AMY woke with a start from a nightmare where huge, howling wolves were using battering rams to break into her room. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, growing wary, afraid. Even though she was awake, she could still hear the wolves and their bloodcurdling howls as they clawed and slammed into the walls and roof.
Terror clutched her by the throat, but before a scream could escape, she had grown alert enough to understand it wasn’t an attack of rabid, giant wolves after all. It was the blizzard they’d been both expecting and dreading. It had finally turned south and was here, beating down on them with violent, frigid wings.
Instinctively, she jumped from the bed and threw on some jeans and a heavy wool shirt and raced to the kitchen. As she expected, no one was there. Biting her lip, she peered out the back door’s window. A bawling wind shrieked beyond the frosted glass, blinding snow in its breath. As she stared in awe at the raw power nature could unleash, it slashed madly at the windowpane, a ferocious beast bent on getting at her and ripping her to shreds.
She stumbled a step backward in the face of such wild, yet dazzling savagery, but only for a second. She dared not dwell on it or she would lose her courage. Determinedly, she grabbed her parka and pushed open the door, forcing her fears aside. The wind pressed against the door, nearly throwing her to the floor, but she held on, finally managing to extract herself from the kitchen as the door slammed at her back.
Turning into the flesh-cutting snow, she pulled her parka hood close around her face and bent into the wind, heading for the cook house where she sensed she would find activity, and hopefully, something she could do to help.
The wind ripped at her and shoved her sideways and backward, twice knocking her to her knees, but at last she made it to the cook-house door. Once inside, she fell backward against the thick planks, using all her strength to get it closed.
After the raging storm, the relative silence of the cook house was almost deafening. She glanced round to see Cookie and Archie scurrying around the kitchen area while three of the cowhands sat at the table slugging down coffee and sandwiches.
“What in land’s sake are you doing here, hon?” Cookie hurried over to take hold of stinging hands she’d foolishly forgotten to protect. “Why, you shouldn’t be running around in this heller of a storm!”
“I—I wanted to help,” she managed, still breathing heavily.
“Well, that’s mighty good of you.” Cookie smiled, rubbing life back into her cold fingers. “Me and Archie could use another pair of hands, truth be told. But I don’t know if Mr. Beau’d want his guest workin’.”
Amy smiled and removed her fingers from the compassionate woman’s ministrations. “I’m sure he’d expect me to help.” Numbly, she fumbled to untie her hood. Her fingers tingled painfully and so did her cheeks and nose. She wasn’t used to the sort of cold Wyoming could dish out, and decided she’d better take more care to bundle up from now on. This kind of cold could kill very quickly. “What—what do you want me to do?”
“Maybe make us another big pot of strong coffee?” Cookie suggested.
“How strong?” Amy followed the older woman to the kitchen area, where a big, stainless-steel urn stood in a corner, emitting fragrant steam.
Cookie laughed. “That’s easy. Just make it strong enough to haul a broke-down pickup, hon, and it’ll be dandy.”
Amy nodded, unsure how strong that might be, but deciding it was probably a million times stronger than she’d ever considered making coffee. “Tow-truck strength it is.” She headed for the coffee urn, determined not to mess up her first emergency assignment. They might have to eat it with a fork, but if nothing else, her coffee would be strong.
The hours blurred. If she wasn’t shoveling coffee into the urn, she was slicing beef or smearing bread with mustard, piling on lettuce, pickles, cheese, or washing ton after ton of dishes, as the cowboys took shifts breaking ice and feeding the three thousand head of cattle that were wintering there.
She’d overheard a couple of the hands talking about ten young cows that were having babies during the blizzard—calving, they’d called it. Even though they were in the relative warmth of the barn, she had a feeling this wasn’t the most ideal night for little baby cows to come into the world. She wished the little guys and their mommies luck. She supposed cows were no luckier than humans when it came to timing a baby’s birth. Didn’t it always seem like babies were born in the worst possible circumstances? In taxis or storms or theater lobbies?
