“I SWEAR—” Jackson West’s laconic drawl was directed at no one in particular “—if I hear one more word about that thirty-pound bull trout Logan Hatcher pulled out of the river, I’m headin’ right back to the ranch.”
Jackson was just as tired of talking about knapweed, last summer’s drought and the worst predator to ever threaten the endangered wildlife of Montana, which meant Californians. In fact, Jackson had already heard every conversation taking place inside Dusty’s Moose Head Saloon at least a thousand times before. What he needed was some excitement. A new challenge. Not to mention a warm, willing woman.
Jackson stared hopefully down Dusty’s bar, but all he saw was a long line of cowboys in Wrangler jeans, plaid shirts, boots and Western-style hats. All were standing; an unseasonable snow up on Miracle Mountain had forced an early autumn roundup, so even men born to the saddle were too sore to sit, including Jackson. The good news was that made women easier to spot, since they were the only folks sitting down on the bar stools. The bad news was that all eleven women in Dusty’s were either happily married or directly related to Jackson.
On Jackson’s right, his sister, Darla, had spread her fanzines on the bar. On his left, his brother, Austin, twined fingers with his wife, Crystal, who was six months pregnant with the baby that would make Jackson an uncle six times over. The rest of Jackson’s siblings—there were seven Wests altogether—milled with their spouses around Dusty’s, which was more a friendly pub than a hard-drinking establishment. Everybody looked so cozy. Whereas Jackson—eldest of the West clan and head of the Bar Triple Cross since their daddy’s death—was about to face his thirty-third cold Montana winter alone. Which was the real reason Jackson was in such a bad mood.
He’d thought his problems were solved when he’d met a cute therapist in the nearby town of Silver Spoon. Trouble was, she’d kept trying to analyze him. On their first date, she’d announced he was the strong, silent cowboy type—and it wasn’t a compliment. Then, on the second date, she’d shown him a psychology textbook, in which it said that every man—Jackson included—possessed something called a Freudian Oedipal complex. That meant, whether Jackson realized it or not, he was cursed by a secret, subconscious desire to sleep with his own mother. It was, hands down, the most insane thing Jackson had ever heard.
Last night had been the icing on the cake. The therapist had asked him to drive over so they could “have a little chat.” When she’d served herbal tea in a cup so dainty his callused hand wrapped around it twice, Jackson should have guessed he was in a heap of trouble. And sure enough, after much throat clearing, she’d asked him to go to couples’ counseling.
Maybe he was wrong. But in the world according to Jackson, three dinner dates weren’t enough for any woman—even a trained therapist—to decide he lacked a sensitive side. So he’d nipped the romance in the bud—and broke up. Still, he’d lain awake all last night, staring at the ceiling and worrying. At this rate, he’d never get hitched.
“Darla—” Jackson turned to his little sister “—do I lack a sensitive side?”
Darla stared up from her fanzines. His sister had his same golden hair and cornflower blue eyes. “You?” Darla said. “A sensitive side?” And then she burst out laughing.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Darla.”
Jackson turned back to the bar, his gaze taking in the moose head mounted over the bar mirror. An Easter bonnet was nestled between the antlers which, in turn, were still strung with last year’s Christmas lights. With true cowboy machismo, Dusty always swore he’d “hunted down that moose and killed it like a man.” But everybody knew the poor animal had really died of old age in the saloon owner’s backyard. Dusty couldn’t kill anything if his life depended on it.
Dusty, Jackson thought enviously, had a sensitive side.
Scrutinizing himself in the bar mirror, Jackson decided he didn’t look insensitive. He had hay-colored hair, a lick of which fell from beneath his tan Stetson and curled on his forehead, and squinty blue eyes women described as dreamy. His body was typical of most cowboys, with big, bronzed callused hands, a strong torso, a slim bony behind and rangy, muscular bowed legs. Oh, he was a little unpolished—used to roughhousing, and some hard drinking and betting on occasion, especially with his best buddy and favorite competitor, Logan Hatcher. But then, Jackson was a healthy thirty-three-year-old rancher; working hard and playing hard came with the territory.
