Читать онлайн книгу «Too Hard To Handle» автора Rita Rainville
Too Hard To Handle
Rita Rainville
One look at Shane McBride told Christy Calhoun to run away–fast. The long, lean and very sexy rancher's every move shouted danger, and she'd sworn to avoid romance again. Unfortunately, with a broken-down RV, Christy had no choice but to stay for a spell…Shane would've sooner mucked stalls than play host to his gorgeous houseguest! He'd vowed never to let a woman into his home, and this one reminded him why. The tempting beauty tested his normally rock-solid self-control.And this unfamiliar feeling was becoming way too hard to handle…
Shane McBride was dangerous.
Of course, it wasn’t his fault that she was wary of men—especially the alpha types. Or that what Christy craved right now was a peaceful life, a life dedicated to her new job and simple pleasures. A life rid of complications—especially the ones created by demanding men.
Besides, she hadn’t been a bit interested when he’d taken off his shirt, she assured herself. The sight of his hard body hadn’t doubled her pulse rate, either, and his heat hadn’t sizzled through her fingertips, warming her from head to toe.
Yeah, right, she thought.
Dear Reader,
“Happy Birthday to us.…”
Exactly twenty years ago this May, Silhouette Romance was born. Since then, we’ve grown as a company, and as a series that continues to offer the very best in contemporary category romance fiction. The icing on the cake is this month’s amazing lineup:
International bestselling author Diana Palmer reprises her SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE miniseries with Mercenary’s Woman. Sorely missed, Rita Rainville returns to Romance with the delightful story of a Too Hard To Handle rancher who turns out to be anything but.…Elizabeth August delivers the dramatic finale to ROYALLY WED. In A Royal Mission, rescuing kidnapped missing princess Victoria Rockford was easy for Lance Grayson. But falling in love wasn’t part of the plan.
Marie Ferrarella charms us with a Tall, Strong & Cool Under Fire hero whose world turns topsy-turvy when an adorable moppet and her enticing mom venture into his fire station.…Julianna Morris’s BRIDAL FEVER! rages on when Hannah Gets a Husband—her childhood friend who is a new dad. And in Her Sister’s Child, a woman allies with her enemy. Don’t miss this pulse-pounding romance by Lilian Darcy!
In June, we’re featuring Dixie Browning and Phyllis Halldorson, and in coming months look for new miniseries from many of your favorite authors. It’s an exciting year for Silhouette Books, and we invite you to join the celebration!
Happy reading!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor
Too Hard to Handle
Rita Rainville
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my retreat buddies—you know who you are.
Thanks for the love, laughter and support.
Books by Rita Rainville
Silhouette Romance
Challenge the Devil #313
McCade’s Woman #346
* (#litres_trial_promo)Lady Moonlight #370
Written on the Wind #400
* (#litres_trial_promo)The Perfect Touch #418
The Glorious Quest #448
Family Affair #478
It Takes a Thief #502
Gentle Persuasion #535
Never Love a Cowboy #556
Valley of Rainbows #598
* (#litres_trial_promo)No Way To Treat a Lady #663
Never on Sundae #706
One Moment of Magic #746
* (#litres_trial_promo)Arc of the Arrow #832
Alone at Last #873
* (#litres_trial_promo)Too Hard To Handle #1445
Silhouette Desire
A Touch of Class #495
Paid in Full #639
High Spirits #792
Tumbleweed and Gibraltar #828
Hot Property #874
Bedazzled #918
Husband Material #984
City Girls Need Not Apply #1056
Silhouette Books
Silhouette Christmas Stories 1990
“Lights Out!”
RITA RAINVILLE
believes her storytelling ability was honed by her father, a man who told absurd tales with a straight face and a gleam of amusement in his blue eyes. She learned from both parents that laughter, as well as love, makes the world go ’round. Her early years were spent reading every book available and replotting the endings of sad movies.
Rita has been a romantic for as long as she can remember. She began writing romance novels, and continues to this day, because she believes in humor, happy endings and the enduring qualities of love, honor and commitment. She is also spurred on by letters she receives from readers, letters that say things like, “…when I read your books, I laugh out loud and the pain goes away.”
Rita is a happily married mother of two super sons, one incredible daughter-in-law and a wonderful grandson. She lives with her husband in northern Arizona.
Contents
Chapter One (#u5ca1c275-ad92-5dbf-8189-e3e409b56718)
Chapter Two (#u99421cf9-9100-5af4-a4d9-29f257661cc8)
Chapter Three (#ub450aeed-41a8-5c6e-b9ab-43a8547e5c3e)
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)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
“Lady, you’ve got two minutes to get these loonies off my land.”
Christy Calhoun’s eyes widened as the gaze of the large, tanned man on horseback settled on her. He had scanned her nine companions and the cluster of recreational vehicles scattered around his property before turning to her and issuing the direct order. When he tilted his brown Stetson back off his forehead, she saw that the expression in his narrowed dark eyes was no friendlier than his words.
One quick glance at the older people milling around her resolved her unspoken question. They, in their eye-popping yellow T-shirts each picturing a human waving at a big-eyed alien and the words I’m not Suffering from Alienation, were the loonies; she, in jeans and a white sleeveless T-shirt, was, by default, the lady.
He was more than large, she decided with a blink. Caught between her and the glare of the late-May sun, he looked very big. Huge. And hard as granite, if the thighs gripping his saddle were any indication. He was, with his broad chest and shoulders wide enough to fill a doorway, more than a tad intimidating.
Before Christy could utter a word, a motor home, the last of their caravan, trundled off the road and up the grassy slope in their direction, smoke pouring out the front grille. Slamming to a stop well behind the other vehicles, the driver leaped out and dashed toward the cluster of people. Before he had gone ten feet, the motor home’s chrome grille erupted and flames shot out, blistering the paint and shooting up a plume of dark smoke.
Swearing, the large cowboy swung off his horse and pointed to the hill behind him. “Move,” he shouted to the stunned observers. “Now. To the other side. The damn thing’s going to blow.”
Christy took a last look at the blazing motor home then turned to check the people swarming up the hillside. Noting they were all accounted for, she slid her arm protectively around the petite woman beside her. “Come on, Aunt Tillie. The man said to move.”
“We’ll be fine, dear,” the older woman murmured, hiking up her long skirt and obediently trotting up the hill after her friends. “Just fine.”
“Not if we don’t hustle.”
“Oh!” Tillie skidded to a stop and turned back. “My bracelet. It’s gone.”
Halting beside her, Christy wrapped her fingers around her aunt’s wrist and tugged. “Come on, it’ll be there when we get back.”
“But it’s Walter’s. I mean, the one he gave me. His last gift.”
Christy closed her eyes and sighed. After four days on the road with her lovable, exasperating aunt, she recognized the determination beneath her breathy voice. Come hell or high water, Tillie would go back for that bracelet. “Where is it?”
“There.” Tillie pointed to a spot twenty feet behind them where the gold band glittered in the sun.
“I’ll get it. You keep moving.” Christy nudged her aunt toward the others and waited until they crested the hill before she turned back.
From behind them, Shane McBride watched with mingled fury and disbelief as the trim redhead reversed herself and dashed back toward him and the inferno. Not on my land, he thought grimly, angling to cut her off. No way. She might be a UFO-hunting trespasser, but if she was hurt on his property, she could tie him up in a legal snarl for months. He launched himself at her just as the RV exploded.
A gust of hot air hit him with the force of a sledgehammer, throwing him off balance just as he snagged her. Fiery cinders rained on his back.
Shifting his weight to break the redhead’s fall, Shane rolled with her across the grass, coming to a stop with her pinned beneath him. He held her there, hip to hip, sinking into her softness, waiting for the adrenaline to stop roaring through his body, feeling the swell of her breasts press against his chest.
Instead of rolling aside and tugging her to her feet, pure physical appreciation kept him where he was a few seconds longer than necessary. It had obviously been too long since he’d been with a woman, he thought wryly, because she felt damn good. Way too good.
Struggling for air, she shoved at his shoulders. “I can’t…breathe.” Looking up, she blinked at the lick of flame in the man’s dark eyes, so close to her own. It was gone in an instant. Muttering a curse, he shifted to her side, rising to his feet with a fluid power that had her blinking again. It took her longer to move. His hard body had imprinted itself on hers, and she shivered at the aftereffect of heat, flexing muscles and a bar of rigid flesh pressing into her belly.
He leaned over her, extending a large hand. Waiting until her fingers touched his palm, he tightened his grip and pulled her smoothly to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” Dazed by her racing pulse and the heat from his body, but not hurt. Christy shook her head as she looked around the grassy knoll. “I’m fine. I think.” Taking in the bits of twisted metal and smoldering grass, she shivered and turned back to him, impulsively squeezing the hand she still held. “Thanks for your help. I’m Christy Calhoun, and I’m really sorry about all this.” She gestured vaguely at the shambles around them. “I know it sounds crazy, but I was after my aunt’s bracelet, not trying to get blown up.”
Turning away to conceal his aroused state, he scowled at the gaggle of older people at the top of the hill then down at her. “Shane McBride. I own this land. If you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re trespassing.”
“Welcome to my world,” Christy muttered.
“No, ma’am, you’ve got that wrong.” His deep voice had an edge of lethal softness. “There’s no welcome on this ranch for trespassers or idiots looking for UFOs. I’ve had all the broken fences, burned grass and campers that I intend to deal with. So I’d advise you to turn your cute little butt around, go back out the same cut fence you came in and travel on down the road.”
Looking around at the disaster area, she said, “We didn’t cut the fence. It was already down.”
“I know,” he said with strained patience. “It was done yesterday by a tourist who claimed he was running away from a UFO. He zigzagged on and off the road and took down nearly a quarter mile of fence. My fence.”
“Well, we won’t do anything like that,” she assured him, lifting her hands in a universal gesture of innocence. “Honest, we’re really a law-abiding group of…” He half turned, raising his brows when she stopped, flushing, apparently remembering where she was.
“What I mean is, we didn’t know we were trespassing when we pulled over. We thought it was open land since…there wasn’t a fence.” As her words dwindled away beneath his skeptical gaze, Christy’s thoughts darted to her aunt who, as leader and navigator of the group, had made the decision to stop precisely where they were.
Aunt Tillie.
A nasty suspicion drew her thoughts even further back to a conversation she’d had with one of her cousins two weeks earlier.
Brandy would know what to do, she had thought at the time, waiting for her cousin to answer the phone. After all, hadn’t Brandy been the latest victim among the cousins? Hadn’t she—
At the sound of a sunny contralto greeting, Christy had said, “Brandy? Thank God!”
“Christy? Hey, I’ve been meaning to call. How’s the fianceé?”
“Ex-fianceé. But that’s not why—”
“Ex?” Brandy cleared her throat. “Isn’t that the third man you…? Never mind. How’s the job going?”
“Gone, but that’s not why—”
“Gone? When?”
“Actually, the same day I got rid of fianceé number three. I was more upset about the job.”
“But you’ve been writing for that magazine for the last two years.”
“Yep, but it got caught up in a merger, and it’s dead meat,” Christy said succinctly. “Brandy, that’s not why—”
“So what are you going to do?”
This time, Christy’s sigh was long and loud. She should have known she wouldn’t control this conversation; she never did when talking with her cousin. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m a little stressed here. When my magazine bit the dust, the editor of a travel magazine called me with an offer.”
“Christy, that’s terrific!”
“You haven’t heard about my first assignment.”
“Nothing can be that bad,” her cousin said in a firm voice. “In the major scheme of things, a year isn’t that long.”
“A day can be that long if I’m working with Aunt Tillie.”
“Working with…?”
“Aunt Tillie,” Christy confirmed grimly. A fey, spry, enchanting, adventurous, hair-raising dynamo of a woman. A woman fascinated by aliens and UFOs and…a psychic. She had daily conversations with Uncle Walter, a man whose exuberant spirit was apparently undaunted by the insignificant fact that he had passed on to another plane years earlier. She was also a matchmaker, who wreaked havoc in the life of any niece or nephew unfortunate enough to become the object of her attention.
But that had all been family lore, at least as far as Christy was concerned. Born into a military family that moved with regularity, she’d had only intermittent contact with her infamous aunt. So minimal, in fact, that she had always thought the stories were highly exaggerated.
Until this past year.
“She’s gathered a herd of senior citizen extraterrestrial believers and organized them into a caravan. The plan is to visit the Nevada and Arizona hot spots of UFO sightings. The seniors, of course, fully expect to find proof of visitations.”
“Good grief.”
“My thought exactly. And since my first assignment is to write an article on seniors traveling together, I got stuck with Aunt Tillie and her goofy friends.”
After a thoughtful pause, her cousin asked cautiously, “How’d your editor know about Aunt Tillie?”
“She didn’t. But Mom certainly does. Among other things, she said I couldn’t turn Aunt Tillie loose on the rest of the world in an RV.”
