The Trouble with Texas Cowboys (2 page)

She dramatically threw a hand over her eyes. “Next time? Shit! We're going to have to outrun them again? That feels so good. Did you ever think of leaving ranchin' and going into massage work?”

“No, ma'am. My heart is in ranchin', but it makes a person plumb cranky to have achin' feet.” He cocked his head to one side, drew his eyes down, and asked, “What is that noise?”

“Sounds like thunder. Maybe if it rains, they'll all stay on their asses at home and leave us alone so we can get this place cleaned up before dark. Thanks for the foot rub. It really did help.”

He cocked his ear to one side. “It's not thunder. That's cattle and four-wheelers.”

She set her beer down and ran to the back door. Sure enough, there were four-wheelers out in the distance. She couldn't make out who was driving them, but she distinctly counted six.

Sawyer went the other way—to the front door. “I see three four-wheelers out on the far side, going toward the store. What the hell are they doing on Fiddle Creek?”

That's when they saw the cattle stampeding toward the bunkhouse. She jumped back and slammed the door shut. “Shit fire, Sawyer! What is going on?”

“It's a full-out stampede, but when they reach the bunkhouse, it'll break their momentum and slow 'em down. Gladys is going to have a hissy. I see River Bend brands all mixed up with ours, and I was right, there's Wild Horse brands in there too. Both sides must've had the same idea.”

“To cut fences and create havoc?” she asked.

“That's the general definition of a feud,” he answered.

Gladys, Quaid Brennan, and Tyrell Gallagher all arrived at the same time, braking so hard that gravel spewed all over the front of the bunkhouse.

“You son of a bitch.” Tyrell jumped out of his truck and bowed up to Quaid, who had barely gotten his boots on the ground. “Why did you cut our fence and cause this mess?”

Gladys stepped between them.

Jill grabbed her boots and headed outside, yelling at Sawyer the whole way. “Go help her. I swear, if one of them throws a punch and hits her, I'll shoot him dead.”

Sawyer didn't hesitate. He and Jill might have gotten off to a bad start, but she was right. If one of those fools hurt Gladys, she could shoot him, and Sawyer would carry the body down to the Red River and toss it into the water.

Sawyer joined Gladys. “Looks like you two need to use your energy to sort out your cattle rather than fightin'.”

“That's right,” Gladys said. “I'm damn sure not sortin' them out, but I will be doin' a count tomorrow, and if a single one of Fiddle Creek cows is missin', you'll both answer to me. Now get busy roundin' up your herds, and then get the hell off Fiddle Creek.”

“Don't worry, Miz Gladys. I'm going out there to make sure that anything with our brand stays right here,” Sawyer said.

“And I'm going with him,” Jill said from the porch.

Gladys nodded. “And you had best fix your own fences too.”

Without a word to her or to each other, both cowboys headed toward their trucks. They had phones to their ears as they backed away from the bunkhouse.

“Welcome to Burnt Boot.” Gladys laughed. “I'm glad I hired y'all, because I'm going back to the store and leaving you to take care of it.”

“My truck or yours?” Jill asked.

“I'll drive if you'll bring that shotgun with you.”

“You got it. And, Sawyer, it's beginning to look like we'd best stick together if we're going to survive living here.”

He held out his hand. “Deal.”

She shook it and then went back inside to get her gun.

The truck engine was running when she got back. Sawyer put it in gear and drove toward the herd of cattle right smack in the middle of the Fiddle Creek pasture behind the bunkhouse.

“We need to be cleanin', not settling feud wars,” she said.

“I know, but here we are. Speaking of cleanin', I didn't know that you were moving into the bunkhouse. Thought I had it all to myself, so I unloaded my things in the foreman's bedroom. That comes with a private bathroom. I can move them to the other side if you want,” he said.

“I remember the bunkhouse very well, and there are two bedrooms on the other side. One will serve as my office. Let's get a few things clear though, Sawyer. I don't cook, but I will take my turn at cleaning.”

He nodded. “You don't cook or you don't like to cook?”

