “I’m Tasha Reynolds, your new housekeeper. Temporarily, of course.”
Cliff’s jaw dropped to somewhere near his knees. His housekeeper? No way was this the sort of woman he’d expected to fill in for Sylvia Torres while his regular housekeeper was helping her daughter following the birth of Sylvia’s third grandchild. But he’d asked his sister-in-law if she knew anyone….
“Are you Ella’s sister?” he asked, belatedly noting a vague family resemblance to his brother’s new wife. But while Ella Papadakis-Swain was attractive, Tasha was…striking. Tall and willowy, she moved with a dramatic grace that only a man who could meet and beat her height could fully appreciate. A man like Cliff.
“Guilty as charged.” She slipped past him as smoothly as warm butter on toast, taking Stevie’s hand in the process. “Why don’t we let Melissa sleep a little while longer? Four days of travel were hard on her.”
He watched her walk down the hallway—no, she floated down the hallway, Cliff mentally corrected himself, noting the sway of her skirt. She left the scent of the tropics behind her, hot and sultry. No way could he let Tasha Reynolds stay around as his housekeeper. No way, unless she’d allow him to spend twenty-four hours a day in bed with her.
Given he had an impressionable five-year-old son—and she had a young daughter—that wasn’t a viable plan. The only other choice was to ask her to leave. Because no way could he be under the same roof with her for any extended length of time without bedding her.
He wasn’t going to do that.
Especially not when his reputation was likely to be under scrutiny because of his election campaign for county sheriff.
TASHA RELEASED Stevie’s hand when they reached the spacious living room, decorated in Western style with bright colors accenting the earth tones of wood and the native stone fireplace. “Your Aunt Ella tells me you’re five years old.”
“I’m almost six.” The youngster looked like a small replica of his father—close-cropped, sandy-blond hair that on the boy had gone slightly shaggy and was in need of a haircut; baby-blue eyes that on his father held a glint of mischief; a particularly strong jaw and lips that naturally curved upward in an invitation to return his smile.
“My Melissa’s almost seven. She’s looking forward to playing with you.”
“She really isn’t Goldilocks?”
“’Fraid not. But that’s always been one of her favorite stories, too.”
The little boy scrunched his forehead into a frown. “I thought the bears were gonna eat Goldilocks up and I got scared, but they didn’t. The bears around here will eat’cha up if you’re not careful.”
“Yes, well, I’m certainly glad Goldilocks found some friendly bears to play with, aren’t you?”
“I guess. Ricky Monroe kept wanting the bears to rip her head off.”
Tasha shuddered at the thought, and at the same time felt Clifford’s gaze on her. She was used to people looking at her. After all, she was a fashion model on the runways of New York and Paris and posed in front of the camera for cover shots. People admiring her—or at least the clothes she wore—wasn’t unusual.
The way Cliff looked at her was different. Not predatory. Certainly interested. But with a wary gleam suggesting she didn’t belong here.
Well, she didn’t. But every woman deserved a safe place to lick her wounds when she got dumped. Naturally, she’d called her sister, who’d suggested she fill in for Cliff’s missing housekeeper and play nanny to his little boy.
Even though she’d met Ella’s husband—Cliff’s twin—at her sister’s hasty marriage last year, Tasha hadn’t expected this version of the Swain brothers to have such an impact on her. With his narrow hips, broad shoulders and Stetson tipped back at a rakish angle on his head, he was so potently masculine, he made every man in New York City pale in comparison. The guys in Paris couldn’t hold a candle to him either.
If Tasha hadn’t been getting over her latest romantic involvement, she would have considered making a play for Clifford Swain. But she’d turned over a new leaf.
Lust was no longer enough to base a relationship on. And being a single mother was better than settling for something less, like playing second fiddle to an eighteen-year-old modeling phenom who was landing cover jobs by the handfuls.
“You said you got lost?” Cliff sauntered into the room, all long, loose limbs, cowboy boots and sexy hips.
Lost in lust, she thought before she could stop herself. “Ella gave me the directions to her place, but I must have made a wrong turn. More than once,” she admitted with a wry smile. “I swear I went by the same cow six times.”
His lips hitched up. “They tend to look alike.”
“About the seventh time around the loop, I recognized your name on the mailbox. Melissa was whiny and I was exhausted, so I thought I’d crash here and worry about Ella tomorrow. Your door was unlocked.”
“Western hospitality.”
He came closer, and she caught a whiff of him, an elemental fragrance no aftershave designer had managed to bottle—a combination of leather and sweat and something she suspected was pure sex appeal.
“I’ll drive you out to the ranch if you want to see your sister tonight,” he offered.
“I hate to wake Melissa. Why don’t I just call Ella and let her know I got this far? After all, I’ll be staying here.” She shot a look at Stevie and grinned. “Goldilocks and her mom need someplace to hang out so the mean ol’ bears won’t get ’em. What d’ya think?”
The boy giggled. “I don’t think you want to sleep in my daddy’s bed. It’s not big enough for two people.”
To Tasha’s amazement, she felt the heat of a blush stain her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I thought that was the guest—”
“It is. I’ve been sleeping there the past couple of—” He snatched off his hat and tossed it on an end table. “Look, you can take the guest room. I’ll sleep in the master bedroom and Melissa can sleep—”
“She can sleep with me, Dad. I’ve got an extra bed in my room. She might get scared or somethin’ if she was all alone.”
The boy’s generosity touched Tasha’s heart. What a sweet child! Raising his son with no mother around, Cliff had still managed to rear a sensitive youngster who could empathize with the fears of others. That was a very special attribute few people—particularly men—could claim.
“I think she’d like that, Stevie,” she said. “Thank you for offering.”
Cliff’s scowl telegraphed his disapproval, and Tasha wondered why.
Stevie had plopped himself down on the couch, swinging his feet, and one shoe caught a handle on the carryall purse she’d left there earlier, toppling it over. The contents spilled out, including a paperback she’d finished reading last night.
“Careful, son.” Automatically, Cliff stooped to pick up the mess Stevie had made and his hand fell on a magazine that had fallen out of the purse. Tasha’s image gazed back at him from the cover with a come-hither smile. One creamy shoulder was bare, her salmon-colored dress slinky, sophisticated and sexy as the devil’s own. The headline on the women’s fashion magazine shouted Bright Colors for Summer. His mouth instantly went as dry as a hot summer day and his blood heated to match the temperature.
“Hey, look, Dad. That’s Tasha on the front of the magazine.”
She took the magazine from his fingers that had gone nerveless. “I spotted this at a convenience store where we stopped for a soda. I never know which shot they’ll use.” She studied the photo with a critical eye. “Not too shabby, is it?”
“You’re real pretty,” Stevie said.
Tasha gave the boy a warm smile. “Why, thank you, honey.”
“You’re a cover model,” Cliff said as though that weren’t entirely obvious.
“Mostly I do fashion work, designers’ shows, that sort of thing.” She tapped the magazine. “This was a nice gig, though. Gives me some national visibility, which I could use right about now.”
Visibility was right! On every magazine stand across the country, Tasha would be smiling at passersby, tempting men to pick her up and indulge in a little fantasy. He could just hear the raucous laughter and catcalls when the guys at Sal’s Bar and Grill heard she was his housekeeper.
“Nice gig” was a total understatement. He wasn’t an expert, but he’d guess a national cover like this would bring big bucks.
