Always a Cowboy Page 4

  Mace looked and sounded pained. “Hey, it was dark when I got dressed, and I was in a hurry.”

  “I bet you were,” Drake shot back. “Come to think of it, little brother, those might not have been your socks in the first place. Guess it all depends on whose bedroom floor you found them on.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Grace said, tossing a sympathetic glance Luce’s way.

  “Are they always like this?” Luce asked.

  “Unfortunately,” Grace answered, “yes.”

  Just then, Blythe Carson breezed in, carrying a place setting and closely followed by Ryder.

  “We’ve decided to join you,” Blythe announced cheerfully.

  “Thank God,” Grace murmured.

  Ryder, holding a bowl and silverware of his own, sat down next to his mother. “Basketball practice got out early,” he said. He nodded a greeting to Luce and reached for the stew.

  Blythe Carson, more commonly known as “Mom,” sat down with a flourish and beamed a smile at Luce. “How nice to see you again,” she said. “I hope my sons have been behaving themselves.”

  “Not so much,” Grace said.

  “Hey,” Slater objected, elbowing his wife lightly. “I have been a complete gentleman.”

  “You’ve been a spectator,” Grace countered, hiding a smile.

  “All I did,” Mace said, “was warn Luce about Drake’s tendency to skinny-dip at every opportunity. Seemed like the least I could do, considering that she’s a stranger here, and a guest.”

  “Hush,” said Blythe.

  Harry reappeared with a coffeepot in one hand and a freshly baked pie in the other.

  Once she’d set them down, she started whisking stew bowls out from under spoons. When she decided a course was over, and that folks had had enough, she took it away and served the next one.

  Blythe sparkled.

  The coffee was poured and the pie was served.

  Ryder excused himself, saying he had homework to do, and left, taking his slice of apple pie with him.

  The others lingered.

  Grace, yawning, said she thought she’d make it an early night and promptly left the table, carrying her cup and saucer and her barely touched pie to the kitchen before heading upstairs.

  Blythe remained, watching her sons thoughtfully, each in turn, before focusing on Mace. “Seriously?” she said. “You brought up skinny-dipping?”

  Luce, who had been soaking up the conversation all evening, and probably taking mental notes, finally spoke up.

  She smiled brightly at Slater, then Mace, and then Drake. “I enjoy skinny-dipping myself, once in a while.” She paused, obviously for effect. “Who knows, maybe I’ll join you sometime.”

  Blythe laughed, delighted.

  Mace and Slater picked up their dishes, murmured politely and fled.

  “I’d better help Harry with the dishes,” Blythe said, and in another moment, she was gone, too.

  * * *

  LUCE TURNED TO DRAKE, all business. “Now, then,” she said, “the wild herd has almost doubled in size since you first reported their presence to the Bureau of Land Management several years ago. What accounts for the increase, in your opinion?”

  The change of subject, from skinny-dipping to the BLM, had thrown Drake a little, and Luce took a certain satisfaction in the victory, however small and unimportant.

  The room was empty, except for them, and Luce was of two minds about that. On the one hand, she liked having Drake Carson all to herself. On the other, she was nervous to the point of discomfort.

  Drake, she noticed, had recovered quickly, and with no discernible brain split. He’d probably never been “of two minds” about anything in his life, Luce thought, with some ruefulness. Unless she missed her guess, he was a one-track kind of guy.

  Now he leaned back in his chair, his expression giving nothing away. And, after due deliberation, he finally replied to her question.

  “What accounts for the increase? Well, Ms. Hale, that’s simple. Good grazing land and plenty of water—the two main reasons my family settled here in the first place, over a hundred years ago.”

  She wondered if he might be holding back a sarcastic comment, something in the category of any-idiot-ought-to-be-able-to-figure-that-out.

  She had, in fact, taken note of the obvious; she’d put in long hours mapping out the details of her dissertation. She wanted his take on the subject, since that was the whole point of this or any other conversational exchange between them.

