FOUR minutes later, Amy was at the kitchen door, her head held high. She was not going to give Mr. Beau Diablo a single thing to fault her about. When she pushed through into the brightly lit room, she was surprised to find Cookie sipping coffee all alone before a stone fireplace. Disconcerted, she asked, “Am I late? Have they already left?”
The housekeeper smiled. “Shucks, no, hon.” She put her mug on the long table and hurried toward the kitchen’s back door to retrieve a battered old field coat from a hook. “They’re in the cook house. Mr. Beau usually eats breakfast with the hands, bein’ a bachelor and all.” She took down Amy’s freshly washed parka and beckoned for her to follow. “I’ll show you the way.”
Once Amy was bundled against the cold, she and Cookie stepped out into the dawning day. The cold was so bitter, it staggered her. Her step faltered. “How cold is it?” she asked, watching her breath freeze in the air.
“Oh, ‘bout fifteen below.”
“Below? Freezing?”
Cookie let out one of her splintery laughs. “Zero, hon. Not a bad day. No wind.” They trudged along a gentle slope away from the ranch house in about three inches of snow. “If the sun comes out, it’ll get up near zero.”
The view was hazy with falling snow, making the cloudy dawn seem to be brushstroked by an artist’s hand. And the silence. How could a place so vast be so quiet? Amy took a deep breath. Though her lungs froze, she delighted in the smell. Sweet, pure, cold. It was a refreshing change from the city’s exhaust and pollution, even if it was a little on the deathly cold side.
Though much of the landscape still lay in relative darkness, the fallen snow provided luminescence, and she could see a scattering of buildings silhouetting the landscape. Farther away, behind wooden pens and a log barn, the rolling hills were forested with stands of pines.
Cookie touched her elbow. “This is me and Archie’s place.” She waved toward a quaint log cabin not far from the main house. “On the other side’s the cook house and then the bunkhouse.”
Amy noticed that all of them were of the same pinelog construction, their roofs blanketed by an icing of snow. Smoke curled from each chimney, and she could smell it. The whole experience was wonderful. Like a scratch-and-sniff Currier and Ives painting.
“You go on in the cook house, hon. I’ve gotta stop by my place for some cleanin’ supplies. It’s that plank door, there.”
Amy nodded her thanks and tromped along the path of footprints already marring the pristine snow. With every step her stomach knotted tighter. She looked down at her running shoes and shook her head. If her feet didn’t freeze off today, it would be a miracle. They were already numb.
She heard a general hum and rumble of male voices when she got to the door, but the instant she stepped inside, the room went still, ten pairs of male eyes turning in her direction.
Amy stumbled to a halt, embarrassed to be the center of attention. She felt like a bug that had just appeared in the middle of somebody’s birthday cake. Surprise seemed to be the expression of the day, except for Archie-the-cook’s squinty old gray eyes smiling at her. She didn’t see Beau, and it was clear that her unwanted presence on his ranch hadn’t been passed on to the hired help. She wondered where he was.
The cook house was long and rustic. Devoid of frills like curtains or seat cushions, it seemed perfectly fitted out for brawny cowboys. The ten-foot table, made of pine planks, was flanked by two long benches, and sat before a soot-blackened rock fireplace. The fire flickered warmly amid delicious mingled scents of homemade bread, hotcakes, strong coffee, scrambled eggs and steaks. Beyond the table where the cowhands gathered were the kitchen appliances—two industrial-size ovens, cooktops and refrigerators— tucked neatly in and around the rough log walls.
Amy heard someone clear his throat; it sounded like crushed rock banging down a metal chute. Her gaze swung to the table. The scene there was almost comical. Denim-and-flannel-clad cowboys sat or stood in a frozen tableau, halted in the act of swabbing up the last dab of maple syrup with a crust of bread, or gulping down a final swig of coffee.
The throat-clearing sound came again, more loudly this time. Amy saw movement, then, as Archie went on pouring coffee into one leathery-faced cowpoke’s mug, she heard him say, “Mornin’, Miss Amy.” He grinned in his bashful way. “Come on over here and get yourself some hot coffee.”
