Читать книгу: «Cowboy Proud»

This book wouldn’t have happened if not for Gina Lamm, fellow author and friend, encourager and taskmaster.

Your creativity and drill-sergeant-like ways are absolutely amazing.

I’ll drop and give you twenty if this book doesn’t live up to its potential. I promise.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

Extract

Copyright

1

THE BLACK, HORSESHOE-SHAPED bootjack sat just inside the front door. It served as a subtle but unmistakable reminder to all who entered the Bar C’s main house that cowboy boots came off right there. If the boots, or the cowboy in them, went any farther than the foyer, that cowboy would find himself wielding a broom and a mop, courtesy of the lady of the house.

Cade Covington notched his left boot heel in the jack and tugged his foot free, repeating the action with his right. Standing in his stocking feet, age-old instinct had him looking down to see if they had holes. The action made him grin unexpectedly, as memories settled over him, thin as late-morning mist.

Not since his mother died more than nineteen years ago had shoe removal been a house rule. But Reagan Matthews had resurrected it the moment she’d moved in with the eldest Covington son and Cade’s older brother, Elijah. Didn’t matter that the house was owned equally by all three brothers. Reagan had taken over the majority of the household chores and thereby set the place to rights as only a woman ever could, turning house into home, and she’d lain down the law.

Cade had grumbled at the time because his easy acceptance would’ve been suspect. It was no secret he resented change, particularly in his personal life. But his dislike of mopping floors far exceeded “resentment.” He hated that particular chore. So he’d deal with this particular change.

The major ranch renovations were a different story. His personal comfort level was currently parked in another county—in a neighboring state, in fact. The project was almost done, and as soon as the last nail was driven and the last plant planted, the results would set in motion massive, unimaginable changes in everyone’s lives.

Cade had gone along with the initial suggestions months ago as a last-ditch effort to keep Eli involved in the ranch again, as a desperate measure to reestablish the lost relationship with his older brother, as an effort to fill the aching void Eli’s absence had wrought when he’d left the ranch years ago.

And there was also the money aspect. The three brothers and Reagan, at her insistence, had taken out a mortgage on the ranch. Land they’d owned free and clear, land that had been in the Covington family since before New Mexico had officially been a state, now held a million-dollar-plus mortgage on it.

The idea brought Cade to an unsteady stop. A million dollars. He’d never thought to see that kind of dollar figure attached to his name in any way, let alone as debt. Always the brother most focused on fiscal security, his hand had shaken so hard at the bank signing, he’d screwed up the paperwork. Twice. But it was done. Finding another way forward wasn’t an option anymore. No, his “option” was more do-or-be-damned “obligation.” The Bar C would be a successful dude ranch or they’d lose it all. Forcing himself to stand, Cade continued through the living room and headed for the kitchen, stockinged feet padding softly over worn hardwood floors.

Food first. Worry later.

If he was lucky, Reagan might have packaged the leftover enchiladas she’d made for dinner last night. She was awesome about stuff like that, the nurturing, thinking ahead, meal planning. All that and more, really. After his old man died, when it had just been Cade and his younger brother, Tyson, living at the house, mealtimes had been fend-for-yourself events. They’d considered it a good day if they came up with something that couldn’t be mistaken for a mold culture, wasn’t seriously outdated or hadn’t suffered such severe freezer burn it was rendered unrecognizable. Survival had depended greatly on peanut butter sandwiches or, if either of them finished their day and wasn’t too tired to boil water, one man might have put in the effort to cook spaghetti noodles and open a can of eighty-eight-cent sauce. Those days were over, though.

One change that’s been pretty good overall...

He grinned and shook his head. Keep up that kind of positive attitude and people would begin to wonder if he’d suffered a head injury. Not that he was negative, just realistic. The smile faded as quickly as it had shown. Cade was very, very realistic.

Hinges squeaked obnoxiously as someone opened the front door and let in the sound of bullwhip-like cracks of hammers striking nail heads. Sporadic pauses were punctuated by supervisors’ shouted directives and the crew’s answers. Then the door closed, muffling construction sounds that had, in their own unique way, become white noise over the past eleven months.

And every nail driven home brought them one step closer to completion.