She didn’t have time to dwell on the miracle of birth happening nearby. She had cold, hungry men to feed. Hours ago, she’d slipped into her cocktail-waitress mentality and was moving automatically amid the chaos and noise, smiling, serving, cleaning up, smiling, serving.
Along about dawn, she laid a plate loaded down with two roast beef sandwiches and a mound of barbecued beans before yet another cowboy. Noticing the pitcher of cream was empty, she reached across to pick it up, intent on refilling it, but felt a hand grip her wrist. “What the hell are you doing?” came her host’s accusatory voice.
She stared down into critical eyes, startled to discover she’d just served Beau without realizing it. She must be more woozy from lack of sleep than she’d thought. Had it only been last night when he’d ambled into her bathroom, humiliated her beyond repair, then grabbed up some gloves and promptly forgotten about her? So much for her fears of how she’d ever face him again. He was his old, disagreeable self.
She jerked from his grasp. “I’m dancing Swan Lake! What does it look like I’m doing?” Startled to hear herself so uncharacteristically snappish, she sighed wearily. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tired. Do you want coffee?”
His eyes narrowed, and he continued to watch her for another few seconds. She noticed he looked fatigued around his eyes, his hair was wet and mussed and his striking features were snowburned. She swallowed at the sight. He and his men were fighting a rough battle against blinding, freezing elements she’d only spent a few seconds struggling against. What must they be suffering in an effort to save their cattle? Against her better judgment, her heart went out to him. She was about to wish him luck when he nodded curtly in answer to her question about coffee, then, without further comment, lowered his gaze to his plate to continue eating.
Aware that she’d been summarily dismissed, she spun away, her ire sparking again. “You’re welcome, Mr. Diablo. Happy to help!” she grumbled, heading for the coffee urn.
She was tired, but not so tired that she didn’t notice Beau leaving in a billow of windblown snow. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped what she was doing until the cowman, Ed, touched her arm. “Miss Amy,” he asked tentatively, “is them sandwiches for me?”
She snapped back to reality, grinned down at him and handed him his refilled plate. “Coffee coming up,” she said as cheerfully as she could, then spun away to refill his mug.
The blizzard raged on and on, abusing the little cook house from all sides as wind-driven snow swirled and ranted and shrieked outside. Amy was accustomed to the cook-house door opening and closing every fifteen minutes or so with a new batch of ravenous, snow-covered cowhands coming and going. But when the door suddenly burst wide open with an explosive bang, she lurched around in shock and fear, almost depositing a pile of hot barbecued beans in Marv’s lap. The cowhand caught the tipping plate, but Amy hardly noticed as Beau surged into the room, a bandanna covering his nose and mouth and his coat collar turned up. He looked like an Old West bandit, and Amy’s pulse accelerated against her will. He was loaded down with a large bundle clutched in his arms, a couple of gangly brown legs and hoofed feet protruding from the horse blanket he carried.
As she stared, he stalked to the fireplace and spread the blanket over the oval rag rug, displaying a spindling newborn calf, all brown with a precious white face and the biggest black eyes. The poor little thing seemed so weak it was barely able to lift its head. “We need to warm this one up,” Beau shouted, yanking down his bandanna. “Cookie!” he called.
“Boss, it’ll be a minute.” She held up flour-coated hands. “I’m in the middle of a batch of biscuits.”
Amy was standing a few feet from where Beau was kneeling and rubbing the calf with a gloved hand. Setting the plate in front of Marv, she turned toward the sickly animal sprawled before the fire, and her heart twisted with concern. “I—can I help?” Having always lived in apartments in the city, she’d never even owned a dog, so she wasn’t sure what to do with a sick calf. But it looked so pitiful and sweet, with those big, sorrowful eyes aimed her way. She had to do something.
She was on her knees beside the shivering calf before Beau had time to respond. When she placed a hand on the baby’s thin rib cage and began to mimic Beau’s stroking movements, she could hear him shift to look at her. For a minute, she didn’t look back, just continued to stroke along the calf’s silky, damp fur. “Like this?” When he didn’t immediately answer, she reluctantly met his gaze.