“Aunt Tillie got her driver’s license back?” Horror lifted Brandy’s voice a notch.
“Last week.”
“Good grief.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So, with the family breathing down my neck and designating me as the sacrificial lamb, I cleared the idea with my editor. She thought it might have a nice, light touch. I’m leaving in about ten days.”
Before her cousin could recover, Christy circled back to the original reason for the call. “Brandy, have you ever heard Aunt Tillie call me her little wanderer?”
“Sure. Not lately, but all the time when we were kids. I figured it was because you always meandered away and the family had to send search parties out for you.”
“Yeah, I did too.”
“Did? Past tense? Not now?”
“No indeedy. She said something yesterday that put a whole new light on the subject.”
“Don’t tell me. Aliens again?”
“What’s with her, Brandy? The woman is obsessed with E.T.s. Now she seems to think I’m one of them.”
“Oh boy. Did you ask Aunt Tillie about it?”
“You bet your sweet patootie I did.”
“And?”
“She said she knew the moment I was born that I was what UFO buffs call a wanderer. She’s just been waiting for me to bloom. Damn it, Brandy, this isn’t funny. I don’t want to bloom.”
Her cousin’s snort of laughter was not comforting. “You’re doomed, Christy. There’s not a darned thing any of us can do when she goes into high gear. One consolation, though, she’ll find you a husband—one who’s good with aliens, of course. That’s always a top priority with her. After all, she’s still convinced she married me off to a real, honest-to-God E.T. Just be grateful that Uncle Walter isn’t involved.”
“I don’t want a husband, especially one who hangs around with aliens. I’ve sworn off men. Three ex-fianceés are more than enough for any woman. And the thought of Uncle Walter sending me messages from the great beyond is the stuff of nightmares,” Christy said with a shudder. “Good grief, the man has been dead for at least fourteen years. Is he ever going to quit talking to her?”
“Has she mentioned his opinion of your wandering soul or a husband?”
“Well…”
Her cousin’s laughter was no longer muffled. “Doomed, Christy. That’s what you are. Doomed!”
Earlier, other cousins had laughingly warned her that she, too, would one day be drawn into her aunt’s sphere of influence. And her life would never be the same.
Just as they’d predicted, it had happened. The fateful meeting had taken place one rainy afternoon a year earlier, after her move to San Diego, not far from her aunt’s home in Rancho Santa Fe. Less than an hour into the visit Christy had been hooked. Enchanted by the tiny woman who loved so openly, she became her staunch supporter and as fiercely protective of her as the rest of the family.
Now, wincing as she remembered Brandy’s prediction, Christy tried to rein in her overactive imagination. Granted, this stop had not been on their itinerary; they had been scheduled to drive another fifty miles similar to the last hundred since leaving Las Vegas. Miles of heat-shimmering road carved through stark landscape covered with chaparral and dotted with stumpy Joshua trees and yucca.
True, Aunt Tillie had been sitting beside her in the passenger seat humming a bit off-key when she’d spotted the lush oasis ahead—which coincided with the end of the barbed wire fence—and directed her to pull off the road onto the grassy slope.
But there was no way that Aunt Tillie could have known a man like Shane McBride would be here.
Absolutely none.
This stop was definitely just a spur-of-the-moment thing, she reassured herself. It had nothing to do with Shane, nothing to do with aliens. And definitely nothing to do with husbands.
Nada.
Relieved, she gazed up at Shane and shivered as she felt an involuntary tug of attraction. He did bear a startling resemblance to her three ex-fianceés. Not in physical looks, although they had all been large, solid men, but in his aura of power and control. Of course, it was that very aura that had been the problem.
Three times.
Number one owned a computer company, number two a marketing firm, number three was a real estate broker. All three men were aggressive types whose companies were leaving their competitors in the dust. Unfortunately, they handled their personal lives with the same drive, and she had always been a sucker for the self-assertive types.
But, that was then and this was now—and there was a limit. She had sworn off powerful men. For good. Especially the strong, silent types who assumed control as if by divine right; they were nothing but trouble. She had once believed she could tap into their gentler side, touch the tenderness she thought was just beneath the surface, but three bad experiences had finally opened her eyes.
Men like that were drawn to her generous spirit and open affection, just as she had been drawn to their strength, but it was the old water-and-oil combination. It had taken a while, but she had finally learned her lesson. If she ever started looking for a man again, and that was a big if, it would definitely be for a sensitive, caring type.
So if, through some convoluted mental process, Aunt Tillie had concluded that Shane McBride was connected to aliens or would make a terrific nephew-in-law, she could just think again. In fact, the best plan would be to get Tillie back on the road so the matter could die a natural death.
Her eyes narrowed in thought, Christy glanced again at Shane just as he turned to check on the older people walking down the hill.
“Look,” she said in a determined voice, “I’ll do my best to get this crew on the road. In the meantime, if it makes you feel any better, you can be as rude to me as you like, but when you talk to my aunt, I hope you have the courtesy to—” She caught her breath, almost choking. “Good grief, your shirt.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “What about it?”
“It’s burned. And so is your back.” Shock lifted her voice a notch. “Why on earth didn’t you say something?”
He shrugged. “I had other things on my mind.”
Yeah, like rescuing her, she thought with a stab of guilt. Giving his sleeve a tug, she said, “Come on, I have some ointment in the motor home. It’ll keep you from blistering.”
In less than two minutes, Shane was sitting on a stool hastily pulled outside with his shirt on his lap to cover his reaction to his nurse, while Christy dabbed a cooling salve on his burns. The touch of her soft hands on his back didn’t help a bit. Seconds later, the seniors milled around him, offering sympathy and suggestions. His foreman, Hank Withers, a quiet man, tall and spare, joined them, dismounting behind the group, quieting his mare and Shane’s gelding.
Tillie, wearing raspberry tennies, pulled up a camp chair and plunked it in front of Shane. When she sat, her long purple gathered skirt, held up by green suspenders, pooled around her feet. Leaning over, she plucked his shirt from his hands, shook out the dust and spread it across her lap, looking with interest at the logo on the pocket. She drew a slim finger across a swirl of stars with the word Galaxy embroidered in red beneath it.
Flexing the shoulder on which Christy was doctoring a raw spot, he said to the older woman, “I’m Shane McBride.”
“Of course you are,” she assured him earnestly. “Our host.” Smiling at Shane, she added, “You can call me Tillie.”
Host?
Christy cleared her throat. “Aunt Tillie, Mr. McBride wants us to leave.”
Tillie tilted her head, studying Shane before switching her gaze to her niece. “You must have misunderstood, dear. It’s the scene of an accident. Nobody leaves. At least, not until the insurance people come.” Her brows drew together in thought. “Or perhaps it’s the rental people—or the police. And, who knows, that could be several days.”
Beaming at Shane, she said, “When you lowered the fence for us, I knew we were meant to pull over for a rest.”
Christy stiffened. “Aunt Tillie, the fence was broken by a man who claims he was being chased by a UFO.”
“Wonderful! I knew we were in the right place.” Her eyes sparkled with delight.
Shane wanted to scowl to show he meant business, but there was something about her expectant look, her bright blue eyes and mop of silver curls that stopped him. It would have been like taking a potshot at Tinkerbell. “No, ma’am, I don’t think wonderful’s quite the word. He was as drunk as a skunk.”
She twinkled at him, clasping his shirt to her chest. “Just think! Actually chased by a UFO. We expect to have the same good luck. Don’t we?” she asked, turning to her friends for confirmation.
They nodded, apparently sharing her enthusiasm. The only exception to the general fervor, Shane noted, was the very curvy lady with the mass of red hair who was still dabbing at his back. She just sighed.
“Lovely shirt.” Tillie handed it back to Shane and waved at the group assembled around her. “These are my friends. They release water, read palms, hunt and catch people, fly, gamble, fix things, open minds and create.”
Still grappling with the idea of being host to a gathering of UFO hunters, especially those with the qualifications just revealed by their fluttering leader, Shane got to his feet and shrugged on his shirt.
Christy dropped the ointment back into the box of medical supplies and slid between Shane and the seniors. They were a formidable group, individually or collectively, she realized, and it made no sense at all, but she still felt as protective about them as she did Tillie. No doubt it had to do with what the family called her nurturing nature—or an addled mental state resulting from too much contact with her aunt.
“Shane,” she said hastily, “I’d like you to meet our resident dowser.”
A diminutive woman with graying brown hair stepped forward and gave his hand a firm shake. “Ruth Ann Watts. Glad to meet you.”
Christy gestured to a tall, slim man with eyes like blue lasers. “The man who catches people.”
Remaining where he was, leaning against a tree trunk, the man nodded. “Jack Beatty, retired cop.”
Another gesture from Christy. “The man who hunts for people.”
“Search and rescue,” a small, wiry man in dark glasses explained. “Claude Rollins.”
Waving a couple forward who resembled Jack Sprat and his wife, Christy said, “Skip and Opal Williams.”
Skip gave an amiable nod. Opal bustled forward, pumping Shane’s hand. “My husband’s a mechanic, and I read palms.” Before she stepped back beside Skip, she turned Shane’s hand over and took a quick peek at it.
A portly, bald man reached out to shake Shane’s hand. “Jim Sturgiss, retired Air Force. Howdy.”
“Ben Matthews.” Short and muscular as a wrestler, the next man nodded. “I’m the creative one,” he said, dry humor lacing his deep voice.
Grinning at the baffled expression in Shane’s eyes, Christy touched a tall woman in jeans and cowboy boots on the shoulder. “Our gambler.”
“Melinda Rills,” the tall woman said, echoing Christy’s amused smile. “Stock market and casinos.”
The last man stepped forward and extended his hand. Pale and pudgy, he was obviously still reeling from the explosion. “Dave Davidson, the one who opens minds. I’m a retired psychology teacher, and I don’t usually go around blowing things up. I’m sorry this happened on your property.”
“Well, Boss, if I was a bettin’ man, I could’ve lost ten bucks back there. I never thought you’d let them stay.”
“It’s only for a couple of days,” Shane muttered, as he and Hank headed toward the barn. “At the most.”
He wasn’t sure what had happened. Maybe the explosion had rattled his brain. Or it was Tillie looking at him as if he were her last hope for salvation. Or Christy. Hell, he didn’t know. With all of them talking at once, assuring him that they would clean up the area while they waited for the rental people, it had been hard to think.
Partly, though, it was Tillie. The little woman with the weird clothes and incandescent smile had worked some sort of magic. The others he could have kicked off the property without a qualm, but not Tillie.
And, as much as he disliked the idea, not Christy. Not the redhead. Just one look at her had his body on red alert, and that was asking for trouble. Big trouble. Even worse had been the feeling of instant recognition that had poured through every cell of his body when he’d first seen her. If he’d believed in fate or destiny, he would have conceded that she was the one woman he’d been looking for all of his life.
But he wasn’t a dreamer. Two women who had liked his money a hell of a lot more than they’d liked him had helped him grow up fast. And he didn’t believe in fate—at least not where a wife was concerned. None of the women he’d met had ever been right. Not for a lifetime. He doubted one existed. But, damn, at first glance she sure came close.
“How much of the fence did you fix?” he asked abruptly, deliberately changing the direction of his thoughts.
“Not much.” Hank shrugged his lean shoulders. “After the explosion, Milt, here,” he nodded at the gelding, “came flying over the hill and it took me a while to catch him.”
“We’ll head back tomorrow and finish up.”
“What about them?” Hank gestured over his shoulder at the people milling around the motor homes, his hazel eyes questioning.
“We’ll leave that one section of fence open for them.”
“What about the herd?”
“We’ll have to wait to move it in there until they’re gone.” Shane dismounted when they reached the barn. “Who’s cooking tonight?”
“Red.” Hank sighed. “Beans again. You know, we’re gonna have a mutiny on our hands if we don’t get another cook out here. And don’t even suggest Adelaide. Half of us got food poisoning the one time she tried.”
“Yeah. I know.” Remembering, Shane winced. The housekeeper was a jewel, but not in the kitchen. “I’ve called all the temp agencies in Vegas, but the odds of finding someone are slim to none. Anyone who can cook for more than one person at a time has been snatched up for the summer by dude ranches or local camps. And Hector called this morning with more bad news after he pulled into Dallas. Said his dad is worse off than he thought, and he’d probably have to stay two or three weeks.”
Hank groaned. “A couple of days without a cook is bad enough, but two or three weeks? Boss, you gotta do something.” Taking the reins from Shane’s hand, he said, “I’ll take care of the horses, you go make a miracle.”
An hour later, Shane closed the telephone directory with an irritated thump. Nothing. There wasn’t a cook to be found in the whole damn county.
Maybe there was hope for Shane after all.