  Okay, so she wasn’t an expert, but she was eager to learn. Wasn’t that what education was all about, from kindergarten right on up through postgraduate work?

  She decided to shut down the little voice in her head, the one that presumed to speak for both her and Drake, before it got her into trouble.

  “What makes it so good?” she asked with genuine interest. “The type of grass?”

  His gaze was level. “There’s a wide variety, actually, but quantity matters almost as much as quality in this case.” A pause. “By the way, there are a lot more wild horses in Utah than here in Wyoming.”

  Zap.

  “Yes, I know that,” Luce replied coolly, determined to stay the course. She hadn’t gotten this far by running for shelter every time she encountered a challenge. “And I realize you would prefer I went there to do my research,” she countered, keeping her tone even and, she hoped, professional. “Bottom line, Mr. Carson, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Why here? Why me?” For the first time, he sounded plaintive, rather than irritated.

  “Fair questions,” Luce conceded. “I chose the Carson ranch because it meets all the qualifications and, I admit, because my mother knows your mother. I guess that sort of answers your second inquiry, too—you’re here, and you run the place. One thing, as they say, led to another.” She let her answer sink in for a moment, before the windup. “And, I will admit, your commitment to animal rights intrigues me.”

  That was all Drake needed to know, for the time being. If she had a weakness for tall, blond cowboys with world-class bodies and eyes so blue it almost hurt to look into them, well, that was her business.

  He surprised her with a slanted grin. “I know when I’m licked,” he drawled.

  The remark was anything but innocent, Luce knew that, but she also knew that if she called him on it, she’d be the one who looked foolish, not Drake.

  Bad enough that she blushed, hot and pink, betrayed by her own biology.

  He watched the whole process, clearly pleased by her involuntary reaction.

  She had to look away, just briefly, to recover her composure. Such as it was.

  “This can be easy,” she said when she thought she could trust her voice, “or it can be har—difficult.”

  Wicked mischief danced in his eyes. “The harder—more difficult—things are,” he said, “the better I like it.”

  Luce wanted to yell at him to stop with the double entendres, just stop, but she wasn’t quite that rattled. Yet.

  Instead, she breathed a sigh. “Okay,” she said. “Fine. We understand each other, it would seem.”

  “So it would seem,” he agreed placidly, and with a smile in his eyes.

  Luce would’ve liked to call it a day and return to her well-appointed guest room, which was really more of a suite, with its spacious private bathroom, sitting area and gorgeous antique furnishings, but she didn’t. Not only would Drake have the last word if she bailed now, she’d feel like a coward—and leave herself open to more teasing.

  “We have one thing in common,” she said.

  “And what would that be, Ms. Hale?”

  Damn him. Would it kill the man to cut her a break?

  “Animals,” she answered. Surely he wouldn’t—couldn’t—disagree with th
at.

  He looked wary, although Luce took no satisfaction in that. “If I didn’t like them,” he said, his tone guarded now, and a little gruff, “I wouldn’t do what I do.”

  Like all ranchers, he’d probably taken his share of flack over the apparent dichotomy between loving animals and raising them for food, but Luce had no intention of taking that approach. Would have considered it dishonorable.

  She enjoyed a good steak now and then herself, after all, and she understood the reality—everything on the planet survives by eating something else.

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she said.

  Drake relaxed noticeably, and it seemed to Luce that something had changed between them, something basic and powerful. They weren’t going to be BFFs or anything like that—the gibes would surely continue—but they’d set some important boundaries.

  They were not enemies.

  In time, they might even become friends.

  While Luce was still weighing this insight in her head, Drake stood, rested his strong, rancher’s hands on the back of her chair.

  “It’s been a long day, Ms. Hale,” he said. “I reckon you’re ready to turn in.”

  At her nod, Drake waited to draw back her chair. As she rose, she watched his face.

