Pamela Britton - Cowboy Lessons

He looked up at her sharply, his glasses like a crooked hanger. “I told your father when I called last night that I’d be staying.”

He’d called? And her father hadn’t mentioned it?

Suddenly, the reason why her father had departed for parts unknown made sense. Typical Dad. Coward.

“He didn’t tell me.”

Scott’s eyes slid over her. Amanda suddenly felt ridiculous, and self-conscious, even though the blue-and-white-checkered flannel gown couldn’t be called revealing. Most of her lower legs were covered by her rubber boots, the kind with a wide red ring around the top, and they were mud-spattered and stained. She’d hardly noticed how beat-up they were. At least not before he took to staring at them.

“I’m going to kill him,” she grumbled.

“Who?”

“My father.”

“As long as it’s not me.”

“Tempting, but no.”

SCOTT TOLD HIMSELF to be encouraged by that. She didn’t want him dead, unlike her father. He looked past her to the house, wondering where the old coot had gotten to, but the moment his gaze rested on Amanda, his thoughts jammed like the keys of an old-fashioned typewriter. She looked even more adorable than he remembered.

You’re losin’ it, buddy, if you find a woman in black rubber boots sexy.

Odd thing, though: he did. “Hey, thanks for agreeing to do this. I’m really excited.”

“Yeah, well, wait until your first day is over before getting too worked up.”

Hmm. She was still sore over the loss of the ranch. Well, he supposed he couldn’t blame her. “Well, I’d still like to thank you, anyway.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said by way of acceptance.

Well, the apology thing didn’t work.

She turned away without a backward glance, saying, “Follow me.”

He did, stepping in behind her. The back of her was even more charming than the front. He wasn’t usually a body-parts man. That he left to beer-swilling football fanatics. But he found himself liking Amanda Johnson’s parts. Rounded bottom, shapely legs, at least what he could see above the boots. Nice smell, too, even this early in the morning. It wafted back to him on the early morning breeze. Natural. Earthy and yet wholly feminine in a way that most of the women he’d dated had never been.

The house she led him toward was a one-story rectangle with a wide wraparound porch, old-fashioned windows with real wood frames and five creaking steps that led to the front door. To the left of the house was a large brown barn with big brown double doors. To the right was another barn—brown, too—this one a single-story affair that had doors off the back that opened into individual pens. Horse pens. And he would bet there were four more matching doors and pens on the other side. A horse barn—though it looked ancient and not at all like the fancy affairs one could see off of I-280 when he drove around Silicon Valley.

“I feel like I’m on the set of Bonanza.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to my home, Little Scott.”

“Hey, you watched Bonanza, too?”

“Yeah.”

Her answer sounded more like “What of it?” and Scott tried not to feel wounded. “Where’s your dad?”

“Away, apparently.” And the way she said that didn’t invite more small talk.

She held a heavy oak door open and stepped aside. She smelled even nicer close up. Better than him, probably, after his trek through cow poop.

The inside of the home was cozy. Surprisingly high ceilings. What looked to be bedrooms to his right, kitchen and family room to his left. She paused just inside the door and—holy moley—bent over to tug off her boots. Slowly, like a stripper. Not that he’d seen many strippers wearing rubber boots…or any strippers, period. But he imagined one would take off rubber boots slowly like she did, exposing one inch of flesh at a time.

Unbelievable. Who would have thought the sight of her slipping off latex boots would be sexy? But darned if it wasn’t.

She glanced up just then—saw that he was staring at her legs—and straightened abruptly.

A voice inside his head said, uh-oh.

“I’ll go find you a clean shirt.”

Scott was not a stupid man. He realized ogling a woman who would be responsible for his safekeeping in the coming week was likely not a wise thing to do. She looked as if she was fighting to hold on to her temper.

“Thanks.”

She pressed her lips together before she turned on her now bare—and might he add, adorable—feet to head back toward the bedrooms. She had nice ankles, he realized. Petite yet sturdy.

Sturdy?

What was she, a cow? And yet like a herd animal himself, he suddenly found himself following her. A bull. He was Ferdinand the Bull.

She turned. Their bodies connected. She jerked back, her hand splaying on his chest. “What are you doing?”

“Following you.”

“Don’t do that. I’ll bring you the shirt.”

“Where will I change? After all, I wouldn’t want you going all mushy on me when you catch sight of my hard body.”

Did she blush? Did she actually blush? Incredible.

“You want to get the shirt, fine. My father’s room is at the end of the hall. I’m going to get dressed.”

She would get dressed…

Her arms lifting her nightgown, her breasts revealed. Skin so smooth it looked like wedding satin exposed to his flesh….

“Mr. Beringer?”

He started.

“Did you hear me?”

He felt his own cheeks fill with color. Amazing. Now he was blushing.

“Yeah. That’s fine.”

She stared up at him with narrowed eyes. “If you want to wash up, you can use the bathroom attached to my father’s bedroom.”

For a second his imagination twisted the words into an invitation to share the shower with her.

In your dreams, Scott.

“Be careful because the tap water gets hot fast.” She kept her gaze on him for a second longer, as if she was worried he might still follow her.

“Thanks.”

She gave him one last look before turning away. Wow. What was it about her that had him thinking such testosterone-charged thoughts? That had him wondering what kind of man she was attracted to? That had him wishing it was his kind of man.

You’re not her type, Scott old man.

No, but he could dream, couldn’t he?

Just one night in bed with her. That’s all he wanted. He wasn’t fool enough to believe anything more than that could last. It never did.

It took him only a second to find the room in question, and the shirt, and then he began to wash up and change. By the time he’d finished, he heard her running a shower. That shot a new burst of energy through him. Amanda Johnson naked. That must be a sight. She’d be tanned. He wondered if it was an all-over tan.

Scott, you’re losing it.

He was, but he’d known that before arriving. During the week he’d been away he’d found himself thinking of her constantly. During the long, long flight back from Singapore he’d wondered if he’d feel the same way when he saw her again. Despite having embarrassed himself in front of her again, he did.

Distraction. He needed a distraction. The kitchen. Only a handful of people knew that he loved to cook. Hell, he was a better-than-average cook. He was a great cook. Scott had long since figured out that his love of food probably had something to do with his lack of it as a child. But whatever the reason, he prided himself on his hidden talent.

She was in the shower alone.

Stop it, Scott.

Five minutes later he’d found pans, spices and various other items he might need. The appliances were ancient, but the place had a homey feeling to it. Chickens ran around the wallpaper, the curtains and the small rug in front of the sink. He’d even found an apron in the shape of a giant chicken in the drawer, the wings spreading back to tie around his waist. He put it on without a moment’s hesitation, then opened the refrigerator door in preparation for a raid.