Christy braked to a stop and hopped off her bicycle at the front gate, looking at the gracious old house surrounded by lush, well-tended grass. It was no Tara, but then she had always thought such magnificence was overrated. This was a home—pale creamy yellow, two stories, with a wraparound porch that was cozily furnished with an oak swing and wicker chairs punctuated with bright floral cushions. Enclosed by a white rail with gently curved spindles, it all but shouted a welcome. It was the kind of home she had dreamed about as a child moving from place to place. It was a deeply feminine house, she reflected, for such a hard man.
But a man who appreciated a home like this couldn’t be all bad, she thought. Not that she was interested on a personal level, of course, but she made a point of giving credit where it was due. And he did appreciate it; it showed in the recent paint job, the tidy shrubbery, the profusion of pink and white flowers tumbling here and there.
Shane walked around the corner and caught her gazing dreamy-eyed at the house. With her hand on the gate of the picket fence, she had the tranquil look of a woman coming home. She looked nice there. She looked…right.
Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. No way was he going down that road. With her green eyes, high cheekbones and full mouth, Christy was one hell of a looker. Her blazing mass of red-gold hair didn’t hurt, either. But she was going to be here two days, tops, and he could manage to keep his hands off her for that long. Maybe. Pushing down the surge of lust that slammed through him, he strode toward her. It would be helpful if his imagination would just simmer down, he thought, muttering a quiet oath. Mighty helpful.
Pulling the gate open, he scowled at her flushed face. “It’s almost a hundred degrees out here and dry as dirt. What the hell are you doing on a bike? Without a hat?” When her narrowed eyes glittered with irritation, he heaved a sigh. “Can I get you something cold to drink, iced tea, beer?”
Christy ran her hands through her hair to control both it and her temper. “First, a bike is convenient,” she snapped. “Second, I don’t need a caretaker, and third, no thank you. My aunt wants to be sure you know how much we all appreciate being able to stay here, and—”
“All?”
Taking a deep breath and releasing it, she nodded. “All.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “All right, I’m not thrilled about it, but you were kind—”
“Kind?” His brows rose.
“And courteous to my aunt and her friends,” she said through clenched teeth, “and I am grateful for that. Can I get on with this?” she asked, stopping him before he could interrupt again.
“So they asked me to tell…I mean we want to invite you to dinner to show our appreciation.”
A corner of his mouth kicked up in a slow smile. “This is killing you, isn’t it?”
“You bet.” Tightening her grip on the handlebars, Christy backed up a cautious step. His grin was a lethal weapon, she decided, and it shouldn’t be aimed at unsuspecting women. Reminding herself that she was immune to his brand of charm, she asked abruptly, “Are you coming or not?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Chapter Two
“More than likely, the RV had a ruptured fuel line,” Skip said. “It happens every now and then. Smoke, flames, a big boom and bingo—you got nothing left.”
“Dowsing is simple,” Ruth Ann commented to Jack with a grin. “Even a cynical cop can do it. You don’t need anything fancy, a forked stick does the trick. Willow works well.”
“Keno loves her job.” Claude ran a hand over the German shepherd’s head, pausing to scratch behind the erect ears. “And she’s damn good at it, too.”
Shane sat in the same camp chair he’d been in earlier, only this time he held a bottle of beer and listened to the fragments of conversation coming from the clusters of people around him.
His guests.
Some were setting the two long tables in the center of the clearing for dinner. They had a rhythm, as if they’d been doing it for weeks rather than just four days. Others lounged in chairs, idly chatting.
They had cleaned the area as promised, he had noted as he’d ridden Milt into the hollow. The debris had been tossed in a heap near the carcass of the burned RV, and the rest of the motor homes encircled the large area obviously pinpointed for community activities.
As before, Tillie sat across from him, her yellow alien shirt complemented by the green suspenders. His lips twitched as she beamed at him, her approval as obvious as the setting sun. She seemed especially taken with his shirt, a duplicate of the denim one he’d worn earlier. Of course, she seemed fascinated by a number of things; she just didn’t make much sense when she talked about them.
Amused, he decided to see if he’d have better luck with another subject. Any subject. “What are you thinking about?”
“Cows.”
Shane blinked. “Cows?” Could’ve fooled him. He was sure she had shirts on her mind.
“Your cows.” She gave him a quick look.
“Cattle,” he said absently, wondering at the sudden shift of emotions playing across her face. Anxiety had replaced approval.
“The ones here,” she clarified.
“By ‘here,’ do you mean on the ranch?”
“No, right here.” Tillie pointed a slim finger at the ground, then waved vaguely, encompassing the area around them. “Walter mentioned…that is, he thought…the cows might not be happy. Of course, you don’t have…at least, not yet.”
Determined not to laugh, Shane settled for clearing his throat and selecting a word from the maze. “Uh…happy?”
“Here,” she repeated.
He gave up. Grinning at her earnest expression, he looked around, wondering if there was an interpreter in the group. Happy? Cows? “Well,” he said slowly, “it’s not real easy to tell how they feel. Actually, I think they’re fine as long as they have good grass and water. That’s why I’ll be moving them down here. It’s also one of the reasons I was fixing the fence.”
“They wouldn’t…like it over there?” She pointed over the hills behind them.
Shane shrugged. “Who knows? But they won’t crowd you,” he promised, hoping to erase the crease between her brows. “I’ll wait until you’re gone before I move them in.” He blinked, narrowing his eyes at her. “Who’s Walter?”
“Perhaps it would be better if…” Her words faded away, then she brightened and leaned forward to pat his hand. “But I wouldn’t worry. Walter says—Oh good, it won’t be long now.”
Shane’s brows rose at the cryptic statement. Worry? About what? And what wouldn’t be long? Until they were gone? His stomach rumbled, reminding him that breakfast had been early and lunch nonexistent.
“Until we eat,” Tillie said matter-of-factly.
Just then, the door of the nearest motor home opened, releasing an aroma that made his mouth water. One thing was certain, he decided: beans weren’t on the menu.
“Dinner’s ready,” Christy called.
Ruth Ann, Jack and Claude trooped over to the door and returned with large, covered dishes. After depositing them on the tables, they went back for more.
Tillie grabbed Shane’s sleeve. “Come on. Walter always says the end of the table is best. Less confusion.”
Shrugging, Shane rose and allowed himself to be tugged along. Tillie sat at his right, nodding when Christy slid in on his left side. Within seconds he was surrounded by UFO hunters silently passing plates of food. His guests, he reminded himself again.
He took a bite of tender Swiss steak, closed his eyes and savored it while his taste buds broke into the Hallelujah Chorus.
Christy’s brows rose at his awed expression. “Did you think we invited you for burned hamburgers?”
“The way I’ve been eating lately, I would’ve enjoyed even that. But this, it’s…”
“Wonderful? Extraordinary? Phenomenal?”
He nodded. “All of the above.”
“I’d like to take the credit, but this is my week to be scullery maid. Ben’s the magician.” She pointed to the short, muscular man with a gray crew cut. “He only lets me wash and cut veggies.”
“He cooks for everyone?”
She nodded. “Dinner only. We’re on our own for breakfast and lunch.”
“How’d you con him into that?”
Christy turned to look at Ben, her expression thoughtful. “I’m not sure. It was a done deal before I came along, but I think he was bored silly. He’d recently retired as head chef from a really great restaurant and cooking just for himself wasn’t cutting it. As it is, he can produce a meal like this easier than I can make a batch of cookies.”
“You don’t say.” Shane gazed at the muscular wizard, knowing his luck had just changed. A real live chef, a bored chef, was sitting across the table from him, and he was damn well going to do whatever it took to keep him right here. For at least three weeks.
Of course, if he kept the cook, he’d more than likely have to keep the rest of them. They seemed to be a package deal. Glancing around the table at the yellow-shirted bunch, he sighed. The thought of them running tame on his land searching for UFOs was enough to turn his hair gray, but hell, he could control them. What was important was talking Ben Matthews into cooking until Hector returned. Wondering if immediately after dinner was too soon to tell Ben that the Circle M would gladly help ease the strain of his retirement, Shane reached again for the platter of Swiss steak.
He stopped chewing when another thought occurred to him. If they stayed, Christy stayed. And that changed everything. If she wasn’t leaving in two days, he could do something about the fire that flooded his body every time he looked at her. Hell, who was he kidding? Every time he thought of her. Turning to look down at her wispy bangs and glorious mass of hair, he held back a smile. Yeah, his luck had definitely changed.
When her elbow brushed Shane’s arm again, Christy shifted her chair a bit to the left. It was one thing to make nice with the man, entirely another to sit so close she was scorched by the heat radiating from his big body.
She would do a lot for Aunt Tillie, but being agreeable to him wasn’t easy. He was too much like her three exes—high-handed and forceful. Of course a lot of men faced with an exploding RV and a gaggle of UFO hunters on their property would probably react the same way.
Even so, he was dangerous. Of course, it wasn’t his fault that she was wary of men—especially the alpha types. Or that what she craved right now was a peaceful life, a life dedicated to her new job and simple pleasures. A life rid of complications—especially the ones created by demanding men.
She hadn’t been a bit interested when he’d taken off his shirt so she could deal with his back, she assured herself. Yeah, right. The sight of his hard body hadn’t doubled her pulse rate either, and his heat hadn’t sizzled through her fingertips, warming her from head to toe.
She was accustomed to attractive men. All three of her exes had been disciplined, keeping their bodies in first-rate condition. Health, number two had told her, was a big advantage in beating down the competition. And they had muscles. Plenty of them. So there had been no reason for her to gape at Shane like a hormone-crazed teenager. She should be able to take broad shoulders, a wide chest lightly sprinkled with dark hair, and a flat, hard stomach in stride.
So he was spectacular. So what? He was still a royal pain. He was the prototype of all the trouble-some men who had caused her to swear off men, for heaven’s sake.
Grateful they would be leaving in a day or so, she decided she could be polite until then. It couldn’t be that difficult, despite the waves of tension radiating from him. Noting that Tillie was complimenting Ben on the dinner, she turned to Shane.
“How’s your—”
“Who is—”
They both stopped, waiting.
“You first,” Shane said, leaning back when Melinda reached over his shoulder to collect his plate.
“I just wanted to know if your back is bothering you. I have plenty of ointment if you—”
He shook his head. “No thanks. It stings a little, but it’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Her voice was cool. “Now it’s your turn.”
Nodding toward the cluster of seniors, Shane asked, “Which one is Walter?”
A chill shot straight up Christy’s spine. “Walter?” Her voice cracked midword.
Peering around him at her aunt, who was comparing notes with Opal, the palmist, Christy groped for a response. Tillie had no inhibition about quoting Walter—anytime, anywhere, with anyone. It was perfectly reasonable for Shane to want him identified.
It was also a problem because there was no reasonable explanation for Walter—especially to a man who already thought they were a bunch of lunatics.
“Walter is…Aunt Tillie’s husband,” she said, opting for truthful evasion for as long as she could. Even the verb was honest because, unfortunately, there was nothing past tense about the blasted man. Except his body.
“I don’t remember meeting him.”
She shook her head, deliberately ignoring his puzzled expression. “You didn’t. He…couldn’t come on this trip.”
“Then why was he talking about my cattle?”
Choking on a sip of iced tea, Christy asked weakly, “Your cattle? You sure it was Walter?”
“That’s what Tillie said.”
“Exactly what did she say?”
“Something about my cattle not being happy in this hollow.”
“Oh.” A nasty vision of cows keeling over by the dozens ran through her mind, then she looked around and brightened. “You don’t have any cows here.”
“Not yet. But they’ll be here as soon as you leave.”
She angled a quick glance at him before concentrating on her perspiring glass of tea. “Uh…you couldn’t wait a while before moving them?”
“Why? I want to do it before they overgraze the area they’re in.”
“No particular reason.” Except that there was usually some sort of logic—absurd or otherwise—behind Uncle Walter’s suggestions.
“I don’t get it.” Shane turned to face her, his wide shoulders concealing the people behind him. “If he isn’t here, how could he know about my ranch? And why would he care?”
Give the man a cigar. He had some good questions. “Aunt Tillie probably described the place to him,” she said vaguely, checking her options again. So much for honesty. It never lasted long when the subject was Tillie or her talkative mate. Two days, she reminded herself. Just a measly forty-eight hours and they’d be on their way. And being around Tillie had taught her a few things; she could dodge his curiosity and pointed questions for that long.
Shane gave her a last, exasperated look before turning to the man across the table. “Ben, that was a wonderful meal. I wonder if we could talk for a minute.”
Tillie turned to face him, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
Not trusting her aunt’s look of anticipation, Christy felt the chill skitter back down her spine.
Ben leaned back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest, and nodded.
“I need a good cook for about three weeks,” Shane said bluntly. “What can I do to interest you in the job?” Listening in dismay while he explained, Christy looked from one face to the next with a sinking feeling. No one jumped up to violently object. No one even looked upset.
“How many men do you have?” Ben asked.
“Ten.”
“What’s your kitchen like?”
“It was remodeled last year with commercial appliances.”
Ben shrugged. “I’m listening.”