She smiled at the weathered cook, but before she could take a step, there was a thunderous scraping sound as the benches were pushed back and the hands abruptly stood. A couple of men who’d donned their ten-gallon hats in anticipation of leaving, grabbed them off and crushed them respectfully to their chests.
“Men. This is Miss Amy Vale,” came a deep voice that she recognized as her host’s. She heard another scrape of wood on wood and saw Beau as he rose from a hard-backed chair in a dim corner. “Miss Vale will be staying with us until the roads west are clear.”
Amy smiled as the men timidly grinned and mumbled guttural greetings.
“Now that the pleasantries are over,” he cut in, “Marv, you, Homer and Willie get those extra round bales to the north pasture. J.C. and Snapper, you do a ride-through to check for cattle that need doctoring. Buddy and Chick, make sure the creek water’s open. Ed. You come with Miss Vale and me in the old pickup.”
Amy watched Beau as he barked out orders, slipping a black down vest on over his black wool shirt. It jolted her when Archie shoved a thermos into one hand and a small brown sack into the other. “I fixed you a scrambled egg sandwich. And the coffee’ll warm your innards.” He grinned, and his sundried face crinkled like withered leaves.
“Thanks,” she whispered. Tucking the thermos under her arm, she gave his callused paw a squeeze, then noticed the ranch hands were clomping out the far door. “I’d better go. I think I’m expected in the pickup.”
“It seems so.” Archie crossed his arms over a stout belly, giving his boss a dubious squint as Beau planted his Stetson on his brow. When he turned to face them, his eyes were shadowed, but there was no masking the spark of antagonism that hovered there. “Are you ready, Miss Vale?” he asked, his tone less a question than a dare.
Though she’d been scared and unsure of herself when she’d walked in, his challenge turned her into a rock of determination. Did he think a little Wild West browbeating would frighten her off? Not likely! She’d been living on her own and caring for her invalid sister for the past five years. If he thought she couldn’t handle cold weather and a few disagreeable chores, he was nuts.
She marched across the room to where he was standing beside the wooden coat books. “I thought you’d never ask, Mr. Diablo.” Her smile was as sweet as she could coerce it to be. With barely a glance in his direction, she breezed out the door.
As soon as she was outside, a blast of knife-sharp wind hit her, spattering her face with needles of snow. She was so shocked by it, she stumbled to a halt, which was a mistake, for she found herself slammed into a very immovable object at her back. The unexpectedness of the impact made her tumble forward in the slick snow. Almost as quickly as it had begun, her forward motion ended as something strong encircled her middle.
Hearing that growl near her ear, it only took her a split second to realize she’d run into Beau Diablo, and when she’d toppled forward, he’d caught her against him to keep her from falling. His arms held her tightly. His breath was coffee warm against her cheek, his legs and hips fitting familiarly against her.
“Miss Vale, don’t people who live in Chicago know how to walk in snow?”
She yanked away from both his intimate hold and the unsettling feel of his body against hers. Turning to face him, she objected, “Surely you didn’t expect someone as useless and beautiful as I am to be able to walk, too!” She didn’t enjoy sarcasm, but, considering he’d only given her time to throw her hair into a quick ponytail and brush her teeth, no one in his right mind could call her beautiful this morning. It had to be obvious that she’d slipped on an icy spot. Anybody could slip. Even he had to obey the laws of gravity.
He frowned at her, his glance sliding to her jogging shoes. “What the hell are those?”
She followed his gaze. “In Chicago we call them shoes. What’s the matter with them?”
He muttered something unintelligible and pivoted away to reenter the cook house. In a few seconds he returned, carrying something. Stooping, he grasped one of her ankles. “Lift your foot.”
“I’ll fall.”
“Hold on to my shoulders, and lift your damn foot.”
She could see now that he’d brought out a pair of fleece-lined rubber boots. Deciding he’d only snap her head off if she objected, she juggled her thermos and sack and placed a hand on his shoulder to balance herself while she lifted her foot. He quickly shoved on the boot. It was too big and swallowed her leg all the way up to her knee, but it was toasty warm. “Now the other one.”