“I never learned.”

“Well, I did, so we're in pretty good shape there.”

* * *

His dark brown eyes met hers over the top of the console separating the two seats. He'd never been attracted to redheads or green-eyed women. He'd always gone for willowy blonds with pretty blue eyes, but something vulnerable in her eyes said that she needed a friend. And that light sprinkling of freckles across her nose was downright adorable.

“This has been a hell of a day. I expected to have the whole place cleaned and maybe go grab a beer tonight down at Polly's,” he said.

“I had the same idea.” She smiled. “But don't plans get turned around quick? Here they come.”

“Where?”

She pointed. “Four-wheelers from both sides.”

Sawyer got out of the truck and stood at the front, arms crossed over his chest until they arrived. They cut the engines—Brennans on one side of his truck, Gallaghers on the other. He saw Betsy and Kinsey and Quaid and Tyrell. The only sounds in the pasture were a bunch of heaving cows still trying to catch their breath from running and the occasional disgruntled snort from a bull or two. But the tension was so thick that a good sharp machete couldn't have split it.

“Okay, this is the way it is,” he said. “I'm the foreman here, and to avoid any more trouble, the Brennans are going to gather up their cows first and head them back to River Bend. Then you Gallaghers can get yours out from the Fiddle Creek cattle and take them to Wild Horse.”

“Why do the Brennans go first?” Betsy asked.

“Because
B
comes before
G
in the alphabet.”

He heard Jill chuckle as she crawled out of the truck, the shotgun in her hands.

“And why has she got a gun?” Kinsey asked.

“To keep things nice and friendly,” Sawyer said.

“We didn't do any of this,” Quaid said.

“Yeah, right,” Kinsey shot across the twelve feet separating them.

“Don't you think it's strange that both fences were cut and cattle from both ranches stampeded?” Kinsey stared right at Sawyer.

“I don't give a shit,” Jill said. “Your cows are mixed up with ours, and we're being kind enough to let you take them home. Now quit your bitchin' and get on with it. Sawyer and I haven't even unpacked yet, and we've got things to do other than babysit you people.”

The Brennans started the tedious job of rounding up fifty head of cattle. Tyrell Gallagher started toward Jill, but she shook her head. “Not today, cowboy. Today it's all business.”

He turned and said something to Betsy that made her laugh loudly before the two of them sat down on the cold ground behind a four-wheeler. Their tone said they were brewing up some kind of trouble, but Jill didn't care. Her feet were hurting again, and she and Sawyer had too much to do for her to get another foot massage tonight.

“When we get back to the bunkhouse, if anyone else knocks on our door, one of us is going to shoot them,” Jill said just loud enough for Sawyer's ears.

“My gun isn't loaded. You shoot, and I'll get out the shovel to dig the hole to bury them.”

“It's a deal,” she said. “I'm too tired to dig, but I think I can still shoot pretty straight. Man, who would have thought the day would be like this when it dawned?”

“Ain't it the truth?” He nodded. “How long did you drive?”

“I left at four o'clock this morning from the southwest corner of Texas and drove until, what time is it?”

He took a phone from his shirt pocket and checked. “Four thirty. Be dark in an hour.”

She laid the shotgun on the hood of the truck and pulled gloves out of her pocket. “There's a nip to the wind. Feels like snow.”

“Yep,” he said. He waited until the Brennans were halfway across the pasture with their herd before he gave the Gallaghers permission to start getting their cattle together.

“They don't like taking orders,” she said.

“Maybe it will make them mad enough to leave me alone the rest of the time I'm here.”

“We've eaten our bullfrog,” she said.

“What's that?” he asked.

She smiled. “It's an old adage. Wake up every morning and eat a bullfrog first thing, and the rest of the day will go just fine.”

“Honey, I'm afraid we've just eaten his scrawny old toes.”

“Then I'm going to need a lot of help.”

“Me too, Jill Cleary. Me too,” he said.