He must have looked worried, because his sister finally sighed. “Sorry, Jackson. But you’ve played footsies with every available woman between here and Bozeman.”
Because Bozeman was hundreds of miles due south, Jackson started to protest, but then he decided maybe Darla had a point. “Why, sure,” he drawled. “But that’s because I like women. Doesn’t that make me sensitive?”
Darla rolled her eyes heavenward. After a moment, she smiled indulgently. “Lighten up. No matter what your girlfriends say, I’ll always love you, Jackson. Besides, big brother, you’re so cute you don’t really need to be sensitive.”
But obviously he did. At least if he wanted a wife. Shrugging off his women troubles, Jackson zeroed in on the conversations circling around the bar. Thankfully, Logan had quit bragging about his oversize trout. Now the topic was Californians again.
“Most celebrities buy down around Bozeman or Livingston, not here,” Austin was saying. “And I, for one, think Montana would be a better place if they’d all hop on their horses and ride off into the sunset. Just like in the movies, which is where they belong.”
“But why would she come now, right before winter?” Crystal asked. “Celebrities always clear out by September.”
She? Jackson’s ears perked up. “She who?”
“Purity,” said Austin.
Jackson had never heard of her. “Who?”
“Ask Darla,” teased Logan from the other end of the bar. “She’s best friends with everybody in New York and Hollywood.”
That drew a few chuckles, since Darla read fanzines religiously and habitually talked about celebrities as if they were her next of kin. Darla riffled through some pages, then slid a picture toward Jackson. She tapped the page with a perfectly manicured nail. “That’s Purity.”
Pure wasn’t how Jackson would have described her. She was in her twenties, with wavy platinum-blond, jaw-length hair. A sexy mole was beside her pouty mouth, and she had a voluptuous body—full breasts and hips. In the picture, she was strutting across a stage, dressed for sin in short cutoffs and a black leather lace-up corset with bra cups spangled in silver studs. Absently, Jackson’s hand rose to his chest, and he rubbed his palm on his plaid flannel shirt, over his heart. Loosing his most soulful wolf whistle, he softly drawled, “Now there’s a warm, willing woman.”
“Oh, Jackson,” Darla said in censure. “I feel sorry for her. She just got dumped!”
Even though Purity was a celebrity—and nothing more to him than a picture in a fanzine—Jackson’s chest squeezed tight. Was this sinful-looking blond woman really available? “I’ve never heard of her,” Jackson murmured, still staring wistfully at the picture.
“She sings heavy metal music,” Darla informed him.
Jackson shrugged. He kept the radio in his pickup tuned to country-western. “What’s her last name?”
“She only has one name,” Darla continued conversationally. “You know, like Cher or Madonna. But if she doesn’t sign her new contract, she won’t have a name at all. She’ll be a has-been.”
Austin shook his head in mock horror. “Imagine. Becoming a has-been at that age!”
“Austin, you were a has-been before you were born,” Jackson returned, winking at his sister-in-law, who’d learned to take the ribbing between the West men in stride.
“At least I’ve got a woman to keep me warm this winter…” Austin’s fingers tightened through those of his pregnant wife. “Which is more than I can say for you, Jackson.”
Tipping back his Stetson, Jackson chuckled. “Oh, c’mon, Austin. After Darla and Crystal dressed you up like a woman for last year’s annual Halloween dance, you had to marry Crystal just to save your masculine pride.”
Logan hooted from the other end of the bar. “Austin sure did have sexy legs, though. Didn’t he, Jackson?”
“Cleavage, too,” agreed Jackson.
“I did a good job on that costume,” Darla said defensively.
“You did.” Jackson grinned at the memory of his little brother, decked out in a blue sequined gown and high heels. If Jackson hadn’t known better, he would have asked his own brother to dance.
Logan said, “He looked enough like a bona fide woman to scare the tar out of me.”
“It was Halloween,” Darla shot back, “He was supposed to be scary.”
Logan winked. “Hey, Jackson, Halloween’s only weeks away. Maybe this year you’ll be Darla’s next victim.”
Darla actually looked hopeful.
