Knight in a White Stetson (3 page)

Calla let an exasperated little sigh escape her. Henry glanced at her, then stuck out his hand.

“This is Henry,” Calla broke in before Henry could speak. “Um, Henry Something. I just hired him for the summer.”

“Beckett,” Henry said. It was the name on his new driver’s license and credit card, and the name he’d been using for six weeks now, but it didn’t yet come comfortably to his lips. He wondered when it would.

“Beckett,” Clarkston Shaw ruminated over that for a minute, giving Henry a quick once-over, taking in the worn jeans and boots, the smear of manure already decorating them. “I don’t think I know any Becketts. Did you go to Dartmouth?” He shot Henry a condescending wink.

Calla sucked her lower lip into her mouth to keep a second sigh of annoyance from escaping. Henry quirked his eyebrows at her, wondering if she noticed the guy talked like he had a lump of horse crap stuck to the top of his mouth. And if she did notice, what was she thinking?

“Calla—” Clark turned to Calla, dismissing the man and his manured boots before Henry could respond “—we’d better get back inside. I have a lot to tell you. Dad found some lovely property in the Hamptons he thinks would make a wonderful resort development.” He looked her over and his eyes rested on her hare legs tucked inside her pointy cowboy boots. “And I’m sure you’ll want to get out of those boots.”

“Uh, yeah, hold on,” Calla said, suddenly a little breathless. Her movements, always sure and smooth in her beloved barn, abruptly became uncertain. “Let me fork a little hay over to Bubba, first.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Henry said quietly as she brushed past him. For an alarming split second, Calla thought Henry was going to reach out and touch her again, but he stood reassuringly still.

“Okay. Thanks. So, I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Dawn, right?” He smiled again.

“Dawn,” she answered, and turned to catch Clark’s outstretched hand. A thought occurred to her and she turned quickly to Henry again. “Wait, where you gonna stay tonight? You want me to show you the bunkhouse?”

“Nope. I got a bag in the back of my pickup. I’ve been sleeping in that. See you in the morning.”

“Yeah, see you. And thanks—” she jerked her hand toward Bubba “—for the horse, I mean.”

“No problem.” His easy grin was gone. “Anything for the outfit.”

She glanced at him quickly as she allowed Clark to pull her out of the barn. Henry had already located the missing pitchfork and was flaking some hay into Bubba’s stall with no regard for her. As she walked outside she could hear him talking to Bubba in a low voice.

* * *

When he was sure she wasn’t looking back at him anymore, Henry turned slowly and watched the couple move off into the night. He had that feeling again, he realized. That hit-in-the-chest-with-a-plank feeling. A real regular thing with this lady, he mused.

She had her hand tucked into the hand of Dartmouth, Class of ‘89. Henry wondered what it would feel like to shove a fist in that guy’s smug, skinny face. Not a Dartmouth family, huh? He hadn’t hit anybody since he was a teenager, but he’d make an exception in this case.

He moved his gaze from Calla’s hand to her swinging hips. She was practically dancing next to Dartmouth.

Boom, another plank.

Big trouble, he thought. Big. He’d known it when he’d driven into Paradise earlier that evening and asked at the tiny grocery about the woman with the chestnut hair and the old Chevy pickup. He didn’t know why he asked exactly, but when he found himself following the directions to Calla’s ranch, he knew he was jumping into trouble with both feet.

Henry wasn’t accustomed to trouble. Calla kind of trouble. Order was the rule of his life. Until six weeks ago, anyway, when he’d bought the new truck and took off for points unknown.

And as he watched Calla Bishop and Dartmouth, Class of ‘89, go off together into the night, and puzzled over the heavy feeling in his chest, he knew he’d once again tossed his ordered existence to the wild winds.

Chapter 3

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C
alla awakened the next morning with a thick headache. Clark had brought a bottle of wine from his father’s cellar and they’d stayed up too late talking about the Hampton development. She could listen to Clark for hours. Which was a good thing, because he sure could talk for hours.

Calla was instantly ashamed of that nasty little thought. Clark was fascinating, she reminded herself. It was the hangover talking. Clark was perfect for her. There was nothing about him that wasn’t just what she wanted. Just what she needed. Clark was smart, smooth, savvy. All the things every man in Paradise was not. All the things she’d need if she was going to save her ranch.

Of course, she thought as she stretched and yawned, running her fingers through the tangled mass of her hair, she could also use a couple aspirin and a giant cup of coffee.