He plowed his fingers through his hair, stiff from the sweat and dirt of a roundup. This was never going to work. Surely if he asked around a little more, he’d find somebody more suitable to be his housekeeper until Sylvia came back—somebody who wouldn’t tie his libido in knots.
Or draw a lot of attention just when he was starting his election campaign for county sheriff. Granted, so far he was running unopposed and had the support of the incumbent sheriff, who was planning to retire. Still, his personal life would be under a microscope for the next few weeks. Having a beautiful single woman living under his roof was bound to raise eyebrows.
He knew his sister-in-law would watch out for Stevie if he needed her to. But Ella had a new baby, and the main ranch was ten miles by road from Cliff’s house, which was located in the corner of the spread closest to town. When he worked nights or had a meeting to attend, he’d have to pick up Stevie, interrupting his sleep to bring him home.
There had to be some other option.
“Look, I’m not entirely sure—”
She bent to scoop a wallet and fallen keys back into her purse, her low-cut neckline blousing out to reveal the swell of her breasts, and Cliff’s tongue got tangled with his good intentions.
“I didn’t bring our luggage in since I wasn’t sure where you’d want us to sleep. Would you mind helping me?”
Stevie hopped down from the couch. “I’ll help you,” he volunteered.
Blessing Stevie with another smile, which perversely Cliff wished had been meant for him, she said, “I think I’m going to enjoy Western hospitality as long as I’m here.”
She took the boy’s hand, and the two of them headed toward the front door. Cliff didn’t have much choice but to follow. It wasn’t in his nature to be rude to a woman—or anyone else, for that matter, unless he was pretty darn sure they’d broken a law. Even then he tried to be courteous. Given the circumstances, he wanted to be tactful with his brother’s sister-in-law. But he wanted her gone.
Yet for the sake of family harmony, having her here for one night wouldn’t hurt him any. Tomorrow he’d discuss how Tasha would be better off to spend her vacation at the main ranch house with her sister.
Outside, the air was unseasonably warm and there was still a touch of light in the late April sky, although the red-streaked clouds of sunset had faded to gray. The distant mountains of Glacier National Park were only faint silhouettes. A couple of bats whipped past the willow tree his wife Yvonne had planted; in the flower beds that she had lovingly tended and Cliff had let go a little wild, weeds bent their heads in the gentle evening breeze. With a son to raise and a job to hold down, there was never enough time to do everything that needed doing.
Tasha popped the trunk on her BMW.
“Nice car,” Cliff commented. Though it wasn’t the kind of car most folks in this part of Montana would want, he admitted, it was more suitable than the Mazda Tasha’s sister had arrived in a year ago.
“Living in New York City, I’ve never had much of a chance to drive it. I think James enjoyed being out on the road.”
“James?”
“That’s the car’s name.” Her easy smile came his direction this time. “As in, ‘Take me home, James.”’
Right, she named her car. Once she saw his truck, she’d probably call it Brute and his police cruiser would be Hi-Ho-Silver.
She handed Stevie a child’s suitcase and lifted out a larger one for herself. “If you could bring my makeup kit, that’d be great,” she said to Cliff, indicating the remaining piece of luggage in the trunk.
“Sure, no problem.” Reaching inside, he grabbed the handle, yanked…and nearly pulled his arm out of its socket. “What the hell have you got in there? The Brooklyn Bridge?”
“You’re not ’pose to swear, Daddy.”
“You’re right, kid.” He rubbed his shoulder. “I forgot.”
Amusement made Tasha’s eyes sparkle even in the dimming light, like the first two stars to appear in the night sky. “A little of this and that. Makeup, cleansers, moisturizers, a blow dryer with a defuser attachment. Only what every woman needs to look her best.”
“What the—” frowning, he glanced at his son “—heck is a defuser?”
“I’ll show you later, if you’d like.”
Cliff wasn’t sure he wanted to know, or if Stevie was old enough to be hearing this conversation. “Let’s get this stuff inside. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. You didn’t happen to put dinner on before your nap, did you?”
Half dragging the smallest suitcase, Stevie staggered along the walkway and up onto the porch that went across the front of the house.
“Dinner?” she questioned. The wheels on her suitcase rattled on the uneven concrete path.
The case Cliff was carrying weighed as much as an anvil and didn’t have wheels. “Uh, that’s what housekeepers usually do—take care of dinner arrangements.”
She brightened. “Oh, sure. I can do that.”
“Great. I’m due for a shower. It’ll take me only about ten minutes and then we can eat.”
Tasha looked at him askance. How on earth did he expect her to have something ready to eat in ten minutes? Maybe that was how things were done in Reilly’s Gulch.
But five minutes after putting her bags in her room, she still didn’t know the secret of getting dinner here so quickly, though she’d searched the entire kitchen and the minuscule phone book for the number of a pizza or deli delivery service. Even Chinese would have worked. The best she could find was a diner in town and Sal’s Bar and Grill. Neither of them delivered.
She went down the hall, glancing briefly into the living room where Stevie was watching TV, and knocked on Cliff’s door. There was no sound of water running, so he must have finished his shower.
“Be there in a minute,” he called.
“I can’t find the phone number.”
There was a pause. Then the door opened and Tasha realized she’d made a serious mistake in timing. He had a clean pair of jeans on, which he hadn’t yet bothered to snap, and no shirt. The broad expanse of his chest, furred by only a modest amount of sandy-blond hair, invited a woman’s caress. His nipples peaked in perfect circles of brown; muscles ribbed his washboard stomach. Overall he reminded her of the bronze sculptures on display in New York City museums but far warmer and more tempting to touch.
She licked her lips. Being this man’s housekeeper was definitely going to be a challenge when her mind kept toying with other ideas.
“What phone number?” he asked.
It took her a couple of heartbeats before she recalled why she was standing at his bedroom door. “For a deli or pizza place that delivers. I can’t find a thing in the phone book—”
His shaking head suggested she’d made another error in judgment. “No pizza parlors here, Goldilocks. What I had in mind was for you to fix dinner.”
“Fix?” A few minutes ago Melissa had been Goldilocks. Now Tasha had acquired the nickname.
“As in cook. You do know how to cook, don’t you?”
“Well, of course I do.” She gave a disdainful huff. “Every Greek girl learns to make baklava almost before she can walk.”
He shook his head again, a truly irritating habit he’d developed. “Let’s try for soup and sandwiches. More times than not, that’s what Stevie and I have when Sylvia isn’t around.”
Tasha could handle that. Cliff didn’t have to look at her as if she were totally incompetent. In the city, you ordered takeout. No need to spend your time slaving over a hot stove. It didn’t mean she couldn’t cook—just that she didn’t have many occasions to. She was on the road a lot, and when she wasn’t her hours were grueling.
As she walked away from his bedroom door, she wondered if he’d be all that swift at picking delis out of the phone book that wouldn’t stiff him with a bad case of salmonella or inflate their charges. It took talent and experience to survive the inhumanities of the big city.
From her perspective, cow country looked easy.
TEA SANDWICHES. She’d removed the damn crusts and cut them in triangles. Cliff could hardly believe this was what Tasha considered dinner, but he was too hungry to complain.
With the same delicacy as her mother, Melissa selected one of the tuna triangles and took a dainty bite.
Cliff ate his in a single gulp and took another one from the plate Tasha had prepared.
“My mommy says you’ve got horses, Mr. Swain.”
“Why don’t you call me Uncle Cliff and I’ll call you Melissa. Unless you’d rather I call you Ms. Reynolds?” he teased.
