7
THREE HOURS LATER Tracy felt like a pro, standing next to Mabel and cleaning her hooves while chatting with the horse as if she were an old friend. “You’re much nicer than Bashful or Randy. Do they give you any trouble?”
“They’re geldings,” Zane answered on Mabel’s behalf.
She’d read enough Western romances to know what that meant. “Ah, so they’ve been fixed. You’d think that would have taught them a lesson, hmm, Mabel? But males do tend to be stubborn in their bad behavior, isn’t that right?”
“Since you and Mabel here are getting along so well, how about taking a ride? I’ll saddle her up for you, and we’ll go out for a while.”
“If it’s okay with Mabel, it’s okay with me,” Tracy said. “Is what I’m wearing all right for riding?”
“Do your boots have a heel on them?”
“Not a platform heel, no. I bought these in Bliss.” She held out her foot and wiggled it at him. “My beige suede ones had to be thrown out.”
“Good thing.” The tone of his voice let her know that he was no fan of her suede fashion boots. “Flat soles are no good for keeping your feet in the stirrup. Those Bliss boots will do fine, they’ve got a practical heel on them. As for the rest of your gear, jeans and a shirt are fine. We don’t go in for fancy English riding here.”
“Good,” she said, apparently the only one who knew her jeans and shirt bore the label of a trendy western outfitter. “I’d look stupid in jodhpurs and one of those funny little cap things they wear on their heads.”
“Headgear is required around here, too.” Zane plunked, there was no other word for it, a straw cowboy hat on her head. Then he stood back to survey her, as if she were livestock he was considering buying. “That’ll do.”
It certainly would do. He could just stop staring at her like that. You didn’t see her looking at him, even though she might want to. No, she’d shown admirable restraint. Just a peek or two without him noticing, like now as he put the saddle on MabeL Her heart only skipped a beat or two as she appreciated, for about the ten millionth time, how good he looked in jeans.
She likened her behavior to appreciating the view of the mountains out the back of the ranch house. The mountains were there, so she paused from time to time to admire them. No harm in that.
Not that Zane’s gaze on her had been filled with masculine admiration. Come to think of it, he’d looked at Mabel with equal consideration.
“Okay, we’re ready to go. I’ll give you a hand up,” Zane told her.
“That’s okay, I can do it myself.” She didn’t want him accusing her of trying to entrap him or some such nonsense. He could just keep his seductive hands to himself.
She’d seen enough westerns on TV to know that you grabbed the...thingamajig at the front of the saddle... the horn. Yeah, that’s right. You grabbed the saddle horn with your hand and stuck your foot in the stirrup and then, presto, you were on the horse.
She was halfway up before realizing something was wrong. It wasn’t until she was fully in the saddle, after an awkward scramble that left her feet dangling out of the stirrups, that she knew exactly what is was that was wrong. She was facing Mabel’s rear end instead of her beautiful mane.
“This horse is going in the wrong direction,” she said.
To give him credit, Zane didn’t laugh at her, although she could tell by the quirk at the corner of his mouth that he was tempted.
“It’s not the horse, it’s you that has the problem. Here, come on down from there.” Putting his hands up to her waist, he helped Tracy dismount more smoothly than she’d gotten up. “Rookie mistake,” he told her. “When mounting a horse you put your outside foot in the stirrup, the one farthest away from the horse.”
“You could have given me that useful bit of information a bit earlier,” she retorted.
“I did. I guess you weren’t paying attention.”
“I always pay attention.” At the time she may have been paying attention to his body instead of his words, however.
“Yeah, well, you ready to try again? I’ll help you this time.”
“I don’t need your help.” But she did. Once she got her foot in the stirrup it took more effort than she’d expected to get her inside leg up and over the back of the horse. His hands guided her, leaving a trail of warmth wherever they touched her.
Mabel, bless her heart, stood rock solid though the entire episode.
Tracy listened carefully as Zane reviewed how to use the reins to turn and to stop. Then they were moving. She and Mabel and Zane and Bashful...or was it Randy? She wasn’t sure. She only knew that it was gloriously exhilarating to actually be riding a horse.