Jackson frowned down at his kid sister. Darla’s dream was to get a job in Hollywood as a makeup artist. For now, she owned a hair salon, which had also—because of the gossip that ran rampant inside—become a job placement agency. The sign in the salon window said Hair, Makeovers And Employment Networking. “You’ll never get me in a dress, Darla,” Jackson assured her.
From the other end of the bar, Logan suddenly whistled. “Not the McGregor place!”
“Wait a minute,” Austin said. “Did Purity buy the McGregor place?”
Darla nodded.
“The McGregor place?” Crystal echoed in horror.
Jackson kept his mouth shut. Nobody knew that he, not a McGregor relative back east, had owned the old McGregor property.
“I’ve got a Californian living next to me?” Logan roared, spitting out the word Californian as if it were the vilest curse.
“I think she’s really from New York,” Darla said helpfully.
Jackson bit back a smile. “See, Logan,” he drawled, “if you’d sold me that strip of land I’ve been trying to buy from you for the last fifteen years, then it would be me, not you, who was sharing a property line with a Californian.”
Logan scowled. “If I have to live next to ten Californians, you’re not getting that property, Jackson.”
Jackson merely shrugged. Somehow he’d figure out a scheme to get that land. He’d hoped selling the adjacent lot to a Californian would force Logan to sell, but now he guessed not.
Austin was squinting. “And Purity paid how much?”
“She told me a half million dollars,” said Darla.
Crystal gasped. “She paid that much? And you actually talked to Purity, Darla? The Purity?”
Darla hemmed and hawed, saying she had a responsibility to protect Purity’s privacy, but then she admitted, “Purity contacted me after she saw the employment networking sign in my salon window as she drove into town. She needs a housekeeper. She’s madder than a hornet that she accidentally paid so much money for that cow camp shack.”
Jackson winced. Maybe his description of the property in the Los Angeles Times ad had stretched the truth, but he’d never expected some high-toned agent to call and offer such an outrageous sum, sight unseen. Of course Jackson had taken the money. After all, he was a businessman, in charge of the largest ranch in this part of Montana. He’d had no idea who the real buyer was—until now. He feigned only casual interest. “Purity’s looking for a housekeeper?”
“That shack needs a wrecking crew!” Logan exploded. “Nobody could live there!”
Darla shook her head, clearly scandalized. “It doesn’t even have an indoor toilet, just a bathtub, and there’s only a woodstove for heat! When I talked to her, she was really mad. I mean, screaming mad. She said she was besieged by reporters and that she didn’t want to see anybody—especially not any men. She just wants one person to come. A lady, who can straighten up the place for her and run errands.”
“And so you’re really supposed to find her a housekeeper?” Crystal asked.
Darla nodded. “I said I would.”
“You know,” Crystal continued in a near non sequitur, “when our church group visited that poor little girl who’s in the hospital down in Silver Spoon, she mentioned that Purity was her favorite singer.”
Jackson nearly groaned out loud. The meandering conversations in Dusty’s always came full circle, so he should have known this subject would resurface. Last week, a couple from Wyoming had wrecked their car in front of Dusty’s, and their twelve-year-old daughter was still in the hospital in the adjacent town. Jackson felt so bad about the injured little girl that he could barely stand to hear about it.
“Hey,” Austin said now, “I wager Jackson could figure out how to get Purity’s autograph for that poor little girl.”
Crystal’s eyes went soft. “Oh, I bet he could! You can figure out how to do anything, can’t you, Jackson?”
Darla shook her head. “Since she got dumped, Purity really doesn’t want men anywhere near her.”
In spite of Darla’s warning, one thing led to another—until Austin was saying, “Now, Jackson, if you get Purity’s autograph for that little girl, then me and the hands promise we’ll vaccinate all the cattle without your help this year.”
Jackson had to admit that sounded good.
“And you get me a corset similar to that—” Dusty leaned over Darla and pointed at Purity’s leather, silver-studded top in the magazine picture “—and I’ll buy your drinks for a month.”
Jackson couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t mean to pry, Dusty,” he drawled, “but why would you want a corset?”
Dusty pointed his thumb toward the moose head above the bar. “It’ll keep her from catching cold this winter.”