The idea they’d be moving on to the next phase, actually opening the Bar C as a dude ranch to paying customers craving an “Old West experience,” rattled Cade yet again. Strangers wandering around what had, for so long, been his private sanctuary. Strangers who would spend their vacation riding his horses and learning to be cowboys for a week before returning to their real lives with jobs that paid well and allowed them to live in the suburbs. They’d drive expensive SUVs and enroll their kids in all sorts of activities. Both husbands and wives would work long hours at jobs they hated in order to fund the lifestyle they’d become accustomed to living. To Cade, it was as foreign a way to live as his day-to-day life was to the same folks he’d be catering to.

Sweat dotted his hairline, a bead of moisture trickling down his temple. He swiped at it with frustration. “Suck it up, buttercup. You signed on for this. From money to mayhem, you knew what the end result would be.” Cade entered the bright kitchen at the same time his stomach let out a sonorous rumble.

“You miss breakfast?” Eli asked, moving into the galley from the opposite doorway—he must have been the one who opened the front door. It didn’t escape Cade’s notice his brother had been reduced to socked feet, as well.

Cade pulled the fridge door open. “Got an early start this morning and wasn’t at a place I could stop when the breakfast bell rang.” Moving contents around, he grinned when several plastic containers of individually portioned enchiladas came into view. A glance over his shoulder revealed a sheepish grin on Eli’s face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d believe someone tried to hide these.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.” Cade pulled out two servings and tossed them into the microwave, shut the door and hit Reheat. He faced his brother and leaned his hip against the worn Formica countertop. “Before you go thinking I’m being generous, both of these are mine. Course, I ought to take yours from the fridge as well, just because you’re such a selfish old man, hoarding the cook’s goods.”

Eli’s brows drew down in a mock scowl. “Hey. She’s my woman. You and Ty may benefit from it, but technically she’s cooking for me.”

Cade burst out laughing, fighting to regain control before he answered. “Man, I dare you to tell her she ‘belongs’ to you. Or, even better, tell her she’s cooking for you. Go on. You might even tell her what she should fix for dinner tonight or that you hate the fabric softener she uses. I’ll stand near the phone in case someone has to call in the paramedics, Life Flight or, you know, the National Guard.”

Eli’s grimace was exaggerated but probably appropriate all the same. “Yeah. I’m not about to say any of those things. Woman’s wicked with a blade and a crack shot. She’d probably shoot me in the ass only to ‘volunteer’ to remove the slug without any kind of numbing agent.”

“No, I’d probably shoot you both in the ass and let the wounds fester before I removed the slugs,” a feminine voice answered. The woman under discussion strolled into the kitchen, long hair swinging from her high ponytail. Reagan moved straight into Eli’s embrace, their lips touching briefly, then lingering over the kiss.

Cade’s chest tightened. He’d never dated much, hadn’t considered it a priority, and now he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have the kind of intense intimacy Eli and Reagan had, the kind that would survive life’s fiery trials and rise from tribulation’s ashes stronger and surer. Nothing could tear these two apart now.

It didn’t bother him that they’d reconnected after Eli found his way home. What ate at Cade was his personal reaction to their undisguised, unguarded happiness. That kind of thing—love, he supposed, if he had to name it—didn’t fit anywhere in his life’s plans. It never had. Had he been wrong to take that path?

The microwave beeped, and Cade shook off the melancholy before retrieving the leftovers. Hot plastic burned his fingertips, forcing him to juggle the bowls. He tossed them on the counter before grabbing a fork and paper towel. He pulled the lid off the nearest container, forked up a large bite of enchilada and shoved it in his mouth. Less than a second later he was reaching for the fridge, intent on grabbing the first cold thing he found. Milk. He twisted the cap off and drank straight from the plastic jug, swallowing rapidly but still spilling it down the sides of his face and soaking his shirt.

“Hot?” Eli asked, the laughter in his voice undisguised.

Cade lowered the jug, glaring at his brother. “I won’t taste anything for a week.”

“Sucks to be microwave challenged.”

Blowing through his nose, Cade flipped his brother off even as Reagan closed in on him.

“How bad is it?” she demanded, wrapping a hand around his neck and pulling him down so she could examine his mouth and throat.

“Not that bad.” He pulled against her grip, but she refused to let go.

“Let me see, Cade. No reason to fight me on this if you’re sure it’s nothing.”