She mutely obeyed, feeling like a four-year-old child needing help getting dressed. When the other boot slid into place, she complained, “I’ve dressed myself for years, Mr. Diablo.”
He straightened. “We can discuss your hobbies some other time. Right now, we have cold, hungry cattle to feed.” Taking her by the arm, he aimed her toward a waiting pickup. It wasn’t the one he’d driven to Big Elk. This one was older, battered, and a cowhand was stacking square bales of hay in the back.
A few minutes later, Amy found herself wedged between the two men, bouncing along a snowy path. Except for barbed-wire fences that ran along on both sides of them, she would never have guessed this was a road. They hadn’t gone far when the fence grew to ten feet high, with slats of wood running vertically from the ground up. “What’s that for?” She didn’t realize she’d verbalized her question until she heard her voice break the silence.
Her query was followed by even more silence, until finally the cowhand named Ed turned their way and glanced skittishly at his boss, apparently assuming he’d answer. Amy looked at the cowboy, knowing full well her host didn’t speak to her unless he had something he wanted to shout. She smiled at the cowboy and was startled to see a flush darken his alreadyboot-brown face. He fingered his droopy mustache, which was dripping melted snow. “Them’s snow fences, ma’am. Helps keep the roads clear of snow in spots where there’s a lot of blowin’ wind.”
Amy nodded. “My goodness. You must get some pretty high drifts here.”
He fingered his mustache again, and Amy realized he was nervous. She was puzzled. She could think of no earthly reason she should make him nervous. “Sometimes six foot and more, ma’am.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Look, Ed, since we’ll be working together, I wish you’d call me Amy.”
His squinty black eyes widened, and he gave another peek at his boss. But when there was no overt objection, he looked back at Amy and grinned. “SureMiss Amy. I’d be pleased.”
She laughed. “Amy, Ed. Just Amy.”
She heard the squeak of leather and shifted to see Beau’s hands flex on the wheel. “Ed. Get the gate,” he muttered.
Almost before the words were spoken, the hired hand jumped from the truck and was sloughing through the snow to swing a metal gate out of their way.
Amy couldn’t stand the suspense any longer and shifted to face Beau. “What, exactly, are we going to do?”
He stepped on the gas and they bounced through the gate. When Ed opened his door, Beau said, “You drive. Miss Vale and I’ll pitch the hay.”
Ed’s eyes widened again, and he stood there speechless for a second before he found his voice. “Uh—boss? I can pitch it jes’ fine.” He was frowning, clearly aghast that the young woman was expected to do such a demanding, bone-chilling chore.
“You drive, Ed. The lady wants to learn about ranch life.” Beau climbed out of the cab, making it clear he didn’t intend to argue the matter. “Come with me, Miss Vale.”
Amy smiled at the cowboy. “I really do want to learn.” She only hoped she meant it.
He swallowed, and she could see his prominent Adam’s apple bob up and down. “If you get too chilly, you let the boss know, now,” he cautioned, his grimace never easing.
Fairly sure “the boss” wouldn’t care if she turned into a female Popsicle before his eyes, she merely nodded and slid out Beau’s side of the cab. When she got around to the back of the pickup, he was squatting in the truck bed snipping the wire from around a bale of hay. The snow had already dusted his shoulders and the brim of his hat and had left a light coating on the bales.
Amy heard a bawling sound and turned toward it. For the first time, she could see dark splotches over the rise. Hundreds of milling, meandering blotches vaguely shaped like cows. “Wow,” she breathed. “There are so many—”
“Miss Vale?”
She spun back to see that he was now standing on the tailgate. Apparently the loose hay had muffled his approach. “Yes?” She took an involuntary step back.
He reached down. “Let me give you a hand.”
“No thanks.” Presenting him with her back, she sidestepped him and boosted herself up on the tailgate, then pushed up to stand. “Okay.” She slapped her hands together to knock straw from her knit gloves, purposely scanning the stacked bales to avoid facing those stern eyes. “What do I do?”
She could hear him move, but refused to turn.
‘Take this pitchfork, and as Ed drives along the draw, you pitch the hay out on the snow.”
She plucked the pitchfork from his hand, again evading eye contact. “No problem.”
“I’ll be breaking up the bales for you.”
