Cowboy Tough (8 page)

“I know it's been hard on you.” She shot Hank a sideways glance, knowing that if she looked at him directly he'd shy away and disappear. “Here you've been relying on me, and I let you down. I'll pay you, you know. All I owe you, plus interest.”

Hank shoved his hands in his pockets and rolled the toe of his boot over a pebble that had somehow escaped the wrath of her broom. He rolled it over and back, over and back, until she was half-mesmerized by the repetition. Maybe he thought he was shifting gears in that race car. Who knew what went through the man's head?

“Well.” She rushed to fill the silence. That was the problem with Hank. His quiet ways set her to babbling. “If my son wants to seduce that woman into thinking this is the right place for the Art Treks, that's fine with me.” She turned and strode out to the porch, not caring if Hank followed her or not. “God knows the bunkhouse didn't impress her.”

“She's good for him,” Hank said. “You ought to get her to stay.”

She spun and faced him.

“Why, Hank.” She struggled to find her voice. He'd shocked the talk right out of her. She watched him redden and turn away and realized she needed to act casual, pretend this was all normal. It was like taming a wild animal. Don't make eye contact. Don't get too close.

“You think she's right for him?” She kept her tone casual.

“She's strong.”

She leaned against the door frame, staring up at the rafters that lined the porch roof. “Well, I don't know,” she said. “If she was a horsewoman, maybe, or some kind of sexpot, I'd figure she was more his type. But that woman sits a horse like she's perched in a church pew.”

A faint smile creased Hank's face, but he kept his eyes on the floor. “That ex of his was no horsewoman,” he said.

“Got a point there.” Madeleine pictured Alex as she'd last seen her, dressed in a black broomstick skirt and fringed suede jacket. She'd been draped with so much Navajo jewelry she looked like she was leaking turquoise and silver from her pores. “You know, I knew she was wrong for him. But I wanted him to marry her anyway.” She pulled a metal bar from a nail in one of the porch posts and used it to ring out a summons to the table on the old-fashioned triangle that had hung there for generations. Spinning on her heel, she walked briskly back to the kitchen, knowing Hank would follow. “Not because I'm one of those women that wants grandkids so bad. I'd never sacrifice my boy's happiness for something
I
want, you know. But if it took a woman like that to tie him to home, I was all for it. Anything to keep him off those broncs.”

“Broncs won't hurt him.” Hank spat over the porch rail before he shoved off the wall and followed her into the house. She supposed she should be grateful he'd done it outside. Far as she knew, the man wasn't housebroken. “No bucking horse'll hurt you like a woman will.”

Madeleine turned and pinned him with her eyes. “Is that what you think?” She dismissed the notion with a toss of her head. “Mack wouldn't want a woman that didn't have any spunk.”

“She stands up real straight. She's got some fight in her.” He thumbed toward the door, indicating the artist woman. “That's a good sign. She's strong on her own, so she won't need to take anything from him.”

Madeleine straightened her own spine. Hank probably saw her as she saw herself, as a woman without a backbone. A woman who'd been walked all over by a man.

Well, she'd prove that wrong. Nobody was taking this place away from her—not Ollie, not the bank, not anybody. She might only be a Boyd by marriage, but she loved this ranch like she'd been born to it. And she'd fight for it like a man if she had to.

She took a calico apron from a hook on the wall and tied it around her waist. Glancing over at Hank, she paused, then unhooked another one and tossed it to him. He clutched it in his fist for a moment, staring at it like it was a snake.

“Put it on,” Maddie said. “I need you to chop some onions.”

He shrugged and tied it on as if he'd done it all his life, looking up at her while his hands fumbled with the bow behind his back. She felt something oddly intimate when their eyes met. Hank was quiet, but so watchful. Sometimes she wondered if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

The faintest trace of a smile crossed his lean face, and for a moment he looked almost handsome.

“You see?” he said. “You stand up straight too.” He stroked the apron over his thighs like a girl adjusting her prom gown, and the creases in his face smoothed into their customary noncommittal expression. “Show me where you keep those onions.”

Lunch was an ordeal. There was no way for Cat to avoid sitting right across from Mack; it was almost as if Maddie engineered the seating arrangement for maximum awkwardness. The two of them avoided each other's eyes, but every moment seemed fraught with innuendo. She couldn't tell if she was just paranoid, or if everyone was conscious of the tension between her and the wrangler.