Jill carried her gun and her suitcase to the larger of the two bedrooms on the other side of the room. Dust flew when she dropped them on the bed, and she groaned when she flipped the light switch.

She might not be a neat freak, but nothing more was coming in from the truck until she'd done some massive cleaning. Rather than a broom, she might need a scoop shovel to clear out the layers and layers of dust.

“I'll help you unload your stuff soon as you get things ready,” Sawyer said from the doorway. She glanced up, seeing him in a new light. She'd lived in bunkhouses before with lots of men around. His face would make a good study for artists, with all the acute angles from cheekbones to the cleft in his chin. He had skin the color of coffee with lots of pure cream in it and at first glance she'd thought it was the result of working outside in the sun. But it went deeper than that. There was a Latino in the woodpile somewhere in Sawyer's background, in spite of an Irish surname.

“Thank you. Are all of your things unloaded?”

“No, ma'am. I'm not bringing out my stuff until things are cleaned up. No sense in dragging them through all this dust and having to move them around to clean. I was finishing up the living room when you arrived. The kitchen is fairly good, but I did see a few mouse tracks in the dust on the cabinet before I cleaned it.”

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. A mouse shot across the tip of her boots and started up the bedpost. Instinctively she slapped at it with the butt of the shotgun, and it fell onto the floor. She hated mice almost as bad as rattlesnakes, but she wasn't afraid of them. Now spiders? That was a whole different story.

She picked up the dead mouse by the tail and carried it across the living room floor to the front door, where she pitched him out into the yard. “I'll get a cat tomorrow.”

He raked his fingers through his jet-black hair and then down over a day's worth of heavy black stubble. “I like cats, especially if they take care of mice and rats.”

“Good, maybe we'll get a couple,” she said.

“That's pretty bold of you, Jill Cleary.” His eyes sparkled when he teased. “We've only known each other a few hours, and you're already talking about us getting pets together. A foot massage doesn't mean that we are in a relationship.”

“Honey, we've been through more in those few hours than most folks go through in a month, and the cats are not going to be pets,” she said. “They're going to be mousers. And believe me, I'm not ready for a relationship with anyone, so you don't have to worry about that, and, yes, I will take a foot massage any time you want to give one.”

“Just so we're clear,” he said. “Now, I'm going to clean my quarters. One more time before I get things all spick-and-span, do you want that side of the bunkhouse?”

She shook her head, red hair flying. “I do not. I can be very happy right here with my two rooms.”

Faded jeans hugged his muscular thighs and butt. His dark brown eyes were kind, mischievous, and full of excitement. Tiny little crow's-feet at the sides of his eyes said that he wasn't a teenager and that he had a sense of humor. His biceps stretched at the seams of the blue chambray work shirt. Two buttons were undone, showing a bed of soft black hair peeking out. She wished he'd left all the buttons undone and she could run her fingers across the hard muscles under the shirt.

Lord, she needed to get a grip! The last thing she really wanted was a relationship, and there was a very good possibility that Sawyer had a girlfriend, or maybe even a wife. Friendship would be easy and okay, but not a thing past that. She quickly glanced at his hands. No ring! At least she hadn't been lusting after a married man.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I needed a job.”

“Ranchin' jobs can be found anywhere in the state of Texas. Why did you come to Burnt Boot?”

“For a brand-new fresh start.”

But his eyes said more. Disappointment was written there. Someday, when they knew each other better, she intended to play poker with him. He was one of those open-book men who couldn't hide anything. Whatever he felt was written plain and clear in those mesmerizing dark eyes, and there was a story in there. If they were playing for clothes instead of dollars, she could win everything from that shirt to his pretty belt buckle to his scuffed-up boots. Did he wear boxers or briefs? Hopefully, he went cowboy, which meant neither one, and she would have it all when he peeled those jeans down.

Crap! She really did need to get a hold on her thoughts. It had to be because she was so tired and he'd been so nice after she'd started things off like a first-rate bitch.

“Well, it looks like we've both got a job,” she said. “I haven't been here since I was a little girl. Is that the other bathroom?” She pointed to one of two closed doors.

