Cathie Linz - Abbie And The Cowboy

It was one thing for Dylan not to want this job, but it was something else entirely for Hoss to try to tell him the job wasn’t for him. No one told Dylan how to live his life, and he didn’t tell others how to live theirs.

“What do you know about running a ranch?” Hoss was now demanding of Abigail. “Why, I heard you write them trashy romance novels—”

“You heard wrong,” Abigail angrily interrupted. “I write damn good historical romance novels! There’s nothing trashy about them! Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about my neighbors,” she said with a pointed look in Hoss’s direction.

Much affronted, Hoss declared, “I don’t write trashy romance novels!”

Abigail sighed. Her verbal insult had clearly sailed right over the man’s ten-gallon-size head.

“Why don’t you head on home, Redkins, now that you’ve dazzled Ms. Turner here with your charm and intellect.”

“Why don’t you mind your own damn business?” Hoss retorted. “What’s it to you how long I chat with the lady here?”

“The lady here has asked you to leave her property,” Dylan reminded Hoss, his eyes taking on a dangerous glitter.

“And what you gonna do if I don’t leave?” Hoss taunted him. “You gonna throw me off with that busted leg of yours?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Dylan replied, his voice all the more dangerous for its softness.

“You and what army?”

“That does it…” Dylan growled, shaking off Abigail’s arm and heading straight for Hoss with murder in his eyes.

Fearing the worst, Abigail exclaimed, “Dylan, don’t!”

But it was already too late. She watched with disbelieving eyes as—seemingly at Dylan’s silent command— Hoss’s horse suddenly reared, dumping the portly rancher smack in the middle of the water-filled rain barrel.

The resultant splash of water should have doused Dylan. Instead, it somehow miraculously missed him by a few inches.

His florid face bobbing like a red apple, Hoss sputtered, “H-how’d you…do that?”

“Me? I didn’t do anything,” Dylan denied with a lift of his eyebrow.

“I heard stories about you and that cursed Gypsy magic you practice,” Hoss declared, eying him with equal parts of anger and suspicion.

“Hey, it’s not my fault if you can’t keep your seat, Redkins. You need any help getting out of that rain barrel?” he inquired with mocking courtesy.

“Keep away from me,” Hoss yelled, making his horse sidestep even farther away. Hauling himself upright, Hoss added, “You’re going to regret this, boy.”

“I doubt it.”

“Yeah, well, you just better watch your back,” Hoss said, plunking his hat on his head—only to dump a ten-gallon-hat’s worth of water on his head.

Abigail couldn’t help herself. She cracked up, the laughter slipping out as she joined Dylan, whose grin was downright devilish, in his enjoyment of the moment.

Wiping the water out of his eyes before glaring at them both, Hoss said, “You’re both going to regret this day.”

“I don’t think so,” Dylan replied as a dripping-wet Hoss remounted his still-skittish horse.

Abigail could practically see the poor animal groaning under the rotund rancher’s weight.

Watching the furious set of his thick shoulders as Hoss rode off, Abigail sobered as reality returned.

“That probably wasn’t the brightest thing to do,” she murmured.

“Who cares?” Dylan replied. “It felt damn good.”

“That’s no reason for doing something.”

“No? I happen to think it’s a wonderful reason for doing something. One of the very best.” As Dylan spoke, he reached out to sketch a brief line from the corner of her mouth to the underside of her jaw.

His work-roughened finger created havoc within Abigail. She, who was supposedly fluent in the language of love after having written about it for so many years, found herself unable to describe this suddenly shameless surge of emotion. Instead, all she could do was give in to it, surrendering to the moment, even if only for a second or two. But the instant she realized she’d actually closed her eyes with pleasure, she snapped out of her Dylan-induced trance.

Stepping away from temptation, she said, “Trying to practice some Gypsy magic on me, too? If so, you can forget it,” she added crossly. “Understand?”

“Sure do,” he said in a clipped voice, anger tightening the skin on his lean cheeks and compressing his lips into a grim line. “I’m the hired help, and that’s all. Since I don’t exactly have folks lining up to hire me, I’d better be on my best behavior because, after all, there’s not much need for busted-up Gypsy rodeo riders, right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Not in so many words maybe.” His jaw clenched as he continued in the same hard inflection, “Listen, lady, there are plenty of other ranches I could be working at.”

“I realize that.”

“I don’t need to go looking for trouble.”

“If you want to leave, just say the word.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “And have you run Pete’s ranch into the ground so that Redkins can get his greedy hands on the place after all? No way! I owe it to Pete to protect this place.”

Dylan and Abigail were almost nose to nose, her blue eyes glaring into his dark ones, when the sound of Raj’s voice interrupted them.

“Hey, I hate to interrupt such a friendly discussion and all, but I just wanted to know…is he staying for dinner?” Raj inquired. Her midnight black hair swung into a short page-boy cut just above her jawline, and her chestnut eyes gleamed with interest.

“Yes,” Abigail said, taking a step back from the fire in Dylan’s dark eyes.

“I’ll add another place for dinner, then. By the way, my name is Raj Patel,” she told Dylan.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said with a polite nod of his head.

“And would you be Dylan Janos, by any chance?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

“How did you know his last name?” Abigail asked Raj.

“Because he’s famous. Everyone knows who Dylan is.”

Who I was, Dylan thought to himself, rubbing his thigh.

“Why, he was the best saddle-bronc rider in the NFR— National Finals Rodeo—championships in Las Vegas last year!” Dismissing Abigail’s blank look, Raj explained to Dylan, “Abbie never reads the ProRodeo Sports News. I’m sorry she doesn’t know how impressive your credentials are. Only the top fifteen cowboys in each event make it to the NFR,” Raj told Abigail before frowning. “Dylan, I heard you’d been badly hurt…four months ago, was it?”

“Something like that.” His voice was completely devoid of expression.

While his face was equally impassive, Abigail saw the briefest flash of something, an inner torment that compelled her to intervene. “I don’t think Dylan wants to talk about it, Raj.”

“I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “Sometimes my enthusiasm gets ahead of me. Come on in and take a load off.”

“I’d like to get settled in and clean up first,” Dylan said. “If you’ll just tell me where my quarters are.”

“I’ll show you,” Abigail stated.

Once Dylan set his belongings down inside the small cabin set aside for the foreman’s use, Abigail realized how little he had with him. She knew cowboys traveled light, and Dylan was no exception. She was willing to bet that most of the stuff in his gear bag was rigging related to riding.

He dwarfed the one-room cabin. He didn’t have the muscle-bound looks of some of the men who graced the covers of her books. Instead, he was very lean and whipcord strong. She still remembered the powerful feel of his arms whisking her off her runaway horse a few hours earlier. She’d felt perfectly safe in his arms, yet she’d also felt a wild excitement that was at definite odds with the first emotion.