Not that Cat had any idea what that tension meant. After kissing her like he was starving and she was lunch, he'd come to the table with his eyes averted and kept his attention solely on the food. He met her gaze only once, and she wasn't sure if it was arousal or annoyance that glinted in his eyes.

Between him and Hank, there was a whole lot of quiet at the dinner table. Dora was quiet as well, casting quick, resentful glances toward Cat. Only Madeleine managed to keep up a running conversation, answering her own questions when Cat's words stuck in her throat. So it was a relief to hear the crunch of gravel as the airport shuttle pulled into the drive.

Shoving her chair back, Cat practically ran to the door, bouncing down the steps with a welcoming smile that hopefully masked her nerves. She didn't know much about her students besides their names. Edward Delaney and his wife Emma, their daughter Abby, and Charles Brodell. With Trevor, that made five clients to educate and entertain.

She glanced at Mack. He leaned against the porch railing in a graceful slouch that radiated cowboy cool, but his eyes were fixed on the van as intently as hers, waiting for their future to spill out the side door. With his square jaw set, his strong cheekbones, and those dark eyes, he looked like a bird of prey waiting for a mouse to come out of a hole.

A faint scratching noise from the interior of the van turned to panicked scrabbling, then pounding. Mack strode down the steps and grabbed the door handle, hauling it open to reveal the shadowed interior. Cat almost held her breath as she waited for her students to emerge. Whoever came out of that van would be her responsibility for the next two weeks.

A blue-veined leg that terminated in a very sensible shoe poked out the door and felt around for the running board. It was followed by an equally sensible-looking woman with wire-rimmed glasses and white hair as wispy as her fragile build. She was dressed in splashy floral capri pants and a T-shirt that read “I'd Rather Be Painting” in loose, flowing script.

“I couldn't find the door handle,” she said. “They ought to put it where a body can—oh, look!” She stared at Mack, who had shed his hat for lunch and looked remarkably virile in a white T-shirt and jeans. “Abby, look. A cowboy!”

The next woman to emerge was as large as the other was delicate, with broad shoulders and an almost masculine build. Standing with her shoulders hunched and her legs slightly bowed, she looked like a pugnacious bear who'd been awakened too soon from hibernation.

She was a good twenty years younger than the first woman, so Cat had to assume that this was Abby Delaney and the other woman was her mother, Emma. The dad must be a pretty big guy, because Abby's size sure didn't come from the maternal genes.

“You're right, Mom.” The big woman shot Mack an accusatory gaze. “One of those men that breaks the spirits of wild mustangs and ropes helpless baby cows.”

Someone protested from the depths of the van. “You ladies just don't know a thing about real men.” The voice was shaky and thin—a perfect match for the old gentleman who stepped out next. Maybe Abby Delaney got her build from the postman.

“How could I?” Mrs. Delaney smacked him on the arm. It wasn't a hard smack. Cat thought you could almost call it a love tap, but there was a lot of spunk in it. “I've been married to you for forty-nine years.”

Ed Delaney hobbled over and stood with Mack. “Women,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em.”

“
I
could shoot 'em.” Mack gave the elderly couple a slow once-over, then slid his gaze to Cat. He'd obviously calculated their age and come up with the same number she had. Seventy. At least.

This trip was going to be a challenge.

“Don't know what it is that stops me from shooting 'em sometimes.” Mack strode to the back of the van, where the driver was unloading luggage. He drew his wallet from his pocket, counting out bills for a tip.

Cat shook hands all around, introducing herself and welcoming her guests to the Art Trek. She struggled to focus on each person in turn, resisting the urge to peer past them into the back of the van, where her last customer was slowly making his way up from the third-row seat.

Very slowly.

As he emerged, Cat took an involuntary step back. He was so big he had trouble maneuvering around the seats, and once he eased out of the door she wondered how he'd ever gotten back there in the first place. When he thumped to the ground and straightened, she realized he was even taller than Mack. With his shaved head and the tattooed sleeve running up his arm, he looked like an ex-con, or maybe a biker.

“Uh, hi.” Cat put out her hand, but she almost whipped it back when he reached for it. The back of his hand was tattooed to look like the head of a lizard, with its tongue flicking out along the middle finger. The creature's talons grasped his muscular forearms as the tail wound up his biceps to curl around several disturbing images—a skull with snakes spilling out of its eye sockets and a knife that seemed to spurt blood from a tattooed wound. It was possibly the best-drawn tattoo Cat had ever seen, but also the most disturbing. The realism made the lizard seem eerily alive, with glittering eyes that followed the viewer.

