Margot Dalton - Cowboys and Cabernet

“But, darling,” J.T. had protested mildly over his breakfast coffee, “it just can’t be helped, can it? She’s bound to notice that things aren’t exactly neat as a pin around here these days.”

“I know that,” Cynthia said. “But if Tyler can hold her off till four o’clock this afternoon, at least the painters will be gone and we can lift some of the drop sheets in the lower rooms, get the paint cans out of the hallway and the ladders put away….”

Tyler grinned again. He couldn’t deny that it was entertaining to see his usually poised stepmother getting a little flustered. For some reason it mattered terribly to Cynthia, this hastily planned visit from Ruth Holden, who was the daughter of one of her husband’s oldest friends. There seemed to be something mysteriously female about Cynthia’s anxiety, some kind of need to prove herself as mistress of the place….

An expressionless, disembodied voice, announcing that the flight from Abilene would be slightly delayed, interrupted Tyler’s thoughts.

He groaned again and shifted his broad shoulders wearily, wondering if the plane had even left Abilene yet. If it hadn’t left, wouldn’t they know? And if it had, shouldn’t they know when it was going to arrive? Abilene, for God’s sake, was only a few minutes away by air.

Maybe the plane had been hijacked. Tyler chuckled suddenly, his quirky imagination supplying him with an image of a hard-bitten Texas farmer, calf halter in one hand and pitchfork in the other, holding the crew at bay and demanding to be flown to Fort Worth for the Fat Stock Show.

When he laughed, his tanned sculpted face lightened and his dark eyes sparkled warmly. Tyler McKinney was a tall man in his midthirties with a lean muscular frame, dressed in jeans, riding boots and tweed sport jacket over a casual open-necked white shirt. His pearl-gray Stetson lay on the seat across from him, and his crisp dark hair kept falling down across his forehead no matter how many times he brushed it back.

A small child wriggled quietly in the seat next to Tyler, a boy about three years old with a manly clipped haircut that was neatly parted and slicked back with a wet comb. The little fellow, waiting with his mother and baby sister in a stroller, was trying hard to be good, but Tyler could see that the long delay was starting to get to him as well.

The child gripped the metal chair arms with his small hands and slid way down on his spine, legs stiffly extended, seeing how low he could go without falling off the chair. His mother, who was busy with the baby, whispered to him sharply and he sat erect, peeking up at Tyler with cautious interest. Tyler grinned down at the child, slipped him a couple of peppermints from a roll in his jacket pocket, then returned to his thoughts.

His face darkened as he brooded over the impending arrival and what his responsibilities were going to be toward this visiting scientist. “You’ll pretty well have to take care of her,” his father had told him casually. “The girls are busy with all this damn decorating, so they won’t have much time to entertain her.”

“Me?” Tyler said blankly. “What am I going to do with her?”

“Well, talk about wine making, of course,” J.T. told his son impatiently. “You’re the one who wants to start this business, aren’t you? And she’s an expert. She’s a qualified chemist with a list of college degrees as long as your arm.”

“Oh, great,” Tyler had muttered rebelliously, feeling about eight years old. “That’s just what I need, to spend a week listening to some California scientist with thick legs and a mustache, lecturing me about temperature variations and pH levels.”

“I haven’t seen Ruth Holden for quite a few years,” J.T. said with an amiable grin. “But near as I recall, she didn’t have thick legs or a mustache.”

“I’ll bet,” Tyler said grimly. “I’ll just bet.”

He didn’t really know why he’d formed such a negative mental image of the woman. Maybe it was his recollection of that one time he’d seen her, years ago. He remembered her as a mousy quiet child with a skinny awkward body and teeth covered in ugly braces.

Of course, she’d really suffered badly in comparison with her friend. Tyler smiled, remembering the ripe body of that other girl, the silly blond one. Misty? Molly? Whatever her name was, she’d certainly made an impact on his raging young hormones.

No wonder little Ruth Holden, sulking in a chair behind a book, had seemed so homely and unappealing. Tyler could just visualize the kind of woman she’d turned into. He pictured her with thick ankles and a severe look, her colorless hair hanging lank and unwashed around her ears. She’d be wearing thick glasses and carrying a clipboard at all times, and she’d probably be dressed in a white lab coat over a baggy gray flannel skirt.

This image had grown so real to him during the past few days, ever since he heard about the woman’s impending visit, that now, as Tyler glanced frequently into the arrivals area, he expected to see her come marching up the ramp, clipboard and all.

But the lounge was mostly empty, except for a few long-suffering people who were still waiting for the flight from Abilene.

Tyler became aware of a small movement beside him, a sudden charged air of expectancy.

The little boy was gazing up at him with wide eyes, holding out his hand. A tiny object rested on the small damp palm, and Tyler bent closer to look. It was a futuristic warrior figure, beautifully detailed, complete with small swords and laser guns.

Tyler nodded solemnly and smiled down into the sparkling blue eyes, understanding that the figurine was just being displayed for his enjoyment, not offered as a gift.

“That’s real nice,” he murmured to the child, who grinned happily.

Tyler smiled back and dug into his jacket pocket again, taking out his keys and snapping a small object off the key ring. It was a tiny leather saddle, no bigger than the end of his thumb and intricately crafted with miniature swinging stirrups and a little horn and cantle. He placed the saddle on his hard callused palm and held it out for the child’s inspection.

The boy gasped and stared at this enchanting object, then looked up at Tyler again, holding his breath and putting two fingers automatically into his mouth.

“Take it,” Tyler whispered. “You can have it.”

His seatmate gazed at him with astonishment and growing wonder. A small hand crept out cautiously and touched one of the little stirrups in an agony of longing.

“Michael!” the harried young mother said abruptly, turning away from her crying baby in the stroller. “What are you doing?”

“It’s all right, ma’am,” Tyler assured her with his most engaging grin. “I told him he could have it.”

The woman glanced uncertainly at the tall, handsome rancher, then at her little boy, who was now holding the miniature saddle, his face pale with tension.

“Well, all right,” she said reluctantly. “Michael, say thank-you.”

“Sanks,” the child whispered, drumming his feet on the chair and gazing ecstatically at the tiny object in his hand. He balanced the saddle on one small finger and set the stirrups swinging gently, his pink face rapt with happiness.

“You’re welcome, cowboy,” Tyler said cheerfully. The woman smiled, then gathered her children and hurried toward a short cheerful man in a crumpled suit who stood waiting by the entry gate.

While Tyler watched, the young father gathered the baby into his arms, kissed his wife and caressed the shining head of the little boy, who was joyously hugging his legs. The man bent to hear what his son was saying, then knelt and studied the tiny saddle that was held up for his inspection. He listened, smiled briefly over the child’s head at Tyler and turned back to his family.