“No, that's a tack room. That one”—his finger went to a door right beside what would be her office—“is yours. It's got a tub. If you are nice, I'll loan you my shower when you don't have time to run a bath.”

“Thank you, and when you'd like to soak away the aches and pains, you are welcome to use my tub,” she said.

She grabbed a broom and headed back to her room, but she could feel his eyes on her, creating a faint flutter in her heart. Oh, yes, she definitely had to get control of herself!

It was late when things were clean enough that she could take a quick bath and fall into bed, but Aunt Gladys was a night owl and she would still be awake. If a person looked up “night owl” in the phone book, Gladys Cleary's picture would be there. It would show an eighty-year-old woman with a strong chin and lots of jet-black hair with just a hint of gray in it. Jill propped two pillows against the iron headboard and reached for her phone. The old metal springs squeaked under the mattress every time she moved. She hit the speed-dial button and leaned back.

“You got them cows sorted out?” Gladys asked.

“And my bedroom and bathroom at least livable,” she said.

“And Sawyer, is he alive?”

“We buried the hatchet and made a treaty.”

“Well, hot damn! I knew you'd see that he is a good man. What's the treaty say?”

“That we'll have each other's backs after Sunday,” Jill said.

“Sunday?”

Jill told Gladys about how both Brennans and Gallaghers had blindsided her and Sawyer and now they had to go to dinner and then supper with them. “But you can't accuse me of taking sides,” she said.

“Sounds like you've both done stepped in a fresh shit pile.” Gladys laughed. “But it will be good for you.”

“One of those things that makes you stronger if it don't kill you?” Jill asked.

“Something like that. Now get some sleep. Y'all meet me at the barn at eight tomorrow, and I'll show you how I want the feeding chores done.”

“Yes, ma'am. Good night, Aunt Gladys. And thanks for the job.”

“Honey, it's only a job until I'm dead, then Fiddle Creek is yours. Good night and good-bye. See you kids in the morning.”

Jill said good-bye and poked the “end” button, but it was a while before she went to sleep.

* * *

Sawyer awoke with a start, sun warming his face through a dingy window and the smell of coffee filling the bunkhouse. He sat straight up and inhaled deeply. It took a few seconds to get his bearings. He hadn't slept past daybreak in years, much less until seven o'clock, but then he hadn't gone to bed until three that morning. He fell back onto the pillows, pulled the clean flannel sheets and down comforter up to his neck, and listened to the sounds of a lonesome old coyote howling somewhere outside.

The aroma of coffee drifted under the door. Evidently, Jill was already up and around, which meant she'd gotten into his stash, since that was the only thing in the kitchen. There wasn't even a stray ice cube in the refrigerator freezer, much less a quart of milk and stale doughnuts. That also meant she'd used his coffeepot.

He sat up, slung his legs over the side of the bed, and his feet hit the cold tile floor all in one motion. He might tolerate someone dipping into his stash of dark-roast coffee, but nobody messed with his pot. Not even if she was cuter than a bug's ear, with that faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

He made a mad dash for the top drawer of the dresser and yanked out a pair of warm socks first and pulled them on as he tried to keep from putting his entire foot on the floor. The room was so cold that ice had formed on the inside of the window. He glanced up at the ceiling to make sure the vents were on, but there were no vents. Evidently, the only heat in the place came from that wood-burning stove in the living area, and the fire he'd built when he arrived the evening before had gone cold. He'd have to remember to leave his door cracked from now on, which meant no more nights of sleeping in the raw.

He jerked on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved, oatmeal-colored thermal shirt, and stomped his feet down into boots. He shivered as he shaved, brushed his teeth, and ran a comb through his thick black hair. He needed a haircut, but it could wait another week.

Warm air rushed into the cold room when he opened the door. A burning fire crackled in the cast-iron stove. On top, a chipped blue granite pot gurgling away as it boiled coffee. Sawyer hadn't had a cup of campfire coffee in ages, and it sure smelled good.

