Barbara Dunlop: A Cowboy Comes Home

“It’s hard to believe you survive on takeout.” She turned back, returning to chopping the tomato on the island. How could he be so fit eating pizza, burgers and chicken?

“There’s takeout. And then there’s takeout.” He spread his arms and rested the heels of his hands against the lip of the granite countertop, cornerwise from where she worked. “Andre’s, around the corner from my apartment, will send up filet mignon, baby potatoes in a sweet dill sauce and primavera lettuce salad with papaya dressing.”

Suddenly, her soft-taco recipe seemed lame. She paused. “You must make a lot of money to afford meals like that.”

He was silent for a long moment, and she quickly realized her observation had been rude. It was none of her business how much money he made.

“I do okay,” he finally allowed.

“Tell me something about your job.” She tried to graciously shift the subject.

She also realized she was curious. What had happened to the seventeen-year-old cowboy who landed in Chicago with nothing more than a high school education. It couldn’t have been easy for him.

“The company’s called Active Equipment.” He reached out and snagged another chunk of tomato.

She threatened him with her chopping knife.

But he only laughed. “We sell heavy equipment to construction companies, exploration and resource companies, even ranchers.”

“So, like a car dealership?”

“Not a dealership. It’s a multinational corporation. We manufacture the equipment before we sell it.” With lightning speed, he chose another piece of tomato from the juicy pile and popped it into his mouth, sucking the liquid from the tip of his finger.

“There’s not going to be any left for the tacos,” she warned.

“I’ll risk it.”

“So, what do you do at this corporation?”

Caleb swallowed. “I run it.”

“What part of it?”

“All of it.”

Her hand stilled. “You run an entire corporation?” He’d risen all the way to the top at age twenty-seven? That seemed impossible.

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

He coughed out a laugh. “I’m the president and chief executive officer.”

“They gave you that many promotions?”

“Not exactly. They let me run things, because they have no choice. I own it.”

She set down the knife. She couldn’t believe it. “You own Active Equipment?”

He nodded.

“How?”

He shrugged. “Hard work, intelligence and a few big financial risks along the way.”

“But-”

“You should stop being so surprised that I’m not a loser.”

He paused, but she didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Though it’s true that I can’t cook,” he allowed with a crooked smile. “I guess I concentrated on the things I was good at and muddled my way through the rest.”

“With filet mignon and baby potatoes. Poor you.” She kept her tone flippant, but inside she acknowledged he was right. She should stop being so surprised at his accomplishments.

“It wasn’t always that way,” he told her, tone going more serious. “In the beginning, it was cheap food, a crappy basement suite and two jobs.”

Then he straightened his spine, squaring his shoulders. “But I was never coming back here. I’d have starved to death before I’d have come back to Wilton with my tail between my legs.”

She found her heart going out to the teenager he’d been back then. “Was it that bad? Were you in danger of starving?”

His posture relaxed again. “No real danger. I was young and healthy. Hard work was good for me. And not even the most demanding bosses could hold a candle to Wilton Terrell.”

She retrieved the knife and scraped the tomato chunks from the wooden cutting board into a glass bowl. “So now, you’re a self-made man.”

“Impressed?”

Mandy wasn’t sure how to answer that. Money wasn’t everything. “Are you happy?”

“Delirious.”

“You have friends? A social life? A girlfriend?” She turned away, crossing the short space to the stove, removing the tortilla shell, setting it on the stack and switching off the burner. She didn’t want him to see her expression when he started talking about his girlfriend.

“No girlfriend,” he said from behind.

“Why not?” she asked without turning.

“No time, I guess. Never met the right girl.”

“You should.” She turned back. “Make the time. Meet a nice girl.”

His expression went thoughtful, and he regarded her with obvious curiosity. “What about you? Why no boyfriend?”

“Because I’m stuck in the wilds of Colorado ranch country. How am I going to meet a man?”

“Go to Denver. Buy yourself a pretty dress.”

She couldn’t help glancing down at her simple T-shirt and faded blue jeans with a twinge of self-consciousness. “You don’t like my clothes?”

“They’re fine for right now, but we’re not dancing in a club.”

“I’ve never danced in a real club.” A barn, sure, and at the Weasel in Lyndon, but never in a real club.

“Seriously?”

She rolled her eyes at his tone of surprise. “Where would I dance in a club?”

He moved around the island, blue eyes alight with merriment. “If we were in Chicago, I’d dress you up and show you a good time.”

“Pretty self-confident, aren’t you?” But her pulse had jumped at the thought of dancing with Caleb.

He reached out, lifted one of her hands and twirled her in a spin, pulling her against his body to dance her in the two-step across the kitchen. She reflexively followed his smooth lead.

“Clearly, you’ve been practicing the Chicago nightlife,” she noted.

“Picture mood lighting and a crowd,” he whispered in her ear.

“And maybe a band?” she asked, the warmth of his body seeping into her skin, forcing her lungs to work harder to drag in the thickening air.

“You like country?” he asked. “Blues? Jazz? There are some phenomenal jazz clubs in Chicago.”

“I’m a country girl,” she responded brightly, desperate to mask her growing arousal.

“You’d like jazz,” he said with conviction.

The timer pinged for the simmering chicken, and they both halted. Their gazes met, and their breaths mingled.

She could see exactly what he was thinking. “No,” she whispered huskily, even though she was definitely feeling it, too. They were not going to let this attraction go over the edge to a kiss.

“Yes,” he responded, his fingertips flexing against the small of her back. “But not right now.”

Caleb had known it was only a matter of time before Maureen Jacobs, Mandy’s mother, extended him some Lyndon Valley hospitality. He wasn’t really in a mood for socializing, but he couldn’t insult her by saying no to her dinner invitation. So, he’d shut the ranch office computer down early, sighing his disappointment that the listing hadn’t come up on the broker’s web site yet. Then he drove the rental car over the gravel roads to the Jacobs ranch.

There, he returned friendly hugs, feeling surprisingly at home as he settled in, watching Mandy’s efficient movements from the far reaches of the living room in the Jacobs family home. The Jacobses always had the biggest house, the biggest spread and the biggest family in the valley. Caleb couldn’t count the number of times he had been here for dinner as a child and a teenager. He, Reed and Travis had all been good friends growing up.

He’d never watched Mandy like this. She had always blended in with her two sisters, little kids in pigtails and scuffed jeans, and was beneath his notice. Now, she was all he could focus on as she flitted from the big, open-concept kitchen to the dining area, chatting with her mother and sister, refilling glasses of iced tea, checking on dishes in the oven and on the stove, while making sure the finishing touches were perfect on the big, rectangular table.