“Lucky me.” She hefted the pitchfork gingerly, trying to get a feel for it. “Do I start now?”
“Just a minute.” He leaned over the side. “Okay, Ed. Start moving.”
The truck lurched, but Amy was ready. She hadn’t ridden the “L” train in Chicago for all those years without learning how to brace herself for staggering starts and stops. She had an urge to give Beau a smug smile but decided against it. The less eye contact they shared, the better she felt about it, and he no doubt felt the same way.
The truck went down an incline toward the roving clumps of cattle. Amy shivered just watching them. The poor things were huffing and puffing frozen air, looking pretty miserable.
“You can start any time,” he said from behind her, and she realized she’d gotten lost in her thoughts. The first few pitches netted her only a strand or two of straw. She cringed, knowing Beau was back there scowling at her ineptness. Any second he’d say something like, “That’s fine, Miss Vale. Those cows need to go on a diet anyway.”
After a few attempts, she figured out how to keep most of the hay on the pitchfork, and then get it over the end of the truck and actually onto the snow.
Cattle were ambling up, ready to eat. She found herself pitching and pitching, faster and faster, worried sick that the cattle get enough food.
“Miss Vale, the stock at the far end of the draw are going to be irritated with you if they don’t get any feed.”
She inhaled, feeling oddly light-headed. Leaning on her pitchfork, she cast him a direct glance for the first time since she’d climbed into the back of the truck. “Don’t be shy, Mr. Diablo. Be sure and tell me if I do anything right.”
His expression was unreadable, and she turned quickly away, cursing herself for forgetting her own rule of ignoring him at all costs.
She tried to switch her thoughts to more pleasant things. The morning sky, though heavily overcast, gave off a pearlescent glow, and the snow was puffy and chaste on a sloping hillside dotted with spruce and winter-bare cottonwood. It was beautiful. Even under these less than perfect circumstances, Amy was falling in love with Wyoming, and it made her smile.
Digging out a forkful of straw, she thoughtlessly glanced in Beau’s direction and her smile faded. It wasn’t particularly bad lighting for him, either. Somehow his expression seemed almost agreeable, his eyes less antagonistic out here. Gritting her teeth against the foolish notion, she pitched the hay into the air, hoping both her technique and her speed were closer to his exacting standards.
“That’s better,” he said after a time.
She caught her breath, but tried not to display her shock in her body language. She took another forkful of hay and pitched it off the back of the truck, never uttering a word. Off in the distance, she saw a couple of cowboys on horseback picking their way through the milling cattle, and wondered if they were the ones Beau had told to check to see if any of the cows were sick. As far as she was concerned, they should be suffering from bad cases of pneumonia if they had any sense at all.
For a long time, she didn’t hear anything but the lowing cattle, the twang of the wires Beau cut, and the crunchy sound of cold hay being broken up. Once or twice she was startled to see an entire bale fly over the side of the truck and break up when it hit the snow. Apparently her cow-feeding speed had dropped below Mr. Diablo’s standards again, but she didn’t intend to give him the satisfaction of knowing she’d even noticed he’d done anything. Though she was exhausted and a little dizzy, she picked up her pitching speed a little and tried to ignore the fact that he existed on the face of the earth.
“After we finish here, we need to chop ice off the pond.”
With shrieking muscles, she pitched again, grateful he couldn’t see her face. Chopping ice off a pond didn’t sound like a warm thing to do, and she was freezing. Her arms were killing her, and she was getting more and more light-headed from hunger. But she would have to faint dead away and have her nose crack off and drop into his lap before she’d admit that.
“Are you tired?”
“No,” she wheezed, watching her icy breath dissipate in the air as the truck moved forward.
“Are you cold?”
“Why should—I be cold?” She blanched. The sentence had been long enough for him to detect the gap where she’d had to take a gasping breath. And worse, her voice had quivered.
She heard a banging, and spun around before she remembered she wasn’t going to look at him. She had to catch herself, and shook her head. Why was she so dizzy?
Beau pounded on the cab’s back window, giving Ed the signal to stop. When he did, she stumbled again, but caught herself.