Jackson guffawed, imagining the moose clad in the Easter bonnet, Christmas lights and Purity’s corset.
“I’ll go everybody one better,” Logan called out.
Darla groaned. “I knew this was coming.”
Logan chuckled. “First, Jackson gets the autograph, then he gets the corset. And then, if he sleeps with Purity—” Logan absently touched the brim of his Stetson and flashed a wide grin around the saloon “—I’ll give him that strip of land he’s been trying to buy from me for the last fifteen years.”
Jackson didn’t know why, but he and his best buddy had been going head to head since they’d first locked horns in grade school. Jackson. said, “What proof would you need?”
Logan shrugged. “Just your word.”
Jackson nodded. He’d never lied to win a bet. “You’ll give me the deed to that land if I sleep with her?”
“Have sex,” Logan clarified. “And with one stipulation. To get to the McGregor place, you can’t hop my electric fence or go through the Simpsons’ property. To meet her, you have to go right in through her front gate.”
That didn’t sound too difficult until Darla spoke up. “Too bad, Jackson. The McGregor place is locked up tighter than a drum. There’s news media camped out in front and the sheriff from Silver Spoon is making sure no one gets past except the housekeepers I’m setting up for Purity to interview.”
“Ha,” said Logan, looking satisfied. “You’d have to get through all those people just to say hello to the woman, Jackson. And Purity won’t see any men. Looks like you’ve lost to me again, buddy.”
But Jackson was determined to get his hands on the land Logan was offering. “Want to bet?”
Logan grinned. “Looks like we just did, partner.”
Jackson realized Darla was gaping at him. “Did I do something wrong, Darla?”
“Why, heavens no, Jackson. You just made a bet that involves having sex with a woman you’ve never even met” Darla sighed wearily and turned her fanzine page. “Pray tell,” she continued, “is this your sensitive side in action again?”
“THIS IS A BAD IDEA,” Jackson drawled, even as he unbuttoned his plaid flannel shirt and shrugged out of it.
“Quit fidgeting!” Darla exclaimed. “And quit complaining. When Howard Stern promoted his book, he wore a gold sequined dress on the David Letterman show. Even one of the mayors of New York, Rudolph Giuliani, dressed in a gown for a fundraiser. Robin Williams did it in the movie Mrs. Doubtfire, and Dustin Hoffman was a woman in Tootsie—”
“Dustin Hoffman doesn’t drink in Dusty’s,” Jackson reminded her, feeling suddenly testy.
Not that Darla noticed. “And just think—” her clipped rational tone was becoming annoying “—a century ago, women weren’t even allowed to wear pants. And now they can wear almost anything—suits and ties, boxer shorts and combat boots.”
“Great,” said Jackson dryly. He’d rather see a woman in a short skirt and high heels any day.
“It is great.”
“And this is really a bad idea.” Jackson winced as his sister tweezed yet another recalcitrant hair from his upper lip.
“Without my written recommendation and unless you’re dressed for the housekeeper’s job,” Darla warned, “you’ll never get past the security at Purity’s front gate.”
“Believe me,” Jackson said through clenched teeth, “I’ve already considered every possible option. And anyway, I thought you were totally against this bet I made with Logan.”
“Oh, I think you’re both totally juvenile.”
“So why are you helping me?”
Darla steadied herself against his bare shoulder, then dabbed foundation on his forehead with a sponge. “First, because I now have the toughest cowboy in Northern Montana at my mercy. Second, because turning you into a woman is a showcase for my talents. And third, because it’s my civic duty.”
“What is?”
“Making sure my big brother doesn’t take advantage of women. Purity just got dumped by one jerk.” Darla suddenly grinned, looking mighty pleased with herself. “I figure you can’t seduce her if you have to wear a dress.”
“You’ve got a point there,” Jackson murmured, still wondering how he was going to accomplish the last part of his three-tier mission—sleeping with Purity so he could get his hands on Logan’s land.
“Besides,” Darla continued, “dressed this way, I do think you might get Purity’s autograph for that little girl who’s in the hospital. And I think that’s sweet” Darla stepped back and scrutinized Jackson, tilting her head this way and that. “You might even get one of her corsets.”