After a quick bath, Calla pulled on panties and a bra and T-shirt, trying to ignore the pounding behind her eyes, and glanced out her window, checking for clouds or wind or anything else that might ruin her plans for haying. A light was on in the shop. Lester forgot to turn it off last night, she thought wearily. She ought to take the electric bill out of his hide.

Then she saw a small movement inside the shop. Her breath caught in her throat and she moved quickly to the window. Lester was never awake this early, and she hadn’t heard the door to the house, so it wasn’t her dad. She opened the window and leaned out.

“Hey,” she shouted. “Who’s out there?”

Henry poked his head around the shop door. Calla exhaled in relief. Between the wine and the Hamptons and the headache, she’d forgotten about him. She made out his smile in the strong light of the shop. How did a girl forget that smile? she wondered.

“Hey. It’s dawn.” He stretched out his wrist, even though she was at least fifty yards away.

“Very funny. I’ll be down in a minute.” She shut her window and flicked off the light switch in her bedroom. He probably wasn’t looking up at her, but just in case, she didn’t want him to see her in her underwear. She grabbed her jeans and a pair of socks, putting them on as she went down the stairs. In the kitchen, she started the coffee and stamped into her boots. When she stepped off the kitchen stoop onto the stone steps, she noticed the Idaho sun, fire-bright and hot already, coming fast from behind the rimrock. She strode out to the shop.

“This place is a mess,” Henry said, his back to her. Determined to forget the tantalizing little glimpse of his new boss in her T-shirt and panties he’d just got, he was tossing wrenches and screwdrivers into their separate compartments in a huge, antique toolbox that probably had belonged to Calla’s grandfather. “I thought by the look of that barn last night, you’d have kept a cleaner shop. I couldn’t find anything in here this morning.”

“The shop is Lester’s responsibility,” Calla said, reaching around him to pick up a grease-and-dirt-encrusted Vise-Grip. “I’ve got enough to take care of. Besides, he and Dad seem to be able to find everything, and since they’re in charge of the equipment around here, I try not to fuss about it.”

“Hmm.” Henry opened another drawer in the toolbox and began to rummage around.

“What’re you doing out here, anyway?”

“You said dawn. It’s dawn.” He pointed out at the strengthening daylight.

“I meant, what’re you doing in the shop? Why didn’t you come to the door?”

He grabbed a rag from the top of the toolbox and used it to clean some of the ancient grease from the handle of a claw hammer. “No lights on. I didn’t want to wake anybody up. You Idahoans sleep in. Not like us Californians.”

“Huh,” Calla grunted, tossing the Vise-Grip back into the box. “Well, I’m going to the barn. Breakfast is at six. You can meet everybody then, except Lester probably. We’ll discuss your wages.”

“I’ll come with you. I’m done here for now,” Henry said. He closed the now tidy toolbox and wiped his hands on the rag.

They walked in silence out to the barn. Calla swung the big door open. It creaked familiarly.

“Needs grease,” Henry said absently. They walked inside. “And I noticed last night the floor needs a little work, too. Good winter project.”

“Yeah, well, you’re just here for summer projects, remember? But thanks so much for your advice. I just love it when new ranch hands give me advice about my own place on their first day on the job.”

Henry grinned. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? Oh, brother.” She reached for the pitchfork. It was back on its hook. A good sign.

“You want Bubba out?” Henry asked, unlatching the stall door.

“Yeah, he goes out to the barnyard during the day. He just stays in here at night. Better for his old bones.”

She watched Henry as he looped a lead rope around the horse’s neck and led the big gray gelding outside to the wide, shady yard that surrounded the barn. He gave Bubba a gentle slap on the rump and watched him until he joined the other dozen or so horses that stood across the fence in the horse pasture. The animals nickered soft recognition at one another.

Henry turned and walked back to the barn. He hung the lead rope back on the hook on the wall. Calla bent to her work, scooping grain into a large metal bucket. Henry took a flat-bottomed shovel from another hook and walked into Bubba’s stall.

“Nice horse,” Henry said, shoveling straw and fresh manure into a pile.

“Uh-huh.”

“A good old ranch horse is hard to
find.”

“That’s true.”

“I saw a couple horses out there this morning that look older than he does. Why does he sleep in the barn?”

“He belongs to Benny,” Calla said simply. Henry worked quietly for a minute more. “Belonged to Benny,” she amended softly.

“Who’s Benny?”

Calla stopped her work and looked at him. “Do you always talk this much? ‘Cause I don’t think I can stand it.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” Calla chuckled in spite of herself and scooped another can full of grain into the bucket. “Don’t be a knothead.”