Christy groaned at the avid interest in Ben’s brown eyes as he heard the details. The blasted man couldn’t wait to get back in a hot kitchen with twenty pans going at once.
“I could do it.” Ben’s words were measured as carefully as the ingredients in his sauces. “But we’re all together on this trip. If I stay, we all stay; it has to be a group decision. And I still cook dinner for everyone here.”
Shane gave a brief nod. “I figured that. Do you want me to leave so you can talk it over?”
“No need. We’re not shy.” Turning to the others, Ben said, “What do you think?”
Doomed. Christy slumped in her chair, remembering her cousin’s words as they all gazed at Tillie. But it was only fair they defer to her, she reminded herself. After all, the trip had been Tillie’s idea. She had determined the itinerary, announced it on the Internet and found compatible people. Each of them doted on her, recognized her special ability and would follow her through the gates of hell. It didn’t take a psychic to know what her aunt’s decision would be, Christy thought gloomily.
“How wonderful!” Tillie beamed a smile at each of them. “We’re exactly where we are meant to be.” Sliding a glance at Shane, she added, “Practically at the door of Area 51.”
Christy’s groan was lost in the excited conversation. She wondered how she had lived her entire life—before Aunt Tillie—without hearing of the famed Area 51 and the Nellis Air Force Base Bombing and Gunnery Range. While the Air Force had recently, and reluctantly, acknowledged that it had “operations” at Area 51, it still wouldn’t reveal what was happening there.
Skeptics believed that the government was testing exciting new jets that looked bizarre because they were experimental. UFO buffs believed the government had captured alien spacecraft and had made, and were testing, their own spaceships. There was no doubt which angle these people subscribed to.
The general area had been designated on their itinerary as the first major “hot spot” to be investigated, with a proposed stay of three weeks.
Jack grinned at Tillie. “Are you suggesting we use the ranch as a base of operations?”
“If it’s agreeable with everyone.” Tillie took another peek at Shane’s face and nodded, satisfied.
“Why not?” Ruth Ann looked at each of them, inviting comments. When there were none, she turned to Ben. “Of course, how much loot you can squeeze out of Shane is strictly your own business.”
Ben got up, looking across the table at his new boss. “Looks like you might have a deal.”
“Good. Before we take a walk and settle things, I have one more suggestion.” His quick glance, resting on Christy’s resigned expression for a moment, included them all. “How about moving closer to the house? I have an empty bunkhouse you can park by. You’ll probably want to stay in your RVs, but you can use the tubs and showers in the cabin.”
Again, all heads swiveled toward Tillie.
She nodded and touched Ben’s arm. “You go right now. The rest of us will stay here for…a while.”
Shane frowned. “It’ll be nicer for you near the house.”
Patting his hand, Tillie said, “Your home is lovely. We’ll be there.” She looked skyward for a moment, then gave a definite nod. “Day after tomorrow, Wednesday morning before the storm gets too bad.”
“What storm?” Shane turned a puzzled frown on Christy. “We’re not expecting rain.”
Avoiding his gaze, she muttered, “Don’t look at me. I’m the last one around here to know anything.”
Five minutes later the two men returned from a short walk, their satisfied expressions clear to the rest of the group.
Shane tucked a cellular phone back in his shirt pocket. “Hank says he’ll meet you at the gate in an hour and lead you in.”
Ben nodded, moving toward his motor home.
Reaching for Christy’s hand, Shane tugged gently, bringing her to her feet. “Let’s go.”
She scowled and tried to sink back into the chair. “Where?”
“Out there.” Shane kept her at his side as he gestured toward the surrounding hills. Any damn where at all, as long as they were far away from the voluble alien hunters still clustered around the tables.
Hesitating, Christy cast a glance at her aunt, who was again chatting with Opal. It wasn’t a smart move to wander away with a man who practically had a large T branded on his forehead. Trouble was something she didn’t need, and caring for a small, elderly aunt was always a good excuse.
“You go on, dear. Enjoy yourself.” Tillie waved absently in her direction. “I’m just fine.”
Shane slid his arm around her waist and nudged her toward an opening in the circle of RVs before she could use the deepening darkness as another excuse.
Stopping by a tall juniper, he looked down at her. “Did you tell Tillie about my house?”
“Nope. I started scrubbing veggies as soon as I got back.”
“Then how does she know what it looks like?”
Christy stopped to look up at him. “Beats me. She just seems to know these things.” So much for trying to deceive him with half-truths, she reflected with resignation. For a couple of days, there might have been a chance. But not for three weeks. And she had a gut feeling that Shane would not be a happy man when he learned that he was not only hosting a troupe of UFO hunters but a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool psychic.
He tightened his arm and kept her moving over the grass while he considered her aunt. “It doesn’t make sense,” he finally said. “And there’s no storm coming. I checked the weather channel before I rode over here for dinner.”
Loosening the large hand at her waist with a sigh, Christy stepped away from him. “Look, if you’re going to be around Aunt Tillie for any length of time, you might as well understand something.” It still wasn’t easy to explain, she reflected. Even after a year of practice. “She’s, uh…”
“She’s what?”
“You won’t believe it,” she hedged. “No one ever does—at least not at first.”
Drawing her closer, he casually draped his arm over her shoulder. “I’ll believe it,” he promised.
“I doubt it.” Get it over with, she told herself. Now. “She’s…psychic.”
His hand tightened on her shoulder and after a moment she looked up at him. His expression was typical, she reflected. Tolerant and a bit patronizing. The look most men gave her before explaining that only the gullible and weak-minded believed in mediums.
“I don’t mean just a little, either,” she added for good measure. “She’s an absolute, out-and-out, mind-boggling psychic.”
“I don’t believe it.” He scowled down at her.
“Isn’t that exactly what I told you?” she muttered in exasperation.
Shane ran a hand through his hair, leaving it rumpled and standing in spikes. This wasn’t the conversation he’d planned to have once he got Christy alone. Their two days had been stretched to three weeks, but it wouldn’t mean a damn thing if she tossed verbal bombs at him every time they got together.
“Look, I’ve already got a bunch of E.T. hunters on my hands, you don’t have to add a fortune-teller.” He took a deep breath and added in a flat voice, “Besides, I don’t believe in psychics.”
“How nice for you.” Maybe it was the fact that Tillie was surrounded by a legion of protectors and didn’t need her added support, Christy thought, but for the first time she could enjoy the absurdity of the situation.
“I didn’t either until a year ago, when I settled in San Diego and my relatives stuck me with Aunt Tillie for a weekend. During that time I learned that she doesn’t need a security system at her place because she always knows who’s approaching her house. I learned that she never uses a telephone book—she just picks up the phone and dials the right numbers.”
Shane groaned.
“I learned that she always knows when family and friends are either hurt or in trouble.”
Sighing, Shane said, “Let me ask again, who exactly is this Walter?”
Her soft laughter filling the air, Christy said, “Her husband.”
“And why isn’t he here taking care of her?”
“Because he’s dead.”
His scowl grew darker. “Dead?”
“Yep.” She grinned. “Of course, Aunt Tillie says he made his transition, but any way you look at it, he’s gone. But not forgotten, no sirree. And believe me, he didn’t go quietly. It seems like the man never stops talking. Fourteen years ago,” she added before he could ask.
“I don’t believe it.”
“You already said that.”
“Do you have any idea how crazy this sounds?”
“Yeah, I do. Which is why I hate to tell anyone about it, but I thought since we’re going to be here a while, you should be warned.”
“And he talked to her about my cattle?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Christy sighed. “He talks to her about almost everything. My mother said his financial advice had tripled her portfolio. Aunt Tillie’s, not my mother’s,” she added with scrupulous honesty.
“So why is this dead man fixated on my cattle?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea. But, believe me, my family jumps when he issues a warning.”
“It wasn’t a warning,” he snapped. “It was just…a comment.”
“As far as Uncle Walter is concerned, it’s the same thing. I’d pay attention if I were you.” Christy turned back toward the RVs. “So now you’ve had two warnings—one from Walter and one from me.”
Shane caught her arm and gently swung her toward him. “Wait a minute. This isn’t what I wanted to talk about when we came out here.”
Panic swept through her when his voice deepened. “Well of course it isn’t,” she said brightly. “How could you? You didn’t know about it.” The fear that he would say something she absolutely, positively did not want to hear kept her talking. “Uncle Walter isn’t a topic that many would think of. After all, how many dead men—”
He stopped her by lifting her chin and brushing his lips against hers in a slow, tender kiss. Finally, when the tension left her body and she sagged against him, he raised his head. “I want to talk about us.” His dark gaze swept her face before he turned and led her farther away from the lights of the motor homes.
Digging her heels in the soft grass, she pulled away and held up a hand to keep him back. Damned if she hadn’t been right about the brand on his forehead; the man was nothing but trouble. Oddly enough, she had forgotten that the letter could also stand for testosterone. As in way too much of it. And she had a nasty hunch that he was as stubborn and relentless as all three exes combined.
“Whoa, cowboy,” she said breathlessly. “We’ve known each other about six hours. Don’t you think you’re rushing things a bit?”
He gave a slow shake of his head. “From my point of view, we’ve already wasted most of the day.”
Blinking, she took a deep breath to release the tension building inside her. Then, since it hadn’t helped much, she took another one and quickly stepped past him, hurrying distractedly back to the RVs. His blunt approach was all too familiar. And, unfortunately for her, there was something morbidly fascinating about the direct, Me-Tarzan, you-Jane method. Even worse, in the past, it had worked. But that was then, she reminded herself. This was now. And things were different.
She was different. She had changed.
She had a batch of new priorities—an interesting job, potential career advancement and, best of all, no forceful men in her life.
Granted, there were a few dangling threads from her old life that needed attention. They were minor. A quick conversation with Aunt Tillie would clear up the wanderer issue. Ignoring the worrisome thought that conversations with her aunt were neither quick nor reasonable, Christy pressed on.
Another more pointed talk with Shane would probably be necessary, but she could handle that.
After all, she had changed.
Chapter Three
“Come on, Aunt Tillie, give.”
Seated at the motor home’s simulated oak table, nibbling at a chicken salad, Christy pondered the difficulties of getting a few minutes alone with her aunt. She hadn’t been able to corner Tillie the night before after Shane had left, and today it hadn’t been easy to wean her away from the tangle of seniors vociferously debating the methods of breaking through the military guards into Area 51. In fact, it had been impossible. So she had found a shady spot and waited until hunger drove them to their motor homes for lunch. Now, with luck, she’d have an uninterrupted hour devoted to questions and answers.
Tillie tilted her head, reminding Christy of a perky, blue-eyed bird. “Shane is a nice man, isn’t he? And subtle. Just look at the shirts he wears.”
Nice? Subtle? Shirts? The look Christy aimed at her was one of sheer disbelief. “Aunt Tillie, I use words for a living, remember? That means I select them with care, and nice is hardly one I’d choose to describe Shane McBride. Relentless, maybe. Obstinate, definitely. But, nice, subtle? No way. I can think of a lot of words, but none of them have anything to do with nice. And what do his shirts—” She stopped, a crease forming between her brows as she studied her aunt’s artless expression.
“Oh, no you don’t, we’re not going there,” she said firmly. “Your little diversion isn’t going to work this time. We’re not talking about Shane. What we’re discussing here is your affection for all beings extraterrestrial and why you think I’m one of them.”
If Christy had learned anything in the past year, it was that being tactful with her aunt was a lost cause. Tillie could be perfectly coherent and logical…unless she was disturbed or simply chose not to discuss a certain topic. When that happened, she was as hard to pin down as a campaigning politician. So tact was not an option here; gritty perseverance was the only thing that seemed to work.
“This wanderer thing,” Christy prompted. “I want you to explain it, using plain and simple words. What makes you say that—”
“Your aura.”
“My what?”
“It was glorious, vibrant.” Tillie clasped her hands to her chest, dazzled by the memory. “Indigo, of course.”
“Indigo,” Christy repeated in a neutral voice. “Of course.” It had happened again. They were less than a minute into a conversation, and she was absolutely lost. Tillie’s answers were usually confusing, she reminded herself, but given enough time they—occasionally—eventually made sense. So all she had to do was hang in there. If she was lucky, she might even comprehend what Tillie considered a reasonable explanation.
“And you were only five minutes old.” Charmed by the memory, Tillie smiled. Then silver brows drew together in thought. “Ten at the most.”
“And from that—”
“Oh, yes.” Tillie gave a decisive nod. “I knew.”
“But, how?” No, Christy thought with resignation, it wasn’t going to work. No amount of time would help her understand. Aunt Tillie’s thought process was as tangled as her conversation. She didn’t know the meaning of linear thinking, didn’t have a nodding acquaintance with the normal give-and-take in dialogue. She communicated on some mystical plane that resembled the descending spiral of a corkscrew.
“The color,” Tillie prompted.
“Oh, yeah, the indigo.”