She giggled. “I’ve got an Uncle Bryant, too. We’re going to see him tomorrow and my Aunt Ella.”
“Eat your dinner,” her mother reminded the girl, who after one bite had evidently forgotten her meal.
“I’ve got a horse all my own,” Stevie said. “She’s a cow pony and goes like the wind. Her name’s Star Song.”
“Can I ride her?” Melissa asked. “Can I?”
“Sure. I guess.” Stevie shrugged and glanced at Cliff for direction.
“Now wait a minute, young lady,” her mother said. “I don’t want you trying to ride on your own. You’ll need proper lessons—”
“I can teach her,” Cliff said impulsively before thinking through his offer. If he had his way, Melissa and her mother wouldn’t be here long enough to saddle a horse, much less learn to ride one. “Or maybe your Uncle Bryant can teach you.”
“Can you teach my mom, too? She’s never, ever even been on a horse.”
In an instinctively mothering gesture, Tasha smoothed her daughter’s flyaway curls. “Thanks, but I’m not sure I trust anything that outweighs me by eight hundred pounds.”
Though she was tall, Tasha probably weighed little more than a hundred pounds. Not any more than a decent bale of hay. She had fine bones without an extra ounce of fat on her, long, slender fingers accented by the polish she wore and graceful hands she used to advantage whenever she wanted to make a point.
Cliff swallowed hard as he considered what else her hands would be capable of doing. “I’ve got a gentle mare that wouldn’t give you any trouble.” Not nearly as much trouble as his own imagination was giving him tonight. “She’s about eighteen years old and as placid as a horse can be. Used to be able to cut a calf away from its mama slick as glass, but she’s too old to work now. She could use some exercise, though.”
“I’ll think about it.” With a noncommittal smile, she turned her attention to her cup of chicken noodle soup.
From the looks of things, Tasha didn’t eat enough to keep a sparrow going—a skimpy cup of soup and a quarter sandwich. Meanwhile, Cliff devoured everything on the plate and finished Melissa’s uneaten sandwich. Finally he rummaged in the refrigerator for some leftover roast beef slices and gravy Ella had sent home with him after last Sunday’s supper and zapped a plateful in the microwave. If Tasha stuck around for as long as a week as his housekeeper, he’d be nothing but skin and bones, too weak to chase down a jaywalker, forget an ornery steer.
The kids finished their supper, such as it was. With a warning that it was almost bedtime, they charged off to Stevie’s room to investigate his toys.
Cliff carried his plate to the kitchen counter. “Tell me, how is it a woman like you, I mean, a cover model and all, agreed to fill in as my housekeeper?”
Stacking the kids’ soup bowls and plates, Tasha rose from her chair and brought them to the sink, moving so gracefully she appeared to exert no effort at all.
“Ella said I’d mostly be playing nanny while you’re at work, and I love kids. Stevie’s adorable, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Running water over the dishes, he wondered how he could tactfully phrase his question. “I understand why you’d want to come visit your sister on a vacation. Heck, you haven’t even seen her baby yet. But take a job? That, well, kind of surprises me.”
She slid the dishes he’d rinsed into the dishwasher, already full from a couple of days’ worth of meals. “To tell you the truth, I recently broke up with my fiancé and I need to catch my breath.”
“Hey, that’s rough, but wouldn’t just hanging out for a few days with your sister be better instead of trying to—”
“Unfortunately, my fiancé—who I literally caught in bed with a younger woman—was also my agent and business manager. It doesn’t look like he did anything illegal, if you don’t count two-timing me and sleeping with a bimbo, but he spent practically every dime I earned.” She shoved the dish rack into place and looked under the sink for the detergent, then poured some into the cup. “I’m very close to being broke.”
“Broke,” he echoed.
She lifted her slender shoulders in a self-deprecating shrug. “I guess I’m the real bimbo for having been so trusting. Anyway, I subleased my apartment for a few weeks to a friend from Paris and came here to lick my wounds and thought I’d earn a few dollars in the process.”
On a sudden surge of anger on her behalf, Cliff gritted his teeth and his hands folded into fists. “I’d say any man who’d even look at another woman when he had you has got to be crazy or totally stupid.”
“Why, thank you.”
Her grateful smile warmed him in ways he hadn’t felt in years, sending heat coiling through his chest and to his lower regions as well.
Ah, hell! He couldn’t throw her out of the house, not when she was short on money and suffering from a broken heart. If she wanted to be his housekeeper for a couple of weeks, he’d have to grin and bear it. And take a helluva lot of cold showers.
“We’d better get the kids to bed and hit the sack ourselves,” he said more gruffly than he’d intended. “The Double S is in the middle of a roundup. Days start early around here.”
Her eyes brightened with wary interest. “A roundup? Can Melissa and I come along to watch? She’d love it.”
Wonderful! The hired hands would probably be watching Tasha instead of keeping their minds on their own business. He could only hope no one got killed stumbling all over themselves to impress Ms. Goldilocks and her little girl.
Including himself.
Chapter Two
“He’s beautiful.” Inhaling the scent of baby powder, Tasha forced away a sharp stab of envy as she held three-month-old Jason Bryant Swain in her arms for the first time. Never again would she hold a baby of her own. And that knowledge formed an ever present ache in her chest she knew would always be there.
Cliff had dropped off Tasha and the children at the Swain ranch house early that morning. She and her sister had visited, waiting until Jason was awake and fed and ready for his day. Meanwhile, Melissa and Stevie had turned the front porch into a makeshift jungle gym, climbing on the railing and leaping off the steps to entertain themselves.
Stroking the baby’s soft cheek, Tasha swallowed the raw sense of disappointment at fate’s cruel trick. “You did good, big sister.”
Ella fussed with Jason’s knit cap, motherly pride radiating from her like a lighthouse beacon. “It wasn’t all my doing. Bryant contributed a few good genes, too.”
“From your glow, I’d guess he’s contributing more to your health and welfare than just a few baby genes.”
Ella’s healthy complexion took on the rosy hue of a woman in love and her eyes filled with mirth behind her big round glasses. “Let’s say marriage and motherhood agree with me.”
A couple of inches shorter than Tasha, her hair a shade or two darker, Ella had always been the smart one in the family. Tasha had spent her adolescence envying her sister’s good grades and the respect she’d received from being smart instead of simply pretty. But Ella’s hasty marriage last summer to Bryant Swain had startled everyone in the family. Tasha was glad the relationship was working out. A claim she couldn’t make about either her too young marriage to Robert Reynolds when she’d learned she was pregnant with Melissa, or her recent botched engagement.
Definitely time for her to swear off men. Her judgment regarding the opposite sex left a lot to be desired.
“We’d better go,” Ella said, picking up a light jacket from the back of the couch and slipping it on. “The kids are itching to get out to where they’re branding the calves. If we aren’t careful, those two are likely to head off on their own.”
“All the way from New York, Melissa’s been asking when she’d get to see real cowboys.”
Ella laughed. “We’ll take the truck.”
“Thank goodness we don’t have to ride a horse.”
“I’m not quite ready for that yet.”
They went out the back way—leaving the door unlocked, Tasha noted—and called the children around to the side of the house where the truck was parked. Well-kept barns and outbuildings suggested the ranch was a prosperous enterprise, though Ella had said raising cattle was always a risky business financially.