Henry looked up at her. “You sure have a mouth on you.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told.” Calla smiled. “Too bad for you.”

“Not really.” He smiled back. “I kinda like it.”

“Oh, brother.” In spite of herself, Calla turned a nice, embarrassing shade of pink.

They worked together for a while, Calla moving carefully past him to toss fresh hay in Bubba’s tidied stall.

“So, who’s Benny?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You don’t give up, do you?”

“Not usually.”

“Benny was my brother. He died nine years ago, and left me and Bubba behind. I take care of Bubba, Bubba takes care of me. That enough information for you?”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever. I’m outta here.” Calla brushed bits of straw from the front of her clothes and walked briskly out the barn door. “Close it when you come,” she shouted over her shoulder.

She walked into the house a minute later and found herself face-to-face with Lester and her father. Lester looked at her accusingly.

“Well?” Lester drawled. Calla’s teeth set on edge. “I reckon you can explain this?”

“Explain what?”

“Explain about that fella what slept in the driveway last night,” Lester said.

“I thought he slept in his pickup,” Calla said, pulling a mug from the cupboard and pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“Calla?” Her father was unruffled, as always. Calla occasionally wondered how such a hotheaded girl could have come from such an unflappable father. “You know what Lester’s talking about?”

“Yep,” she answered, taking a slurp from her cup.

“Well?” Lester’s voice was brisk now. Brisk for Lester, anyway. “You hire that fella or not? Strolled in the bunkhouse this morning, didn’t even knock, and took himself a shower. Said you’d hired him on last night.”

“I wondered what got you up so early this morning, Lester,” Calla said over the lip of her cup. “Can’t think of the last time I saw you before nine o’clock. You look good. Bright as a penny.”

“Calla, honey, you hire somebody last night?” Jackson asked patiently.

“Yep.” She took another sip. “His name’s Henry. He’ll be here for breakfast. He’s the one who helped me change my flat yesterday, when I was
stranded.”
Calla glared briefly at Lester. “Meant to tell you last night, but then Clark came and I forgot. Sorry, Dad.”

She got up and planted a kiss on her father’s cheek. “He’ll help put up the first cutting, and then I told him to ride up on Bennett the rest of the summer.”

“Fence riding?” Lester exclaimed, bug-eyed. “Did you know he was from California?”

“Lester, you’re positively lucid this morning, you know it?”

“Calm,” Jackson said mildly.

“Okay, yes, I know he’s from California, but he doesn’t look much like a city boy and he says he knows tractors and I’ve seen him with the horses this morning and he’s already half cleaned out Lester’s shop, so I think he’ll work out fine. We’ll see, anyway.”

“He cleaned out my shop?” Lester sputtered, one dirty hand going dramatically to his wrinkled brow. “God almighty.”

There was a short rap on the kitchen door.

“Come in,” Jackson, Calla and Lester shouted in unison at the closed door.

“Thanks,” said Henry, with a chuckle, as he opened the door and stepped inside. He put a hand out to Jackson. “You must be Calla’s father. Lester told me I’d be meeting you this morning. Henry Beckett.”

“Jackson Bishop, son. Welcome to Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch. Hear you’ll be working for us this summer.”

“Yes, sir. Hired on last night.”

Calla wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard a slight drawl drift into Henry’s voice as he spoke to her father. She rolled her eyes.

“Lester.” Henry, his face grave, stuck his hand out to Lester, who shook it reluctantly. “Sorry if I scared you this morning. I thought your ranch manager here would have told you she hired on a new hand.”

“Scared me? Huh. Takes more than a little pissant like you to scare me, I can tell you right now,” Lester grumbled. “Scared me, hell.” He stalked out the door.

Henry looked at Calla, who looked back over her coffee mug, her warm hazel eyes twinkling with shared amusement.

“Well, son, you best sit down and have a little something to eat.” Jackson motioned him to a chair. “We’re on our own this morning, sorry to tell you. My sister, Calla’s aunt Helen, lit out this morning on a run to town. She says she goes in for supplies, but she don’t come back ‘til sundown and she’s usually got her hair done up, so we’re a little suspicious, ain’t that right, Calla, honey?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Calla said absently, her hand tangled up in her loose hair. She was gazing studiously at the agricultural newspaper in front of her. “Oh, right. Breakfast. There’s muffins in the oven, usually, and coffee on the counter. Cups are on the shelf right above. If you want anything else, you’ll have to fix it yourself.”

“This is fine, thanks.” Henry brought the warm muffin pan from the oven and set it on the table in front of Calla and her father. He moved to the cupboard and took out a mug. “Coffee?” he inquired of Jackson.

