To Lasso a Lady
Auteur
Renee Roszel
Lezers
15,9K
Hoofdstukken
10
CHAPTER ONE
THE tall stranger exploded through the entrance of the country store, accompanied by a wail of cold wind and battering snow. Even after he shoved the door shut behind him, a foreboding chill seemed to linger in the air.
His stance was rigid, waiting, somehow angry. His arms were poised away from his body, as though it were high noon in the Old West and he expected to have to shoot it out at any second.
Amy had enough problems and needed to decide what to do quickly, but she couldn’t resist an urge to scan the man’s face and see if it went with the toughas-nails image of his Western gear. Even though the small grocery store was flooded with stark, fluorescent light, she was disappointed to find his features shaded by a black Stetson. Still, the bright lights provided a spectacular show. The melting snow along the shoulders of his split-hide rancher’s jacket and wide-brimmed hat glittered and winked like washed diamonds.
Now this man, she mused without hesitation, is a real guts-and-leather cattleman. He wasn’t one of the citified pretenders who frequented the Chicago cowboy bar where she’d been a cocktail waitress for the past four years. This man, in his scuffed boots and well-worn jeans, was the real thing, and her heart fluttered with feminine appreciation.
He yanked off his hat and slapped it impatiently against a leg. Amy followed the motion, noting jeans so close fitting she could see saddle muscles bulge and flex in his outer thighs. She had no idea where she’d heard that term—saddle muscles. Probably somebody at the bar had mentioned how you could tell a real cowboy from a fake. A real cowboy’s thighs were overdeveloped from long hours in the saddle. She swallowed hard at the stimulating sight, unable to recall seeing a pair of male legs quite that nicely contoured—except maybe in Olympic events—especially considering this cowboy’s thighs were swathed in a layer of denim.
When he plowed a gloved hand through his mane of black hair, her glance followed, and she was startled to discover his eyes were aimed her way.
His glare was bold, defiant, the flinty blue of the wintry sky outside. Before she could react to the hostility in his stare, he’d snapped his wide shoulders around and was intent on searching the throng restlessly milling in the store.
Most of the stranded bus passengers were lined up at the establishment’s only pay phone, scrambling to make arrangements for emergency lodging or calling relatives to say they’d be delayed. Roads north and west had been closed by the Highway Patrol because of a snowstorm.
Amy heard the crunch of boots on the gritty wood floor and realized the cowboy was stalking off, apparently having located his prey. She watched him round a rack of paperback books, heading toward the line of travelers gathered before the phone. He moved with solid grace, a man in total control of himself and his world. But she could tell he was reining in his emotions with difficulty, for his square jaw was working, his nostrils flaring. She pitied the person who’d put him in his rabid state.
Dragging her attention from him to her watch, she nervously began to chew her lower lip. Ira was a half hour late, and he’d left no message that he’d been delayed. She wondered if Diablo Butte was affected by the snowstorm and if she should try to get a room at the local motel—if there was a local motel. Though this western Wyoming community was called Big Elk, the only thing that seemed very big about it was its name. From the bus window, she’d seen no buildings for miles except for this clapboard general store and the gas station across the street.
She supposed it didn’t really matter if Big Elk had a motel. She was low on funds, with exactly seven dollars and thirty-three cents in her purse. That wasn’t enough for a cheap room in a ghost town, let alone in a tiny dot-on-the-map community jammed with panicky people whose options were shrinking as a nearby snowstorm held them hostage.
The bus driver had given the passengers the choice of going back with him to Kemmerer to get a room there, then resume their journeys when the storm passed and the next bus came through. Or, if their destinations allowed it, they could take a more southerly bus route out of Kemmerer. He’d said he’d wait another thirty minutes for anybody who wanted to go back with him.
Amy didn’t know if the bus company would charge for taking them back to Kemmerer, considering this was an emergency. Probably. The storm wasn’t the bus line’s fault. If they did, she couldn’t afford it. Besides, this was her stop. Ira was to have picked her up here to take her on west to Diablo Butte, her new home where she planned to build a new life as a rancher’s bride.