  “Thank you,” she said. Then she smiled. “And please, call me Luce.”

  Drake inclined his head. “All right, then,” he replied, very quietly. “Shall I walk you to your room, or can you find your way back there on your own?”

  Luce laughed. “I memorized the route,” she answered. Then, pulling her smartphone from the pocket of her jeans, she held it up. “And if that fails, there’s always GPS.”

  Drake smiled. “You’ll get used to the layout,” he told her.

  “Here’s hoping,” Luce said, wondering why she was hesitating, making small talk, of all things, when most of her exchanges with this man had felt more like swordplay than conversation.

  “Good night—Luce.” Drake looked thoughtful now, and his gaze seemed to rest on her mouth.

  Was he deciding whether or not to kiss her?

  And if he was, how did she feel about it?

  She didn’t want to know.

  “Good night,” she said.

  She left the dining room, left Drake Carson and was almost at the door of her suite before the realization struck her.

  She’d gotten the last word after all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DRAKE ROLLED OUT of bed at his usual time, ignored the clock—since his inner one was the real guide—and pulled on his jeans.

  Harold and Violet both got up, tails wagging.

  Boots next, hat planted on his head and, seconds later, he was out the door. He’d grab coffee at the bunkhouse. Red, the foreman, was always up and ready, and that seasoned old cowboy could herd cattle with the best of them. Drake drove his truck over just as dawn hit the edge of sunrise and, sure enough, he could smell coffee.

  Red, who did a mean scrambled egg dish and some terrific hash browns, was already done eating, elbows on the farmhouse-style table, something he never did when he ate up at the house. He nodded good morning and went back to his book, which happened to be Shogun by James Clavell. Drake wasn’t surprised at his choice. Red looked like a classic, weathered Wyoming ranch hand, which he was, but he also fancied himself a gourmet cook—he could give Harry a run for her money now and then—and he listened more often than not to classical music. The package wasn’t all that sophisticated, but there was a keen intellect inside.

  Drake fed the dogs, helped himself to a plate of eggs and potatoes, ate with his usual lightning speed and got up to wash the dishes. That was the arrangement and it was fine with him. He’d had to cook for himself in college and discovered he didn’t have the patience for it. He’d survived on hamburgers fried in a pan, sandwiches and spaghetti prepared with jarred sauce. Coming back to Harry’s or Red’s cooking made all those winter morning rides to feed the stock, with the wind tossing snow in his face and biting through his gloves, worth it. If Red cooked breakfast, he would wash up, no problem.

  “How’s the horse lady?” Red put a bookmark between the pages and shut the novel, setting it aside.

  Drake braced himself for a sip of coffee—Red was a great cook, but his coffee could strip the hide off a steer—before he answered. “Enthusiastic college girl. Bright, but has no idea what she’s getting into. I have the impression that she likes to be outdoors, since she hiked all the way to the north ridge, can you believe that? But I don’t think she really knows anything about horses, wild or domesticated.”

  “The north ridge?” It wasn’t easy to surprise Red, but he just had.

  “Yup. I gave her a lift home on Starburst, but she was planning to walk it. Go figure.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Me, neither.” Drake spent nearly all his time outdoors, and if he had the right weather, he sometimes canoed and did some fishing in the Bliss River, but he wasn’t a hiker.

  “The outdoorsy type. That’s good. You need a dainty debutante like you need a big hole in your John B. Stetson.”

  Such a Red thing to say. Drake didn’t need another female in his life right now, period. He had his mother, Harry, his niece, Daisy—Slater’s daughter by an earlier relationship—and, now that Slater had finally settled down, his sister-in-law, Grace. The men were getting outnumbered even before the arrival of Ms. Hale.

  Drake shrugged. “She’s pretty, I’ll give her that.”

  “That so?” Red grinned. “Easy on the eyes, huh? And you’ve noticed.”

  “I’m not blind, but that doesn’t mean I want her here.” That was the truth. “I just plain don’t want the complication.”