Cade closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m fine, Reagan.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He extricated himself, stepping away. “I burned my mouth, but my brain’s only singed. It’ll be fine. I’ll just finish up and get to work.”

She tucked her thumbs in her jeans’ pockets. “Whatever suits you.”

Eyeing her warily, Cade forked up another bite but blew on it for a good bit before sticking it in his mouth. “Like I said, that would be getting back to work,” he said around the food.

Eli pulled Reagan into his arms again, settling her against his chest. “What’s on your schedule this afternoon?”

Cade shoveled the food in faster.

“It’s not so much this afternoon as it is the next couple of weeks that’ll be hell. Got news this morning the interior decorators won’t be here with their semi-truck load of furniture until the day before our first guests arrive. Means we’ll all have to pitch in to assemble what isn’t already put together. Then we’ll have to get the rooms set up, beds made, that kind of stuff.”

Reagan’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s cutting it pretty close.”

“There’s absolutely no room for error, but there’s no other option,” he muttered around his last mouthful of lunch. “Can’t make them get here any faster. I tried.” He tossed the container and fork into the sink, the loud clatter startling in the heavy silence.

Reagan stepped out of Eli’s arms and began rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. “We’re having a group lesson on loading the dishwasher soon.”

Cade grimaced. “Sorry.”

She waved him off. “I actually came in because I wanted to follow up with you guys on the invitations I sent out for the inaugural cattle drive. Anyone have the head count as of today’s mail run? I haven’t heard from the PR company since Friday. I swear, we need to invest in better internet service. We could’ve handled all this so much faster than with rural post.”

“It’s Sunday. Mail doesn’t run,” Cade offered.

“You know it’s bad when you don’t even realize what day it is anymore,” Reagan grumbled.

Eli moved toward the small built-in desk. “Paper invitations are more personal. That’s what Michael Anderson, our contact from the public relations firm, advised, and we’re paying a pretty penny for his professional opinion. Regardless, I can give you the head count as of last night.” He pulled a worn Day-Timer his way. Absently flipping through several pages, he stopped and did a quick tally. “We have confirmations from twelve of the fifteen, and one regret. Leaves us waiting for the last two responses.”

Cade rolled his shoulders. Eli had won the argument about hiring a PR firm. Cade wasn’t sure why they’d paid the company so much money to put together a freaking guest list, but he’d given up the argument, keeping his mouth shut about that at this point. “Hard to believe that the moment all those folks show up, the Bar C won’t exist anymore.”

“She will,” Eli countered fiercely. “She always will. She’s ours.” He dropped his head to his chest. They stood in the ensuing silence, each of them surely lost to their own thoughts. Then his chin snapped up. “It’s like introducing her with a pseudonym for publicity purposes. She deserved something catchy, and Lassos & Latigos Dude Ranch is perfect for those who haven’t met her yet.”

Closing his eyes, Cade let his head fall back. “I still can’t believe you guys took me seriously on that name. I was joking.”

“It is sort of catchy.” The smile in Reagan’s voice rang clear.

“So, about the guests who haven’t responded?” Cade asked. “Do we chalk them off or plan on them showing up unannounced on opening—”

The phone rang, the jangle of the old bell ringer loud enough to nearly knock Cade out of his socks.

Reagan jerked her chin toward the phone. “Grab that, would you? My hands are wet and Eli’s lost in the guest list again. Could be a verbal RSVP.”

He hesitated, the idea of talking to a “guest” somewhat daunting.

Then he yanked the phone’s receiver off the wall.

* * *

“HELLO?”

The gruff voice infused that one word, an alleged greeting, with undisguised caution, throwing Emmaline Graystone off guard. “Hello?”

In the background, dishes clattered in a sink.

Did Michael give me the wrong number? Emma glanced at the invitation, and then checked the display on her smartphone. Nope. Right number.

Her business partner had handled this account save for a couple of phone calls she’d taken in his absence. For those, she’d talked to a man named Eli. He’d been cultured, polished and incredibly professional. This was clearly not the same man.

“Hello?” that deep male voice repeated, his impatience impossible to misinterpret.