“Precisely. You know what it means, of course.”
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Rita Rainville
One look at Shane McBride told Christy Calhoun to run away–fast. The long, lean and very sexy rancher's every move shouted danger, and she'd sworn to avoid romance again. Unfortunately, with a broken-down RV, Christy had no choice but to stay for a spell…Shane would've sooner mucked stalls than play host to his gorgeous houseguest! He'd vowed never to let a woman into his home, and this one reminded him why. The tempting beauty tested his normally rock-solid self-control.And this unfamiliar feeling was becoming way too hard to handle…
Shane McBride was dangerous.
Of course, it wasn’t his fault that she was wary of men—especially the alpha types. Or that what Christy craved right now was a peaceful life, a life dedicated to her new job and simple pleasures. A life rid of complications—especially the ones created by demanding men.
Besides, she hadn’t been a bit interested when he’d taken off his shirt, she assured herself. The sight of his hard body hadn’t doubled her pulse rate, either, and his heat hadn’t sizzled through her fingertips, warming her from head to toe.
Yeah, right, she thought.
Dear Reader,
“Happy Birthday to us.…”
Exactly twenty years ago this May, Silhouette Romance was born. Since then, we’ve grown as a company, and as a series that continues to offer the very best in contemporary category romance fiction. The icing on the cake is this month’s amazing lineup:
International bestselling author Diana Palmer reprises her SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE miniseries with Mercenary’s Woman. Sorely missed, Rita Rainville returns to Romance with the delightful story of a Too Hard To Handle rancher who turns out to be anything but.…Elizabeth August delivers the dramatic finale to ROYALLY WED. In A Royal Mission, rescuing kidnapped missing princess Victoria Rockford was easy for Lance Grayson. But falling in love wasn’t part of the plan.
Marie Ferrarella charms us with a Tall, Strong & Cool Under Fire hero whose world turns topsy-turvy when an adorable moppet and her enticing mom venture into his fire station.…Julianna Morris’s BRIDAL FEVER! rages on when Hannah Gets a Husband—her childhood friend who is a new dad. And in Her Sister’s Child, a woman allies with her enemy. Don’t miss this pulse-pounding romance by Lilian Darcy!
In June, we’re featuring Dixie Browning and Phyllis Halldorson, and in coming months look for new miniseries from many of your favorite authors. It’s an exciting year for Silhouette Books, and we invite you to join the celebration!
Happy reading!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor
Too Hard to Handle
Rita Rainville
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my retreat buddies—you know who you are.
Thanks for the love, laughter and support.
Books by Rita Rainville
Silhouette Romance
Challenge the Devil #313
McCade’s Woman #346
* (#litres_trial_promo)Lady Moonlight #370
Written on the Wind #400
* (#litres_trial_promo)The Perfect Touch #418
The Glorious Quest #448
Family Affair #478
It Takes a Thief #502
Gentle Persuasion #535
Never Love a Cowboy #556
Valley of Rainbows #598
* (#litres_trial_promo)No Way To Treat a Lady #663
Never on Sundae #706
One Moment of Magic #746
* (#litres_trial_promo)Arc of the Arrow #832
Alone at Last #873
* (#litres_trial_promo)Too Hard To Handle #1445
Silhouette Desire
A Touch of Class #495
Paid in Full #639
High Spirits #792
Tumbleweed and Gibraltar #828
Hot Property #874
Bedazzled #918
Husband Material #984
City Girls Need Not Apply #1056
Silhouette Books
Silhouette Christmas Stories 1990
“Lights Out!”
RITA RAINVILLE
believes her storytelling ability was honed by her father, a man who told absurd tales with a straight face and a gleam of amusement in his blue eyes. She learned from both parents that laughter, as well as love, makes the world go ’round. Her early years were spent reading every book available and replotting the endings of sad movies.
Rita has been a romantic for as long as she can remember. She began writing romance novels, and continues to this day, because she believes in humor, happy endings and the enduring qualities of love, honor and commitment. She is also spurred on by letters she receives from readers, letters that say things like, “…when I read your books, I laugh out loud and the pain goes away.”
Rita is a happily married mother of two super sons, one incredible daughter-in-law and a wonderful grandson. She lives with her husband in northern Arizona.
Contents
Chapter One (#u5ca1c275-ad92-5dbf-8189-e3e409b56718)
Chapter Two (#u99421cf9-9100-5af4-a4d9-29f257661cc8)
Chapter Three (#ub450aeed-41a8-5c6e-b9ab-43a8547e5c3e)
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)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
“Lady, you’ve got two minutes to get these loonies off my land.”
Christy Calhoun’s eyes widened as the gaze of the large, tanned man on horseback settled on her. He had scanned her nine companions and the cluster of recreational vehicles scattered around his property before turning to her and issuing the direct order. When he tilted his brown Stetson back off his forehead, she saw that the expression in his narrowed dark eyes was no friendlier than his words.
One quick glance at the older people milling around her resolved her unspoken question. They, in their eye-popping yellow T-shirts each picturing a human waving at a big-eyed alien and the words I’m not Suffering from Alienation, were the loonies; she, in jeans and a white sleeveless T-shirt, was, by default, the lady.
He was more than large, she decided with a blink. Caught between her and the glare of the late-May sun, he looked very big. Huge. And hard as granite, if the thighs gripping his saddle were any indication. He was, with his broad chest and shoulders wide enough to fill a doorway, more than a tad intimidating.
Before Christy could utter a word, a motor home, the last of their caravan, trundled off the road and up the grassy slope in their direction, smoke pouring out the front grille. Slamming to a stop well behind the other vehicles, the driver leaped out and dashed toward the cluster of people. Before he had gone ten feet, the motor home’s chrome grille erupted and flames shot out, blistering the paint and shooting up a plume of dark smoke.
Swearing, the large cowboy swung off his horse and pointed to the hill behind him. “Move,” he shouted to the stunned observers. “Now. To the other side. The damn thing’s going to blow.”
Christy took a last look at the blazing motor home then turned to check the people swarming up the hillside. Noting they were all accounted for, she slid her arm protectively around the petite woman beside her. “Come on, Aunt Tillie. The man said to move.”
“We’ll be fine, dear,” the older woman murmured, hiking up her long skirt and obediently trotting up the hill after her friends. “Just fine.”
“Not if we don’t hustle.”
“Oh!” Tillie skidded to a stop and turned back. “My bracelet. It’s gone.”
Halting beside her, Christy wrapped her fingers around her aunt’s wrist and tugged. “Come on, it’ll be there when we get back.”
“But it’s Walter’s. I mean, the one he gave me. His last gift.”
Christy closed her eyes and sighed. After four days on the road with her lovable, exasperating aunt, she recognized the determination beneath her breathy voice. Come hell or high water, Tillie would go back for that bracelet. “Where is it?”
“There.” Tillie pointed to a spot twenty feet behind them where the gold band glittered in the sun.
“I’ll get it. You keep moving.” Christy nudged her aunt toward the others and waited until they crested the hill before she turned back.
From behind them, Shane McBride watched with mingled fury and disbelief as the trim redhead reversed herself and dashed back toward him and the inferno. Not on my land, he thought grimly, angling to cut her off. No way. She might be a UFO-hunting trespasser, but if she was hurt on his property, she could tie him up in a legal snarl for months. He launched himself at her just as the RV exploded.
A gust of hot air hit him with the force of a sledgehammer, throwing him off balance just as he snagged her. Fiery cinders rained on his back.
Shifting his weight to break the redhead’s fall, Shane rolled with her across the grass, coming to a stop with her pinned beneath him. He held her there, hip to hip, sinking into her softness, waiting for the adrenaline to stop roaring through his body, feeling the swell of her breasts press against his chest.
Instead of rolling aside and tugging her to her feet, pure physical appreciation kept him where he was a few seconds longer than necessary. It had obviously been too long since he’d been with a woman, he thought wryly, because she felt damn good. Way too good.
Struggling for air, she shoved at his shoulders. “I can’t…breathe.” Looking up, she blinked at the lick of flame in the man’s dark eyes, so close to her own. It was gone in an instant. Muttering a curse, he shifted to her side, rising to his feet with a fluid power that had her blinking again. It took her longer to move. His hard body had imprinted itself on hers, and she shivered at the aftereffect of heat, flexing muscles and a bar of rigid flesh pressing into her belly.
He leaned over her, extending a large hand. Waiting until her fingers touched his palm, he tightened his grip and pulled her smoothly to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” Dazed by her racing pulse and the heat from his body, but not hurt. Christy shook her head as she looked around the grassy knoll. “I’m fine. I think.” Taking in the bits of twisted metal and smoldering grass, she shivered and turned back to him, impulsively squeezing the hand she still held. “Thanks for your help. I’m Christy Calhoun, and I’m really sorry about all this.” She gestured vaguely at the shambles around them. “I know it sounds crazy, but I was after my aunt’s bracelet, not trying to get blown up.”
Turning away to conceal his aroused state, he scowled at the gaggle of older people at the top of the hill then down at her. “Shane McBride. I own this land. If you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re trespassing.”
“Welcome to my world,” Christy muttered.
“No, ma’am, you’ve got that wrong.” His deep voice had an edge of lethal softness. “There’s no welcome on this ranch for trespassers or idiots looking for UFOs. I’ve had all the broken fences, burned grass and campers that I intend to deal with. So I’d advise you to turn your cute little butt around, go back out the same cut fence you came in and travel on down the road.”
Looking around at the disaster area, she said, “We didn’t cut the fence. It was already down.”
“I know,” he said with strained patience. “It was done yesterday by a tourist who claimed he was running away from a UFO. He zigzagged on and off the road and took down nearly a quarter mile of fence. My fence.”
“Well, we won’t do anything like that,” she assured him, lifting her hands in a universal gesture of innocence. “Honest, we’re really a law-abiding group of…” He half turned, raising his brows when she stopped, flushing, apparently remembering where she was.
“What I mean is, we didn’t know we were trespassing when we pulled over. We thought it was open land since…there wasn’t a fence.” As her words dwindled away beneath his skeptical gaze, Christy’s thoughts darted to her aunt who, as leader and navigator of the group, had made the decision to stop precisely where they were.
Aunt Tillie.
A nasty suspicion drew her thoughts even further back to a conversation she’d had with one of her cousins two weeks earlier.
Brandy would know what to do, she had thought at the time, waiting for her cousin to answer the phone. After all, hadn’t Brandy been the latest victim among the cousins? Hadn’t she—
At the sound of a sunny contralto greeting, Christy had said, “Brandy? Thank God!”
“Christy? Hey, I’ve been meaning to call. How’s the fianceé?”
“Ex-fianceé. But that’s not why—”
“Ex?” Brandy cleared her throat. “Isn’t that the third man you…? Never mind. How’s the job going?”
“Gone, but that’s not why—”
“Gone? When?”
“Actually, the same day I got rid of fianceé number three. I was more upset about the job.”
“But you’ve been writing for that magazine for the last two years.”
“Yep, but it got caught up in a merger, and it’s dead meat,” Christy said succinctly. “Brandy, that’s not why—”
“So what are you going to do?”
This time, Christy’s sigh was long and loud. She should have known she wouldn’t control this conversation; she never did when talking with her cousin. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m a little stressed here. When my magazine bit the dust, the editor of a travel magazine called me with an offer.”
“Christy, that’s terrific!”
“You haven’t heard about my first assignment.”
“Nothing can be that bad,” her cousin said in a firm voice. “In the major scheme of things, a year isn’t that long.”
“A day can be that long if I’m working with Aunt Tillie.”
“Working with…?”
“Aunt Tillie,” Christy confirmed grimly. A fey, spry, enchanting, adventurous, hair-raising dynamo of a woman. A woman fascinated by aliens and UFOs and…a psychic. She had daily conversations with Uncle Walter, a man whose exuberant spirit was apparently undaunted by the insignificant fact that he had passed on to another plane years earlier. She was also a matchmaker, who wreaked havoc in the life of any niece or nephew unfortunate enough to become the object of her attention.
But that had all been family lore, at least as far as Christy was concerned. Born into a military family that moved with regularity, she’d had only intermittent contact with her infamous aunt. So minimal, in fact, that she had always thought the stories were highly exaggerated.
Until this past year.
“She’s gathered a herd of senior citizen extraterrestrial believers and organized them into a caravan. The plan is to visit the Nevada and Arizona hot spots of UFO sightings. The seniors, of course, fully expect to find proof of visitations.”
“Good grief.”
“My thought exactly. And since my first assignment is to write an article on seniors traveling together, I got stuck with Aunt Tillie and her goofy friends.”
After a thoughtful pause, her cousin asked cautiously, “How’d your editor know about Aunt Tillie?”
“She didn’t. But Mom certainly does. Among other things, she said I couldn’t turn Aunt Tillie loose on the rest of the world in an RV.”
“Aunt Tillie got her driver’s license back?” Horror lifted Brandy’s voice a notch.