His glare drilled through her. “What the hell sort of game are you playing, Miss Vale?”
Hurt by his continued antagonism, she grew defiant. “It’s obviously too alien an idea for you to grasp, Mr. Diablo. But just so you’ll recognize it in the future, it’s called trying to help. Now, am I doing this right or not?”
They stared at each other, the sparks of their mutual hostility almost visible in the air around them. A weak bawling sound brought them back, and Beau snapped his attention away to look at the calf, automatically patting it. When his hand brushed hers, Amy drew away from his touch, but continued to stroke the shivery animal.
“Try to get her to take some milk.” He retrieved a baby bottle from beneath his coat and thrust it toward her. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours to check on her.” When she took the bottle, he stood, half pivoted away, then stopped.
Amy looked up at him, prepared for another outburst of bad temper. When she met his eyes, she was startled to see something else mingled with the antipathy glimmering there. What was it? Guarded civility? Possibly even gratitude? His jaw shifted from side to side, and his nostrils flared. She stiffened, waiting, but for what she didn’t know.
Yanking off his hat, he dragged a hand through his hair and spun to leave. As he did, she thought she heard him mutter something. Whatever it had been, it was more growled than spoken, but she was almost sure he’d uttered one small but significant word— Thanks.
She stared after him as he tromped off and swung open the door, exiting in a riot of storm-tossed snow.
Bewildered, she shifted back to her trembly charge. Scooting closer, she supported its wobbly head in her lap. “Did he really say that, little one?” She rubbed its scrawny neck. “Or am I so exhausted I’m having fits of delirium?”
Amy felt warm and cozy, except for a little crick in her neck. The bed seemed hard, and her pillow was missing. But she was so tired she didn’t mind. It was nice just getting the chance to sleep.
She heard an odd shushing sound, then a scrape of wood against wood, followed quickly by what sounded like a masculine murmur. She stretched and sighed. Probably just the wind—the everlasting, pummeling blizzard.
A cough registered in her sleep-hazed brain. Wind didn’t cough, did it? She stirred again, her eyes fluttering open a crack. She saw what seemed like the flicker of firelight, then closed her eyes. It was so toasty and welcome against her face she didn’t want to wake up and find it was only a dream. She turned slightly, her hand coming to rest on something furry— and moving? She slid her fingers over it, perplexed. Why did her sheets feel as if they were covered in hair—and breathing?
Her eyes came wide open, and she looked around, hoping she was wrong about where she was. Unfortunately, the first thing her glance came to rest on was a pair of familiar black cowboy boots. Her glance surged up to take in the man lounging not far away at the cook-house table.
She swallowed, forcing her gaze upward to his face, indistinct beneath the wide brim of a cowboy hat. Even though she couldn’t see his features well, she had a terrible feeling a pair of hypercritical eyes were trained on her.
“Good morning, Miss Vale,” Beau drawled, pushing the wide brim back with his thumb. “Sleep well?” She could see his face now and was startled to note that he was less grim than she’d imagined he would be. But she wasn’t relieved, for what she did see was worse. His eyes held the glitter of wry amusement. No doubt he found her inability to keep up during a blizzard highly satisfying. He seemed to be silently saying “I told you so,” and that hurt! The superior bum! But she had to admit, she had failed— even in her own eyes. Abashed, she lowered her perusal to the sleeping calf and nervously stroked its rib cage.
She heard a few throats being cleared and her gaze flew back up. For the first time, she became aware that most of the cowhands were gathered around the long table, quietly eating. Apparently they’d tried to be quiet in deference to their sleeping guest.
Feeling like a complete fool, she struggled to sit, drawing a drowsy moo from her sleepy charge, its head still nestled in her lap. “What time is it?” she asked, brushing a stray wisp of hair from her face.
“Around ten. Blizzard’s letting up.” Cookie hurried over with a mug of steaming coffee. “You ought to go back to bed, hon. Archie and me can handle things from here on.”