They were out of the barn, moving away from the ranch. Thin wisps of clouds were gathered at the edge of the sky as they set out across the meadow. They were headed toward the mountains, their peaks silhouetted sharply against the Wedgwood-blue sky. No, Wedgwood was paler and more delicate than this blue. It was more vibrant and intense than any sky she’d ever seen. Why hadn’t she noticed it before?
Probably because she’d been too busy cooking and cleaning and washing. But she noticed now and was filled with delight as all her senses soaked in the freedom of being outdoors—the warmth of the sun hitting her back, the increasing scent of pine in the air, the plop-plop of Mabel’s hooves against the ground.
The mountains looked close enough to touch but were actually farther away than they seemed, a common optical illusion in the mountains, where the clear thin air made distant objects stand out with clarity.
Zane also appeared close enough to touch as he rode beside her.
“You look at home on that horse,” she said.
“I’ve been riding since I was—”
“Knee-high to a grasshopper, I bet,” she inserted with a grin.
His smile matched hers as he said, “Seems my dad has been talking to you.”
“Of course he has. Buck loves talking and he’s good at it. He can tell some great yams about the Old West and Cockeyed Curly.”
“This part of the state has had its fair share of wild and wooly history,” Zane agreed. “It’s where outlaws like Butch Cassidy and his Wild Bunch used to come and hide out from civilization.”
Tracy knew all about hiding out. That’s what she’d been doing when she’d first come to the ranch. Hiding out from the mess her life had become.
Back in Chicago she’d been on the fast track to success in advertising, and her future had been all mapped out. First off, there would have been marriage to Dennis, then pursuit of the plum job of the Beeler Sparkling Water account and, after landing it, she would have gotten a full partnership in the firm. Then would have come buying a house, having a child in three years, continuing to work, getting a weekend cabin in Wisconsin and living happily ever after.
Dennis had used to tease her about the way she’d fanatically make lists. She hadn’t thought there had been anything fanatical about it. She was just being organized.
But there had been no way to anticipate the curveballs, like finding Dennis in bed with another woman. Or to anticipate her own questioning of what she wanted out of life, of what made her happy. Was it life in the fast lane or life in the mountains?
“Are you falling asleep on me?” Zane said mockingly.
The idea had its appeal. Falling asleep with her head on his shoulder. “Absolutely not.” Her voice rang out, firm in its denial.
“Glad to hear it,” he said before reluctantly adding, “You’ve got a good seat for a city girl.”
“Thank you, I thing.”
“We can go a bit faster, if you want.”
Oh, she wanted to, all right That was the problem. “That would be good.”
“Hang on.”
She did. The trotting stage in between riding and galloping was the only thing she didn’t like. That’s when her bottom bounced on the saddle like a basketball in an NBA game. Still galloping, even for the short amount of time they did it, was like rhythmic flying. She loved it.
When it was over, she said, “Let’s do that again!”
Zane shook his head. “You’ve had enough for one day. Your legs are going to be sore as it is.”
She didn’t know what he was talking about until she got off the horse and could hardly stand up. She soon recovered her balance and the trembling in her legs subsided, allowing her to feel the ache on her tailbone.
“Want to ride again?” he asked Tracy as he removed Mabel’s saddle.
“Absolutely. Just not today.” Grimacing, she rubbed her palm over her denim-clad bottom.
“Let me know if you stiffen up later on,” he said. “I’ve got some salve that might help.”
By eight that evening Tracy was walking as if she were eighty. She would have taken a hot bath after dinner, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to lower herself into the claw-foot bathtub in the housekeeper’s quarters, let alone get out of it.
One thing she didn’t have to worry about was wandering iguanas. It seems King hated stairs, so he limited his sojourns to the upstairs of the house. Which meant she’d have her bathroom to herself. Precious, the snake, managed to slither her way down the steps just fine but seemed disinclined to do so, while Joe had been confined to his quarters so far. Even so, she always made a point of checking under her covers and her bed each night just to make sure the mouse wasn’t there.
But tonight she’d have to forgo the under-the-bed check. Bending down was definitely not a good idea in her current physical condition. Standing under a hot shower was a much better idea. And it did make her feel better, for a while. Then the stiffness and body aches quickly returned.