“Learning to ride is one of my goals for this summer,” Ella said. “When I get good enough, I may even take up barrel racing.”
“Ella! You wouldn’t!” Tasha choked on a surprised laugh, but was unable to suppress a ripple of fear that sped through her. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
Her sister grinned at her. “Well, if not barrel racing, there’s a women’s mounted drill team. Maybe I could do that instead.”
From Tasha’s perspective, that didn’t sound all that much safer.
Shaking her head, Tasha strapped Jason in his car seat and stood back while Stevie and Melissa clambered into the rear seat of the truck with the baby.
Whatever had gotten into her sister, moving from New York to California and then without warning all the way to Montana? This was a nice enough place to visit for a week or two, no doubt peaceful in a way that would help Tasha put the disappointment of the past few weeks behind her. But she was a city girl. Horses and cows—and all that went with them—weren’t her cup of tea.
Still, as she thought of the Swain brothers, she had to admit there was something very appealing about the rugged, outdoor men who lived in the West.
But that didn’t mean she was going to get involved with her handsome employer.
Speaking of which, she’d better see if Ella had some recipes she could share. Last night it was pretty obvious tuna sandwiches and soup weren’t going to hack it for a man who expended thousands of calories rounding up little doggies all day. And she didn’t think her typical salad greens and cottage cheese would cut it, either.
She grinned at the thought. Wouldn’t her modeling friends and fashion designer colleagues get a kick out of seeing her now, in jeans and sharkskin boots, bouncing in a pickup along nothing wider than a rutted trail en route to round up a bunch of cows destined to be turned into hand-tooled leather jackets?
DUST AND DIRT rose fifty feet straight up toward a cloudless sky before dissipating in a slight breeze. The noise was astounding—bawling cows, squealing calves and cowboys shouting X-rated obscenities children shouldn’t hear. The air reeked of smoke and burning leather.
“Mommy, look what they’re doing!” Melissa made a dash for the pen where they were branding the new calves.
Tasha snared her daughter by the back of her jacket. “Oh, no you don’t, young lady. Don’t you go running off on your own. Those cows will trample you if you’re not careful. You are to stay right next to me like we’re glued together.”
“But, Mommy!” Melissa whined.
Stevie had already raced ahead and was climbing the wooden fence surrounding the pen. “Stevie!” Tasha shrieked, envisioning the boy toppling over and falling beneath the hooves of the agitated animals.
Ella slipped little Jason into a sling across her middle and cuddled her baby next to her. “Stevie will be fine. He knows to stay out of the pen.”
Tasha lacked her sister’s confidence. The entire scene was as chaotic as the New York theater district right after the Broadway shows released their audiences, spilling them out onto the streets and sidewalks all at once. No one seemed to be in charge of the choreography. Cowboys on horseback darted through the milling herd, ropes twirling over their heads. Clutches of cows and their calves danced back and forth trying to avoid capture and separation. Swirling dust softened the edges of the scene, making it all look surreal. Or nightmarish.
Tasha would sooner make her way through Times Square on New Year’s Eve than journey into that chaos.
But Melissa, like an eager puppy on a leash, tugged her forward.
As they approached the fence, Tasha noticed one of the cowboys miss with his lariat, the rope falling harmlessly to the ground. Another cowboy twisted around in his saddle so quickly he nearly unseated himself.
“Watch what you’re doing, Shane!” Cliff yelled.
“Ri…ght, boss.” The boy’s voice cracked.
“Looks like the hands have noticed your arrival,” Ella said, amused.
“Next time I’ll wear a sack over my head.”
“Sis, with your perfect size six figure, it’s going to take more than a sack to get these men to ignore you.”
Tasha knew she drew the attention of men like pigeons to peanuts. It was both blessing and curse. She needed her looks because of her job, but at heart she was shy and wished—just once—that a man would admire her for something more than an accident of birth.
At least the swearing appeared to have subsided, she thought with relief.
Cliff reined his mount around, exiting the branding pen. He was no better than Shane had been. When Tasha had shown up wearing skintight jeans and a rhinestone-studded denim jacket, he’d almost dropped his teeth along with his lasso. Her langorous walk was sweet, hot sex on the hoof and capable of blowing holes in a man’s good sense with every sway of her curvy hips.
He rode to where she and her sister were standing. “Morning, Ella.” He tipped his hat to Tasha. She ought to be wearing a hat, too. But then he wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing her white-gold hair held back from her face with a couple of fancy combs and hanging loose down her back. “You two getting reacquainted?”
“It’s wonderful to have my sister here,” Ella said, tipping her head back so she could see from beneath her straw hat. “Thanks for looking after her.”
“I thought she was supposed to be looking after me.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll do a good job of that, too.”
Cliff wasn’t quite sure what to make of Ella’s quiet, self-satisfied laugh or the gleam in her eyes. Maybe it was just a trick of the sunlight glancing off her glasses.
Straddling the fence, Stevie said, “Can I help you cut out the calves, Dad?”
“Sure you can. I’ve got Star Song all saddled for you.”
“You’re going to let him ride into that mess?” Tasha asked, her expression stunned, even a little frightened if Cliff read her right.
He shrugged. “Sure. Someday he’ll own part of the Double S.”
“But he’s only five years old.”
“Going on six,” the boy corrected, clambering down from the fence.
“I’m almost seven,” Melissa said. “Can I help, too?”
“You certainly may not!” Tasha admonished her.
Reaching down, Cliff gripped his son’s forearm and hefted him to the back of his horse. “You’ll have to wait till you learn how to ride, Melissa. Stevie’s been riding since before he could walk.”
Melissa’s angelic face soured into a pout. “Girls can do all the stuff boys can.”
“Sure they can,” Cliff agreed. Except Melissa and her mom weren’t likely to stay around long enough for either of them to become good riders. And that reminded Cliff he didn’t want Stevie to get too attached to either of them. Sometimes he caught the boy in the master bedroom studying his mother’s picture, his expression heart-wrenchingly sad. Cliff didn’t want his son to go through another emotional loss like that. Nor did he want to face the bleak sense of abandonment again that had dogged his own life since he and his twin brother were deserted by their biological mother. They’d been about four at the time and he still had a vague recollection of his mother crying.
He circled his horse, coming up beside Tasha, who quickly stepped away from him, placing Melissa safely behind her.
For the moment, Tasha was his housekeeper, and because of his need for child care Cliff had no choice but to treat her as such. Until she decided to move on or he made other arrangements. “I’ve got to work the four-to-twelve shift tonight. I’ll plan to take my dinner break about seven, if that’s okay with you.” Maybe if he gave her some warning, she’d come up with something more than tuna sandwiches for supper.
“That’s fine, but—” She glanced around as if she’d landed on an alien planet. “You mean to tell me you’re going to work all day punching cattle, or whatever you call it, then work another eight hours tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He thumbed his hat back on his head and added a big dose of drawl to his Western accent. “Can’t leave the good folks of Reed County unprotected from rustlers and other varmints just so’s I can stay home with a pretty little lady.”
She looked up at him slack-jawed.
“My daddy’s a deputy sheriff,” Stevie explained. “He catches bad guys.”
“You got that straight, bucko.” Though for the past year a band of rustlers had been operating in the area and neither he nor Sheriff Colman had been able to get a decent lead on them.
“All right. I’ll have dinner ready about seven.”
