Texas Tough
Автор
Janice Maynard
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14
One
Abby Carmichael was a Starbucks and bright-city-lights kind of girl. What was she doing out here in this godforsaken section of Texas? Maverick County was flat. So flat. And the town of Royal, though charming enough with its wealthy ranchers and rough-edged cowboys, didn’t even have a storefront for her usual caffeine fix.
So far, she’d been in Royal less than a day, and already she was regretting her current life choice. That was the trouble with being a documentary filmmaker. You had to go where the stories took you. Unfortunately, this particular assignment was smack-dab in the middle of the old Western movies her grandpa used to make her watch.
She pulled off onto a small gravel side road, dazzled by the glorious sunset despite her cranky mood. Flying did that to her. Not to mention having to drive a rental car where all the buttons and knobs were in different places.
Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on losing herself in the moment. All she needed was a hot bath and a good night’s sleep. Then she’d be good as new.
Grudgingly, she admired the stunning display of colors painting the evening sky. The orangey reds and golds caught the tips of prairie grasses and made them flame with faux fire. New York City had sunsets, but not like this.
While she watched the show, she lowered the car windows. It was June, and plenty humid. The air felt like a blanket, dampening the back of her neck.
At least the heat didn’t bother her. Gradually, the peaceful scene smoothed her ragged edges. She’d left her cameras back at the hotel. This excursion was about relaxation and mental health, not work.
Suddenly, she noticed a lone figure far-off on the horizon, silhouetted against the glow of the quickly plummeting sun. The phantom drew closer, taking on shape and form, moving fast, paralleling the road. It was a rider, a horseman. With the sun in her eyes, Abby could make out nothing about the cowboy’s features, but she was struck by the grace of man and beast and by the beauty of day’s end.
As the horse drew closer, Abby could hear the distinctive thud, ka-thud of hooves striking the raw dirt. Something inside her quivered in anticipation.
Grabbing her phone, she jumped out of the car, ran down the road to get closer and began videoing with her cell. That was often how she processed information. Give her a lens, even a phone lens, and she was happy.
The man’s posture was regal, yet easy in the saddle. As if he and the animal were one. Soon, they would be past her.
But without warning, the rider pulled on the reins abruptly. The horse whinnied in protest, reared on its hind legs and settled into a restless halt.
A deep, masculine voice called out across the distance, “You’re on private property. Can I help you?”
For the first time, it occurred to Abby that she was entirely alone and far from civilization. Vulnerable. A frisson of caution slid down her spine, and some atavistic instinct told her to run. “I have Mace,” she warned over her shoulder as she walked rapidly back toward her car.
The man’s laugh, a sexy amused chuckle, carried on the breeze. “Mace is good, but it’s no match for a Texas shotgun.”
Her heart bobbled in her chest, her breath hitching as she moved faster and faster away from him. She had come farther than she realized. Surely, the man was joking. But she didn’t plan on finding out.
She jumped into her car, executed a flawless U-turn and gunned the engine, heading back toward town.
Two hours later, Abby was still a bit shaky. Her room felt claustrophobic, so she grabbed her billfold, pocketed her key card and went downstairs. Maybe a drink would calm her nerves. She wasn’t normally so skittish, but everything about this place felt alien.
Not the hotel. The Miramar was lovely. Comfortable. Just the right amount of pampered luxury. And still in her budget. She could have stayed at the lavish Bellamy, but Royal’s premier five-star resort was too high-profile for her needs.
At the entrance to the bar, she paused and took a breath, soothed by the dim lights and the traditional furnishings. The room was filled with lots of brass and candles and fresh flowers. And almost no people. The bartender looked up when she walked in. He was an older man with graying hair and a craggy face. “Plenty of room at the bar,” he said. “As you can see. But feel free to take a booth if you’d prefer.”
“Thanks.” Abby debated briefly, then sat down at the booth in the corner. It was private, and she felt the need to regroup. She was well able to handle herself in public, or even wave off the occasional pushy male. After all, she was a New Yorker. But tonight, she just wanted to unwind.
The bartender came around to her table, pad in hand. “What can I get you, young lady? The appetizers are on that card right there.”
She smiled at him. “No food for me, thanks. But a glass of zinfandel, please. Beringer if you have it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, walking away to fill her order.
When the man returned with her drink, Abby took the glass with a muttered thanks. “I needed this,” she confessed. “I was driving outside of town, and some macho cowboy on a horse threatened me with a shotgun. It was scary.”
The bartender raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound like Royal. Folks around here are pretty hospitable as a rule.”
“Maybe,” Abby said, unconvinced.
