Charlotte Maclay - At The Rancher's Bidding

Before he could decide, the kitten pounced on his leg, burying her claws in his calf. “Hey, cut that out!”

Coffee mug in hand, Leila sailed by him, snatching the kitten from his leg. “Please do not speak so curtly to Mittens. You will hurt her feelings.” Stepping into her room, she closed the door behind her.

Cord opted not to bang his head against the thick adobe wall. It wouldn’t do any good. And he sure as hell was likely to hurt himself—or the wall.

But maybe he could bribe Sheikh Rafe with a couple hundred acres of Texas grassland to take Leila back.

The woman acted nothing like the meek servant who had gotten into his truck yesterday at the Desert Rose with the sheikh watching her. The moment they’d been out of sight of the Coleman’s place, her subservient mask had slipped.

It made him wonder what game she was playing—and if he was the one being taken for a ride.

THE TOWN OF BRIDLE was little larger than a village in Munir, although Allie conceded the surrounding farmland was more lush and interesting than the date trees and oil derricks of her desert country. While seeking to purchase stock from the Desert Rose, her brother had insisted they stay as close to the horse ranch as they could. The accommodations they found at the Bridle Motel had been barely adequate for their needs.

Allie wondered if the shopping facilities, which she had not had an opportunity to visit, would be any better. Given the small size of the town and the cracked sidewalks, she would have preferred to shop in Austin. Or better yet, in Dallas.

Still, Bridle was quaintly American and right out of the Old West as she’d seen it on television.

Driving with his elbow on the truck’s windowsill, Cord asked, “What do you want to do first? Get the forms at the post office or go shopping?”

She smiled at him. “Shopping is always a priority with me.”

“Somehow I thought that might be true.” He angled the pickup into a spot in front of a Western clothing store. “What kind of duds are you looking to buy?”

“Duds?”

“Clothes. Not ball gowns, I trust.”

“Oh, no, I wish to wear clothes like those your sister wears. American jeans. A cowboy hat. Boots. That is what women wear here.” Even out in public, she thought in amazement. Although some of her countrywomen wore such things in the privacy of their own homes, she had never had that luxury. She had her position to think of, an image to maintain even among the servants. But now she was free to choose clothes on her own. Temporarily.

“So you’re going whole-hog Western style, huh?”

“Have you heard the expression, when in Rome—”

“I have.”

“Then surely it applies in the same way when in Texas.”

“I believe it does, Leila.” His amused smile sent her heart fluttering. “I believe it does.”

Once inside the store, Cord hung back while Leila circled the merchandise like a pack of coyotes picking out a weak heifer to attack. She fingered jeans and shirts, tried on hats, examined leather boots, looking as though at any moment she was going to close in for the kill.

Sherianne Wilcox, a teenager from one of the nearby farms who worked part-time at the store, walked over to Cord.

“Can I help you find something, Mr. Brannigan?”

“Nope. I’m just waiting for the young lady to make up her mind.”

The teenager glanced toward Leila. “She’s real pretty.”

“That she is.” Leila had whipped her long hair into a knot that rested at her nape, a target a man would aim for with a kiss. And then he’d untie that knot, letting her hair stream through his fingers.

“Is she your girlfriend?”

He jolted at Sherianne’s question, yanking his attention back to the youngster. “Nope. Housekeeper.”

The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, her smile revealing a shiny set of braces. “Well, she’s sure lots purdier than Maria is.”

Despite the air-conditioning, heat raced up Cord’s neck. “I’ll just go see how she’s coming along.”

He jammed his hands in his pockets and strolled to the back of the store. By now, Leila had gathered an armload of clothes and had a totally impractical white Stetson perched on her head.

“You about done here?” he asked.

“I need to try these on to see if they fit. Then I will be ready to go with you.”

“Okay, but I’ve got to get back to the ranch sometime this year. Can you move it along a little faster?”

She did that funny toss of her head thing, suggesting she’d do as she pleased, then vanished into a dressing room.

Little wonder men didn’t like to go shopping with women. When he needed a pair of jeans, he came into the store, picked out a pair of 32-34s, paid for ’em and was done with it. Leila was making a damn career out of this shopping trip.

He checked his watch, then paced around the store. Obviously her view of shopping—and his view of work—were in direct conflict.

“What do you think, Cord?”

He turned and got what amounted to a visual punch in the solar plexus. Standing in front of the arched doorway to the dressing room, she took his breath away. Like a fashion model, she pirouetted in a full circle so he could get a good look. She’d picked out a tank top that bared her arms and dipped low toward her delicate breasts, then tucked in at her narrow waist. Her jeans were as snug as tights, molding to her attractive rear end like a man’s hand. The expensive leather boots made her legs look like they went on forever.

He cleared his throat. “Great. You look like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.”

“This cheerleader business is good?”

“Very good.” For her. Or the football team. Very bad for Cord, if he had any hope of keeping his hands to himself and his head on straight. “So, you’re ready to go, huh?”

“Oh, no. I have many more outfits to try on.”

He rolled his eyes. Thank goodness his men were more than capable of separating the calves from their mothers in order to wean them. At the rate Leila was going, they wouldn’t get back to the ranch until past dinnertime.

Allie made her selections, and with her arms full of clothes, stepped out of the dressing room. Cord ushered her to the cash register with ill-disguised impatience. He really needed to develop more regard for a woman’s need to dress appropriately, whatever her role in life. Even a servant wanted to look nice.

She placed the clothing and boots on the counter, topping the pile with her bright new Western hat.

“Will that be cash or credit card?” the young woman asked.

Allie stared at her blankly for a moment. Dear heaven! She’d left her Visa card at the ranch, but even if she’d brought it along she wouldn’t have been able to use it, not if she had to sign her real name—Aliah Bahram. And she certainly didn’t carry enough cash with her to pay for all of this. In Munir, she purchased whatever caught her eye. Either a servant paid for it or the merchant sent the bill to the palace—for Rafe to grumble over and eventually pay.

Sensing her dilemma, Cord stepped up to the cash register. “Charge it to the Flying Ace account. They’re sort of her work clothes.” He gestured vaguely to the mountain of clothes on the counter. If nothing else, it seemed as if the only way he’d get back to the Flying Ace in this century would be to pay for the goods himself.

Leila wasn’t a woman who could be easily denied anything she wanted. He didn’t have the time or inclination to argue with her.

A few minutes later, feeling like a pack mule, he carried a half-dozen sacks out to the truck, squeezing them behind the seat.

“Do you want to get the forms from the post office now?” he ask.

“I think I am too weary to deal with so many details right now. Perhaps another day.”