Before she had time to absorb what was going on, Beau had leaped over the side of the truck and moved around to the back. “Come on.” He lifted his arms as if he expected her to leap gratefully into them.
She laid the pitchfork against the remainder of the bales. There were only seven or eight, and it surprised her that she’d distributed so much hay. There had been at least twenty when they’d begun.
When she turned back, she eyed his uplifted arms with hauteur, then shook her head. “I have a feeling you wouldn’t help Ed down. Don’t do me any favors.” She dropped to one knee, but before she could slide off, he took her around the waist and lifted her down.
“Ed’s accustomed to being at seven thousand feet. You look a little unsteady. Besides, it’s time for a coffee break.” His hands lingered on her for a second longer before he released her and took a step back. “Are you too dizzy to walk?”
She blinked at him, puzzled by the lack of hostility in his tone. Every fiber of her body was revved up for a fight, and she was in a belligerent mood. He’d worked her like an ox for the past hour, treated her like an indentured servant, and suddenly he was being—what? What was he being? Nice? “I—I can walk.” She eyed him with high suspicion. “So, do you want me to hike back to the cook house for coffee cups?”
His lips twitched. “If you prefer. But I thought we could share the thermos lid.”
A flush heated her frigid cheeks. The idea of sharing anything so intimate as a cup of coffee with this man troubled her.
“And you can eat your breakfast.”
She was even more surprised that he remembered she hadn’t eaten. He led her around to his door and opened it. “Slide in.”
Ed had already shifted to the passenger side, so she did as he asked without argument. If she’d been forced to admit it, she didn’t know how much longer she could have gone on without food. She was pretty shaky. She supposed the altitude was part of her problem, but she had a feeling she was more hungry than she was disoriented from thin air.
“Ed, get back there and finish having.”
The cowman was already half out of the cab. “Yessir, boss,” he shouted, closing the door behind him.
Beau took off his Stetson and placed it behind the seat, then motioned toward the glove compartment. “Your breakfast’s in there.”
As Amy ate, Beau drove along the valley while Ed finished breaking up the hay and pitching it. She turned around to watch what he was doing. The cowboy was much better at the chore than she’d been. “This isn’t Ed’s first day of having.”
Beau grunted out a chuckle. “How can you tell?”
“He has a great wrist twist that looks like it might be hard to master.” She shrugged, turning back. “Oh, well, I’ll learn. Coffee?” With a start, she realized she’d spoken to Beau in a pleasant voice. Where had that come from? Most likely it was because she felt better having eaten.
“I’d love some,” he said, without glancing her way.
She couldn’t unscrew the thermos lid with her gloves on, so she slipped one off. She’d begun to thaw out, and once her skin was exposed to the warmth of the cab, she felt the sting of the blister she’d worn on her palm. She must have made a sound of dismay when she uncovered the raw flesh, for Beau glanced at her.
She flipped her hand over, not wanting him to think she couldn’t handle what he was dishing out. Trying not to wince with pain, she went about her task.
“Damn useless city gloves,’ he groused under his breath.
“Yes, but don’t you think they’re beautiful?” she joked, then immediately wondered why she’d blurted that, of all things?
His thick-lashed eyes touched hers, and for the briefest instant, honest amusement seemed to glimmer between them. The intensity of the experience stunned her. Was there more in his glance than humor? Before she could be sure of all she’d seen, a frown rode his features again. With nostrils flaring, he shifted his attention back to his driving. “There’s a first-aid kit behind your seat. You’d better see to that hand.”
Swallowing thickly, she twisted away to stare out the window, but saw none of the snowy scene before her. An irritation spiced with uneasiness engulfed her. Something intense had flared behind those dusky eyes. Or had it? Her breathing was suddenly labored and her pulse quickened. Had she actually seen masculine attraction there? Surely not. Definitely not! It was crazy. The man didn’t like her. And she certainly didn’t like him.
More importantly, she reminded herself, she was engaged to his father.
Amy sighed, squeezing warm water over her breasts as she relaxed in a hot bath. Even the act of squeezing the washcloth hurt. She was sore all over from the hard, physical work she’d done today.
