Rosemary Carter - Cowboy To The Altar

Morgan laughed, the sound making Jason think of music. ‘It’s one of those names that can belong to a man or a woman. Is Brent here, Mr Delaney? If he is, he’ll be able to clear up this misunderstanding in a minute.’

‘He’ll certainly have some explaining to do,’ Jason said grimly.

Turning away from Morgan, he shouted, ‘Brent!’

Minutes later a familiar figure came into view. Jason was in his early thirties; Brent was more than double that age—a weathered man with bow legs and skin like an old leather saddle which had been left out too long in the Texas heat. Like Jason, he wore boots and a stetson but his were more battered. In his hand was an ancient suitcase.

‘You called me, Jason?’ As his eyes fell on Morgan he stopped short. ‘Miss Muir...’ he said uneasily.

‘Hi, Brent,’ she said with a smile.

Jason stared from one face to the other in amazement. ‘You really do know each other?’

A blue-eyed smile touched her face. ‘Brent and I met in Austin—didn’t we, Brent?’

‘I don’t believe it!’ Jason exclaimed.

‘You may as well,’ the annoying girl said serenely.

Turning to Brent, she held out her hand to him. ‘Nice to see you again.’

Shyly the old cowboy glanced at the proffered hand. Jason suppressed a smile as he wondered whether Brent would take it. He did—quickly, jerkily—in the manner of one who had had limited contact with women and was, in fact, a little scared of them. As if Morgan Muir were a being from another world—which, in a sense, she was, Jason thought in wry amusement.

Brent dropped Morgan’s hand a second after touching it. Beneath the leathery tan his face was flushed. ‘Be on my way now, Boss.’

‘Not so fast, you old rogue,’ cautioned his employer.

‘Jason?’

‘Who is this woman?’

Brent shot Morgan a quick look, before turning back to Jason. ‘Miss Muir. Reckon she’s the new cook.’

‘New cook be damned! Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I did, Boss. Told you I’d arranged a replacement.’

‘You didn’t say she was a woman.’

The old cowboy shifted his feet on the sun-baked ground. ‘Maybe not,’ he admitted at length. And then added hopefully, ‘Did tell you her name, though. Positive I did.’

‘Morgan. A man’s name. Don’t look so innocent, you old scoundrel; it won’t wash with me. You know very well I thought the cook was a man.’

‘Maybe so...’

‘Well, then?’ Jason was becoming more exasperated by the second. ‘Why didn’t you hire a man?’

‘Couldn’t get one,’ Brent said simply.

‘I should tell you not to come back, you old reprobate,’ Jason growled.

Brent looked affronted. ‘Only one answer to the ad,’ he protested indignantly. ‘Not as if I didn’t try to find someone else.’

‘Nice to know I was hired because I was the only option,’ Morgan said wryly.

‘We don’t employ females at this ranch,’ Jason told her crisply. ‘I’m sorry there’s been a mistake, but now that you understand the position I’m sure you’ll want to leave.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

Looking down at Morgan, Jason saw an expression that he didn’t quite trust. He hoped quite fervently that she would not take it into her pretty little head to cry. Tears would be absolutely the last straw.

But Morgan did not cry. ‘No,’ she said again, this time with a firmness that Jason would not have suspected in the circumstances. ‘I will not leave.’

‘Did employ a female once, Boss,’ a treacherous Brent chose that moment to put in. ‘Woman called Emily. Remember?’

Emily Lawson, a large, amiable woman. She had been the ranch cook before Brent. Mother of three cowboys and grandmother of a huge brood of children, Emily had adored ranches and cooking with almost equal passion. Besides preparing meals for the cowboys, she had advised them on their personal problems and rallied them when their spirits were low.

Emily Lawson and little Miss Morgan Muir were complete opposites: whereas the former had been an asset to the ranch, the latter could only be a nuisance and a threat. Jason did not have to analyse why this should be so; he knew it instinctively.

‘Of course I remember Emily,’ he said impatiently. ‘She was different.’

‘Wasn’t a looker,’ Brent agreed with a sly sideways grin. ‘Plain as a tree-stump Emily was.’

Jason could have cheerfully throttled the man. Why bring Emily up now? Whose side was Brent on, anyway—Morgan Muir’s or his?

His lips tightened ominously. ‘Emily is not under discussion now. This won’t do, Brent, and well you know it.’

‘You’ll do duty in the cookhouse, Boss?’

Once more Jason’s anger exploded. ‘The hell I will! If it weren’t for the fact that you’ve been here since the day I was born I’d fire you on the spot.’

‘I’ll be on my way now, Boss.’

‘You’ll stay and cook until you find someone more—’

Morgan chose that moment to cut in. ‘It doesn’t matter whether Brent goes or stays. It doesn’t even matter whether I cook or don’t cook. It was agreed that I’d spend a month at Six-Gate Corral, and one way or another I intend doing just that.’

She spoke with a firmness that made Jason scowl. ‘I’ve tried to make it clear that I can’t have you here, Miss Muir.’

‘I’ll be staying all the same, Mr Delaney.’ The eyes that met his were steady and unafraid.

‘Not if I can help it, Miss Morgan.’

‘I signed a contract.’ Her gaze turned to Brent, who was looking both intrigued and uneasy at the same time. ‘Tell him, Brent,’ she urged. ‘Tell Mr Delaney what I signed.’

‘It’s true,’ the old cowboy muttered. ‘She did sign a paper.’

‘Why?’ Jason demanded.

‘Had to be sure she wouldn’t let me down.’

‘I would never do that,’ Morgan assured Brent, before slanting a disturbingly winning smile at Jason. ‘The contract protects Brent, and I get to work here for a month.’

Witch, Jason thought, scowling down at her from his six feet four. A very pretty little witch, to be sure. OK, more than pretty—beautiful, if the truth had to be told. But provocative as could be. Aware of her very considerable power over a man and not ashamed to use all the wiles at her disposal in order to get what she wanted.

And if a man’s heart were trampled in the process, well, wouldn’t that just be too bad? Little Miss Morgan Muir—presumably it was Miss—would have got what she wanted. That was all that counted with women, especially the pretty ones.

‘I’ll take a look at that contract,’ he said tightly.

‘Brent has his copy; mine is in the car,’ Morgan told him sweetly. ‘You can see it any time you like.’

‘As soon as possible,’ he informed her crisply over the sinking feeling in his chest. Even without seeing it, he knew already that the contract would be watertight.

Somehow he would have to find a way of getting rid of this girl. After Vera’s defection he had made himself a promise never to get involved with a woman again. He now knew that he had never loved Vera—that the most he had ever felt for his ex-wife had been affection, and even that hadn’t lasted long. He had been lonely when they’d met, and she had managed to convince him that they should be married. For the purpose she had employed several calculated tactics. Hindsight told him that he should have seen through her immediately, but the fact was that he hadn’t.

This girl, this blue-eyed tiny-waisted Morgan Muir, could hurt a man badly. Hurt him far more deeply than Vera ever had. Just a few minutes in her company had been enough to tell him that. Why, already he had an urge—an utterly insane urge—to run his hands through the soft fair hair that curled so enticingly around her small head, to taste lips that looked sweet as fresh honey. Morgan Muir was dangerous. Contract or no contract, he had to find a way of getting rid of her. Quickly.