He’d get the land from Logan, too. It was all that kept the Wests’ ranch, the Bar Triple Cross, from having a southern road access. Jackson glanced around grimly. So far, the closest he’d gotten to Purity was Wyatt Simpson’s rustic cabin next door. It smelled of booze and stale tobacco, and Wyatt was passed out in the other room.
Catching Jackson’s gaze, Darla shook her head. “You’re sure Wyatt won’t mind us being here?”
“Positive.”
Darla began tweezing Jackson’s lip again. “What a waste of a good man.”
Jackson nodded. He’d felt so sorry for Wyatt, who’s drinking had worsened after his parents died, that when Wyatt could no longer make payments on this property, Jackson had anonymously bought it. That way, the bank wouldn’t foreclose and turn the young man out onto the street. When Wyatt was sober enough, Jackson gave him work on the ranch. Sometimes he’d also drop by with cash or groceries, hoping to talk Wyatt, who was Darla’s age, into sobering up. Wyatt had been the water boy for Jackson’s high school football team, and Jackson could still remember his bright-eyed eagerness, his dark-eyed good looks. Now, Wyatt’s once sparkling eyes were bloodshot, his glossy black hair was unkempt, as were his scraggly black beard and mustache.
Well, for the moment, Jackson’s efforts to help Wyatt amounted to one thing—he could use this cabin. If Wyatt woke up and realized what Jackson was doing, he’d help keep it hush-hush. Jackson couldn’t have changed clothes at the ranch, not with the cowhands around. And if the guys in Dusty’s ever got wind of—
“I can’t go through with this,” Jackson suddenly said.
“It’s the only way,” Darla said. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you how to walk and talk. And I promise I won’t tell a soul. Now, if you’ll just slip on this bra…”
She held the thing up by the shoulder loops. “Darla…”
“Now, c’mon,” she coaxed. “I know it would take a lot more than white lace to unman a rough wrangler like you…”
Well, Darla was right. It was only a bra. Shoot, Jackson had seen enough of them in his time. Still, he felt as if he was about to mount a horse from a hayloft. Just don’t look down, buddy. Feeling like a complete idiot, he thrust his strong bronzed corded forearms through the arm loops, then shrugged them onto his rounded, powerful shoulders.
“Thatta boy,” crooned Darla, patting his back.
It turned out to be the same bra Austin had worn last Halloween. The foam-filled D cups were huge. Darla reached around and hooked the strap.
Jackson wasn’t proud of it, but his heart suddenly thudded in panic. It seemed as if his fate had been sealed somehow—as if there was no turning back now. Even worse, he realized the cups were lopsided. It looked as if a strong wind had just come along and knocked the breasts galley-west.
With a grimace, Jackson grabbed each of the cushioned cups. Darn. They were harder to wrestle than a calf from a mama cow. He hadn’t had this much trouble with a bra since he was in high school—and the wearer was a girl. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Where’s my cowboy pride? Lordy, he’d never hear the end of this if the guys in Dusty’s found out. Or his ranch hands. Not to mention the therapist he’d dated down in Silver Spoon. In her book, dressing as a woman was probably even worse than having a Freudian Oedipal complex. Jackson would probably wind up committed to a padded cell…
He grunted testily. “This thing pinches.”
“Welcome to womanhood, Jackson!” Darla exclaimed perkily. “Wait until you try panty hose!”
He shot her a quelling glance. “I think you’re actually enjoying yourself.”
Darla grinned. “Immensely.” She crossed the room and began riffling through Wyatt’s mother’s wardrobe. “Mrs. Simpson’s been gone for years,” she murmured conversationally. “I can’t believe Wyatt never even cleaned out her closet.”
Darla’s glance darted back and forth between Jackson and the row of shapeless cotton jumpers that had been Mrs. Simpson’s trademark, finally lifting out one printed with large, splotchy red and orange flowers. “Here,” she said, returning from the closet. “First, slip on this turtleneck, then the jumper. You can wear these blue-framed glasses—the lenses don’t seem very strong—and one of Mrs. Simpson’s old wigs, as well as carry this red pocketbook…Hmm. Now I want you to kick off your boots, shuck your jeans and put on these opaque stockings. They’re so thick that no one will notice those hairy legs of yours.” Darla made another trip to the closet. “And these walking boots look big enough…”
“If anybody finds out about this—” Jackson steadfastly tried to ignore the cushioned falsies brushing his arms as he pulled on the stockings “—I’ll have to move to Wyoming.”