“Steak and potatoes would be good,” he suggested in the hope of avoiding another batch of tea sandwiches. “And when you’ve got a minute, Sylvia washed a bunch of my uniform shirts before she left for her daughter’s place but didn’t have time to iron them. Could you take care of that for me? They’re in the laundry room.”
That cute little inverted V formed between her eyebrows again. “Anything else you’d like taken care of, Deputy Swain?” she asked tautly.
Yeah, there was something else he’d like, but he wasn’t going to go down that path. In fact, he’d be better off if she decided she didn’t much like the idea of playing housekeeper, even if she did need the money—a topic they hadn’t discussed in any detail yet. Though, come to think of it, Ella knew what Cliff had been willing to pay. She’d probably mentioned the salary to her sister.
“I’ll let you know if I think of anything.” With that, he tapped his heels to his horse and rode toward the remuda where the string of extra mounts were tethered away from the action.
Tasha blew out a sigh; her jaw ached from clamping her mouth shut instead of coming back at Cliff with a smart remark. “Are all cowboys that chauvinistic?” she asked her sister.
“They tend to be a bit arrogant, which is part of their appeal.”
Melissa wrapped her arms around Tasha’s waist, hugging her. “What’s chuff-in-istic, Mommy?”
“It’s when a man thinks all a woman is good for is to cook his meals and wash his clothes.”
Ella’s laughter rippled through the air, adding a high note to the masculine sounds of the roundup. “Oh, I think Clifford has something else on his mind when he looks at you, Sis, but it’s a little too soon for him to pursue that particular activity.”
“What’s Aunt Ella mean?”
Heat flooded Tasha’s cheeks. “Don’t ask, sweetheart. Just don’t ask.” The possibility that Cliff harbored the same sensual thoughts that had plagued Tasha since last night was unsettling. Despite what others might think of her, or how they judged her from her appearance alone, she didn’t engage in recreational sex. And developing a deeper relationship with Cliff would be beyond foolish. She was a New Yorker. He was a Montana cowboy. Speaking of which…
“How is it I got the distinct impression from what you told me that Cliff needed a nanny for his little boy, not so much a housekeeper? You wouldn’t be trying a little matchmaking in your spare time, would you, sister dear?”
“Moi? Why, whatever do you mean?”
Tasha glared at her sister. She’d been ambushed, darn it all, and she wasn’t going to stand for—
“Morning, missus.” A bowlegged cowboy had climbed the fence and dropped down beside Ella. He lifted his hat, uncovering a nearly bald head except for a curly fringe of carrot-red hair. Immediately Tasha recognized him from Ella’s wedding day—Rusty the ranch foreman.
“Hello, Rusty. Good to see you again,” Tasha said, extending her hand.
Giving her a big grin, and wiping his hand on his dusty trousers, he shook hands with her. “Welcome back to Montana, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
Ella said, “Rusty’s been wonderful to me and Bryant. I don’t think the ranch could get along without him. I know I couldn’t.”
“You’d do jest fine.” He peered at the baby cradled in the sling across Ella’s chest. “He’s growing like a weed, ain’t he? He’ll be riding broncs with his daddy in no time, I reckon.”
Tasha shuddered at the thought, though she noted Ella didn’t seem disturbed by the possibility of her baby being tossed around on the back of a wild mustang.
“You planning to stay long, ma’am?” Rusty asked Tasha.
“Not really. In fact, I may cut my trip short.” The urge to escape Cliff’s superheated masculinity was a powerful one.
“You can’t,” Ella insisted. “How will Cliff run his campaign for sheriff if he doesn’t have someone to look after Stevie?”
“And fix his meals,” Tasha said pointedly.
“Now that boy is a real big eater, that he is,” Rusty said.
“Stevie?” Tasha questioned, momentarily confused.
“Nope, Cliff’s the one I mean. His brother, too, for that matter. Them two could put away a whole side of beef without any trouble at all when they was teenagers. Quite a sight to behold, it was. Kept their mama hopping in the kitchen, I can tell you that. I remember the time…”
He went on to describe when the adolescent twins had tried to outdo each other at Thanksgiving dinner and had been sick for days afterward. Somewhere in the middle of that story, Shane, the young man whose voice had cracked, joined in the conversation. Another couple of hired hands—Billy Bob and Dingle—sauntered over, happy to make Tasha’s acquaintance. A shorter man with a barrel chest wandered in to join the crowd.
Pretty soon Tasha noticed the cows weren’t putting up the ruckus they had been earlier. In fact, not much was happening as far as branding was concerned. The cows stood quietly chewing their cuds while the calves nursed or frolicked with their friends.
That was when both Cliff and his brother Bryant came riding into the midst of the crowd that had gathered around Tasha, cutting the men off as if they were calves being separated from their mothers.
“Gentlemen, you get paid for branding calves, not for chatting up the two prettiest women in the county.” Bryant leaned out of his saddle far enough to kiss his wife on the lips.
“What? Not the whole state?” she complained, laughing.
“Haven’t seen all the girls in the state yet, and I didn’t want to exaggerate.”
“Well, don’t you go lookin’, either, cowboy, or you’ll hear from me.”
Tasha was stunned by the exchange between husband and wife. Despite her big glasses, simple haircut and minimal makeup, Ella looked truly beautiful…and she’d shown more spark than Tasha could remember seeing in her intellectual sister. Marriage—and the love of a good man—had obviously changed her.
With a sinking heart, Tasha realized she’d very likely never have the chance to experience that kind of happy makeover. She might remain beautiful, though that would be an increasingly difficult battle as she grew older. But she’d never have that glow, the pure radiance Ella had achieved by simply being in love.
Tasha tried to suppress the envy that welled up in her but found she couldn’t. Instead, she turned away, her arm hooked over her daughter’s shoulder, and headed back toward Ella’s truck. She needed to start making calls to agents she knew in New York. She needed to get on with her life.
A few weeks was all she had promised Cliff. Even that might be too long if she wanted to protect her heart.
WHEN TASHA had driven through Reilly’s Gulch yesterday, she’d been concentrating more on finding the turnoff to the Double S than to the details of the town. Now, en route to find a grocery store to restock Cliff’s pitiful supply of fresh fruit and vegetables—and with the children pouting in the back seat because they had to leave the roundup before the last calf was branded—she cruised slowly down the main street checking out the buildings.
The local elementary school and the adjacent county building had matching flag poles out front, the flags fluttering gently in the afternoon breeze. The Cattlemen’s Association occupied a building next to what looked like abandoned railroad tracks.
The small business district didn’t look very promising, except for Sal’s Hotel, Bar and Grill at the end of the block where several pickups were parked out front. A gas station with repair bays sat opposite a feed store, a mechanic in blue overalls dozing in the sun.
Just as she spotted the grocery store, a red Mazda Miata convertible bumbled out of an alley in front of her and wheeled into the perfect angled parking space right at the door—the one she’d been planning to pull into.
She swore under her breath. The guy must be a transplanted Manhattan cab driver! At least it wasn’t the last spot in the city.
“Mommy, you’re not supposed to say bad words,” Melissa reminded her.
She glanced at her daughter in the rearview mirror. “You’re right, sweetheart. I’ll have to put another quarter in our piggy bank when we get back home.”
“We’re saving up to see The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center,” Melissa explained to Stevie.
“You wanna eat nuts?”
“No, silly. The Nutcracker’s a ballet.”
Tasha picked a parking spot two slots down from the Mazda and pulled in between a pickup and a Jeep.
“What’s a ballet?” Stevie asked as he followed Melissa out of the car.