But he shook her hand with surprising gentleness, his eyes meeting hers only briefly before they skittered away and lit on the ranch house. He seemed to be probing the shadows, and she had the impression that he was looking for danger. Maybe he really was an ex-con. Maybe he was on the run.

Well, at least then he wouldn't mind the accommodations. He'd feel right at home in the cell-like rooms of the Bull Barn.

“So have you all met?” Cat winced as she asked the question. Of course they'd met. They'd just spent three hours in a cramped van together.

“Well, we're family,” Abby said, gesturing to Ed and Abby. “And that driver was a nice guy. Him?” She angled a thumb toward the man with the lizard tattoo. “He didn't say a word the whole way.”

To Cat's surprise, the big man hunched his shoulders and winced. “Sorry.”

“Be nice, Abby,” Emma said. The response had the feel of a reflex. Cat suspected Emma had to remind Abby to be nice pretty often. The younger woman seemed to be the exact opposite of her parents—heavyset while they were frail, rude while they were sweetly polite, grumpy while they seemed unflaggingly cheerful. Even Cat's postman theory didn't account for the contrast. Maybe the daughter was adopted.

Madeleine Boyd was beaming from the front door, waving the group inside. As each new guest approached, she extended both hands in greeting and leaned in to bestow dramatic air-kisses, closing her eyes as if each gesture was the most heartfelt smooch in history. Whatever her faults, Madeleine seemed to genuinely love welcoming people to her home. When Charles approached, her eyes widened at the sight of the lizard tattoo, but she recovered quickly and gave him the same warm greeting as the others.

Cat was the last to enter the house. Somehow, Maddie had managed to clear the lunch mess and lay out an elegant afternoon tea again. She wondered how the woman had transformed the dining area so quickly, but then she saw Hank standing at the sink, elbow-deep in suds. Maddie seemed more than capable of handling the crowd, so Cat slipped out and joined Mack, who was sorting the luggage into heaps that seemed to have no rhyme or reason. Dora was already hefting a bag of art supplies.

“What's with the old folks?” Dora asked. “I thought this company was called ‘Art Treks.' We're not going to be doing much ‘trekking' with them along.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Art Wrecks, I'd call it.”

“No kidding.” Mack took a suitcase in each hand and shot Cat a furious glare. “Somebody's going to break a hip. And I'm not sure my insurance covers geriatric pack trips. You could have warned me, Cat.”

“I didn't know,” Cat said. “There's no screening. The company processes the applications, and I doubt they turn anyone down if the check clears.”

“I guess not.” Dora laughed. “It looks like a nursing home picnic.”

“Abby and Charles are young.”

“And weird,” Dora said. “That lady looks like a bear. And the lizard man is just scary.”

“Be careful, okay?” Cat tried to keep her tone light. “Someone could hear you.”

She felt like she'd scored a major victory when Dora shrugged and didn't talk back.

“So what's the plan?” Mack didn't look happy. It was hard to believe this was the same man who had kissed her like his life depended on it just an hour before.

“Well, the first hurdle is the bunkhouse. I'm going to try to avoid that until after dinner. Maybe you could give them a tour of the ranch when they're done with tea?”

Mack nodded.

“Make it a good one. Wear them out. Then, if dinner's as good as last night, I'm hoping they just fall into bed without analyzing the mattress,” she said.

Mack pulled off his hat and ran his hand through that thick, dark hair. At the phrase “falling into bed,” his eyes lit on hers and his lips curved into a faint smile.

Now
that
was the man who had kissed her. She wished her various female parts weren't so happy to see him again. She felt that current tugging at her heart again, pulling them together.

“So where do you want these?” Dora asked, hoisting a canvas easel case over her shoulder and picking up a pochade box. “Bunkhouse or barn?”

Mack's smile faded. “Bunkhouse,” he said.

At the same moment, Cat blurted out, “Barn.”

He shrugged. “Barn, then.” He hefted a suitcase in each hand and turned to face Cat. “Your students, your rules.” He flashed her a smile, but it didn't come close to the warmth of that look they'd shared. “And I promise to follow all of them.”

Cat watched him go, the muscles in his arms bulging with the weight of the suitcases. She was starting to regret all the rules she'd posed.

Especially the one about “no touching.”