She peered at the fidgety people waiting for the phone, wishing she’d tried to call Ira earlier. From the number still lined up to make calls, it would be another half hour before she’d even get the chance.
She noticed the tall stranger again as he edged up beside a stack of soft-drink cases. Perched cross-legged atop the stack was one of the passengers who’d been on the bus with her. Amy didn’t know the woman’s name, but had found out quite a bit about her, even so. She’d occupied a seat directly behind Amy and had spent almost every waking minute since she’d gotten on the bus, bumming cigarettes and talking to anybody who’d listen about her budding career as an exotic dancer, and how she was on her way to fame and fortune in Hollywood.
Amy wondered what this lanky, tough-as-rawhide cowboy had in common with a woman whose nostril was pierced, whose bleached hair was cut so short she could be in the Marines—except for one blue ponytail protruding above her right temple. She was wearing a stretch, zebra-striped bodysuit, white patent leather boots and a fake-fur leopard coat. They were as unlikely a pair as Madonna and John Wayne. Amy wondered if the cowboy had a kinky streak and if he picked up women this way very often.
The Madonna look-alike blew smoke out her nose and shook her head, causing her blue ponytail to wag back and forth across one heavily made-up eye. The cowboy nodded and turned away, his hooded gaze sweeping the store again. Well, Amy reflected, either the woman isn’t into gorgeous cowboys, or he’d askea her some other kind of question. She had a feeling, if he’d actually been trying to pick her up, she’d be walking out of the store clinging to his coat sleeve right now. Evidently she hadn’t been his quarry after all.
Amy told herself the cowboy wasn’t her business. She had to figure out what to do. Ira was probably on his way, but she really should call his ranch and make sure everything was okay. She only hoped it wasn’t long distance, for that would eat up too much of her dwindling funds.
She didn’t feel as though she ought to call him collect. That was a silly idea, she supposed, since Ira was her fiancé, Naturally, he’d accept her call without hesitation. And he was certainly wealthy enough.
She balled her hands, hesitating. She absolutely didn’t want Ira to believe she was marrying him for his money. He’d admitted he’d had bad luck that way in the past. No. She wanted to prove to him she was sincere in her desire to be a rancher’s wife, and that when she took the vows, they would be forever. And she wasn’t his wife yet. Wouldn’t be until Valentine’s Day, three days from now.
Since that was the case, somehow even a collect call seemed grasping. She wanted to prove herself first. Show her earnest desire to make their marriage a solid, honorable partnership before she started accepting material things from him, even small things—like collect calls.
She glanced hopefully out the store’s window, hoping she’d see her cheerful fiancé—a man in his late fifties, yet charmingly young at heart—ambling toward the door. Her hopes faded. All she saw beyond the dingy glass was snow and more snow, swirling and dancing in the late-afternoon gloom. Well, she mused unhappily, knowing she had little choice now, there was always the chance that Diablo Butte was a local call—
“You must be Miss Vale,” came a deep observation at her back.
Startled to hear her name, especially spoken in such a churlish tone, she spun around. For one instant, she had the bizarre notion she was expected to apologize for who she was. How crazy! Clearly she needed sleep.
The first thing she registered was a black bandanna, tied below a deeply cleft chin. In a square-cut jaw, a muscle flexed furiously. The broad shoulders of a split-leather coat were familiar, and realization hit like a club. Her gaze shot upward, clashing with eyes that were deep blue and as angry as when he’d first entered—maybe more so. Amy couldn’t understand what this furious cowboy might want with her.
“Why—why, yes, I’m Amy Vale,” she said, her voice peculiarly weak.
The eyes flashed with some caustic emotion, but it was quickly squelched. With a half smile that was far from friendly, he said, “I’ve been sent to fetch you for Ira. He’s snowbound.”
