Who Wants to Marry a Cowboy? (5 page)

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, reveling in the silence. Her apartment in Charleston always had some sort of noise—a car driving by, a neighbor getting home after a long night. The stillness outside was a nice change. She unpacked some clothes and pulled on her favorite cotton pajama pants and a tank top, eager to talk to Cecelia and hear how Edward handled the switch. She snuggled under the covers and dialed. Her sister answered immediately, music blaring from the phone.

“Ainsley! I was going to call you tonight.” Cecelia sounded happy and Ainsley gave a mental shout of celebration that it seemed to be going well.

“What happened? What did Edward say?”

Her sister giggled and some of the tension in Ainsley’s shoulders eased. “Mom booked a two-bedroom suite, so I was able to avoid him until the ship left port. He was a little angry when he saw me.”

“How could you tell?”

Cecelia snorted. “You know that vein near his eyebrow? It was throbbing like a frightened rabbit. You know how he hates changes in a schedule.” Her voice was rich with amusement. “Anyway, he took out his phone to call Mom and tell on us, so I grabbed it and made it look like I tossed it overboard.”

Ainsley gasped, but couldn’t stop the laughter that escaped her. Edward considered his phone his lifeline. “You didn’t!”

“I did. I palmed it and tucked it behind my back when he looked for it over the railing. So now he can’t call anyone unless he wants to spend tons of money using the ship’s phone, and I can make sure he focuses all his attention on me.”

“Smooth.” Ainsley shifted on her side, getting more comfortable.

“I thought so. I hadn’t planned that, but definitely took the opportunity when he gave it to me. He broke into a cold sweat about it, but he knows he can get a new one and synch it with his computer when he gets back. The world’s not going to end if he misses a phone call. He probably sleeps with it tucked under his pillow.” Cecelia took a deep breath. “He made a pro and con list. Seriously. I figured I should let him go at it, so I parked my butt on a barstool and had a piña colada while I waited for him to finish.”

“I’m sure he decided the pro list was better.”

“Of course!”

 “Well, good.” Ainsley relaxed into the pillows, her muscles releasing their tension for the first time since the plan was hatched. Cecelia sounded deliriously happy. Edward would be okay, and her mother would never know the difference. At least not for a week or so. “Is he with you now?”

“We were about to go into dinner. The phone won’t work in there so he’s sitting down while we talk. Oh, and I’m wearing that tight red dress, the one Daddy made me cover up with his jacket the last time.”

“Oh, poor Edward.” A twinge of guilt passed through Ainsley as she listened to the joy in her sister’s voice. “Ceca, if I knew you had feelings for him…”

“I know, Aims. Don’t worry about it. Really, before I started school I took pleasure in doing things to upset Sophia and Daddy. Now I’m doing things that make me happy. I wasn’t ready before to even consider a serious relationship. And now I am.”

Ainsley said good night and lay down with a sigh of pleasure, stretching on the soft bed. She never would have imagined her sister and Edward together, but now it made perfect sense. They’d be good for each other, Cecelia’s rebellious streak neutralizing his seriousness and stiffness. Ainsley yawned and rolled over, snuggling under the warm blankets.

An hour later she was still awake, the surrounding silence overwhelming instead of comforting. The glimmering roof of the greenhouse coupled with Molly’s tale made waiting until morning a struggle. Besides, Molly had said to explore the ranch. She quietly got dressed and slipped out of the cabin with a flashlight. The air was cooler than she was used to for early spring, so she ducked back inside to grab a cotton sweater.

She closed the cabin door behind her with a soft click. Invigorated by the crispness in the air that blended with the fresh, sticky scent of spruce trees, she followed the path with renewed energy. The cabins were all dark. Pinpoints of light lit the sky and she kept her flashlight off so she could stargaze as she made her way to the greenhouse.

Finally she stood in front of the glass door. Breaking the peace inside felt intrusive. Still, the flowers called to her, waiting to be discovered. She went into the building.

The earthy odor greeted her with an underlying hint of neglect. Flower and herbal aromas hovered under the thick, dank air. She slowly passed through the rows of flora from all over the world, brushing the leaves and caressing them with gentle fingers in the darkness. Who cared about a stupid, stinky cowboy, anyway? This was why she was here.