He rounded a corner into the kitchen area, and there was Jill coming right at him, head down, with an empty coffee mug in her hand. He checked the cup out carefully. It wasn't dark brown with writing on it, so she hadn't stolen his cup as well as his coffee.

She looked up a split second before stopping so quick that her boots made a high-pitched squeak on the tile floor. “Don't sneak up on me like that,” she said breathlessly.

“I didn't, and who gave you permission to use my coffee?” he asked.

“Hey, you woke up to a warm living room and coffee. Quit your bitchin', and I might share. I woke up to a cold house because a tall, dark—” She stopped shy of saying
handsome
. She faked a cough and went on. “A cowboy didn't bank the fire, and there's not a single thing to eat. I'm grouchy when I'm hungry, and I bite before I have my morning coffee. So stand aside and let me pour a cup. And from this standpoint, Sawyer O'Donnell, you don't look like you wake up in a good mood either, so pour a cup and let's talk.”

“It's my coffee, so you don't have any say-so about sharing it,” he said.

“It's my pot, so don't argue with me. Didn't you hear that part about biting? I haven't had rabies shots, either,” she shot back over her shoulder, her green eyes dancing with mischievousness. “Much more of your whining, and you can brew a cup in your sissy pot and leave my real stuff alone.”

Sawyer poured a cup, tasted it, and nodded. “Delicious, madam barista.”

“Don't give me a fancy name. I can't even run that prissy pot you've got sitting on the cabinet. If it's more complicated than putting coffee in one place and water in another, I'm lost,” she admitted.

She bent over to set her blue granite cup on the stove, and the way she filled out the butt of those jeans made his mouth drier than the damn Mojave Desert. She straightened up and dragged the second wooden rocker across the floor to the other side of the stove, sat down, and reached for the metal cup.

“Ouch!” she said, quickly wrapping the handle in her shirttail.

“Got a little warm, did it?”

“Oh, yeah!” Her smile was bright and honest. “Aunt Gladys left me a voice message. She's got the feeding chores done, and we're supposed to meet her at the bar. I vote that we go to the bar early and have breakfast there. There's always bacon and eggs in the refrigerator and bread for toast on the shelf. Then we'll stop by the store and get a week's worth of supplies after we talk to the aunts,” she said.

“Sounds like a plan to me, but I thought Polly only fired the grill up for dinner and supper,” Sawyer said.

“You said you could cook, cowboy. If I'm stealing the food, surely to God you can make breakfast for both of us.” That sparkle was back in her eye that said she liked to banter.

* * *

The mug cooled enough that she could handle it, and the hot liquid warmed her insides while the old woodstove took care of the outside. She stole glances at Sawyer with his long legs stretched out, black hair falling down on his forehead, and sleep leaving his big brown eyes. It should be a sin for a man to have lashes that long and a smile so damn bright that it could put the summer sun to shame.

Never before had she been attracted to the tall, dark, handsome man. She'd always gone for the blond-haired, blue-eyed guys. Being a cowboy had always been a plus, but it had never been a necessity. But it would be just downright wrong to start up anything with Sawyer. They had to live in the same house and work together. Friends might work…but that was as far as it could go.

“Aunt Gladys will fire your lazy ass if you sleep until seven every morning,” she said.

Sawyer drew down his eyebrows and tucked his chin to his chest. “For your information, come Monday morning I'll be out there with the cows at five o'clock. That means I'll be up at four to make my breakfast.”

“I know ranchin', Sawyer. I've been doin' it my whole life. One set of my grandparents had a little spread down near Brownsville. That would be my mama's folks, but Daddy's lived close by on the outskirts of town. Mama remarried after Daddy died, and we moved to Kentucky, but I got to spend summers and holidays in the area until they passed on a couple of years ago.”

“Your dad's folks been gone long?”

“They both died within a year of each other when I was in high school.”

“And then?” he asked.

“I completed a bachelor's degree in business agriculture, and I went to work full-time on a ranch. Now I'm here.”