“Last week.”
“Good grief.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So, with the family breathing down my neck and designating me as the sacrificial lamb, I cleared the idea with my editor. She thought it might have a nice, light touch. I’m leaving in about ten days.”
Before her cousin could recover, Christy circled back to the original reason for the call. “Brandy, have you ever heard Aunt Tillie call me her little wanderer?”
“Sure. Not lately, but all the time when we were kids. I figured it was because you always meandered away and the family had to send search parties out for you.”
“Yeah, I did too.”
“Did? Past tense? Not now?”
“No indeedy. She said something yesterday that put a whole new light on the subject.”
“Don’t tell me. Aliens again?”
“What’s with her, Brandy? The woman is obsessed with E.T.s. Now she seems to think I’m one of them.”
“Oh boy. Did you ask Aunt Tillie about it?”
“You bet your sweet patootie I did.”
“And?”
“She said she knew the moment I was born that I was what UFO buffs call a wanderer. She’s just been waiting for me to bloom. Damn it, Brandy, this isn’t funny. I don’t want to bloom.”
Her cousin’s snort of laughter was not comforting. “You’re doomed, Christy. There’s not a darned thing any of us can do when she goes into high gear. One consolation, though, she’ll find you a husband—one who’s good with aliens, of course. That’s always a top priority with her. After all, she’s still convinced she married me off to a real, honest-to-God E.T. Just be grateful that Uncle Walter isn’t involved.”
“I don’t want a husband, especially one who hangs around with aliens. I’ve sworn off men. Three ex-fianceés are more than enough for any woman. And the thought of Uncle Walter sending me messages from the great beyond is the stuff of nightmares,” Christy said with a shudder. “Good grief, the man has been dead for at least fourteen years. Is he ever going to quit talking to her?”
“Has she mentioned his opinion of your wandering soul or a husband?”
“Well…”
Her cousin’s laughter was no longer muffled. “Doomed, Christy. That’s what you are. Doomed!”
Earlier, other cousins had laughingly warned her that she, too, would one day be drawn into her aunt’s sphere of influence. And her life would never be the same.
Just as they’d predicted, it had happened. The fateful meeting had taken place one rainy afternoon a year earlier, after her move to San Diego, not far from her aunt’s home in Rancho Santa Fe. Less than an hour into the visit Christy had been hooked. Enchanted by the tiny woman who loved so openly, she became her staunch supporter and as fiercely protective of her as the rest of the family.
Now, wincing as she remembered Brandy’s prediction, Christy tried to rein in her overactive imagination. Granted, this stop had not been on their itinerary; they had been scheduled to drive another fifty miles similar to the last hundred since leaving Las Vegas. Miles of heat-shimmering road carved through stark landscape covered with chaparral and dotted with stumpy Joshua trees and yucca.
True, Aunt Tillie had been sitting beside her in the passenger seat humming a bit off-key when she’d spotted the lush oasis ahead—which coincided with the end of the barbed wire fence—and directed her to pull off the road onto the grassy slope.
But there was no way that Aunt Tillie could have known a man like Shane McBride would be here.
Absolutely none.
This stop was definitely just a spur-of-the-moment thing, she reassured herself. It had nothing to do with Shane, nothing to do with aliens. And definitely nothing to do with husbands.
Nada.
Relieved, she gazed up at Shane and shivered as she felt an involuntary tug of attraction. He did bear a startling resemblance to her three ex-fianceés. Not in physical looks, although they had all been large, solid men, but in his aura of power and control. Of course, it was that very aura that had been the problem.
Three times.
Number one owned a computer company, number two a marketing firm, number three was a real estate broker. All three men were aggressive types whose companies were leaving their competitors in the dust. Unfortunately, they handled their personal lives with the same drive, and she had always been a sucker for the self-assertive types.
But, that was then and this was now—and there was a limit. She had sworn off powerful men. For good. Especially the strong, silent types who assumed control as if by divine right; they were nothing but trouble. She had once believed she could tap into their gentler side, touch the tenderness she thought was just beneath the surface, but three bad experiences had finally opened her eyes.
Men like that were drawn to her generous spirit and open affection, just as she had been drawn to their strength, but it was the old water-and-oil combination. It had taken a while, but she had finally learned her lesson. If she ever started looking for a man again, and that was a big if, it would definitely be for a sensitive, caring type.
So if, through some convoluted mental process, Aunt Tillie had concluded that Shane McBride was connected to aliens or would make a terrific nephew-in-law, she could just think again. In fact, the best plan would be to get Tillie back on the road so the matter could die a natural death.
Her eyes narrowed in thought, Christy glanced again at Shane just as he turned to check on the older people walking down the hill.
“Look,” she said in a determined voice, “I’ll do my best to get this crew on the road. In the meantime, if it makes you feel any better, you can be as rude to me as you like, but when you talk to my aunt, I hope you have the courtesy to—” She caught her breath, almost choking. “Good grief, your shirt.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “What about it?”
“It’s burned. And so is your back.” Shock lifted her voice a notch. “Why on earth didn’t you say something?”
He shrugged. “I had other things on my mind.”
Yeah, like rescuing her, she thought with a stab of guilt. Giving his sleeve a tug, she said, “Come on, I have some ointment in the motor home. It’ll keep you from blistering.”
In less than two minutes, Shane was sitting on a stool hastily pulled outside with his shirt on his lap to cover his reaction to his nurse, while Christy dabbed a cooling salve on his burns. The touch of her soft hands on his back didn’t help a bit. Seconds later, the seniors milled around him, offering sympathy and suggestions. His foreman, Hank Withers, a quiet man, tall and spare, joined them, dismounting behind the group, quieting his mare and Shane’s gelding.
Tillie, wearing raspberry tennies, pulled up a camp chair and plunked it in front of Shane. When she sat, her long purple gathered skirt, held up by green suspenders, pooled around her feet. Leaning over, she plucked his shirt from his hands, shook out the dust and spread it across her lap, looking with interest at the logo on the pocket. She drew a slim finger across a swirl of stars with the word Galaxy embroidered in red beneath it.
Flexing the shoulder on which Christy was doctoring a raw spot, he said to the older woman, “I’m Shane McBride.”
“Of course you are,” she assured him earnestly. “Our host.” Smiling at Shane, she added, “You can call me Tillie.”
Host?
Christy cleared her throat. “Aunt Tillie, Mr. McBride wants us to leave.”
Tillie tilted her head, studying Shane before switching her gaze to her niece. “You must have misunderstood, dear. It’s the scene of an accident. Nobody leaves. At least, not until the insurance people come.” Her brows drew together in thought. “Or perhaps it’s the rental people—or the police. And, who knows, that could be several days.”
Beaming at Shane, she said, “When you lowered the fence for us, I knew we were meant to pull over for a rest.”
Christy stiffened. “Aunt Tillie, the fence was broken by a man who claims he was being chased by a UFO.”
“Wonderful! I knew we were in the right place.” Her eyes sparkled with delight.
Shane wanted to scowl to show he meant business, but there was something about her expectant look, her bright blue eyes and mop of silver curls that stopped him. It would have been like taking a potshot at Tinkerbell. “No, ma’am, I don’t think wonderful’s quite the word. He was as drunk as a skunk.”
She twinkled at him, clasping his shirt to her chest. “Just think! Actually chased by a UFO. We expect to have the same good luck. Don’t we?” she asked, turning to her friends for confirmation.
They nodded, apparently sharing her enthusiasm. The only exception to the general fervor, Shane noted, was the very curvy lady with the mass of red hair who was still dabbing at his back. She just sighed.
“Lovely shirt.” Tillie handed it back to Shane and waved at the group assembled around her. “These are my friends. They release water, read palms, hunt and catch people, fly, gamble, fix things, open minds and create.”
Still grappling with the idea of being host to a gathering of UFO hunters, especially those with the qualifications just revealed by their fluttering leader, Shane got to his feet and shrugged on his shirt.
Christy dropped the ointment back into the box of medical supplies and slid between Shane and the seniors. They were a formidable group, individually or collectively, she realized, and it made no sense at all, but she still felt as protective about them as she did Tillie. No doubt it had to do with what the family called her nurturing nature—or an addled mental state resulting from too much contact with her aunt.
“Shane,” she said hastily, “I’d like you to meet our resident dowser.”
A diminutive woman with graying brown hair stepped forward and gave his hand a firm shake. “Ruth Ann Watts. Glad to meet you.”
Christy gestured to a tall, slim man with eyes like blue lasers. “The man who catches people.”
Remaining where he was, leaning against a tree trunk, the man nodded. “Jack Beatty, retired cop.”
Another gesture from Christy. “The man who hunts for people.”
“Search and rescue,” a small, wiry man in dark glasses explained. “Claude Rollins.”
Waving a couple forward who resembled Jack Sprat and his wife, Christy said, “Skip and Opal Williams.”
Skip gave an amiable nod. Opal bustled forward, pumping Shane’s hand. “My husband’s a mechanic, and I read palms.” Before she stepped back beside Skip, she turned Shane’s hand over and took a quick peek at it.
A portly, bald man reached out to shake Shane’s hand. “Jim Sturgiss, retired Air Force. Howdy.”
“Ben Matthews.” Short and muscular as a wrestler, the next man nodded. “I’m the creative one,” he said, dry humor lacing his deep voice.
Grinning at the baffled expression in Shane’s eyes, Christy touched a tall woman in jeans and cowboy boots on the shoulder. “Our gambler.”
“Melinda Rills,” the tall woman said, echoing Christy’s amused smile. “Stock market and casinos.”
The last man stepped forward and extended his hand. Pale and pudgy, he was obviously still reeling from the explosion. “Dave Davidson, the one who opens minds. I’m a retired psychology teacher, and I don’t usually go around blowing things up. I’m sorry this happened on your property.”
“Well, Boss, if I was a bettin’ man, I could’ve lost ten bucks back there. I never thought you’d let them stay.”
“It’s only for a couple of days,” Shane muttered, as he and Hank headed toward the barn. “At the most.”
He wasn’t sure what had happened. Maybe the explosion had rattled his brain. Or it was Tillie looking at him as if he were her last hope for salvation. Or Christy. Hell, he didn’t know. With all of them talking at once, assuring him that they would clean up the area while they waited for the rental people, it had been hard to think.
Partly, though, it was Tillie. The little woman with the weird clothes and incandescent smile had worked some sort of magic. The others he could have kicked off the property without a qualm, but not Tillie.
And, as much as he disliked the idea, not Christy. Not the redhead. Just one look at her had his body on red alert, and that was asking for trouble. Big trouble. Even worse had been the feeling of instant recognition that had poured through every cell of his body when he’d first seen her. If he’d believed in fate or destiny, he would have conceded that she was the one woman he’d been looking for all of his life.
But he wasn’t a dreamer. Two women who had liked his money a hell of a lot more than they’d liked him had helped him grow up fast. And he didn’t believe in fate—at least not where a wife was concerned. None of the women he’d met had ever been right. Not for a lifetime. He doubted one existed. But, damn, at first glance she sure came close.
“How much of the fence did you fix?” he asked abruptly, deliberately changing the direction of his thoughts.
“Not much.” Hank shrugged his lean shoulders. “After the explosion, Milt, here,” he nodded at the gelding, “came flying over the hill and it took me a while to catch him.”
“We’ll head back tomorrow and finish up.”
“What about them?” Hank gestured over his shoulder at the people milling around the motor homes, his hazel eyes questioning.
“We’ll leave that one section of fence open for them.”
“What about the herd?”
“We’ll have to wait to move it in there until they’re gone.” Shane dismounted when they reached the barn. “Who’s cooking tonight?”
“Red.” Hank sighed. “Beans again. You know, we’re gonna have a mutiny on our hands if we don’t get another cook out here. And don’t even suggest Adelaide. Half of us got food poisoning the one time she tried.”
“Yeah. I know.” Remembering, Shane winced. The housekeeper was a jewel, but not in the kitchen. “I’ve called all the temp agencies in Vegas, but the odds of finding someone are slim to none. Anyone who can cook for more than one person at a time has been snatched up for the summer by dude ranches or local camps. And Hector called this morning with more bad news after he pulled into Dallas. Said his dad is worse off than he thought, and he’d probably have to stay two or three weeks.”
Hank groaned. “A couple of days without a cook is bad enough, but two or three weeks? Boss, you gotta do something.” Taking the reins from Shane’s hand, he said, “I’ll take care of the horses, you go make a miracle.”
An hour later, Shane closed the telephone directory with an irritated thump. Nothing. There wasn’t a cook to be found in the whole damn county.
Maybe there was hope for Shane after all.