Melissa did a pirouette on the sidewalk and pranced around on her tiptoes, showing off. Though, given she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the dance lacked a true classical flavor without the proper costuming. “Haven’t you ever seen a ballet?”
He jammed his hands in his pockets, hanging his head as if he’d missed something important in life. “Uh-uh.”
“Mommy, can we take Stevie to a ballet sometime?”
“I don’t think Reilly’s Gulch has those, honey.” A cultural hot spot, it wasn’t.
“Well, if it did, could we take him?” Melissa persisted.
“I suppose.” Cupping her daughter’s shoulder, she ushered her toward the grocery store and reached out for Stevie’s hand, too. “Come on, kids. We’ve got to get Stevie’s daddy something to eat for dinner.” And then she was going to have to iron, of all things. Hadn’t this place heard of dry cleaners? Or wash and wear?
An older gentleman wearing a sporty plaid beret and a frayed suit jacket met her at the grocery store entrance. He tipped his cap to her, revealing thinning white hair, and nodded toward her car.
“Mighty fine lookin’ Beamer,” he said.
“Thank you.” She considered skirting past him, but he was pretty well blocking the center of the double doors.
“That’s my Mazda.”
Vaguely recalling her sister had owned a Mazda convertible and sold it last winter, Tasha forced a smile. She resisted telling him what she thought of a man who’d steal a parking spot right out from under her nose.
“Red is nice,” she said noncomittally.
Aware of the dangers of talking to strangers, Melissa clung to her side.
Stevie charged forward. “Hi, Mr. O’Reilly.”
The older man shifted his wrinkles into a glad smile. “Hello, young Steven. Looks like you’re escorting two lovely ladies today.”
Stevie giggled. “These aren’t ladies. She’s our new housekeeper.” He pointed at Tasha, then indicated Melissa. “And she’s only a little girl, same as I’m a little boy.”
“You’re littler,” Melissa corrected. “I’m almost seven.”
Before an argument broke out, Tasha introduced herself to the gentleman, who she learned was Chester O’Reilly, descendant of the town founders, and the owner of the only franchised taxi service in Reilly’s Gulch. She thought the reason for only one such service in town was pretty obvious, but he seemed so proud of his community duties, Tasha didn’t see any reason to point out the probable lack of demand for cabs in this small town.
As she tried to excuse herself to get on with her shopping, he said, “If you decide to sell your Beamer, let me know. I’m thinking of expanding my taxi service.”
“You are?” That sounded like the height of optimism to Tasha.
“Yep. Billy Flynn turned over his ranch operations to his boys and he’s got some extra time on his hands. Figured I could keep him busy doing taxi work. Shoot, he’s only eighty-two, way too young to retire. And there’s lots of potential ’round here, you know. Only a question of time till I’m busier than flies on a fresh cow pie.”
“Yes, well…” She wrinkled her nose and mumbled something about keeping Chester in mind if she decided to sell her car while she was in town, then scooted herself and the children past him into the grocery store.
Reilly’s Gulch might lack for cultural amenities but the town certainly wasn’t short on characters. Tasha suspected Chester was only the tip of that particular iceberg.
She doubted the town was short of good-looking men, either. Unfortunately one in particular held a special attraction for her.
Clifford Swain.
Chapter Three
Cliff pulled his truck into the sheriff’s parking lot behind the combined city hall and county courthouse, a squat brick building that had been constructed in the 1930s. He’d barely had time to stop by home, shower and get dressed after his day at the roundup. He’d given Stevie a hug, said a quick hello to Tasha and her daughter, and then he’d been on his way.
Fortunately it was only a couple of weeks out of the year when he burned the candle at both ends, being both cowboy and deputy sheriff. But he owned half the Double S. Even though he never took any of the profits from the ranch—assuming there were any—he couldn’t leave his brother to do all the hard work during roundups. Besides, he kind of liked keeping his hand in the business.
Aching muscles or not, it felt good to ride hard, work harder and have something to show for his efforts.
Which was more than he could say for the success of the sheriff’s office at catching the band of rustlers who’d been plaguing the area for the past year, including the time Cliff was living in Los Angeles.
Adjusting his sidearm, he went into the office. Sheriff Colman was behind the counter talking to Deputy Andy Linear, a Barney Fife look-alike and not a whole lot smarter.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. He hooked his hat on a peg and joined them at the counter where they were studying a large-scale map of the area.
Reed County encompassed some twenty thousand square miles of mostly rolling hills, grassland suitable for grazing cattle. Periodically rivers and winter creeks bisected the land, creating ravines and forming lakes and ponds. To the west, the land rose, becoming more forested. To the east was prairie country. Within the county boundaries only a few small towns existed, shown on the map as clusters of houses and often connected by nothing more than gravel roads.
“What’s up?” Cliff asked.
Larry Colman tapped the map at a spot south of Reilly’s Gulch. “Got a report of another truckload of steers picked up from the King place last night. The King ranch got hit last year, too.”
Larry had put on a good fifty pounds in the years he’d served as county sheriff. Though his body wasn’t as agile as it used to be, his mind was still alert and he was eager to get on with retirement in order to pursue his other interests—primarily opening a museum to house his old-time radio memorabilia, from Captain Midnight decoder rings to a set of broadcast tapes from early Green Hornet shows.
“You find tire tracks?” Cliff asked.
“Yep. We went out to investigate this morning first thing. An eighteen wheeler’s, rear inside left tire with a notch in it same as the other jobs.”
“And another full moon last night,” Andy pointed out.
Cliff studied the map. “That’s when they do their best work.” Last month during the full moon a ranch to the east had been victimized in the same way, the first rustling activity reported since the winter snows had melted. “Looks like it’s going to be another long summer unless we get a lead on them. Or they make a mistake.”
“These particular crooks are sneaky devils,” Larry commented. “Using a big truck like that, then poof! It vanishes into nowhere before we even get word of the missing steers.”
Andy said, “It’s just like that big TV magician who makes the Statue of Liberty and airplanes and stuff disappear. Now you see it, now you don’t.”
Cliff suspected they were hiding the truck somewhere safe between jobs, but he didn’t have a clue where that might be. So far the Double S hadn’t lost any steers. Idly he wondered how long their good luck would last.
The office door opened and in marched Winifred Bruhn, editor, publisher and sole reporter for the Reed County Register. She was also a member of the school board and the self-appointed head of the town’s morality police.
“Seems to me you folks ought to be out catching criminals instead of standing there chewing the fat.” She whipped out a notepad and slapped it on the counter. “Now then, Sheriff, what are you planning to do about those rustlers stealing the livelihoods right out from under our citizens’ noses?”
Larry exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “We’re working on it, Winnie. Like always.”
“Fine lot of good you’re doing. How many head were taken last night?” Something about her narrow nose and drooping eyebrows gave her a perpetually sour expression that made it easy to understand why she’d never married. Her shrill voice alone would be enough to scare away any man.
“The Kings figure about thirty,” Larry told her.
Winnie jotted that fact down in her notebook.
Having no interest in Winifred’s interrogation of the sheriff, Cliff eased away from the counter. The rustlers could be hiding their truck in a whole different county—hell, a different state, for that matter. If they had something more to go on, they could ask other jurisdictions to keep an eye out for the suspect vehicle. As it was, any truck going down the highway could be the one involved in the crime. But they couldn’t stop them all to check the tires. Not without probable cause.