When the man frowned and walked away, she realized belatedly that either she had insulted his fellow Texans, or maybe he thought she was an interloper dressed a tad too casually for the Miramar. Whenever she flew, she liked to be comfortable. Today, she had worn a thin flannel shirt over a silky camisole with her oldest, softest jeans and ankle boots.
Oh, well, it was late, and the bar was almost empty. She hoped no one would even notice her...
Carter Crane yawned and stretched as he sauntered into the Miramar and headed for the bar. He should be on his way home for a good night’s sleep, but he had just finished a late evening meeting with a breeder, and he was feeling restless for no good reason he could pinpoint.
At thirty-four, he’d thought he would have a wife and maybe a kid by now. But he had gambled on the wrong woman and lost. His fault. He should have seen it coming.
The gorgeous summer weather made him feel more alone than usual. Maybe because this was the time of year for socializing. Carter hadn’t socialized with a woman in far too long. A year—or maybe a year and a half?
He worked hard enough to keep his reckless impulses in check. Mostly.
Tonight, he felt the sting.
There were other more popular watering holes in Royal, but he liked the private, laid-back ambience at the Miramar.
He grinned at the bartender. “Hey, Sam. I’ll have a beer, please. The usual.” Carter’s dad had known Sam since the two men were boys. Now his father was enjoying the good life in a fancy condo on Miami Beach.
Sam brought the frothy beer and set it on a napkin. “Food?”
“Nope. I’m good.”
“How’s the herd?” the older man asked.
“Best one yet. Barring tornadoes or droughts, we should have a banner year.”
“Your dad says you work too hard.”
“It’s all I know how to do,” Carter said. “Besides, he was the same way.”
Sam nodded as he rinsed glasses and hung them overhead. “True. But not now. He misses you.”
“I didn’t realize you kept in touch.”
“Now and then,” Sam said.
Carter changed the subject. “You won’t believe what happened to me earlier tonight. Some crazy tourist lady threatened me with Mace. On my own property.”
“How do you know she was a tourist?”
“Who else would carry Mace?” Carter scoffed. “Royal is a safe town.”
“Maybe she didn’t know that. And the way I heard it, you threatened her with a shotgun.”
He gaped. “Say what?”
Sam pointed. “Little gal’s over there. You probably should apologize. It rattled her.”
Carter glanced over his shoulder. “Looks like she enjoys being alone.”
The bartender shook his head, eyes dancing. “Come on. I’ll introduce you, so she won’t think you’re hitting on her.”
Sam didn’t wait. He poured a glass of wine, swung around the end of the bar and went to where the woman sat, half shielded by the high wooden back of the banquette. “This one’s on the house, ma’am. And I’d like to introduce you to Carter Crane. He’s one of Royal’s fine, upstanding citizens. I think he has something to say to you.”
Carter felt his neck get hot. The woman eyeing him warily was visibly skeptical of Sam’s assessment. “May I sit for a moment?” he asked.
After a long hesitation, the woman nodded. “Help yourself.”
He eased into the booth, beer in hand, and cut to the chase. “I was the one you saw on the road outside of town. I was kidding about the shotgun,” he said quickly as her eyes rounded. “It was a joke.”
The woman looked him over, not saying a word. Though her perusal wasn’t entirely comfortable, Carter seized on the excuse to do his own inventory. She was slim and young, almost too young to be drinking alcohol, but maybe her looks were deceptive.
Her hair was long and brown and wavy, her eyes a rich brown to match. She wasn’t wearing a speck of makeup, except possibly mascara. Even then, her lush lashes could be real, he supposed.
It was her complexion, however, that elevated her from merely pretty to gorgeous. Light brown with a hint of sunlight, her skin was glowing and perfect.
Carter felt a stirring of lust and was taken aback. Ordinarily, he preferred his women sophisticated and worldly. This artless, unadorned female was the rose that didn’t need gilding. She was stunning.
He cleared his throat. “As Sam said, I’m Carter Crane. I own the Sunset Acres ranch. Most days I’m proud of it. Others, I curse it. What’s your name?”
The tiniest of smiles tilted her lips. “Abby Carmichael. And I knew you were kidding about the shotgun.”
“No, you didn’t.” He chuckled. “I’ve never seen a woman move so fast.”
She lifted her chin. “I was in a hurry to get back to the hotel, because I needed to pee. It had nothing to do with you.”
He laughed again, letting the blatant lie go unchallenged, charmed by her voice and her wide-eyed appeal. “I think I recognize the accent,” he said. “You’re from back East, right? New York? My college roommate was born and bred in Manhattan.”