Christy braked to a stop and hopped off her bicycle at the front gate, looking at the gracious old house surrounded by lush, well-tended grass. It was no Tara, but then she had always thought such magnificence was overrated. This was a home—pale creamy yellow, two stories, with a wraparound porch that was cozily furnished with an oak swing and wicker chairs punctuated with bright floral cushions. Enclosed by a white rail with gently curved spindles, it all but shouted a welcome. It was the kind of home she had dreamed about as a child moving from place to place. It was a deeply feminine house, she reflected, for such a hard man.
But a man who appreciated a home like this couldn’t be all bad, she thought. Not that she was interested on a personal level, of course, but she made a point of giving credit where it was due. And he did appreciate it; it showed in the recent paint job, the tidy shrubbery, the profusion of pink and white flowers tumbling here and there.
Shane walked around the corner and caught her gazing dreamy-eyed at the house. With her hand on the gate of the picket fence, she had the tranquil look of a woman coming home. She looked nice there. She looked…right.
Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. No way was he going down that road. With her green eyes, high cheekbones and full mouth, Christy was one hell of a looker. Her blazing mass of red-gold hair didn’t hurt, either. But she was going to be here two days, tops, and he could manage to keep his hands off her for that long. Maybe. Pushing down the surge of lust that slammed through him, he strode toward her. It would be helpful if his imagination would just simmer down, he thought, muttering a quiet oath. Mighty helpful.
Pulling the gate open, he scowled at her flushed face. “It’s almost a hundred degrees out here and dry as dirt. What the hell are you doing on a bike? Without a hat?” When her narrowed eyes glittered with irritation, he heaved a sigh. “Can I get you something cold to drink, iced tea, beer?”
Christy ran her hands through her hair to control both it and her temper. “First, a bike is convenient,” she snapped. “Second, I don’t need a caretaker, and third, no thank you. My aunt wants to be sure you know how much we all appreciate being able to stay here, and—”
“All?”
Taking a deep breath and releasing it, she nodded. “All.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “All right, I’m not thrilled about it, but you were kind—”
“Kind?” His brows rose.
“And courteous to my aunt and her friends,” she said through clenched teeth, “and I am grateful for that. Can I get on with this?” she asked, stopping him before he could interrupt again.
“So they asked me to tell…I mean we want to invite you to dinner to show our appreciation.”
A corner of his mouth kicked up in a slow smile. “This is killing you, isn’t it?”
“You bet.” Tightening her grip on the handlebars, Christy backed up a cautious step. His grin was a lethal weapon, she decided, and it shouldn’t be aimed at unsuspecting women. Reminding herself that she was immune to his brand of charm, she asked abruptly, “Are you coming or not?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Chapter Two
“More than likely, the RV had a ruptured fuel line,” Skip said. “It happens every now and then. Smoke, flames, a big boom and bingo—you got nothing left.”
“Dowsing is simple,” Ruth Ann commented to Jack with a grin. “Even a cynical cop can do it. You don’t need anything fancy, a forked stick does the trick. Willow works well.”
“Keno loves her job.” Claude ran a hand over the German shepherd’s head, pausing to scratch behind the erect ears. “And she’s damn good at it, too.”
Shane sat in the same camp chair he’d been in earlier, only this time he held a bottle of beer and listened to the fragments of conversation coming from the clusters of people around him.
His guests.
Some were setting the two long tables in the center of the clearing for dinner. They had a rhythm, as if they’d been doing it for weeks rather than just four days. Others lounged in chairs, idly chatting.
They had cleaned the area as promised, he had noted as he’d ridden Milt into the hollow. The debris had been tossed in a heap near the carcass of the burned RV, and the rest of the motor homes encircled the large area obviously pinpointed for community activities.
As before, Tillie sat across from him, her yellow alien shirt complemented by the green suspenders. His lips twitched as she beamed at him, her approval as obvious as the setting sun. She seemed especially taken with his shirt, a duplicate of the denim one he’d worn earlier. Of course, she seemed fascinated by a number of things; she just didn’t make much sense when she talked about them.
Amused, he decided to see if he’d have better luck with another subject. Any subject. “What are you thinking about?”
“Cows.”
Shane blinked. “Cows?” Could’ve fooled him. He was sure she had shirts on her mind.
“Your cows.” She gave him a quick look.
“Cattle,” he said absently, wondering at the sudden shift of emotions playing across her face. Anxiety had replaced approval.
“The ones here,” she clarified.
“By ‘here,’ do you mean on the ranch?”
“No, right here.” Tillie pointed a slim finger at the ground, then waved vaguely, encompassing the area around them. “Walter mentioned…that is, he thought…the cows might not be happy. Of course, you don’t have…at least, not yet.”
Determined not to laugh, Shane settled for clearing his throat and selecting a word from the maze. “Uh…happy?”
“Here,” she repeated.
He gave up. Grinning at her earnest expression, he looked around, wondering if there was an interpreter in the group. Happy? Cows? “Well,” he said slowly, “it’s not real easy to tell how they feel. Actually, I think they’re fine as long as they have good grass and water. That’s why I’ll be moving them down here. It’s also one of the reasons I was fixing the fence.”
“They wouldn’t…like it over there?” She pointed over the hills behind them.
Shane shrugged. “Who knows? But they won’t crowd you,” he promised, hoping to erase the crease between her brows. “I’ll wait until you’re gone before I move them in.” He blinked, narrowing his eyes at her. “Who’s Walter?”
“Perhaps it would be better if…” Her words faded away, then she brightened and leaned forward to pat his hand. “But I wouldn’t worry. Walter says—Oh good, it won’t be long now.”
Shane’s brows rose at the cryptic statement. Worry? About what? And what wouldn’t be long? Until they were gone? His stomach rumbled, reminding him that breakfast had been early and lunch nonexistent.
“Until we eat,” Tillie said matter-of-factly.
Just then, the door of the nearest motor home opened, releasing an aroma that made his mouth water. One thing was certain, he decided: beans weren’t on the menu.
“Dinner’s ready,” Christy called.
Ruth Ann, Jack and Claude trooped over to the door and returned with large, covered dishes. After depositing them on the tables, they went back for more.
Tillie grabbed Shane’s sleeve. “Come on. Walter always says the end of the table is best. Less confusion.”
Shrugging, Shane rose and allowed himself to be tugged along. Tillie sat at his right, nodding when Christy slid in on his left side. Within seconds he was surrounded by UFO hunters silently passing plates of food. His guests, he reminded himself again.
He took a bite of tender Swiss steak, closed his eyes and savored it while his taste buds broke into the Hallelujah Chorus.
Christy’s brows rose at his awed expression. “Did you think we invited you for burned hamburgers?”
“The way I’ve been eating lately, I would’ve enjoyed even that. But this, it’s…”
“Wonderful? Extraordinary? Phenomenal?”
He nodded. “All of the above.”
“I’d like to take the credit, but this is my week to be scullery maid. Ben’s the magician.” She pointed to the short, muscular man with a gray crew cut. “He only lets me wash and cut veggies.”
“He cooks for everyone?”
She nodded. “Dinner only. We’re on our own for breakfast and lunch.”
“How’d you con him into that?”
Christy turned to look at Ben, her expression thoughtful. “I’m not sure. It was a done deal before I came along, but I think he was bored silly. He’d recently retired as head chef from a really great restaurant and cooking just for himself wasn’t cutting it. As it is, he can produce a meal like this easier than I can make a batch of cookies.”
“You don’t say.” Shane gazed at the muscular wizard, knowing his luck had just changed. A real live chef, a bored chef, was sitting across the table from him, and he was damn well going to do whatever it took to keep him right here. For at least three weeks.
Of course, if he kept the cook, he’d more than likely have to keep the rest of them. They seemed to be a package deal. Glancing around the table at the yellow-shirted bunch, he sighed. The thought of them running tame on his land searching for UFOs was enough to turn his hair gray, but hell, he could control them. What was important was talking Ben Matthews into cooking until Hector returned. Wondering if immediately after dinner was too soon to tell Ben that the Circle M would gladly help ease the strain of his retirement, Shane reached again for the platter of Swiss steak.
He stopped chewing when another thought occurred to him. If they stayed, Christy stayed. And that changed everything. If she wasn’t leaving in two days, he could do something about the fire that flooded his body every time he looked at her. Hell, who was he kidding? Every time he thought of her. Turning to look down at her wispy bangs and glorious mass of hair, he held back a smile. Yeah, his luck had definitely changed.
When her elbow brushed Shane’s arm again, Christy shifted her chair a bit to the left. It was one thing to make nice with the man, entirely another to sit so close she was scorched by the heat radiating from his big body.
She would do a lot for Aunt Tillie, but being agreeable to him wasn’t easy. He was too much like her three exes—high-handed and forceful. Of course a lot of men faced with an exploding RV and a gaggle of UFO hunters on their property would probably react the same way.
Even so, he was dangerous. Of course, it wasn’t his fault that she was wary of men—especially the alpha types. Or that what she craved right now was a peaceful life, a life dedicated to her new job and simple pleasures. A life rid of complications—especially the ones created by demanding men.
She hadn’t been a bit interested when he’d taken off his shirt so she could deal with his back, she assured herself. Yeah, right. The sight of his hard body hadn’t doubled her pulse rate either, and his heat hadn’t sizzled through her fingertips, warming her from head to toe.
She was accustomed to attractive men. All three of her exes had been disciplined, keeping their bodies in first-rate condition. Health, number two had told her, was a big advantage in beating down the competition. And they had muscles. Plenty of them. So there had been no reason for her to gape at Shane like a hormone-crazed teenager. She should be able to take broad shoulders, a wide chest lightly sprinkled with dark hair, and a flat, hard stomach in stride.
So he was spectacular. So what? He was still a royal pain. He was the prototype of all the trouble-some men who had caused her to swear off men, for heaven’s sake.
Grateful they would be leaving in a day or so, she decided she could be polite until then. It couldn’t be that difficult, despite the waves of tension radiating from him. Noting that Tillie was complimenting Ben on the dinner, she turned to Shane.
“How’s your—”
“Who is—”
They both stopped, waiting.
“You first,” Shane said, leaning back when Melinda reached over his shoulder to collect his plate.
“I just wanted to know if your back is bothering you. I have plenty of ointment if you—”
He shook his head. “No thanks. It stings a little, but it’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Her voice was cool. “Now it’s your turn.”
Nodding toward the cluster of seniors, Shane asked, “Which one is Walter?”
A chill shot straight up Christy’s spine. “Walter?” Her voice cracked midword.
Peering around him at her aunt, who was comparing notes with Opal, the palmist, Christy groped for a response. Tillie had no inhibition about quoting Walter—anytime, anywhere, with anyone. It was perfectly reasonable for Shane to want him identified.
It was also a problem because there was no reasonable explanation for Walter—especially to a man who already thought they were a bunch of lunatics.
“Walter is…Aunt Tillie’s husband,” she said, opting for truthful evasion for as long as she could. Even the verb was honest because, unfortunately, there was nothing past tense about the blasted man. Except his body.
“I don’t remember meeting him.”
She shook her head, deliberately ignoring his puzzled expression. “You didn’t. He…couldn’t come on this trip.”
“Then why was he talking about my cattle?”
Choking on a sip of iced tea, Christy asked weakly, “Your cattle? You sure it was Walter?”
“That’s what Tillie said.”
“Exactly what did she say?”
“Something about my cattle not being happy in this hollow.”
“Oh.” A nasty vision of cows keeling over by the dozens ran through her mind, then she looked around and brightened. “You don’t have any cows here.”
“Not yet. But they’ll be here as soon as you leave.”
She angled a quick glance at him before concentrating on her perspiring glass of tea. “Uh…you couldn’t wait a while before moving them?”
“Why? I want to do it before they overgraze the area they’re in.”
“No particular reason.” Except that there was usually some sort of logic—absurd or otherwise—behind Uncle Walter’s suggestions.
“I don’t get it.” Shane turned to face her, his wide shoulders concealing the people behind him. “If he isn’t here, how could he know about my ranch? And why would he care?”
Give the man a cigar. He had some good questions. “Aunt Tillie probably described the place to him,” she said vaguely, checking her options again. So much for honesty. It never lasted long when the subject was Tillie or her talkative mate. Two days, she reminded herself. Just a measly forty-eight hours and they’d be on their way. And being around Tillie had taught her a few things; she could dodge his curiosity and pointed questions for that long.
Shane gave her a last, exasperated look before turning to the man across the table. “Ben, that was a wonderful meal. I wonder if we could talk for a minute.”
Tillie turned to face him, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
Not trusting her aunt’s look of anticipation, Christy felt the chill skitter back down her spine.
Ben leaned back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest, and nodded.
“I need a good cook for about three weeks,” Shane said bluntly. “What can I do to interest you in the job?” Listening in dismay while he explained, Christy looked from one face to the next with a sinking feeling. No one jumped up to violently object. No one even looked upset.
“How many men do you have?” Ben asked.
“Ten.”
“What’s your kitchen like?”
“It was remodeled last year with commercial appliances.”
Ben shrugged. “I’m listening.”