She gratefully took the mug and sipped, grimacing at the bitter taste. “No—no, I’m fine,” she lied.
“The calf doing okay?” Beau queried, even though he was fully aware that Amy’s attention had not been riveted on the animal lately.
Her cheeks went fiery at his continued taunting, but she worked at ignoring it. “Well—she had a couple of bottles of milk after she quit shivering. Then she settled down and slept.” Unable to meet his gaze, she asked, “Doesn’t she look better to you?”
He got up from the bench to kneel beside her. “I think she can go back to her mother now.”
He gathered the blanket around the calf, but when he began to lift her, Amy put a restraining hand on his arm. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
He looked at her, then at her hand resting on his arm. When he looked back, his features had eased into a contrary grin. “I’m fairly sure it’s a good idea, Miss Vale, even though I’ve only had thirty-five years of ranching experience.”
She didn’t doubt that he knew his business, but she couldn’t help the way she felt. She’d bonded with this little creature and was unhappy with the idea of it going out in such bitter cold. “What if she gets chilled?”
“Her mother can take care of her now.”
Amy frowned as he lifted the baby in his arms. “You’re not going to kill her and eat her, are you?”
He shifted to stare at her, his brows knitting. “You’re going to make a fine rancher’s wife.”
“Are you?”
He shrugged, readjusting his bundle, its big black eyes on her. “She’ll grow up and have babies of her own, Miss Vale. Feel better?”
She inhaled deeply, surprised she’d been holding her breath. Scrambling up, she patted the calf between its eyes. “See you later, Desiree,” she whispered.
“Desiree?” Beau echoed incredulously.
“I named her that.” She squared her shoulders mutinously. “She looks like a Desiree to me. What does she look like to you?”
There were a couple of snickers from his men. “I think she looks like a Desiree, boss,” Ed piped up.
“Heck, yeah,” Marv interjected. “If I said it once today, I said it a thousand times. Now that little heifer is a Desiree if I ever seen one!”
Beau frowned at his men. “You’re all very funny. Maybe you should give up ranching and go on the comedy-club circuit.”
Laughter abounded and Amy blinked in surprise. She looked back and forth from Beau to his men, surprised to discover that they liked him well enough to kid with him. Oddly, he didn’t seem upset. His lips quirked in what looked very much like the beginnings of a grin. “Bye, Desiree, sweetheart,” she ventured cautiously, offering a small smile as she stroked its soft forehead. “I’ll come visit you.”
As if in answer, the cow gave out a loud bawl and licked her hand.
“Lord,” Beau muttered, turning to go amid wry calls from his cowhands of “So long, Desiree” and “Keep warm, little Desiree.”
Amy couldn’t stifle a giggle. For once, he was on the receiving end of the teasing, and she was tickled to witness it.
Even amid the jovial chatter, she had a feeling he heard her laugh, for at the door he paused. His gaze veered her way, and she froze, stunned and more disconcerted now than she’d been since she first met Beau Diablo. She thought he would stare daggers at her, but he didn’t. His striking blue eyes held the flicker of grudging humor, and somehow, that disturbed her more than his fury ever had.
Wyoming was a white wonderland to Amy. Everything was half-buried in snowdrifts three to five feet deep, and trenches crisscrossed the land where cowhands on horseback trekked from buildings to barns to equipment sheds to pastures, and where they continuously had to break up ice on the creek and ponds and feed and doctor the cattle.
She’d grabbed a quick shower, but was back in the cook house in time to help Cookie and Archie serve beef stew and biscuits for lunch. Now, she was sitting in the back of a sleigh wagon full of hay bales, snow falling gently around her. The two husky horses drawing the wagon were high-stepping through the snow, huffing and puffing clouds of white in the frigid, overcast afternoon.
Ed was driving the team and Marv was nearby, cutting wire from around the bales in preparation for distributing the hay when they reached the low pasture where hungry cattle lowed and loitered.