Finished with Larry, Winifred cornered Cliff as he was riffling through Wanted flyers. “I want to know what you plan to do about the band of rustlers if you’re elected sheriff.”
“I’m likely to be elected,” he said easily, “since I’m running unopposed.”
“That might change. There’s another two days left before the filing deadline, young man, and there’s talk in town of wanting new blood in the sheriff’s office.”
“Sorry to hear that, ma’am.”
“Well, you’d best come up with a statement saying how you plan to catch those crooks. There’s folks in this county saying they won’t stand for another do-nothing sheriff.”
Irritated by Winifred’s criticism of Larry—who’d been a damn good sheriff—Cliff struggled to come up with a decent quote. Of course he planned to catch the rustlers. But in his business there were no guarantees. The voters shouldn’t ask for them, but he supposed they had the right, even when that wasn’t a fair way to make a judgment. All he could promise was to do his very best.
After what seemed like ages, Winifred left, her notebook filled with misquotes, Cliff was sure. Dealing with the Reed County Register and its star reporter wasn’t going to be the favorite part of his job as sheriff.
He was just getting ready to go out on patrol when Larry said, “Looks like you’ve got a new housekeeper.”
Cliff froze. Had the word already spread he had a cover model working for him—temporarily? “Where’d you hear that?”
“Didn’t.” Larry got a Santa Claus twinkle in his eyes. “Whoever ironed your shirt scorched a big triangle right smack in the middle. Figured Sylvia wasn’t the culprit.”
Practically dislocating both his neck and his shoulder in order to look at his back, Cliff cursed. Why him? Why couldn’t some other man have been in line when they passed out an incompetent housekeeper, one who just happened to be the sexiest female this side of the Mississippi?
One who was definitely double trouble.
CLIFF CAME HOME on his dinner break and Tasha couldn’t decide if he looked sexiest dressed in jeans and a work shirt with his Stetson tipped back on his head at a rakish angle, or in his khaki sheriff’s uniform, tailored to fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Difficult decision, she thought as she watched him wash up at the kitchen sink.
“Hey, Daddy, what’s that on the back of your shirt?” Stevie asked. Sitting at the table opposite Melissa, his little legs were swinging back and forth expending nervous energy.
Cliff dried his hands with a towel. “Somebody was using an iron that was too hot.”
“Actually, I got distracted when Melissa fell off the porch swing and was screaming bloody murder.”
“Stevie pushed me,” Melissa said.
“Did not.”
Melissa held up her elbow. “I got an owie, Uncle Cliff. Wanna see?”
Tasha contemplated the back of Cliff’s shirt as he bent over to examine the Snoopy bandage. “It doesn’t look too bad.”
“I think she’ll live,” Cliff said. In an easy gesture of affection, he brushed a quick kiss to Melissa’s elbow.
Tasha’s heart squeezed tight at the sight of his gentle caring. Just the way a father should be, except Melissa had never really known her daddy. “No, I meant your shirt.”
Eyeing her, Cliff took his place at the head of the table. “I’ll change after we eat. It’s an old Western custom that we don’t wear scorched shirts out in public, particularly when we may have to make an arrest. If the crooks get too many laughs, it makes them unruly.”
She flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “Who knows? You might start a new fad.”
A reluctant smile played around the corners of his mouth, and she noticed what really nice lips he had—not so full that he’d give sloppy kisses, but pleasantly soft, a shape hers could easily mold to. And that was a thought she shouldn’t be considering.
“Are we going to eat anytime soon?” he asked.
She gazed at his mouth for another long heartbeat, thinking—
“Mommy? You aren’t going to burn the dinner, are you?”
“No! Absolutely not.” Whirling, she grabbed a hot pad, opened the oven door and pulled out the chicken and rice casserole she’d been keeping warm. Not burned. A little dried around the edges maybe but no charcoal.
With a degree of pride, she put the casserole on the table and produced a big bowl of salad from the refrigerator. All the grocery store in town carried was iceberg lettuce and a little wilted Romaine—nothing resembling endive or alfalfa sprouts—but she’d chopped a half-dozen fresh veggies into the mix. Definitely nutritious.
Cliff ladled some of the casserole onto her plate, and she held up her hand to stop him from serving her too much. Then he served Melissa and Stevie.
“I thought we were having steak tonight.” He piled several spoonfuls on his own plate, no doubt relieved to see she’d made an adequate quantity to fill up a hardworking cowboy.
“Chicken’s better for you. The children, too.”
“Better not let the folks around here hear you say that. Those are fightin’ words in cattle country.”
She met his teasing blue eyes with a wink of her own. “I’ll be sure to keep my radical N’Yawker ideas to myself.”
As they ate dinner, the children were eager to relate their afternoon activities, which had included Stevie giving Melissa and Tasha a tour of the corral and barn. They’d met Peaches, the aging mare Cliff had apparently decided would be placid enough for Tasha to ride. Henry, the mule, appeared less tranquil, had big yellow teeth and a disposition that would make Manhattan’s pushiest panhandlers keep their distance.
“You catch any bad guys today?” Stevie finally asked.
“Not so far.” He forked the last of the rice on his plate into his mouth and eyed the remains in the casserole dish.
Tasha gestured for him to help himself to more.
“Ricky Monroe says there’s bank robbers ’n murderers ’n aliens all over the place.”
He reached over to ruffle his son’s hair. “Not in our town, bucko. You’re safe here.”
Smiling at the boy, Tasha said, “I’d say your friend Ricky has a vivid and rather gory imagination.”
“He says he’s seen ’em,” Stevie insisted.
“Well, if they come around here, they’ll have to watch out for me, won’t they?” Cliff patted the badge on his chest.
Tasha’s unwilling gaze shifted to his holstered weapon and she shuddered. She didn’t like guns. Or violence. And wondered how a man who was so obviously gentle could make his living carrying a gun.
Before he could finish off the casserole, he got a call on the radio he had strapped to his belt. An accident on the state highway east of Brady.
“Gotta go, kids.” Standing, he gave his son a quick kiss. “Do what Tasha tells you, okay?”
“I will, Daddy.”
He circled the table to give Melissa a kiss on the top of her head. “You, too, Little Miss Goldilocks.”
She giggled. “I have to. She’s my mommy.”
For a heart-stopping moment, Tasha thought he was going to kiss her, too. A husband and father going off to work. But then he stopped himself.
“Good dinner…considering the main course used to wear feathers.”
She laughed with him, but somewhere deep inside disappointment curled painfully through her. The family image they’d all created sitting around the kitchen table wasn’t real; he hadn’t kissed her.
It was hard to tell which one of those truths hurt the most. Although she recognized neither of them should.
CLIFF GOT BACK HOME after midnight and he was bone-weary. The accident near Brady hadn’t been too bad, only minor injuries, but it had taken him a long time to complete the paperwork after the tow truck had cleaned up the debris.
He slipped into the house through the back door, sensing the good kind of quiet that meant everything was all right. Smiling, he realized Tasha had left a light on for him in the living room. But he wasn’t prepared for what he found there.
She was curled with her legs under her, her head resting on the back of the couch, her hair feathering around her face. On the end table there was an open paperback book as though she’d just laid it down. She had one hand on his son, who was sleeping with his head on her lap, a light blanket arranged over his small form.