Amy experienced a rush of disappointment, but wasn’t really surprised. Her whole trip west had seemed to portend nothing but disaster, with rain and snow dogging the entire route. Though she’d tried to push the thought aside, that very fear had nagged at her since she’d arrived here and her fiance was nowhere to be found. “Well…” She exhaled tiredly. “I—I appreciate your offer, but I couldn’t accept, Mr.—Mr….”
He settled his Stetson on his head, adjusting the brim low on his brow as he looked around. “Where are your bags?” he asked, apparently not registering her refusal.
“Excuse me, but I said I couldn’t accept—”
“I heard you.” His belligerent gaze snagged hers again. “Lady, I don’t like this any more than you do. But Ira asked me to pick you up, so I’m picking you up. It’ll take us nearly an hour to get to my ranch headquarters, even if the snow doesn’t get worse. So where are your bags?”
She heard a muffled “thunk” and became aware that she’d stumbled backward into a shelf of canned goods, knocking one off in her defensive retreat. She flattened herself against the display, gaping at him, utterly confused. He was towering there too closely, invading her space. His obvious animosity and threatening nearness alarmed her. Everything about him radiated dislike, even disgust. There was nothing mixed in that signal. This cowboy didn’t like her. Not one bit.
Amy had been born and bred in the big city, and like any large municipality it could sometimes be heartless and unfeeling to a young woman trying to make it on her own. She’d deflected the unwelcome advances of her share of jerks over the years. But faced with the cold fury in this cowboy’s eyes, it took her more than one attempt to find her voice. “I—I’m going to give you five seconds to back off, mister,” she warned unevenly. “Or I’ll—I’ll scream.”
A dark brow arched, and for a moment he examined her with mistrust. He peered around, and Amy guessed he was deciding that even as big as he was, he’d have trouble fighting off ten or twelve rescuers who were already in a bad mood.
Clearing his throat, he took a step away from her and crossed his arms over his chest. “Look, Miss Vale,” he stated less curtly, apparently concluding that his “I’m the bull and this is my grassland” attitude wasn’t going to work with her, “I’m not the neighborhood kidnapper. I have a ranch west of here, and Ira asked me to put you up for a few days until the roads open.” He pursed his lips, clearly an attempt to bridle his temper. “I’m pleased to do it for him,” he finished thinly.
She didn’t relax. His cordial act wasn’t fooling her, but she had no idea how to react. Screaming didn’t seem quite right any longer.
“Now, ma’am,” he drawled, placing a finger to the brim of his hat in a gesture that was more mocking than gentlemanly, “if you’ll show me your bags, we have a long drive ahead of us. If that storm turns our way, we may have more than our share of problems getting home.”
She continued to eye him with suspicion. In her job, she’d seen lots of overbearing, manipulative types, but this guy was in a class by himself. Just because he said he wasn’t the neighborhood kidnapper didn’t mean a thing. “Just a second.” Having made her decision, she spun away. A few steps had her at the cash register where a paunchy, balding man in a green flannel shirt was grinning ear to ear, overdosing in delight at the flurry of junk-food and cigarette sales he was making to the stranded wayfarers. “Excuse me, sir?” She waved to get his attention over the dull roar of voices.
When he aimed his protuberant eyes her way, she gestured toward the cowboy. “Do you know this person?”
The proprietor’s glance swung to the tall, rangerugged man and back to Amy. “Beau?” he asked, looking puzzled. “Sure.”
“Then he does own a ranch around here?”
The man’s grin widened, displaying big white teeth that would have been more at home in a horse’s mouth. “I’d say so, miss. If ya call eight hundred thousand acres a ranch.”
She blinked at the size. She assumed the proprietor was being sarcastic, but, even if he wasn’t, eight hundred thousand acres sounded big to her. Nevertheless, the vastness of a ranch wasn’t exactly a character reference. “Is he trustworthy?” she asked, beginning to feel silly. It was clear this uncivil rancher was known in the community. And it was laughably apparent to anyone who cared to take a casual glance at him that he was gorgeous enough to have women falling all over themselves to give him whatever he might want. If he ever chose to be the slightest bit charming, he wouldn’t need to resort to force. Still, his manner was so—so—menacing. It was better to be safe than sorry.