She made her way down the main aisle and approached a wooden workbench set up toward the back. On it sat a small shrub in a clay pot, the stems stark and bare, showing no sign of the flower that Ainsley instinctively knew should now be blooming. A spiral-bound notebook lay open next to the plant, its pages covered in writing.

A small trickle of sweat ran down her back and she shrugged out of her sweater, laying it next to the notebook. Dirt and fallen, dried-out leaves covered the pages and she smoothed them away before she picked it up and read some of the notes. Someone was cultivating the Japanese Kerria, trying to keep the vine contained. The experiment had been ongoing over the past year, but the notes stopped four months ago. She put the notebook down and studied the area around the shrub.

Everything had that neglected, uncared-for look, but there were no fallen leaves anywhere other than directly below the plant. Whatever this gardener had done to keep the vines from growing seemed to be working. Ainsley stifled a yawn and thumbed forward through a few more pages, but there were no more entries. So why did they stop? And why leave their carefully detailed notes lying out here?

She stretched, raising her arms overhead, then continued through the rows of the greenhouse, shining her light on the carefully labeled plants. Some sported flowers, but they lacked the vitality she expected from Molly’s passion about the greenhouse. A large, leafy green plant waved her over and she stuck her finger into its soil then rubbed her fingers together, feeling the particles of dirt for moisture. Someone was doing the bare minimum to keep these plants alive. If this was her greenhouse, she’d spend hours here every day. Even in the dark the atmosphere was one of peace and rebirth. Imagine what it would be like in the sunlight and in full bloom.

Another yawn made her jaws creak. She should go back to her cabin and plan how to help the flora regain some of their beauty. Then she’d escape Meagan in the morning and avoid the brunch, coming back here to make everything grow.

She closed the door of the greenhouse behind her. Voices sounded over the rise and she scurried away so she wouldn’t be discovered. Halfway up the hill, she realized her sweater was still lying on the table next to that notebook.

Riley’s father had always been eager to see what the next step in his life brought him. When their mother left, John Pommer had turned his agony into adventure, going forth with the plans they had made and channeling his energy into rebuilding the ranch. So even though Riley’s path had been completely rewritten, he knew his father would be disappointed with the way Riley had handled the situation with his sisters.

Even now, under the clear, dark skies of the ranch, over the hill where he couldn’t see the house and there was no one around to witness his actions except his favorite dog, disappointing his father left Riley with a tightness in his gut.

“Dammit, Dad.” He sighed and stared up at the stars. The same ones he’d seen every night he stepped outside, whether in the mountains or at home, alone or with someone. “I miss you.”

The greenhouse had always been his father’s sanctuary. Riley hadn’t had the desire to step foot in it since John’s death, but maybe it was time now. The moon showed him a clear path and he walked until he stood in front of the door, Lady’s soft cinnamon head nudging his leg. “Where should we go, girl?” he asked.

He placed his hand upon the smooth glass, imagining his father bent over the workbench in the back, scribbling notes on his latest addition, his dark hair graying at the temples and glasses perched on his nose. He took a deep breath, opened the door and flicked on the lights, ignoring the overwhelming feeling that something was wrong, that someone was missing.

The earthy, familiar smells welcomed him as he passed through the rows of neglected flora. Four months, and only Molly had the fortitude to go inside, and then solely to keep the plants alive. Flowers bloomed, but looked as if they were barely managing to hang on to the petals that held a drab sea of greens and dark browns at bay. A knot formed in his belly as he pinched off some dried flowers from a pot on the table near him. There was so much that needed to be done, but all he could manage right now was caring for this one plant in front of him. The weight of the mountains fell over him. One day he’d be able to restore the famed Pommer greenhouse to its former glory.

A bright blue spot caught his eye and he frowned, sliding between display tables to get to it. A sweater. And not one he recognized. Near his father’s last project. Lady sniffed it and gave a canine yowl. Someone had been in here. Someone unwelcome had disturbed this place. Anger welled up in him. There were no possible reasons for any of those blasted women to come in here. She could have ruined his father’s work. He grabbed the sweater and balled it in his hands, ignoring the light vanilla scent that tickled his nose.