“Believe me, even Mom wouldn’t recognize you now,” Darla said when they were done. She stood back and sighed with satisfaction. “Perfect! Well, aren’t you even going to look?”
Darla’s grin told Jackson he wasn’t going to like what he saw. Slowly he turned toward the mirror. His jaw went slack. “Darla,” he growled threateningly.
She raised her eyebrows innocently. “Hmm?”
He shot her a long, malevolent look.
When she saw his venomous expression, Darla’s shoulders started shaking with barely suppressed laughter. “Now, Jackson,” she crooned, “we can’t all be fairy princesses!”
Feeling faintly murderous, he stared into the mirror again.
He did look like a woman. In fact, it was an amazing—if very unsettling—transformation.
Trouble was, Jackson looked like the late Mrs. Simpson. And that meant he wasn’t exactly the best-looking female around. A sturdy mountaineer, Mrs. Simpson had been even larger boned than Jackson. She’d possessed some facial hair and had worn gray wigs to hide her thinning scalp. At least that’s how Jackson remembered her. The truth was, Mrs. Simpson—who was rumored to have drunk as much as her son—hadn’t been seen in Miracle Mountain for years, and most people assumed she’d died.
“Well, aren’t you going to say something, Jackson?”
“No.”
He simply couldn’t believe this. His well-hewn body looked as shapeless as a potato sack in the gaudy jumper. The wild print of the fabric drew the eye away from his face, which he guessed was good, since it further disguised him, but he looked closer to sixty years old than thirty-three. While the turtleneck hid his Adam’s apple and softened the line of his jaw, the blue glasses added homeliness, as did the gray wig hair that scraggled almost to his shoulders, and the thick black leggings that were bagging at his knees. Jackson finally exploded, “This looks awful! Isn’t there a dress in that closet without flowers, Darla?”
With a sudden hoot Darla crumpled against the wall, laughing so hard that she doubled over. After a long moment, she got her shoulder-shaking giggles under control. Cocking her head, she cupped a hand around her ear. “Hark, is this vanity I hear? Why, Jackson, maybe this will put you in touch with your more female, sensitive side, after all.” Slapping her thigh, Darla started giggling uncontrollably again, this time until tears of merriment clung to her eyelashes. Finally she managed to say, “Sorry. All the solid-colored jumpers need ironing.”
Jackson felt defeated. “I don’t know how to iron.”
“Then I guess you’re wearing flowers.” Darla chortled.
His angry expression merely sent Darla into another gale of giggles.
Go ahead and get it out of your system, Darla. It would take a lot more than laughter to unman him. Jackson grabbed a comb and started yanking it through the scraggly strands of the gray wig. “Well,” he muttered, “no celebrity would ever hire somebody who looks like this. So at least I know I’m in no danger of actually getting that housekeeper’s job.”
The words sent Darla into yet another bout of hysterical laughter. “Only your—your—”
“Only my what?” he ground out.
“Only your hairdresser knows for sure,” she gasped.
Something in her tone should have given Jackson pause. But he was too busy squaring his shoulders. Putting his hands on his hips, he turned slowly from side to side, finally deciding the breasts looked real enough.
“Ah,” Darla said with a sigh, still shaky from all her laughter at his expense. “It’s like beauty and the beast.”
Jackson’s tone was grim. “I take it I’m the beast?”
“Oh, Jackson,” she purred, “you’re so sensitive and smart.”
Shooting Darla a last lethal stare, Jackson turned to the mirror again. A hulking, middle-aged mountaineer woman with gray hair, blue-framed glasses, a wildly printed dress and red pocketbook stared back. Fortunately, Jackson thought, every dark cloud had a silver lining.
He was about to meet—and sleep with—the juiciest blond bombshell on the planet.