The storekeeper looked once more at the cowboy, who had ambled up beside her. She could detect his after-shave—wood smoke and pine. Nice.
With a guttural laugh, the proprietor rang up a couple of candy bars for another customer, then kidded, “I guess to answer your question, miss, I ain’t never heard no complainin’ about ol’ Beau.” He winked in the cowboy’s direction. “Especially not no women.”
Beau grunted, appearing more annoyed than amused by the good-old-boy compliment. “Miss Vale,” he ground out, drawing her unenthusiastic gaze. She stiffened, hoping the heat in her cheeks didn’t denote a blush, but afraid it did. She was embarrassed beyond words at what the proprietor had implied about this stranger and his prowess with the ladies. Her glance skittered across his handsome face, but she avoided his eyes, apprehensive that she’d see something more bothersome in their depths than anger—very probably amusement at her expense. “What?” she finally asked, studying her nails and noticing her hands were trembling. She jammed them into her parka pockets.
“We don’t have time for games.” His tone was grim. “As I said, I’m doing Ira a favor.”
“Pretty reluctantly, I’d say.”
“Very reluctantly, Miss Vale.”
Disconcerted by his bluntness, she jerked to stare at him. He was observing her through shuttered eyes. “By the way, the name’s Diablo. Beau Diablo.”
She couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d tossed a handful of sand in her face. “You’re related to Ira?”
“Yeah.” He worriedly scanned the plate-glass window as a burst of wind-driven snow battered the panes.
She was dumbfounded by the news. This man was nothing like the fun-loving, jovial gentleman she’d met in Chicago. Yet, even as different as the two were, surely Ira wouldn’t entrust her with anyone dangerous. “Mr. Diablo, why didn’t you tell me—”
“Dammit!” He shifted to pin her with a threatening stare. “Miss Vale, you have five seconds to show me your bags, or we’re leaving without them.”
As Amy huddled in the warm cab of Beau Diablo’s pickup truck, she felt as though she’d been sentenced to an eternity in The-Purgatory-of-the-Perpetualry-Angry-and-Silent. She had no idea how much time had passed since they’d left Big Elk, but she prayed the trip would soon be over. She was getting a cramp from pressing herself against her door.
She’d relegated herself to a small section of the truck cab for two deeply disturbing reasons. First, she preferred to put as much distance as she could between herself and her ill-tempered host. Secondly, Beau’s wide shoulders rudely took up more than their share of space, and she had no intention of being thrown against him every time they hit a bad spot in the road.
Trying to calm her frazzled nerves, she stared out the side window at the passing scenery of rolling hills. They were glazed with several inches of snow, punctured occasionally by statuesque stands of firs and pines. The blowing flakes seemed more lovely, cleaner, out here in this primitive Wyoming splendor than they did from the window of her tiny apartment over the pawnshop in Chicago—or from Mary’s sterilesmelling hospital room.
Poor, dear Mary. She forced back a growing depression. Her little sister was recovering from surgery—hopefully her last—and the convalescent home was very nice. As soon as Mary was well enough, and the bills were paid, she would join Amy and her new husband on Diablo Butte.
Mary was so courageous. Amy already missed her spunky smile. A melancholy sigh escaped her throat and she cast a sidelong glance at Beau, wondering if he’d heard. His intent expression didn’t indicate that he had, so she shifted to look away.
She supposed she could scream, clutch her chest and collapse into a lump on the floorboards and he wouldn’t react. In all the time since they’d left Big Elk, he’d said nothing, hardly moved. He’d just sat behind the wheel, staring into the gathering darkness, eyeing the gravel road between labored swipes of the windshield wipers. Every so often he flexed his gloved hands as though he were gripping the wheel too tightly and his fingers were cramping.
