Rosemary Carter - Cowboy To The Altar

‘I have every intention of staying,’ she said, as if she had read his thoughts.

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘My mind is made up, Mr Delaney.’ Blue eyes flashed him a challenge.

A pair of cracked cowboy boots shifted once more on the hot dry earth, reminding Morgan and Jason of Brent’s presence. For some reason, they had both forgotten him.

As they turned from each other and looked at the old cowboy he muttered, ‘Guess I’ll be seeing you a month from now, Boss.’

Without another word he shuffled away around the house.

Minutes later the sound of departing hooves had Morgan whirling around. A big horse was proceeding down the road she had just travelled—and on its back was Brent.

‘He’s gone!’ she exclaimed.

Dark eyebrows lifted. ‘Didn’t you expect him to go?’

‘Not so quickly.’

‘I suspect he was ready to leave before you came. That the horse was saddled and ready. That he was alarmed by your arrival and wished he’d left earlier.’

‘You’re intimating he didn’t want to see me.’

‘He knew he’d have to explain.’

‘You’ve made that quite clear, Mr Delaney. Still, I didn’t think he’d go without...’

‘Without?’ Jason prompted.

‘Without explaining my duties. Showing me around...’

‘If you’re a woman of experience you must know your duties already.’

She shot him a saucy look. ‘Obviously I’ll cope. But Brent did say he’d show me around.’

‘Just as obviously he’s not going to.’

‘I guess not...’

‘Shouldn’t matter, though, if you’ve worked before.’ Jason knew that he sounded arrogant.

He had the satisfaction of seeing her look a little uncertain—as if his words had intimidated her. He hoped they had.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘it’s scorching out here. Do you think we could go on talking indoors?’

For a moment Jason hesitated. He didn’t want Morgan Muir in his house, even for a short time; he didn’t need her invading his privacy. Still, she did look hot. He gave a curt shrug and wondered if she would see the gesture as unwelcoming.

‘Why not?’ he said, and led her into the house—into a cool room, all white walls and rather basic low-slung furniture. The graceful figure struck an intensely feminine note against the very masculine background.

Jason’s expression was hard. ‘About your work experience—why do I get the feeling you haven’t had any?’

Morgan had been looking around her. Now she looked back at him, her blue eyes steady. ‘I’ve worked,’ she said quietly, ‘but it’s true I don’t have the kind of experience you’re thinking of.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ he countered sarcastically, ‘you don’t know a thing about cooking.’

This time it was Morgan’s turn to hesitate. ‘I’ve cooked.’

‘On a ranch?’

‘No...’

‘Where, then? A hotel? A restaurant? For a crowd of hungry people?’

Again there was that hesitation, so slight that it might have escaped Jason’s notice if he hadn’t been watching for it. ‘For myself—in my own kitchen.’

His eyes swept the reed-slender body. Suddenly he grinned. ‘Bird’s food?’

She danced him an answering grin. ‘Bird’s food? Heavens, no, since I’m not a bird. But if you’re asking whether I’ve cooked for a horde of men then, no, I’ve never done that.’

Jason looked down into a face with which he could not find even one fault—every feature in it was lovely. ‘But you did say you’d worked. Where? What kind of work?’

Her chin lifted, as if in challenge. ‘Well, actually, I work in a big store, selling clothing. I also do some part-time modelling for the store.’

Jason was astounded. ‘Modelling?’

‘Photographic.’

‘Good grief!’

Her expression became even more challenging. ‘Department store fliers. Glossy fashion magazines that the store puts out for its customers. That kind of thing.’

People everywhere would see her—in different poses, maybe wearing flimsy things. Men—looking at her pictures, imagining her... An ominous expression appeared in Jason’s eyes as he wondered why that thought should bother him.

His lips tightened. ‘So you’re a model.’

‘Part-time.’ Morgan drew herself up. ‘Your tone, Mr Delaney, sounds as if you think there’s something wrong with modelling—there isn’t.’

‘You’re as entitled to your opinion as I am to mine.’ His words were clipped. ‘I do need to know one thing—why are you here?’

‘We’ve been over that. To cook.’

‘You know as well as I do that’s absurd. Models don’t spend their time slaving in hot cookhouses.’

‘It’s what I want,’ she insisted stubbornly. ‘I’m prepared to work as hard as I have to. Do whatever it takes. You’ll never hear me complain, Mr Delaney, and I’ll do a good job.’

‘What’s this all about, Morgan?’ He made himself use her first name.

Her eyes widened for a moment, as if he had surprised her. Then she said, ‘When I saw that ranching magazine Brent’s ad leaped at me.’

‘You’re making no sense.’

Her smile was enchanting. It would be so easy to be disarmed by it. Too easy.

‘I can see it wouldn’t make sense, at least not without an explanation. You see, Mr Delaney, for as long as I can remember I’ve had a dream. When I saw the ad for a replacement cook I felt as if it had been placed there especially for me to read. As if I’d been meant to see it. So much so that after I spoke to Brent on the phone I flew from San Francisco to Austin just for an interview.’

Jason stared at her in disbelief. ‘You flew from California to Texas on the off chance that you might land yourself a temporary job?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Sorry,’ he said flatly, ‘but I still don’t understand.’

Morgan laughed. The man who stood just a foot or so away from her, clenching his hands to stop them from pulling her into his arms, thought that the sound was as sweet as rippling water.

‘I don’t blame you for not understanding. The thing is that for most of my life I’ve wanted to spend three or four weeks on a ranch.’

‘That’s a long time.’

‘I wish it could be longer, but it’s as much time as I can spare from my job. My real life is in the city.’

Real life... ‘Of course,’ Jason said flatly. ‘Models don’t ply their trade on ranches.’ And then added, ‘What kind of dream?’

‘It’s a long story and you don’t want to. hear it right now. But ever since I can remember I’ve had this desire to see the way cowboys work and live.’

Jason’s expression was forbidding. ‘I’ll give you a tour.’

‘No thanks.’

‘I’ll take you out on the range, drive you around in a Jeep. An hour or two and you’ll see all you want.’

‘I want a lot more than that.’

Exasperating woman. ‘I suppose you think cowboys are exciting? I’ve a fair hand with a lariat—I’ll do a few twirls.’

‘Mr Delaney—’

‘Rope a couple of steers.’

‘You really don’t understand.’

Jason was beginning to feel as if he was being caught in a trap with no way of getting out. ‘What is it you want, Morgan Muir?’ he asked harshly. ‘Pointers on how to look your best in boots and a stetson? So that you can look the part when you model next year’s collection of western gear? The kind of things women like you might think are authentic?’

‘Why are you so bitter?’ she asked him.

His lips tightened. ‘Bitter?’

‘Oh, yes. You seem to have such a low opinion of women, Mr Delaney. Or is it just me you don’t like?’ When he didn’t answer she went on, ‘Thanks for offering to show me around, but it’s not what I want.’