Читать книгу: «Who Wouldn't Love a Cowboy?»
Who Wouldn’t Love a Cowboy?
C.J. Carmichael
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Copyright
Endpages
Chapter One
The back roads of Montana were dustier than Callie Anderson remembered. Maybe lowering the roof on her red Mustang hadn’t been such a smart idea. Or perhaps she should have stuck to the main road instead of following the shorter—but not necessarily faster—route recommended by the GPS.
She’d left the secondary highway twenty minutes ago and now she was in the heart of cattle country. Not a building in sight, only grazing pastures, distant mountains and translucent blue sky. A far cry from her urban town house in Billings, where she’d started her day.
Dust spewed out behind her; she could see the trail in her rearview mirror. Ahead, there was only more gravel road, leading ultimately—hopefully!—to the Big Horn Guest Ranch. Not that she’d noticed any signs.
Shouldn’t there be signs?
She hadn’t even passed another vehicle since she’d left the highway.
But there was something ahead. She could make out a dark shape on the road. Wait a minute. There were dark shapes everywhere. Not only on the road, but on both sides of it, too. She eased off the accelerator, clipping her speed to a more cautious forty miles an hour.
And suddenly the dark shapes were recognizable. Oh, my God. She hadn’t seen this many cows in a long, long time. Over five hundred head, she figured.
They were crossing the road in a steady stream, probably being moved up to higher pasture for the summer.
The sight, the sounds and most of all the smell of them made her feel fourteen years old again. Callie closed her eyes as an overwhelming wave of nostalgia tried to suck her under.
She’d been afraid this would happen. Why, oh, why, hadn’t she just said no to the assignment from her editor?
I want you to write an article about the eternal appeal of the cowboy, her editor had said. Why do women love them so much?
I don’t, Callie had thought but not said, as she valued her career. And now she was here, in cowboy country, the last place on earth she wanted to be.
Suddenly, as if conjured by the power of her thoughts, a cowboy on an Appaloosa broke out from the herd. He sat tall in the saddle, a tan-colored hat obscuring the features of his face except for a firm jaw and nicely molded chin. The horse was beautiful with a dark mane and tail that contrasted with his light, speckled coat.
She realized it was the perfect photo op for the ridiculous article that her entire career was resting on. She stopped the car and pulled her Nikon out of its case.
Planting her cowboy boots on the driver’s seat—she’d dressed Western for the occasion, at her editor’s orders—she leaned her legs against the headrest of the driver’s seat and aimed her camera at the cowboy. She quickly snapped several shots of him before reaching for the wide-angle lens to get some photos of the cattle drive, en masse. Her head was bent over her equipment when she heard a voice.
“Were you just taking pictures of me?”
The cowboy. She glanced up. He and his horse were about ten yards away. He hadn’t turned his head in her direction when she’d been snapping photos of him, so she’d assumed he hadn’t even noticed her. Which was ridiculous, she now realized. Her red Mustang didn’t exactly blend in with the surroundings.
Nor did she. Slowly he perused her showy Western boots, dress and belt—every single item brand-new. No doubt he was pegging her as city girl playing at country.
“Yes, I did, for an article I’m writing. Would you like me to send you copies?” Up close, she could tell the cowboy was in his early thirties. Bronzed skin, features sculpted from a beautifully balanced, square-jawed face, and eyes so blue she could see the color from here.
Just the sort of cowboy her editor wanted her to write about. A few close-ups would be perfect….
“No.”
He wasn’t even trying to be polite. She masked her discomfort with a smile. One of her brightest. “That would be a shame. They’re going to turn out beautifully. That’s a gorgeous horse you have there.”
A pretty gorgeous guy, too. If he would only smile. But the scowl on his face didn’t seem inclined to budge.
“You must be that journalist from Billings.” He made the word journalist sound like slimy bug.
Belatedly it occurred to her to check the brand on the cattle that were still moving briskly across the road. Sure enough, she spotted a BH on the black hide of one of the closest animals—Big Horn, the ranch she was staying at. At just that moment, the very same cow lifted her tail and a fat patty of excrement splattered to the road, right in front of her car.
“You work for the Big Horn Guest Ranch,” she said, stating the obvious.
“Correction. I own the Big Horn Guest Ranch.”
“I should have guessed. You obviously love working with people as well as animals.”
His eyes narrowed at the sarcasm. Then his jaw muscles tightened. “I hire staff to deal with the dude ranch. I told Naomi it was a bad idea to have a journalist on the property. But she convinced me I wouldn’t even notice you were here.”
Talk about making a paying guest feel welcome. Now she was the one getting annoyed. “Well, I wouldn’t have bothered you if your cows weren’t blocking the road.”
“Wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d taken the main approach from the north, the way our brochure tells you to do.”
Crap. He had her there. “Fine. My mistake. I’m sorry. Please feel free to go back to work while I sit here and wait for the road to be clear.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he replied. “Until you erase those pictures of me.”
Chapter Two
Jason Dowcett just wanted to be left alone. Was that too much to ask? He owned a thousand acres of land—most of it wilderness. So how was it possible that, purely by chance, he would happen to be snagged by a journalist on assignment to write some damn article about why women loved cowboys?
When Naomi, the dude ranch manager, had told him about the writer from Montage magazine that was booked at the ranch—and why—he’d done his best to nix it.
“She’ll be too disruptive. Asking questions and getting in the way.”
“But think of the PR,” Naomi had coaxed.
He didn’t care, particularly about that part of the business. For the past year and a half the only company he could tolerate was that of his horse, Gold, and his cattle. The dude ranch was just a reminder of Lana and what used to be. He planned to shut it down as soon as he could figure out how to take care of his staff. But he hadn’t told anyone about that yet. And so, reluctantly, he’d let Naomi have her way.
“Just keep her out of my hair,” he’d said.
“I will,” Naomi had promised.
And now look what had happened. Callie Anderson hadn’t even handed over her credit card yet and she was already in his face. Dressed in the sort of duds that city folk liked to call “country chic“—a formfitting black dress with a silver-and-turquoise belt slung around her waist and black-and-brown boots that were obviously fresh out of the box.
Standing on the driver’s seat of her car, she appeared to be a tall woman, but she was still significantly shorter than he was astride Gold. He urged the Appaloosa closer, then held out his hand.
“The camera?” If she wasn’t going to erase the pictures, he would.
“Just look at them first. If you’re concerned about your privacy, you needn’t worry. Most of your face is hidden by your cowboy hat.”
When he said nothing, she reluctantly handed over the Nikon. He squinted at the screen, then scrolled through the photos. They looked innocuous enough. Maybe he should let her keep them. Now that she was here, he didn’t want to make the journalist mad.
He passed the camera back to her.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him again, and he had to look away. Damn, but she had a pretty smile. And nice legs, too. He felt guilty as hell for even noticing.
“Keep well back from the cattle,” he warned. “In another five minutes the road should be clear again. Don’t imagine I’ll see you again, but do me a favor and stick to the designated dude ranch areas from here on in.” He tipped his hat and turned away.
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