  “Women complicate just about everything, son.”

  That he agreed with, at least based on his own observations—and experience. So he changed the subject. “Move the bull to the high pasture for a few days? I think he needs new grazing. After that, we’ll get feed out and tackle the faulty gate.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Technically, he thought, but Red was the one who really ran the show. Drake was born and raised on this land, but Red had more ranching experience. Drake always asked for his advice and ended up regretting the few times he hadn’t followed it. “He’s getting old.”

  “Sherman? That he is.”

  “So...what do you suggest?”

  “We need a new bull.” Red got up and refilled his cup. “Been meaning to say it, but I know you don’t want to part with that critter. Don’t move him. He’s getting touchy in his old age. Just retire him. Sherman has more gray on his snout than I do in my hair. Out to pasture will work fine. We have the land to keep him in comfort.”

  “My father raised that bull.” Drake’s throat tightened.

  “I know. I was there. I’m hurting, too. Think of it this way—he’s done his job. If I thought a recliner and a remote would make him happy, I’d give him both. Sherman is a tired old man.”

  He’d asked, after all. Drake ran his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought about it. He exhaled. “I don’t disagree. Not from a practical point of view, anyway. Auctions, then? Or do you have another bull in mind?”

  Red scratched his chin. “I might go into town and ask Jim Galloway. Been meaning to stop by and see him and Pauline, anyway. He knows most of the livestock breeders in the state.”

  Jim was the father of one of Slater’s best friends, Tripp Galloway, a pilot who’d returned to his roots and, like Drake, had taken over the family ranch near Mustang Creek after Jim remarried and retired. “Good call.” Drake managed to down the last of his coffee—not easy, since it was particularly make-your-hair-stand-on-end this morning—and set down his cup. “I’m going to help you with the horses and then ride out.”

&nbs
p; “Sorry I’m late.”

  The breathless interruption made him swivel toward the plain wooden doorway. He saw with dismay that Luce Hale stood there, hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, wearing a baggy sweatshirt with well-worn jeans, backpack in hand. She added, “That is one very comfortable bed, so I slept longer than I intended. Your mother should run a hotel. Where are we headed?”

  We? First of all, he hadn’t invited her to the party. Second, the woman couldn’t even ride a horse.

  And damned if Red wasn’t snickering. Not openly, he’d never be that rude, but there was laughter in his eyes and he’d had to clear his throat—several times.

  He should be at least as polite. Grudgingly, he said, “Red, meet Ms. Lucinda Hale. Ms. Hale, Red here runs the operation but likes to pretend I do.”

  Red naturally shuffled over to take her hand, playing it up. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. So you’re here to study that worthless cowpoke?” He leveled a finger in Drake’s direction. “Hmm, prepare to be disappointed. Kinda boring would be my take on him. I’ve tried to take the boy in hand, but it hasn’t worked. Nary a shoot-out, no saloons and he has yet to rescue a damsel in distress, unless you count the time Harry had a flat tire and he had to run into town to change it, but I swear that’s just ’cause he’s more afraid of her than he is of an angry hornet. Would you like a cup of coffee, darlin’?”

  Red was ever hopeful that someone might like his coffee—he called it Wyoming coffee, which was quite a stretch, since he seemed to be the only one in the entire state who liked it.

  Okay, she was an annoyance in his already busy life, but Drake was about to rescue a damsel who’d be in true distress if she agreed to that coffee.

  He said coolly, “I’m off to the glamorous world of feeding the horses and then fixing a gate. I also need to look for a missing calf and am fairly sure it’s a goner. Please don’t let the excitement of my day overwhelm you, but come along if you want. You’ll have to skip the coffee.”

  She tilted her head to one side, considering him, obviously undeterred. “I need to see if the wild horses affect how you run your business. Therefore, I need to know how you run it in the first place. I want to find what you do day-to-day.”