Christy groaned at the avid interest in Ben’s brown eyes as he heard the details. The blasted man couldn’t wait to get back in a hot kitchen with twenty pans going at once.
“I could do it.” Ben’s words were measured as carefully as the ingredients in his sauces. “But we’re all together on this trip. If I stay, we all stay; it has to be a group decision. And I still cook dinner for everyone here.”
Shane gave a brief nod. “I figured that. Do you want me to leave so you can talk it over?”
“No need. We’re not shy.” Turning to the others, Ben said, “What do you think?”
Doomed. Christy slumped in her chair, remembering her cousin’s words as they all gazed at Tillie. But it was only fair they defer to her, she reminded herself. After all, the trip had been Tillie’s idea. She had determined the itinerary, announced it on the Internet and found compatible people. Each of them doted on her, recognized her special ability and would follow her through the gates of hell. It didn’t take a psychic to know what her aunt’s decision would be, Christy thought gloomily.
“How wonderful!” Tillie beamed a smile at each of them. “We’re exactly where we are meant to be.” Sliding a glance at Shane, she added, “Practically at the door of Area 51.”
Christy’s groan was lost in the excited conversation. She wondered how she had lived her entire life—before Aunt Tillie—without hearing of the famed Area 51 and the Nellis Air Force Base Bombing and Gunnery Range. While the Air Force had recently, and reluctantly, acknowledged that it had “operations” at Area 51, it still wouldn’t reveal what was happening there.
Skeptics believed that the government was testing exciting new jets that looked bizarre because they were experimental. UFO buffs believed the government had captured alien spacecraft and had made, and were testing, their own spaceships. There was no doubt which angle these people subscribed to.
The general area had been designated on their itinerary as the first major “hot spot” to be investigated, with a proposed stay of three weeks.
Jack grinned at Tillie. “Are you suggesting we use the ranch as a base of operations?”
“If it’s agreeable with everyone.” Tillie took another peek at Shane’s face and nodded, satisfied.
“Why not?” Ruth Ann looked at each of them, inviting comments. When there were none, she turned to Ben. “Of course, how much loot you can squeeze out of Shane is strictly your own business.”
Ben got up, looking across the table at his new boss. “Looks like you might have a deal.”
“Good. Before we take a walk and settle things, I have one more suggestion.” His quick glance, resting on Christy’s resigned expression for a moment, included them all. “How about moving closer to the house? I have an empty bunkhouse you can park by. You’ll probably want to stay in your RVs, but you can use the tubs and showers in the cabin.”
Again, all heads swiveled toward Tillie.
She nodded and touched Ben’s arm. “You go right now. The rest of us will stay here for…a while.”
Shane frowned. “It’ll be nicer for you near the house.”
Patting his hand, Tillie said, “Your home is lovely. We’ll be there.” She looked skyward for a moment, then gave a definite nod. “Day after tomorrow, Wednesday morning before the storm gets too bad.”
“What storm?” Shane turned a puzzled frown on Christy. “We’re not expecting rain.”
Avoiding his gaze, she muttered, “Don’t look at me. I’m the last one around here to know anything.”
Five minutes later the two men returned from a short walk, their satisfied expressions clear to the rest of the group.
Shane tucked a cellular phone back in his shirt pocket. “Hank says he’ll meet you at the gate in an hour and lead you in.”
Ben nodded, moving toward his motor home.
Reaching for Christy’s hand, Shane tugged gently, bringing her to her feet. “Let’s go.”
She scowled and tried to sink back into the chair. “Where?”
“Out there.” Shane kept her at his side as he gestured toward the surrounding hills. Any damn where at all, as long as they were far away from the voluble alien hunters still clustered around the tables.
Hesitating, Christy cast a glance at her aunt, who was again chatting with Opal. It wasn’t a smart move to wander away with a man who practically had a large T branded on his forehead. Trouble was something she didn’t need, and caring for a small, elderly aunt was always a good excuse.
“You go on, dear. Enjoy yourself.” Tillie waved absently in her direction. “I’m just fine.”
Shane slid his arm around her waist and nudged her toward an opening in the circle of RVs before she could use the deepening darkness as another excuse.
Stopping by a tall juniper, he looked down at her. “Did you tell Tillie about my house?”
“Nope. I started scrubbing veggies as soon as I got back.”
“Then how does she know what it looks like?”
Christy stopped to look up at him. “Beats me. She just seems to know these things.” So much for trying to deceive him with half-truths, she reflected with resignation. For a couple of days, there might have been a chance. But not for three weeks. And she had a gut feeling that Shane would not be a happy man when he learned that he was not only hosting a troupe of UFO hunters but a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool psychic.
He tightened his arm and kept her moving over the grass while he considered her aunt. “It doesn’t make sense,” he finally said. “And there’s no storm coming. I checked the weather channel before I rode over here for dinner.”
Loosening the large hand at her waist with a sigh, Christy stepped away from him. “Look, if you’re going to be around Aunt Tillie for any length of time, you might as well understand something.” It still wasn’t easy to explain, she reflected. Even after a year of practice. “She’s, uh…”
“She’s what?”
“You won’t believe it,” she hedged. “No one ever does—at least not at first.”
Drawing her closer, he casually draped his arm over her shoulder. “I’ll believe it,” he promised.
“I doubt it.” Get it over with, she told herself. Now. “She’s…psychic.”
His hand tightened on her shoulder and after a moment she looked up at him. His expression was typical, she reflected. Tolerant and a bit patronizing. The look most men gave her before explaining that only the gullible and weak-minded believed in mediums.
“I don’t mean just a little, either,” she added for good measure. “She’s an absolute, out-and-out, mind-boggling psychic.”
“I don’t believe it.” He scowled down at her.
“Isn’t that exactly what I told you?” she muttered in exasperation.
Shane ran a hand through his hair, leaving it rumpled and standing in spikes. This wasn’t the conversation he’d planned to have once he got Christy alone. Their two days had been stretched to three weeks, but it wouldn’t mean a damn thing if she tossed verbal bombs at him every time they got together.
“Look, I’ve already got a bunch of E.T. hunters on my hands, you don’t have to add a fortune-teller.” He took a deep breath and added in a flat voice, “Besides, I don’t believe in psychics.”
“How nice for you.” Maybe it was the fact that Tillie was surrounded by a legion of protectors and didn’t need her added support, Christy thought, but for the first time she could enjoy the absurdity of the situation.
“I didn’t either until a year ago, when I settled in San Diego and my relatives stuck me with Aunt Tillie for a weekend. During that time I learned that she doesn’t need a security system at her place because she always knows who’s approaching her house. I learned that she never uses a telephone book—she just picks up the phone and dials the right numbers.”
Shane groaned.
“I learned that she always knows when family and friends are either hurt or in trouble.”
Sighing, Shane said, “Let me ask again, who exactly is this Walter?”
Her soft laughter filling the air, Christy said, “Her husband.”
“And why isn’t he here taking care of her?”
“Because he’s dead.”
His scowl grew darker. “Dead?”
“Yep.” She grinned. “Of course, Aunt Tillie says he made his transition, but any way you look at it, he’s gone. But not forgotten, no sirree. And believe me, he didn’t go quietly. It seems like the man never stops talking. Fourteen years ago,” she added before he could ask.
“I don’t believe it.”
“You already said that.”
“Do you have any idea how crazy this sounds?”
“Yeah, I do. Which is why I hate to tell anyone about it, but I thought since we’re going to be here a while, you should be warned.”
“And he talked to her about my cattle?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Christy sighed. “He talks to her about almost everything. My mother said his financial advice had tripled her portfolio. Aunt Tillie’s, not my mother’s,” she added with scrupulous honesty.
“So why is this dead man fixated on my cattle?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea. But, believe me, my family jumps when he issues a warning.”
“It wasn’t a warning,” he snapped. “It was just…a comment.”
“As far as Uncle Walter is concerned, it’s the same thing. I’d pay attention if I were you.” Christy turned back toward the RVs. “So now you’ve had two warnings—one from Walter and one from me.”
Shane caught her arm and gently swung her toward him. “Wait a minute. This isn’t what I wanted to talk about when we came out here.”
Panic swept through her when his voice deepened. “Well of course it isn’t,” she said brightly. “How could you? You didn’t know about it.” The fear that he would say something she absolutely, positively did not want to hear kept her talking. “Uncle Walter isn’t a topic that many would think of. After all, how many dead men—”
He stopped her by lifting her chin and brushing his lips against hers in a slow, tender kiss. Finally, when the tension left her body and she sagged against him, he raised his head. “I want to talk about us.” His dark gaze swept her face before he turned and led her farther away from the lights of the motor homes.
Digging her heels in the soft grass, she pulled away and held up a hand to keep him back. Damned if she hadn’t been right about the brand on his forehead; the man was nothing but trouble. Oddly enough, she had forgotten that the letter could also stand for testosterone. As in way too much of it. And she had a nasty hunch that he was as stubborn and relentless as all three exes combined.
“Whoa, cowboy,” she said breathlessly. “We’ve known each other about six hours. Don’t you think you’re rushing things a bit?”
He gave a slow shake of his head. “From my point of view, we’ve already wasted most of the day.”
Blinking, she took a deep breath to release the tension building inside her. Then, since it hadn’t helped much, she took another one and quickly stepped past him, hurrying distractedly back to the RVs. His blunt approach was all too familiar. And, unfortunately for her, there was something morbidly fascinating about the direct, Me-Tarzan, you-Jane method. Even worse, in the past, it had worked. But that was then, she reminded herself. This was now. And things were different.
She was different. She had changed.
She had a batch of new priorities—an interesting job, potential career advancement and, best of all, no forceful men in her life.
Granted, there were a few dangling threads from her old life that needed attention. They were minor. A quick conversation with Aunt Tillie would clear up the wanderer issue. Ignoring the worrisome thought that conversations with her aunt were neither quick nor reasonable, Christy pressed on.
Another more pointed talk with Shane would probably be necessary, but she could handle that.
After all, she had changed.
Chapter Three
“Come on, Aunt Tillie, give.”
Seated at the motor home’s simulated oak table, nibbling at a chicken salad, Christy pondered the difficulties of getting a few minutes alone with her aunt. She hadn’t been able to corner Tillie the night before after Shane had left, and today it hadn’t been easy to wean her away from the tangle of seniors vociferously debating the methods of breaking through the military guards into Area 51. In fact, it had been impossible. So she had found a shady spot and waited until hunger drove them to their motor homes for lunch. Now, with luck, she’d have an uninterrupted hour devoted to questions and answers.
Tillie tilted her head, reminding Christy of a perky, blue-eyed bird. “Shane is a nice man, isn’t he? And subtle. Just look at the shirts he wears.”
Nice? Subtle? Shirts? The look Christy aimed at her was one of sheer disbelief. “Aunt Tillie, I use words for a living, remember? That means I select them with care, and nice is hardly one I’d choose to describe Shane McBride. Relentless, maybe. Obstinate, definitely. But, nice, subtle? No way. I can think of a lot of words, but none of them have anything to do with nice. And what do his shirts—” She stopped, a crease forming between her brows as she studied her aunt’s artless expression.
“Oh, no you don’t, we’re not going there,” she said firmly. “Your little diversion isn’t going to work this time. We’re not talking about Shane. What we’re discussing here is your affection for all beings extraterrestrial and why you think I’m one of them.”
If Christy had learned anything in the past year, it was that being tactful with her aunt was a lost cause. Tillie could be perfectly coherent and logical…unless she was disturbed or simply chose not to discuss a certain topic. When that happened, she was as hard to pin down as a campaigning politician. So tact was not an option here; gritty perseverance was the only thing that seemed to work.
“This wanderer thing,” Christy prompted. “I want you to explain it, using plain and simple words. What makes you say that—”
“Your aura.”
“My what?”
“It was glorious, vibrant.” Tillie clasped her hands to her chest, dazzled by the memory. “Indigo, of course.”
“Indigo,” Christy repeated in a neutral voice. “Of course.” It had happened again. They were less than a minute into a conversation, and she was absolutely lost. Tillie’s answers were usually confusing, she reminded herself, but given enough time they—occasionally—eventually made sense. So all she had to do was hang in there. If she was lucky, she might even comprehend what Tillie considered a reasonable explanation.
“And you were only five minutes old.” Charmed by the memory, Tillie smiled. Then silver brows drew together in thought. “Ten at the most.”
“And from that—”
“Oh, yes.” Tillie gave a decisive nod. “I knew.”
“But, how?” No, Christy thought with resignation, it wasn’t going to work. No amount of time would help her understand. Aunt Tillie’s thought process was as tangled as her conversation. She didn’t know the meaning of linear thinking, didn’t have a nodding acquaintance with the normal give-and-take in dialogue. She communicated on some mystical plane that resembled the descending spiral of a corkscrew.
“The color,” Tillie prompted.
“Oh, yeah, the indigo.”
“Precisely. You know what it means, of course.”
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