Who knew there were so many muscles in her inner thighs? Actually it felt as if there was just one giant concrete muscle right now.
She slowly moved...okay, she slowly hobbled from the bathroom to her bed, where she carefully sat down and then rolled onto her back.
She was never moving from this bed. They’d find her body in the morning and on her tombstone they wouldn’t put anything clever like the tombstones Buck had told her about. Nothing like Here Lies Lester Moore. Four Slugs from a .44—No Les, No More.
No, on her tombstone they’d inscribe “City Girl Couldn’t Hack It.” Or maybe “City Girl Fails Big-Time.” Or how about “Here Lies Tracy Campbell. From a Bed, She Couldn’t Scramble.”
Hey, that last one wasn’t half bad.
A knock on her door interrupted her self-authored epitaphs. “I’m off duty now,” she yelled out. “Come back during regular business hours.”
“I’ve got that salve I told you about,” Zane said through the door.
She could either be both modest and gutsy by braving the physical pain and telling him that she was fine, or she could be a wimp and ask for his help. Pain or no pain? No contest. “Come on in.”
He did. She heard him but couldn’t see him because she was staring up at the ceiling. Moving required too much energy, not to mention discomfort.
“This is all my fault,” Zane said, his voice reflecting his regret. “I should never have let a tenderfoot like you ride more than a few minutes.”
“Watch who you’re calling a tenderfoot, cowboy,” she growled.
“I’m watching,” he murmured in reply.
Something in his voice made her risk moving her head to the side so she could get a good look at him. The empathy in his blue eyes almost made her cry. “I’m not a failure,” she told him fiercely.
“No, you’re not a failure,” he readily agreed. “I, on the other hand, should have my head examined.”
“For hiring me, you mean?”
“No, that didn’t turn out as bad as I thought.”
“Despite rock-hard brownies and runny eggs?”
“Just the way I like them.”
“Since when?” she scoffed.
“You mean I never told you that old cowboy rule?”
“You mean the one about shooting housekeepers who couldn’t cook?”
“No, the one that says anybody who complains about the food has to do the cooking.”
“I’d definitely remember if you or Buck had told me that one before.”
“Well, consider yourself told.” She wondered if this was his way of telling her she was doing a good job. “Now do you want me to help put some of this salve on you?”
There was a time for modesty and a time for pain relievers. This was definitely the time for the latter. “Yes, thank you.”
“Can you roll over onto your back?”
“Sure thing.” She did and ended up with her nose buried in a pillow, which Zane kindly removed for her. She felt the mattress dip as he sat down beside her.
Zane looked at her satin-draped body and felt lower than the belly of a snake. She was hurting and it was his fault. For once his first thought wasn’t that this was proof that she didn’t belong out here. Instead his first thought was to make her feel better.
He rubbed the salve onto his hands and began rubbing it onto her legs, working his way up from her calves to her thighs. She didn’t say a word, which wasn’t like her at all. Normally she could talk the ear off a mule. She had an opinion on everything. Sometimes he was even surprised that they shared the same opinion.
He’d also been surprised by the way she’d taken to riding today, by the way she’d bonded with Mabel and seemed to take pleasure in being in the great outdoors.
Her skin was softer than a summertime breeze or a butterfly’s wings. Fragile. And like the breeze or a butterfly she was fleeting—passing by, but not lasting.
And when the summer was over she, like the warm breeze and the colorful butterflies, would be gone.
But for now she was warm and inviting beneath his hands. The last time he’d really touched her had been in the barn, when they’d kissed. The intensity of her response had surprised him. What was she feeling now that he was touching her again?
“Is this helping?” he asked.
“Mmm,” she murmured, her voice like a purr from one of the barn cats that the twins had yet to discover.
He had his hands beneath her robe, his splayed fingers within touching distance of her silky underwear and the curve of her bottom. He could feel her relaxing beneath his ministrations.
It might be helping her, but it was definitely hurting him. Well, not hurting exactly. More like causing an itch that couldn’t be scratched. Because no matter how she might tempt him, he wasn’t going to give in. Not this time. Not with this city girl or any other.