Opening her eyes, she inhaled the steamy, rosescented water. Even with all the hard work, she was surprised to find she was basking in a glow of satisfaction. She’d kept up, and she’d discovered she enjoyed the exhilarating outdoor life—something, being a city kid, she’d never experienced.
Lifting her right hand, she looked at her red badge of courage. That’s what she called her blister. It stung, but it wasn’t too bad. Beau had bandaged it for her. He’d had a surprisingly gentle touch. Then he’d insisted she wear his fur-lined leather gloves the rest of the day. She didn’t know how his fingers kept from dropping off in the cold, but she noticed a couple of the other cowhands were gloveless, too.
Sighing again, she shook her head. Maybe Wyoming cowboys’ skin had mutated over the centuries to endure ice-age temperatures. That was the only answer she could come up with that seemed plausible to explain why those men hadn’t left brokenoff bits of fingers littering the pastures where they’d spent the day chopping ice from the pond, having and doctoring the cattle for foot rot and some other revolting virus she couldn’t recall.
Her eyelids began to droop, and she was amazed at how tired she was. Dipping her head beneath the water for one last rinse, she came up wringing out her wet hair. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, but she had a feeling she’d fall asleep the instant her head hit the pillow. With both the physical work and the emotional battering her nearness to Beau Diablo had caused her, she didn’t have an ounce of energy left.
Stepping out of the tub and grabbing a towel, she exhaled despondently. Her close proximity to Beau for so many hours had been a distracting experience—the smoky-pine scent of his after-shave, the warmth of his breath on her face every time he’d turned to talk to Ed, and worst of all, the feel of his torso crushed hard against her as the three of them bounced along on that fiendish bench seat that insisted on sloping in Beau’s direction. By the end of the day, she’d been a worn-out, nervous wreck.
Beau, on the other hand, had been in total control, all business, never tiring. Unlike the other cowhands—who watched her, insisting on helping if she appeared confused or cold—Beau hardly seemed to notice she was alive, except when he shouted orders in her direction.
She toweled her hair more fiercely than she’d intended, muttering, “I’ll show you who’s useless, Mr. Beau Diablo!”
She heard a sound and looked up in time to see the hall door swing open. Hastily, she pressed her towel to her breasts to preserve her modesty as her eyes clashed with an all-too-familiar sultry gaze.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, her voice a breathy whisper.
Beau had come to an abrupt halt. His eyes widening slightly, he mouthed an oath.
“I locked that door!” She fumbled to better cover herself.
“Sometimes the latch doesn’t catch.” He frowned. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”
She gave him a look that made it plain she didn’t believe him.
His expression altered from apologetic to annoyed. “I don’t have to burst in on naked women to get sexual gratification, Miss Vale.”
Amy didn’t follow her urge to avoid the severity in his glare, and eyed him levelly. She was unstrung to her soul, standing there practically naked and totally vulnerable before him. But she was angry, too. How dare he loiter there debating with her.
She already knew he disliked her, but she hadn’t missed the look in his eyes when he’d first stepped through the door. He might not care for her as a person, but he had definitely reacted to her as a woman, whether he’d meant to walk in on her or not. She wanted to get back at him for his hurtful remark the night before, and for his ungentlemanly behavior now. Her voice chilled and scathing, she challenged, “Who are you trying to convince, Mr. Diablo? Me— or you?”
His face and body grew rigid, and he frightened her by stalking farther into the bathroom rather than hurriedly leaving as she’d expected. Taking a protective step away, she found herself pinned against the tub. “What—what are you going to do?”
He paused, his flinty eyes raking her face. “Why, ravage you, of course.”
Before she could protest, he’d scooped up several pairs of leather gloves that had been drying on a rack above the heater. He pivoted away, and a second later the bathroom door closed behind him.
Amy stared after him, her breathing shallow, a tight, mortified ache in her stomach. Why in the world had she intimated he was sexually attracted to her? Even though she’d been positive at the time she’d seen lust in his eyes, now she was afraid it might have been nothing more than a trick of light playing on his startled features.
Moaning aloud, she slumped to the tub’s rim. Who did she think she was anyway? Sharon Stone’s sexier sister? Dismay slid through her. How could she ever face the man again?