He stiffened as he heard the whoosh of the door opening behind him. Soft footsteps padded down the row of the greenhouse. His fingers tightened on the material as he prepared to stand off with the woman who had invaded his father's memory.

"Oh, good. You found my sweater," the interloper said, her light voice tinged with a southern accent. “It’s cold out there. And you must be Riley. I recognized you from your picture.”

A slow simmer filled the air as Riley’s gut reacted to the dark gold hair spilling over her mostly bare shoulders and the soft smile that curled her full, pink lips. Ridiculous pants with drawings of high-heeled shoes covered her legs. Her body had reacted to the cool night air and he could clearly see the outline of her nipples through her green tank top. Of course she would wear revealing clothes with a total disregard for modesty. Pretending to leave her sweater behind to show off her breasts was too obvious for his tastes. But at least they were nice breasts.

She held out her hand to retrieve the clothing, her green eyes warm with humor and intelligence. Riley shut down his gut and forced his mind to concentrate. She was intruding, trespassing where she shouldn’t be and with another motive in mind.

He ignored her outstretched hand and the vanilla as he gripped the material and held it up. “This yours?” he asked, ignoring the frisson of heat on his senses.

The smile slipped a bit as the woman's brows drew closer together. “Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be in here. This place is completely off limits. To everyone,” he growled.

The woman glanced around nervously and Riley told himself this was what he had to do. His mind was back in control. “What were you doing in here?”

She let out a quick breath, her eyes downcast. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips and his chest responded with a pang of longing that he quickly tamped down. He wanted her gone, not to give her encouragement.

“I’m a florist and the opportunity to see the greenhouse was too much for me to wait until tomorrow.”

He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her to shield his unwanted physical response, the clothing hanging by his side. He didn’t believe her for one minute. More likely she was doing what women do—finding the best way to manipulate men.

“Look, I just want my sweater.”

He tossed it at her. “Go, then. Go home.”

She frowned at the material, then at him, and a slow burn sizzled in his belly when their eyes met. She traded awareness with him, a soft pink rising to color her cheeks before she broke the contact and cleared her throat. She lifted the material in a salute and turned away. “Thanks. I won’t bother you again.”

“Does that mean you’re leaving tomorrow?”

She stopped mid-stride, then paused a moment before turning around. Her eyes, downcast and pensive a moment ago, now sparked with internal light and she dipped her chin, gazing up at him through her dark lashes. “No, not yet. I came all the way out here to meet a clean and fresh, handsome and charming cowboy. Know where I can find one?”

He almost grinned at that, but caught himself. He didn’t want her to be amusing. He wanted her to be irritating. “Sometimes you can find one advertised on the Internet.”

Her lips pressed together but not before twitching, and she gathered a lock of hair and twirled it around a finger. If they had met on the range or at a bar, her soft lips alone would have given him reason to do something about the aching pull in his groin. But here on the ranch with one of his sisters’ hand-picked wannabe brides was out of the question. Probably.

“Yeah, but you can’t always rely on truth in advertising.”

“So very true. No wonder my family has to raffle me off.”

Now she laughed, a light, musical sound that replaced an edge of the sadness in the greenhouse with life and his throat thickened, almost enough to make him gasp for air. He stepped away from her and became still, ignoring the flash of confusion that darkened her eyes. Enjoying himself in his father’s greenhouse. Flirting with a woman he had just met. He closed his eyes, suddenly tired, his treacherous body still aching with need.

 The whoosh of the door sounded behind them. He grasped the woman’s hand and pushed her behind some of the larger potted plants and crouched beside her. “Down here.” His thigh pressed against hers, her body heat searing his leg through her pajamas

“What the…” The woman trailed off when Riley placed a hand on her arm, his fingers accidentally skimming the side of her breast.

Son of a bitch. A heady longing shot through him at the contact and he clenched his lips into a thin, straight line. “Stay here and stay quiet,” he whispered, but the command was clear. “When I leave, I want you out of here. Got that?” He slipped between the plants without waiting for an answer, leaving her behind, and approached the figure who had entered the building. “Cookie? You need something?”