“Well, thank you, young fella. I believe so.”

Henry filled both mugs, handed the older man his coffee, and sat down next to Calla. He grabbed a muffin from the pan and took a huge bite, tugging a piece of the paper from under Calla’s elbows with his free hand. She gave him a sidelong glance.

“Careful,” she said, “Cowboy coffee.”

“I think I’ll be okay,” Henry said, taking a gulp from his cup. He sputtered and coughed, bits of muffin flying out of his mouth onto the table. Calla, still studying her paper, reached out and absently smacked him hard between his shoulders.

“Told you.”

“I’ll believe you next time.”

“I’ll bet.” Calla sipped her coffee to hide her smile. Henry got up and ripped a paper towel off the bolder.

“Well, kid—” Jackson, oblivious to the exchange, faced Calla “—what’s on the schedule for today?”

Calla looked up at her father. He’d asked the same thing of her every morning for the past three years. Jackson was competent, smart, Calla thought, even brilliant in his own way, but he was incapable of running the ranch on his own. Mostly because, although he loved Calla, and had loved Calla’s mother, he was no McFadden, and did not love the ranch. Calla knew it, Jackson knew it and Calla’s mother had known it, which was why she’d left the ranch to her only daughter. Calla had been just twenty-one at the time, but had already been making many of the decisions since Benny died. The ranch was her mother’s to give, and she wisely chose Calla over Jackson.

“It’s been in my family for over a hundred years now, honey-bunch,”
Judy McFadden Bishop told her before she died.
“I know you’ll keep it in the family for another hundred.”

“I thought we might cut the upper fields today.” Calla turned abruptly to Henry, who leaned against the counter by the
coffeepot,
watching her. “You can run a swather?”

He nodded, his eyes on hers. She turned back to her father. Was her stomach going to flutter like that every time she looked at the man all summer? Well then, the sooner they got the hay up and packed him off to Two Creek, the better.

“I’ll put Henry on the swather and get Lester to hook up the baler for the field we cut Thursday. Should be dry enough now.” She drained her coffee mug. “I’m taking a horse up to the lake and see if I can’t find that wild cow of Charlie’s. Russ Thompson from the Bureau of Land Management called yesterday morning and told me he saw her up there.

“And if you wouldn’t mind, Dad,” she continued, clearing her throat, “I’d like you to take a little time today and see if you can’t straighten out that mess out in Lester’s shop. Henry started on it this morning. It’s really gone to hell, I have to admit, and since we’re heading hard into farming today, I want to have things at least clean enough where I can find a damn wrench if I want one. Excuse my language.” She looked at Henry, who gave her a quizzical smile.

“I’d be happy to, darlin’,” Jackson said, getting up from the table and ruffling a hand across the top of her head. “Poor old Lester, he sure will be mad when he comes home to a clean shop, though. I won’t step in when he tries to kill you for it, you know.”

Calla caught his hand and gave it a quick peck. “I know, Dad. I’ll take my chances.”

“You always do.”

Henry watched Calla as she released her father’s worn hand. His hands were steady on his coffee cup and his eyes were calm, a habit born of long years of practice and experience, but the small gesture of affection between Calla and Jackson shook him a little.

Henry wondered what it would be like to touch this woman so casually. He had nearly lost his head when Jackson ran his hand across his daughter’s head, and followed suit. Her hair was damp from a washing, and she hadn’t pulled it into the severe ponytail she’d been wearing yesterday. He hoped she wouldn’t. It gleamed even in the dim light of the kitchen. He’d wanted to plunge his fingers in that mane of hair since he’d first seen a strand of it come loose from her ponytail while she was changing that tire.

And when Calla caught her father’s hand in hers and pulled it to her lips to kiss it, Henry felt a strong, warm wave of … something … envy? … desire? … pass through his chest to settle at the pit of his stomach. His mouth went suddenly, ferociously dry, a first, sharp sign of lust.

He swallowed a couple of times to work the saliva back in. Okay, so he was a little horny. That wasn’t a terrible sin. Or an indication of anything more important. Just libido. After all, it had been more than a year since Heidi had left him. A year since he’d passed his hand across the crown of a woman’s head, felt the press of a mouth on his hand. Since he’d felt anything at all, for anyone at all.

He caught himself mooning, just a bit, at the woman in front of him. Mooning, for God’s sake.

This is trouble, he thought. I should run. Boy, California is the place you oughta be.

But when Calla got up from the table and started outside, he followed. He couldn’t help himself.