Tears stung at the backs of Cliff’s eyes. It should have been his wife Yvonne comforting Stevie against whatever fear had kept him awake. But it was another woman. A woman so classically beautiful, she took his breath away. He didn’t want to care about her, be attracted to her. Yet every instinct in his body contradicted what he kept telling himself. When it came to Tasha Papadakis Reynolds, he seemed incapable of rational thought.
He knelt beside her. Against his will, his fingers toyed with the ends of her hair—molten silver so fine, it must have been created by the gods.
In sleep, her lips were relaxed, inviting a kiss. Her lashes formed golden half circles beneath her eyes. A splash of color highlighted her cheeks, the makeup so subtle he wasn’t sure if what he saw was her natural color or something a brush created. And her sultry scent was all around her, enticing him.
Slowly, as if she were Sleeping Beauty awakening, her eyes opened. Blue magic the shade of midnight.
“Hi.” She blinked and ran her tongue across her lips.
He felt the gesture as powerfully as if she’d slid the zipper down on his trousers. “Hi, yourself.”
She roused slowly. “You’re home safe.”
“Hmm. No bad guys out there tonight.” Only traffic victims who shouldn’t have been driving so fast. “Stevie have a problem?”
“The alien space monsters were after him.”
He nodded. “It’s that Monroe kid. He’s in Stevie’s kindergarten class, or was. School’s out now.”
“Your son seems particularly sensitive.”
To Cliff’s surprise, she lifted her hand and placed it on his cheek, her fingers incredibly soft and caressing. Delicate like the wings of a butterfly.
“Like his dad, I suspect.” She breathed the words as warmly as a summer breeze.
Cliff knew he had to move away—away from her touch. Away from the feelings that swept through him. He’d been lonely for so damn long….
By sheer force of will, he stood. It wouldn’t be right for any of them if he followed his impulse to kiss her, to carry her into the guest bedroom and make love to her for the rest of the night.
Instead, he picked his son up in his arms. “Thanks for taking care of my boy.”
She gave him a lazy smile. “No problem. That’s my job.”
For now. She’d be leaving within weeks, maybe even days. They hadn’t even worked out the details and Stevie wasn’t her responsibility. Cliff didn’t want his son hurt when Tasha left. Keeping an emotional distance was better for all concerned.
She followed him into Stevie’s bedroom, where she pulled up the covers that Melissa had tossed aside.
Stevie muttered something unintelligible as Cliff tucked him in, then rolled to his side, curled into a ball, instantly falling back into deep sleep.
The night-light cast an orange glow in the room, enough to see the usual clutter had been straightened, the toy box lid closed, the wooden train set in its place on the brightly painted play table Cliff had constructed for Stevie’s second birthday, when he’d still had his mother.
Cliff lifted his eyes, meeting Tasha’s gaze. The room felt strangely warm, the air sultry with her seductive perfume. She stood on one side of the room, the twin beds between them. Yet he could almost feel the heat of her body touching him.
“Where’s Melissa’s father?” he asked quietly.
“I have no idea. Our marriage, such as it was, only lasted two years. He said he needed to find himself. The last I heard he was looking in Australia.”
Cliff couldn’t imagine walking out on his child—or on a wife like Tasha, for that matter.
“This guy you were engaged to…was Melissa upset when you broke it off?”
“Just the opposite.” With a quick check of her child, Tasha left her bedside, moving closer to Cliff as soundlessly as a moonbeam. “Nick wasn’t very fond of kids. She picked up on that right away, which should have given me a clue that he wasn’t exactly the best catch of the year.”
“Love can do funny things to people.”
She glanced away from him. “I’m not sure love was involved—for either of us. More like convenience, although I admit there was some sexual chemistry. He was my agent and business manager. We often traveled together. It was, well, easy to get involved. It was also a mistake.”
He’d like to be able to console her, but that would be a mistake, too.
With a shake of his head, he cleared the image of holding her in his arms. “Morning comes early around here. We’d better call it a night.”
“More roundups tomorrow?”
“One more day and we ought to have it licked. For this season.”
“Good night, then.” She slipped past him, heading for the guest room.
He inhaled her lingering scent, and cursed himself for wanting to follow her all the way to her bed.
HE’D JUST POURED his first cup of morning coffee, and the mug froze halfway to his mouth when Tasha walked into the kitchen. No woman had a right to look that good first thing in the morning—her hair sleep-mussed, her face free of makeup and her cheeks naturally flushed.
Darn it all, he’d like to see her sleepy-eyed, her hair mussed from a night of his lovemaking—an image that had kept him awake most of the night. Not gonna happen, he reminded himself.
“I heard you up.” Pulling her cotton robe modestly around her, she smiled a lazy greeting. “Should I wake the children?”
He tried to act natural, as if he were used to having a beautiful woman in his kitchen every morning. “No, let ’em sleep. If they want to come out to the ranch later, you can bring them.”
“Fine.” Barefoot, her toenails an intriguing raspberry red, she glided to the coffeepot and poured herself a mug.
“You know how to find the place now?”
“Ella showed me what to look for at the turnoff. Evidently that new invention called street signs hasn’t reached Reed County yet.”
“We’re a little backward,” he admitted, taking a gulp of coffee. It burned as it slid down his throat. “But then, only strangers would need signs, and we don’t get many tourists.”
“Really? The countryside is beautiful, in its fashion. Reed County must be a well-kept secret.” Glancing around the kitchen, she asked, “Do my housekeeping duties include making you breakfast?”
“I’ve already got the oatmeal on.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll do toast. Thanks, anyway.”
He nodded toward the toaster on the counter. “Help yourself.” Getting down a bowl from the cupboard, he stirred the oatmeal.
Someone knocked on the back door.
Cliff swiveled his head that direction, dismayed to find Winifred Bruhn staring at him through the door’s window. Not waiting for an invitation, she marched right into the kitchen.
“Now, isn’t this a cozy domestic scene!” Her gray hair was frazzled and windblown, her omnipresent notebook in her hand.
He leveled her his harshest look, which didn’t seem to faze her. “You’re supposed to wait until someone says come in after you knock.” Her sudden arrival had startled him so badly, he’d nearly dropped the damn pot of oatmeal on the floor.
“Pshaw! I can’t wait on folks when I’ve got a newspaper deadline to meet.” She looked Tasha up and down with the eye of a predator—or someone about to make an arrest on behalf of the morality police. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting this young lady.”
Impatient, and angered by the woman’s unspoken insinuations, Cliff made perfunctory introductions. “What do you want, Winnie?”
“You say she’s your housekeeper?” she asked, busily scribbling notes that would no doubt appear in the local gossip column. And probably be vicious in the conclusions drawn.
“Would you like some coffee, Ms. Bruhn?” Tasha asked smoothly, though a blush had risen to her cheeks.
“She doesn’t have time for coffee. She has a deadline to meet, right, Winnie?”
The woman lifted her nose, sniffing with an air of superiority. “I’ve come by to tell you Bobby Bruhn has decided to run against you for sheriff. I’d like a statement—”
“Bobby? He doesn’t have any law enforcement experience. What makes him think—”
“I assure you, the full weight and influence of the Reed County Register will be behind Mr. Bruhn’s election.”
“He’s your nephew, for crying out loud!”
“It’s time for a change in this county, a breath of fresh air. Now I can print your reaction to Mr. Bruhn’s candidacy or I can indicate, despite the efforts of the press to gain an interview, you were otherwise engaged….” She eyed Tasha pointedly. “And that you had no comment. The choice is yours, Deputy Swain.”
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