Linda Miller - Always A Cowboy

Mace and Slater picked up their dishes, murmured politely and fled.

“I’d better help Harry with the dishes,” Blythe said, and in another moment, she was gone, too.

* * *

LUCE TURNED TO DRAKE, all business. “Now, then,” she said, “the wild herd has almost doubled in size since you first reported their presence to the Bureau of Land Management several years ago. What accounts for the increase, in your opinion?”

The change of subject, from skinny-dipping to the BLM, had thrown Drake a little, and Luce took a certain satisfaction in the victory, however small and unimportant.

The room was empty, except for them, and Luce was of two minds about that. On the one hand, she liked having Drake Carson all to herself. On the other, she was nervous to the point of discomfort.

Drake, she noticed, had recovered quickly, and with no discernible brain split. He’d probably never been “of two minds” about anything in his life, Luce thought, with some ruefulness. Unless she missed her guess, he was a one-track kind of guy.

Now he leaned back in his chair, his expression giving nothing away. And, after due deliberation, he finally replied to her question.

“What accounts for the increase? Well, Ms. Hale, that’s simple. Good grazing land and plenty of water—the two main reasons my family settled here in the first place, over a hundred years ago.”

She wondered if he might be holding back a sarcastic comment, something in the category of any-idiot-ought-to-be-able-to-figure-that-out.

She had, in fact, taken note of the obvious; she’d put in long hours mapping out the details of her dissertation. She wanted his take on the subject, since that was the whole point of this or any other conversational exchange between them.

Okay, so she wasn’t an expert, but she was eager to learn. Wasn’t that what education was all about, from kindergarten right on up through postgraduate work?

She decided to shut down the little voice in her head, the one that presumed to speak for both her and Drake, before it got her into trouble.

“What makes it so good?” she asked with genuine interest. “The type of grass?”

His gaze was level. “There’s a wide variety, actually, but quantity matters almost as much as quality in this case.” A pause. “By the way, there are a lot more wild horses in Utah than here in Wyoming.”

Zap.

“Yes, I know that,” Luce replied coolly, determined to stay the course. She hadn’t gotten this far by running for shelter every time she encountered a challenge. “And I realize you would prefer I went there to do my research,” she countered, keeping her tone even and, she hoped, professional. “Bottom line, Mr. Carson, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why here? Why me?” For the first time, he sounded plaintive, rather than irritated.

“Fair questions,” Luce conceded. “I chose the Carson ranch because it meets all the qualifications and, I admit, because my mother knows your mother. I guess that sort of answers your second inquiry, too—you’re here, and you run the place. One thing, as they say, led to another.” She let her answer sink in for a moment, before the windup. “And, I will admit, your commitment to animal rights intrigues me.”

That was all Drake needed to know, for the time being. If she had a weakness for tall, blond cowboys with world-class bodies and eyes so blue it almost hurt to look into them, well, that was her business.

He surprised her with a slanted grin. “I know when I’m licked,” he drawled.

The remark was anything but innocent, Luce knew that, but she also knew that if she called him on it, she’d be the one who looked foolish, not Drake.

Bad enough that she blushed, hot and pink, betrayed by her own biology.

He watched the whole process, clearly pleased by her involuntary reaction.

She had to look away, just briefly, to recover her composure. Such as it was.

“This can be easy,” she said when she thought she could trust her voice, “or it can be har—difficult.”

Wicked mischief danced in his eyes. “The harder—more difficult—things are,” he said, “the better I like it.”

Luce wanted to yell at him to stop with the double entendres, just stop, but she wasn’t quite that rattled. Yet.

Instead, she breathed a sigh. “Okay,” she said. “Fine. We understand each other, it would seem.”

“So it would seem,” he agreed placidly, and with a smile in his eyes.

Luce would’ve liked to call it a day and return to her well-appointed guest room, which was really more of a suite, with its spacious private bathroom, sitting area and gorgeous antique furnishings, but she didn’t. Not only would Drake have the last word if she bailed now, she’d feel like a coward—and leave herself open to more teasing.

“We have one thing in common,” she said.

“And what would that be, Ms. Hale?”

Damn him. Would it kill the man to cut her a break?

“Animals,” she answered. Surely he wouldn’t—couldn’t—disagree with that.

He looked wary, although Luce took no satisfaction in that. “If I didn’t like them,” he said, his tone guarded now, and a little gruff, “I wouldn’t do what I do.”

Like all ranchers, he’d probably taken his share of flack over the apparent dichotomy between loving animals and raising them for food, but Luce had no intention of taking that approach. Would have considered it dishonorable.

She enjoyed a good steak now and then herself, after all, and she understood the reality—everything on the planet survives by eating something else.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she said.

Drake relaxed noticeably, and it seemed to Luce that something had changed between them, something basic and powerful. They weren’t going to be BFFs or anything like that—the gibes would surely continue—but they’d set some important boundaries.

They were not enemies.

In time, they might even become friends.

While Luce was still weighing this insight in her head, Drake stood, rested his strong, rancher’s hands on the back of her chair.

“It’s been a long day, Ms. Hale,” he said. “I reckon you’re ready to turn in.”

At her nod, Drake waited to draw back her chair. As she rose, she watched his face.

“Thank you,” she said. Then she smiled. “And please, call me Luce.”

Drake inclined his head. “All right, then,” he replied, very quietly. “Shall I walk you to your room, or can you find your way back there on your own?”

Luce laughed. “I memorized the route,” she answered. Then, pulling her smartphone from the pocket of her jeans, she held it up. “And if that fails, there’s always GPS.”

Drake smiled. “You’ll get used to the layout,” he told her.

“Here’s hoping,” Luce said, wondering why she was hesitating, making small talk, of all things, when most of her exchanges with this man had felt more like swordplay than conversation.

“Good night—Luce.” Drake looked thoughtful now, and his gaze seemed to rest on her mouth.

Was he deciding whether or not to kiss her?

And if he was, how did she feel about it?

She didn’t want to know.

“Good night,” she said.

She left the dining room, left Drake Carson and was almost at the door of her suite before the realization struck her.

She’d gotten the last word after all.

CHAPTER THREE

DRAKE ROLLED OUT of bed at his usual time, ignored the clock—since his inner one was the real guide—and pulled on his jeans.

Harold and Violet both got up, tails wagging.

Boots next, hat planted on his head and, seconds later, he was out the door. He’d grab coffee at the bunkhouse. Red, the foreman, was always up and ready, and that seasoned old cowboy could herd cattle with the best of them. Drake drove his truck over just as dawn hit the edge of sunrise and, sure enough, he could smell coffee.