“I don’t have an accent,” she insisted. “You’re the one with the drawl.”
Carter shook his head slowly. “I never argue with a lady,” he said.
“Why do I not believe that?”
Her wry sarcasm made him grin all over again. She might be young, but she was no naive kid. “What brings you to Royal?” he asked.
“I’m doing a documentary on the festival—Soiree on the Bay.”
He grimaced. “Ah.”
She cocked her head. “You don’t approve?”
“I don’t not approve,” he answered carefully. “But events like that bring hordes of outsiders into town. I like my space and my privacy.”
“The festival takes place on Appaloosa Island.”
“Doesn’t matter. People have to sleep and eat and shop. Royal will be a madhouse.”
“You’re awfully young to be a curmudgeon. How old are you, forty?”
He sat up straighter, affronted. “I’m thirty-four, for your information. And even a young man can have strong opinions.”
“True...”
From the twinkle in her eye, he saw that she had been baiting him. “Very funny,” he muttered. “But since we’ve broached the subject, how old are you? I guessed seventeen at first, but you’re drinking wine, so I don’t know.”
“Didn’t your mother tell you never to ask a woman her age?”
“Seventeen it is.”
“Don’t be insulting. I’m twenty-four. Plenty old enough to recognize a man with an agenda.”
“Hey,” he protested, holding up his hands. “I only came over to say hello. And to assure you that you’re in no danger here in Royal.”
“I can handle myself, Mr. Crane.”
“Carter,” he insisted.
“Carter. And because I’m a nice person, I’ll forgive you for the shotgun incident, if you’ll do me a favor.”
He bristled. “There was no shotgun incident, woman.” Was she flirting with him? Surely not.
She smiled broadly now. The wattage of that smile kicked him in the chest like a mule. “If you say so...”
“What kind of favor?” He wasn’t born yesterday and wasn’t going to give her carte blanche.
“A simple one. I’d like to see your ranch. Film it. And interview you. On camera.”
“Why?” He was naturally suspicious. Life had taught him that things weren’t always what they seemed. “I have nothing at all to do with the festival. I don’t even care about it. Period.”
She shrugged. When she did, one shoulder of her shirt slipped, revealing the strap of her camisole and more of her smooth skin. His chest tightened as did parts south.
The fact that her expression was matter-of-fact didn’t jibe with his racing pulse.
“My documentary about the festival will be punctuated by scenes from around Royal. To provide local color. Since Royal is home to the famed Texas Cattleman’s Club, it only makes sense for me to include ranching. You’re the only rancher I know, so here we are.”
“My days are busy,” he muttered, sounding pedantic, even to his own ears. “I don’t have time for futzing around with movie stuff.”
Her jaw dropped. “Do you have any idea how patronizing you sound? My job is no less important than yours, Mr. Carter Crane. But don’t worry. I’m sure I can find another rancher to show me the ropes.”
Like hell you will. The visceral response told him he was wading into deep water. “Fine. I’ll do it,” he said, trying not to sound as grumpy as he felt. This artless, beautiful young woman was throwing him off his game. “Give me your contact info.”
Abby reached into her wallet and extracted a business card. It was stylish, but casual. Much like the gal with her hand extended. He reached out and took the small rectangle, perusing it. “I’ll call you,” he said.
“That’s what they all say,” she deadpanned.
“I said I would, and I will.”
“I appreciate it, Carter.”
The way she said his name, two distinct syllables with a feminine nuance, made him itchy. Suddenly, he was in no great hurry to head home.
“I could stay a little longer,” he said. “Since you’re new in town.”
The rosy tint on her cheekbones deepened. “How chivalrous.”
“May I buy you another glass of wine?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m a lightweight. But I wouldn’t say no to a Coke and nachos. Though this place might be too upscale for comfort food.”
“I’m sure Sam will rustle some up for us,” he told her.
“I love how you do that.”
Carter frowned. “Do what?”
“Talk like a cowboy. Rustle some up.”
He leaned back in the booth, feeling some of the day’s stress melt away. This unexpected encounter was the most fun he’d had in ages. Though he was likely destined for a cold shower and a restless night. “Are you making fun of me, Ms. Carmichael?”
“You can call me Abby,” she said.
“Don’t move...” He went to the bar, gave Sam their order and came back. “I told him we wanted fried pickles, too.”
His companion wrinkled her nose. “Ew, gross. Don’t you care about your health?”
Carter hid a smile as he took off the noose around his neck. He removed his jacket, too, and stretched his arms over his head, yawning. “Do I look unhealthy to you?”