She heard the sounds again of leather clenching and unclenching, and peered at his profile. He’d deposited his hat into the storage area behind the seat along with her suitcase, for he was too tall to wear it inside the truck’s cab. His hair was slightly mussed. A wisp brushed his forehead, softening the frown that seemed to permanently reside there.
He had a strong face, she mused, with cheekbones straight out of the “Bone Structures For The Rich and Famous” catalogue. She scanned his eyes and wondered why she’d always thought of long, curling lashes to be the sole domain of high-fashion models. Beau Diablo proved that notion false, for his thick sweep of lashes in no way diminished the masculine allure of his face. And the five-o’clock shadow of dark whiskers along his tense jaw completed a sinfully handsome picture.
Life wasn’t fair, she brooded. Why did such an arrogant, bossy man have to be so appealing? He didn’t deserve to be, but he no doubt used his good looks to their full potential when it suited him—which clearly wasn’t now.
Irritated by the turn of her thoughts, she shifted in her leather seat, restlessly smoothing her beige twill slacks. For the first time, she realized how wrinkled and dingy they looked after the two-day bus ride. Even worse, her tan parka was spotted with dark stains where one of her bus seatmates had sloshed coffee on her somewhere in the middle of Iowa.
Casting her companion a hesitant look, she fought an internal battle. The last thing she wanted to do was broach any subject at all, let alone ask him a favor. She knew she’d have to do it sooner or later, so with a deep breath she plunged. “Do—do you suppose I could wash some clothes while I’m staying at your place?”
Barely turning his head, he flicked her an aggravated look but didn’t speak.
Exasperated, she rolled her eyes toward the roof of the truck. “Look, Mr. Diablo, I suppose it’s your business what sort of manners you cultivate—or don’t cultivate. And if being a disagreeable pain in the neck works for you, it’s none of my business. But I think Ira would at least expect you to be civil.”
He surprised her with a chuckle, though it was the most bitter excuse for laughter she’d ever heard. “Miss Vale, Ira expects me to keep you from freezing to death. That’s all.”
She bounced around to glower at him. “If you hate the idea of a houseguest so much, why didn’t you say no?”
He pursed his lips, then to her surprise, actually glanced her way, his gaze raking her face. “Because he threatened me.”
“Oh, right,” she scoffed, picturing her kindly, middle-aged fiancé threatening this powerful young stud. “What did Ira threaten to do? Shoot you?”
“No.” He turned back to maneuver around a curve in the slick road. “Visit me.”
Amy was taken off guard by his wry answer. She knew it was a ludicrous reaction, but she almost smiled. “Very funny.” She snapped away to watch the wipers dispose of accumulating snow. “Okay, I may not be the brightest person in the world, but I can tell that you and Ira aren’t close. What are you, some sort of distant, black-sheep cousin or something?”
He flexed his fingers, a sure indicator the question bothered him. “Not exactly.”
When he didn’t reveal more, she glared his way, determined to get a straight answer out of him, or die trying. “Please, don’t make it easy for me. I’ve got nothing better to do. I’ll just guess. Let’s see, you’re a cattle-rustling nephew?” Pretending to be deep in thought, she shook her head. “No—no, it’s coming to me. Could you be his dipsomaniac uncle? No.
That’s not quite right. Let me think….” She tapped
her cheek as though this was an earth-shattering dilemma she was bound to solve. “I have it. You’re his transsexual sister-in-law!” She eyed him narrowly. She could keep up this foolishness if he could, darn him. “Nope. Nope. Nope,” she babbled on, “now that I see your earlobes up close, I’ll bet you’re his demented half brother out on bail for the ax murder of-”
“I’m his son, Miss Vale.”
He’d spoken so quietly she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. For a long minute, all she could do was stare at his forbidding profile. Finally, she managed, “You’re his what?”
The truck slowed as he braked. When they came to a stop, he faced her. Resting one arm on the back of his seat, he leaned across the console, looming very close, too close. Though his bracing scent beckoned, his eyes were as hard and cutting as steel. “We’re home—Mom.” Scorn twisted his lips. “What’s for dinner?”