The wagon topped a rise and she could see the cattle. Hundreds and hundreds roamed the valley, some tan, some black, some white with blotches of brown. Sitting tall in the saddle, roaming among them, she spied the unmistakable form of Beau Diablo. He was motioning, shouting orders to his men, but he was too far away for Amy to distinguish what he was saying.
She turned to Marv, the bearded bear of a man who spoke rarely, but when he did, it was bound to be witty. “Marv,” she asked, drawing his squinty gaze, “what are they doing?” She gestured toward Beau.
Marv shifted his ceaseless squint toward his boss just as Beau began to spin a rope above his head. Before Amy could register what was happening, he’d dropped the lasso over a nearby steer. The animal didn’t seem thrilled at being roped around the neck, and tried to scamper away. As he kicked and struggled, another cowboy lassoed his hind legs and yanked, toppling the cow on its side. As it fell, Beau dismounted and ran to the squirming beast. A third cowhand joined his boss, holding the cow still.
“He’s playin’ doctor today, ma’am.” Making a pained face, Marv shook his shaggy head. “I can’t stomach watchin’ him stick them cows with a needle. Passed clean out a couple of times. So I get hayin’ duty. Which is fine by me.”
Amy watched as Beau kneeled beside the steer’s rump. Though he was too far away for her to discern details, she could tell by his movements that he was giving the poor thing a shot. “Why’s he doing it?” she asked, feeling queasy.
“That yearling’s got pinkeye. After the boss sticks it, he’ll spray his bad eye with medicine. Leastways that’s what I hear. Never seen it myself, ‘cause once I see that needle, I’m suckin’ sod.”
Amy swallowed spasmodically. She glanced away, noticing the man still in his saddle was straining on his rope, working to keep the animal immobile. After a minute, Beau moved to the cow’s head and treated the infected eye with an aerosol spray. The cowboy who had been holding the steer stroked its exposed side with some kind of stick. “What’s he doing now?”
“Paint stick,” Marv explained minimally. “OI’ Homer paints ‘em with the date, so the boss knows when that steer’s been doctored and can check it in a couple of days.”
“Oh…” Amy wondered if giving cows shots would become part of her job one day. She didn’t like shots much, and cringed at the idea that she’d humiliate herself by ending up fainting, too. Trying to quell a growing discomfort in her stomach, she took a couple of deep breaths. Her gaze drifted back to Beau as he retrieved his rope and pulled himself into his saddle with a masculine grace that bordered on criminal. Turning abruptly away from the stimulating sight, she called to Ed, “Uh—let me know when to start forking this stuff out to them.”
He leaned around to smile at her, his droopy mustache frosty and stiff. “You sure you don’t want to drive the team, Miss Amy? Me and Marv can pitch the hay.”
She smiled back. “I’d drive us into a tree.”
“I could teach you real quick,” he offered, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.
Amy sensed that he had a bit of a crush on her. Though he was trying to hide it, he wasn’t doing very well. Not wanting to encourage him, she shook her head. “Maybe someday after I get really good at haying—”
“Your optimism is admirable, Miss Vale.”
Amy jerked around to find Beau astride his black stallion, trotting up behind them. Surprised by his relatively pleasant response, she said, “Why— thanks.”
He grinned, a dashing, crooked show of teeth that brought out a roguish dimple in one cheek. She had no idea why, but the out-of-character charm sent a tingle of unease along her spine. “On the other hand,” he drawled, “it’s been said that an optimist is someone who hasn’t had enough experience.”
That did it! She’d taken all the ridicule from this man she could stand. Bristling, she cried, “I’d rather be an optimistic fool than an arrogant tyrant!” Her anger drove her to her feet. “I’ve tried to think well of you, Mr. Diablo, but I’ve had enough of your disapproving attitude. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a bitter, suspicious man, and I feel sorry for you!”
Without having to look, she knew Ed and Marv were staring in horror. The wagon had stopped, and it seemed as though the whole world had gone starkly silent. She hadn’t known her host long, but one thing she was sure of. Beau Diablo was not a man who allowed himself to be insulted in public and then granted pardon easily. She had a feeling that if the roads weren’t still closed west of them, she’d soon be standing waist-deep in snow, thumbing a ride to Diablo Butte. From the glower on his face, she had a sinking feeling she might be anyway, closed roads or no closed roads.