“Hello...hi. Um, I’m...” She blew out a soft breath and squared her shoulders. “This is Emmaline Graystone. I’m with Top Priority Publicity, the public relations firm hired by Lassos & Latigos to guide the ranch through it’s inaugural—”

“I’m well aware of what your firm has been hired to do, Ms. Graystone. But I was under the impression Eli had been dealing with a man by the name of Michael Anderson.”

“Michael is the firm’s vice president and has been handling the account, yes. But he’s involved in another project where the opening date was unexpectedly moved up and has left him pressed for time. With your grand opening quickly approaching, I offered to take over your account.”

“You familiar with our account?” The Voice asked.

She lifted her chin a fraction and stared at the barren horizon. “I’m the firm’s president and owner. I’ve been through your account files extensively, and I fully understand the direction Michael had been taking things. He’s done a good job. I can take it from here.”

“Glad to hear it.”

The perceptible smile in The Voice’s response irked her. “Do you have a problem with me assuming this account?”

“Nope. As long as you keep in mind the same principles we drilled into Michael, I don’t care who handles our account.”

Curious. She hadn’t seen anything in the notes about hardline principles to respect. “Which principles, precisely, are you referring to?”

“We want to keep the ranch family focused, make sure it doesn’t become a commercial machine but rather an intimate experience for each guest and every booking. Do that and I don’t care what kind of equipment’s parked behind your zipper.”

She blinked wide eyes. “Glad to hear it,” she said, mimicking The Voice’s dry tone. If this guy was a Covington, and if he would be interacting with ranch guests, they were all in trouble. He couldn’t speak to strangers—paying strangers—this way.

“You want to talk to Eli?”

“Not necessary. I’m currently standing in the Amarillo airport and there are no rental cars to be had. I would appreciate it if you’d have someone pick me up.”

“You’re here,” The Voice deadpanned.

“If by ‘here’ you mean at the airport, then yes,” she answered, irritated that The Voice offered no courtesy. “More specifically, in case you missed it, said airport is in Amarillo. That would be Texas. Right inside the infamous Panhandle. I’m staring out the huge glass windows at a landscape that’s flat, dust-colored as far as the eye can see, and the wind is blowing. It isn’t even remotely similar to the brochure Michael created. Still, if that’s what you’re referring to as ‘here,’ then the answer stands.”

“I should have asked, ‘Why are you here?’” he clarified.

“Unannounced visit to put you through your paces before your guests arrive.” She tried not to fume at his ensuing curse. “We have fourteen days to work out any last-minute issues.”

He sighed. Something—a hand?—slid over the receiver on the opposite end. The Voice entered into a brief, muffled discussion with what sounded like another man and a woman. The Voice’s words, though indiscernible, conveyed his frustration loud and clear. If the dude ranch intended to operate this way, they wouldn’t last a single tourist season.

The Voice’s hand must have slipped from the receiver because Emmaline was able to determine the three were arguing over who would drive in to retrieve her. Travelers, particularly those with both the money for the experience and those bringing children, wouldn’t tolerate being abandoned at tiny airports as their well-paid “hosts” argued heatedly over who was supposed to have been at the airport to pick them up.

She’d have to put an end to this and figure it out on her own. “Excuse me?”

Nothing. No response whatsoever.

“Excuse me,” she said again, louder.

Still no response.

“Hey!” she shouted, ignoring the startled glances from the few passersby in the tiny airport.

“Give me a minute,” The Voice ordered.

She ran her fingers through her pixie cut, well aware it would make the ends stand up and not caring one whit. “I’ve given you more than forty-five between landing and now. If I were an actual customer, I’d be watching the clock, too. Now you’re telling me, not asking me, to give you more time. Not the best foot to start out on.”

“You’re here unannounced, so cut me a little slack.” His words were short and sharp.

“I am, yes. And I won’t, no,” she snapped. “You have one chance to make a first impression. So far? You’ve blown it. Badly. You’ll have to do better with your paying customers or you’re finished before you get started.”

Silence traveled between them, weaving together to form palpably fractious tension. This was far from the first instance she’d had to assert herself as a woman in a male-dominant world, and if The Voice believed he could wait her out, he had another think coming.

Several minutes passed, the only sound between them their mutual breathing.

The man in the background muttered something and The Voice sighed again, covered the mouthpiece and responded. Then he returned, his breathing soft and steady.