He refused to give in to her siren call.
He imagined her thanking him for the massage with a come-hither look over her satin-covered shoulder. Her full lips would smile in a way meant to make a man melt.
He’d resist.
She could stand stark naked in front of him and he wouldn’t flinch.
She could...what was she doing now? He cautiously moved forward to get a better look at her face, turned sideways with her cheek pressed against the back of her hand. Her long lashes were velvety dark against her creamy skin, and her lips were parted as she... snored?
Oh, it was delicate and dainty like, but it was definitely a snore. She’d fallen asleep on him, just as he’d teasingly accused her of doing when they’d gone riding.
So much for him thinking she was lying there concocting some scheme to seduce him. She’d told him she was no more interested in having a relationship with him than he was with her. Maybe it was time he believed her.
TRACY WOKE the next morning feeling more rested than she had in weeks. She didn’t remember what happened after Zane had started rubbing his miracle salve on her. She only recalled a sense of peace and relaxation.
Perhaps once she’d successfully marketed Buck’s Barbecue Sauce she’d add the miracle salve to the roster of products she was trying to pitch.
After making a breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs that actually tasted good, she did something she’d done every day since coming to the ranch. She checked her e-mail on her laptop computer while sipping a cup of cowboy coffee—strong and hot
She got a reply from Keisha Washington in Chicago, a fellow advertising executive and friend. Keisha had acted as a sounding board for some of Tracy’s ideas for Buck’s Barbecue Sauce. They’d agreed on the label featuring a western sunset with a bucking horse silhouetted against it. Even Buck himself had been pleased with the outcome.
Now came the hard part, convincing western catalogs to carry Buck’s sauce. Tracy had sent out a dozen sampler boxes but had yet to hear back from any of the mail-order retailers. She’d even put a brand on the box—Best of the West—to get their attention.
Which reminded her of the time she’d told Zane that in her line of work her job was romancing the brand.
He’d told her that out here brands had a different meaning, and Buck had gone on to talk about the over thirty thousand brands Colorado ranchers had registered.
But what she remembered most were Zane’s words. So many things out here had a different meaning for him.
She didn’t know why it was so important that he think well of her. She just knew that when he’d said she wasn’t a failure last night, it was as if her heart had been bathed in sunshine.
Just a few words from him had more of an effect on her than all of Dennis’s flowery speeches. Maybe because she knew that Zane’s words were truly what he thought, while Dennis only said what he thought she wanted to hear.
Gathering her thoughts, she refocused her attention on her e-mail. Keisha had gotten her sample box of Buck’s Barbecue Sauce and she’d loved it. She also liked the way Tracy had wrapped the bottles with bandanna bibs and raffia rope. The mild sauce was labeled Tenderfoot Mild—Buck’s idea—while the spicy sauce was marked Rip-Snortin’ Hot.
The next e-mail was from an address she didn’t immediately recognize. Only when she clicked on it and started reading did she realize it was from Southwestern Living catalog, the biggest mail-order retailer in the area. The news had her shrieking in delight.
“Don’t tell me that mouse got loose again,” Buck grumbled as he ambled into the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about.
“It’s not the mouse.” Grabbing him by the shoulders, she gave him a huge kiss on the cheek. “We did it!”
“What the Sam Hill are you talking about, missy? You haven’t taken to adding a little something to your coffee have you?” He shot her a suspicious look.
“I’m not drunk, I’m happy. Southwestern Living loved your barbecue sauce.”
“Well, course they did,” Buck retorted as if that was a foregone conclusion. “What idiot wouldn’t?”
“You don’t understand. They want to carry your barbecue sauce in their catalog. They’ve placed an order for three hundred bottles of both the mild and the hot sauce.”
Buck stared at her as if she’d gone loco. “Three hundred bottles?”
“That’s right.”
“Son of a buck! How am I supposed to whip up three hundred bottles of the stuff?”
“We’ll help you, Grandpa,” the twins said from the back door.
“Son of a buck,” he repeated, this time with awe in his voice as he shoved a hand through his thick white hair before grabbing hold of his suspenders and snapping them with pride. “Well, what are we all standing around here for? We’ve got to get working.”