Barbara Dunlop - A Cowboy in Manhattan

“See that, you are a nice guy.”

“I’m a practical guy.” His gazed scanned her. “You doing okay?”

“Perfectly fine.”

“Your ankle?”

“Almost better.”

“Okay.” He started along the uneven ridge, quickly outpacing her and drawing away.

If she’d hoped to engage him in a conversation, it wasn’t going to work out. Reed was obviously determined to keep her at a distance. Not that she knew what to say. Just getting him alone had proven so difficult she hadn’t formulated much of a plan beyond that.

After hiking for nearly an hour, they came to a muddy-bottomed pond beneath a twenty-foot windmill tower. The wind had picked up, and the whirring, clunking noise of the windmill made conversation difficult.

Reed set down the toolbox and began inspecting the arms that connected the pump to the windmill. A complex series of tubes and connections ran between the two. After a few moments, he selected a wrench and pulled hard on what seemed to be a stubborn bolt. It broke free, and he disconnected the mechanism.

Now that Katrina was standing still, she began to cool off. It didn’t help that the sun had disappeared behind a thick layer of cloud; they were completely exposed to the wind here on the ridge. She had to fight off the odd mosquito, but she didn’t dare complain. Instead, she gritted her teeth while Reed worked his way through whatever problem he’d discovered.

When the rain started, Reed swore.

He turned to look at Katrina, then he did a double take. “Are you cold?”

“I’m fine,” she responded, but her teeth were chattering.

Reed dropped a big wrench, swore again, and stalked toward her. As he’d done when he found her on the trail with her broken bicycle, he stripped off his shirt.

“I don’t need-”

“Shut up.”

“I’m sorry,” she found herself saying, even as the warmth of his cotton shirt wrapped around her. She tugged the ends together and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Sit down,” he told her. “It’ll be less windy if you’re low to the ground.” Then he glanced up at the sky and heaved a frustrated sigh. “You shouldn’t have come up here.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated, perching herself on a clump of meadow grass. He was right, sitting down did help to keep her out of the wind. Now, if only the rain would stop.

But the rain didn’t stop, and the more it rained, the more frustrated Reed became, and the more colorful the language coming out of his mouth. As the rain turned to a downpour, the wrenches kept slipping from his hands. He was obviously having trouble seeing clearly, and he dropped something. He peered into the mud, feeling his way around the tufts of grass.

After a long search, he tossed the wrench to the ground. “Damn it! Katrina, I can’t let go of this. You’re going to have to help.”

She came to her feet, his wet shirt hanging loosely to midthigh. “What should I do?”

He took what seemed to be a calming breath. “Look in the toolbox. Lift out the top tray and see if you can find a nut-and-bolt set. It’s better if it has some washers.”

“Washers?”

“Wide, round disks of metal.”

“Right.” Trying not to shiver from the wet and wind, she opened the lid to the toolbox. The stormy day was complicated by the fact that the sun was now sinking behind the hills.

“Can you see anything?” he asked.

“Not really.” She reached in to feel her way around instead.

“Don’t!” Reed shouted, and she immediately stilled.

His voice moderated. “Some of the things in there are sharp. You could cut yourself.”

“I can’t see,” she apologized.

“It’s okay. Close the lid.” He waited while she closed it and flipped the catches. “Now, can you pick up the box and move it over here?”

Katrina stood, bent down and gripped the handle of the metal toolbox with both hands. Then she pulled up with all her might. Nothing happened. She screwed up her determination and tried again.

It lifted a couple of inches off the ground, and she moved it forward before dropping it down.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Reed warned.

“I’m good,” she gasped. She lifted again, swinging it closer. Then again. And again.

“You’re doing fine,” he told her.

“This is pathetic.”

“For a cowboy, yeah,” he agreed. “For a ballerina, we make allowances.”

“Thank goodness I’m going back to New York City.”

There was a breath of silence before he spoke. “Thank goodness.”

“I’m almost-” Her feet slipped out from under her, and she landed in an undignified heap on the muddy ground, brown water spraying around her. “There,” she finished, seriously regretting her decision to come along on this trip. Exactly why did she think she needed to be alone with Reed?

“You okay?” he asked.

“Define okay. ”

“Are you injured?”

“No. Bruised, yes.”

Reed stretched out his arm, his fingertips almost made it to the handle of the toolbox. Katrina gave it a hard shove, sliding the box, and he grasped the handle in his fist, lifting it and moving it to where he could search for a bolt.

“I can’t believe you carried that thing all the way up the hill,” she told him.

“I have size, muscle mass and testosterone on my side.”

“You’re incredibly useful.”

“And you’re incredibly pretty.” He glanced at her. “Well, not right now.”

She clenched her jaw. “I hate being pretty.”

“What’s to hate? You bat those beautiful blue eyes and the world falls at your feet.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“That’s not how I see it. That’s the way it is.”

“You think the world gives me a free ride.”

His opinion didn’t surprise her. She’d known all along that was how he felt, that she was some decorative plaything. He was as bad as Quentin. Though she supposed she should credit Reed with trying to keep his distance. At least he didn’t think it was his right to sleep with her.

“I think your world is a completely different place than mine,” he said.

“Do you think yours is better?” She honestly wanted to know.

“I think it’s harder,” he admitted, still searching through the toolbox. “I don’t think everyone can make it out here, and I think-”

“You think it’s easy becoming a professional dancer?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it.”

“I was about to say, I think people stay cleaner in your world.” He seemed to find what he was looking for, pulling an object out of the box and squinting at it in the dusk.

“I work hard,” she told him defensively.

“You should work at getting rid of that chip on your shoulder.” He returned to the repair.

“I do not have-”

“Admit it, Katrina. You think you’re better than the rest of us.”

“I-”

“You live in the bright lights of a big city. You dress in designer clothes. You hobnob with the rich and famous. You eat in the best restaurants. And every few years, you come back to Colorado to go slumming.” He reefed hard on the wrench.

“That’s not fair. ”

“And for some reason, this time, you’ve decided I should be part of your down-home experience.”

Katrina’s jaw dropped open. Reed thought she was slumming it by kissing him? Was he crazy?

“Thanks, but no thanks, Katrina.” He rose, collecting some of the scattered tools. “I’ll keep my self-respect, and you can run back to those champagne-swilling dandies at your snooty cocktail parties.”

Katrina lurched to her feet. “Wow,” was all she managed. She stared at his slick, half-naked body, powerful and magnificent in the waning light. “Did you ever get that wrong.”