Enough was enough. She’d simply explain to the nameless man that he’d failed her test. She’d send Eli suggestions to fix the problems, namely to find an exceptional surgeon to perform an emergency personality transplant on The Voice. She’d wager everyone would benefit from it.

Leaving would also get her out of covering for Michael on an account where she was personally, uncharacteristically, out of her depth. He had briefed her on the dude ranch before she caught her flight to No Man’s Land, but he hadn’t mentioned what an incredibly tight-knit family the Covingtons were. She’d picked that up based on correspondence and notes she’d read on the flight into Amarillo. Everything in the file indicated the importance the family had placed—and The Voice had reemphasized—in keeping the ranch an intimate experience, not a commercial Wild West attraction.

Emma knew nothing about families, or how to foster intimacy in any way. A revolving staff of nannies and housekeepers had raised her, faces changing with predictable regularity. No one was ever good enough for her mother, efficient enough for her father or around long enough for the child Emma had been.

That left adult Emma entirely out of her element when it came to family units like the Covingtons. What they had was what she’d coveted all her life, and she had no more idea how to preserve it than she had to fit into it.

That decided it. She’d grab the next flight out of this dustbowl and return to Manhattan. Besides, skipping the dude ranch’s inaugural goat roasting or greased pig wrestling or whatever it was wouldn’t be a hardship. She opened her mouth to bow out at the same moment The Voice spoke.

“I’m sincerely sorry for the inconvenience.” He paused, clearly out of his element when it came to apologies. “The trip to Amarillo is almost three hours from here. If you’d like to catch a cab to a restaurant, I can pick you up there. Or, if you’d prefer to get a hotel and have a staff member pick you up tomorrow, the ranch will gladly reimburse any expenses you incur. Whatever makes you most comfortable is fine with us, Ms. Graystone.”

“It’ll take you three hours to get here?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s early enough in the day to have you come get me at the airport, but—”

“Can I call you back in a second?” The Voice interrupted.

“Sure.” Emmaline dropped into a chair at baggage claim. “My cell should be on your caller ID.”

“We don’t have caller ID out here unless we use our cell or SAT phones. What’s your number?”

She rattled it off.

Paper tore. “Gimme a minute.” He disconnected before she could respond.

She thumbed her phone off and buried her face in her hands. This wasn’t the vision she’d had when she agreed to fill in for Michael. Not even close.

She’d intended to swoop in, wow her country clients, gain a solid recommendation from a new business she believed would be highly successful and disappear immediately after the inaugural event. The high-profile clients they’d invited to the event would get a chance to see her in action, get to know her just a little. Business would pick up again. Things would turn around. She’d figure out why the firm’s profit and loss statement looked as if it was bleeding out for the first time ever. She’d fix it. She’d hire a forensic accountant to examine her books for fraudulent activity. She’d be able to trust Michael again when the P&L was verified, when her suspicions were proven erroneous. She wouldn’t doubt his professed loyalty or the fact he was now out of the office more than he was in. All of these things would be resolved. She’d be able to breathe again, to reclaim control of the company and buy Michael out if she had to.

All of which meant she had to stay and somehow make things work with the Covingtons. She was swallowing a prescription antacid when the phone rang. Choking, she bumped Accept and the call connected. Eyes watering, she wheezed out something that resembled, “Emma.”

The Voice was there. “You okay, Ms. Graystone?”

“Stellar,” she rasped through the next round of harsh coughing.

He waited her out, then said, “I’m going to drive in and pick you up.”

Her brows winged up. “You? You’re coming to get me yourself?”

He ignored her untempered surprise. “If I leave now, we’ll be at the ranch in time for dinner.” Clothing rustled in the background, and what sounded like first one and then another heavy shoe thumped against the floor. “Where do you want me to pick you up?”

Emma glanced around as she fought to recover her bearings. “The airport has Wi-Fi, so I suppose here’s as easy as anywhere.”

“I’ll call when I’m five minutes out and you can meet me outside with your gear.”

Before she could ask for his cell number in case she changed her mind and sought out a restaurant, he’d disconnected. Again.

“Great,” she answered, anyway. “Can’t wait to meet you.”

Grabbing her bags, she made her way to one of the small cafés and settled into a booth before pulling her laptop out. She had three hours to kill. Might as well make them productive.