His jaw worked for what seemed like an eternity. It was agonizingly clear he was reining in his temper and finding the job difficult. “Marv!” He shifted his sparking gaze to the bearded cowboy squatting motionless amid the bales. “You and Ed finish the having. I’m shorthanded at the creek. I thought Miss Vale could help over there.” Urging his mount up beside the wagon, he held out a hand to her. “Slip onto the saddle in front of me. It’s too far to walk.”
Now it was Amy’s turn to stare in horror. She had no intention—no desire whatsoever—to be that close to him. Besides, she’d never ridden a horse in her life. “On—on that?” she squeaked.
“I’m fresh out of sports cars at the moment.” He lifted a sardonic brow. “The best rancher’s wife in Wyoming would be able to ride a horse.”
That was a dare if she’d ever heard one. She could tell from the steely hardness of his eyes that he’d like nothing better than to have her decline, admit she couldn’t take it. She’d be darned if she’d give him the satisfaction.
Even as determined as she was, she hesitated. There was no room on the saddle for her. She’d be in his lap! “But—but I won’t be riding the horse, I’ll be riding—” She clamped her lips closed, avoiding his eyes. More quietly, she asked, “Couldn’t I please have my own horse?”
His exhale was born of aggravation. “The cattle don’t have time for you to indulge in a charade of modesty, Miss Vale. We have work to do.”
She hated to admit it, but he was right. It would take an hour for him to go back to the ranch headquarters and get her a horse. And she couldn’t plod around in three feet of snow for very long without dropping out of sight from exhaustion and freezing to death—since he’d eat his fancy boots before he’d send out a search party.
Reluctantly handing her pitchfork to Marv, she took hold of the wagon’s rail and lifted one boot over the edge. The black stallion whinnied, but was otherwise very still. She was grateful for that, but paused, not quite sure how to go about settling onto Beau’s thighs. It wasn’t so much that she wasn’t sure how to do it; gravity would take care of getting on. It was more that she was trying to figure out how to best do it without touching him.
“Dammit, I’m not a nest of rattlesnakes.” She felt herself being grasped by the waist and set squarely on his hard thighs. She didn’t know if it was the landing or the unsettling location, but her breath caught in her chest and she couldn’t speak.
They’d traveled some distance from the wagon when she found her voice, but she didn’t know what to say. Hysteria was bubbling up inside her, and she had to fight an urge to burst into tears. Whether her emotional turmoil was because of pure exhaustion, Beau’s incessant rudeness or his unwelcome intimacy, she couldn’t fathom.
She knew she’d overreacted back on the wagon. She knew she was overreacting now. But knowing it didn’t seem to help, not with Beau’s thighs warm against her hips, making her crazy. And that realization made her angry. She didn’t know if she was angrier at herself or at him. She couldn’t think straight. Whatever it was, she simply couldn’t stop herself from hissing, “I’ve met a lot of jerks in my work, but I’ve never met a man I despised so completely as I despise you!”
A chuckle near her ear astounded her. After that outburst, she’d expected him to toss her into a snowbank and leave her to be devoured by buzzards after the spring thaw. “Well, well,” he whispered. “Maybe it would do you good to work off some of that healthy hatred wielding a sledgehammer.”
She sagged with defeat. What was with this man? It was almost as if he was trying to make her hate him, pushing her away with taunts and sarcasm. She had no idea why anyone would deliberately do such a thing, but if that was Beau’s aim, he was succeeding beautifully. “You have a charming way of motivating people, Mr. Diablo.”
Another chuckle rumbled through her as his exhilarating aroma invaded her senses. Blanching, she clutched the saddle horn, leaning as far away from his chest as possible. Unfortunately, there was no escaping the manly feel of him beneath her as they bounced through the snowy meadow. It mortified her to discover how stirring his closeness was, even now, after she’d made it very clear she felt nothing for him but contempt.