Courted by a Cowboy Page 4

  “Do you honestly think that…canine, for lack of a better word, understands you?”

  “Of course he does. You’ll see. He’ll wait patiently by the door. He might even get ambitious and sweep the porch.”

  Jack shook his head as though he feared for her sanity, then opened the back door and waited like a gentleman for her to precede him. She caught him staring at her backside, and though her nerves scrambled, she felt a sense of feminine power.

  Eat your heart out, pal.

  The delicious smell of rich chocolate and yeast permeated the kitchen of Jack’s ranch house, creating instant nostalgia. A long time had gone by since she’d been surrounded by the scents of homebaking. Despite the obvious heat from the oven, the air conditioner was doing its duty and more; the chill air actually made her shiver after the sticky heat of outdoors.

  An old man, tall and skinny, with the bow-legged stance of a guy who’d spent the better part of his life on a horse stood in front of the oven, wearing thick, red gingham mitts, a white chef’s apron and a scowl. He belligerently faced off with a plump, rosy-cheeked woman who also wore a bib apron—this one adorned with a tiny rosebud pattern that Sunny recognized. She had an apron exactly like it stuffed in a drawer in California, along with a bunch of other kitchen items her mother had helpfully sent and Sunny had never used.

  The man was Beau Thompson, the number-one cowboy on the ranch despite his age. He’d earned the position thirty times over, as he’d been here before Jack had been born. The woman, of course, was Cora Harriet, Jack’s housekeeper and possessor of the violent vacuum, who’d be held responsible if the soufflé flopped.

  A little girl with blond hair hanging to her waist looked up when they entered. Immediately, she scooted out of her chair and ran to Jack. He hoisted her up and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. Her thin, tanned arms wrapped around his neck and clung for a long moment, then loosened reluctantly as he set her down.

  “Victoria, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Sunny Carmichael. Sunny, my daughter, Tori.”

  “Hey, cutie pie,” Sunny said. The girl had huge brown eyes, beautifully smooth skin kissed by the sun and lips most supermodels dreamed about and rarely received except by collagen injections. She was small for her age, appearing closer to six than nine.

  Tori Slade didn’t look a thing like her father. Which meant she must resemble her mother. Hard to tell, since Lanette McGreavy had painted her face like a cheap streetwalker on Sunset Boulevard, the makeup so thick no one really knew what she looked like beneath it.

  Oh, the devil take it all, there she went again. Pickin’ on a dead woman. She was ashamed of herself.

  “Hey,” Tori whispered back. “It’s very nice to meet you, Miz Carmichael.” After uttering the shy, excruciatingly polite words, she clung to her father’s side and laid her cheek against his hip as though she expected someone to snatch her away. Her doe eyes were solemn, too solemn for a nine-year-old.

  Despite the circumstances of Tori’s birth, Sunny was drawn to the young girl.

  “Call me Sunny, okay?” Squatting on one knee, which put her at eye level with Jack’s crotch—it simply couldn’t be helped, given the way Tori clung to his side—Sunny meant to gentle the girl, to telegraph that she wasn’t an enemy, that she might even be an ally.

  That was when she realized the half-inch-thick necklace draped around Tori’s shoulders and chest was moving.

  A snake.

  A harmless garter snake, yes, but still a snake.

  Sunny was a top-notch veterinarian. The very best in her field. But she hated snakes.

  Instinctively, before she could check her reaction, she gave a typically feminine, one-note squeak and jerked back, to land right on her butt, embarrassing the hell out of herself as she craw-fished away as fast and far as she could go.

  Obviously responding to his mistress’s distress, Simba slammed his huge body against the slightly open door and charged into the kitchen, slipping on the tiles, knocking over chairs as though they were bowling pins and he a heavy ball.

  Beau started hollering loud enough to disturb the skeletons at Darwin’s Cemetery. Cora hugged the wall, crossing herself the way Catholics did in fright, repentance or gratitude, even though Sunny knew the woman was Southern Baptist.

  “What in tarnation is that?” Beau shouted, pointing to Simba, then whirling around to look through the oven’s glass at his delicate concoction.

  “Dadgumit, it’s ruined. Ruined, I tell you! First that fool woman comes in here sucking a perfectly clean floor with the Hoover, vibrating the floorboards and settin’ my cake pans to rattling—” he pointed a finger accusingly at Cora “—then you start screeching like a mashed cat.” He glowered at Sunny.

  Turning his ire on Simba, who’d recovered his balance and was panting happily, eyeing Tori’s head as an excellent target to lick, Beau threw up his mitten-covered hands. “Then the ugliest miniature horse I’ve ever laid eyes on comes slidin’ into my kitchen all spraddle-legged, the likes of something I ain’t ever seen ’cept on them cartoons Tori’s so fond of. Now, does somebody want to tell me how my perfectly fine morning went to hell so quick?”

  “Watch your language, you old goat,” Cora admonished, the only soul in the room brave enough to speak just now.

  Beau harrumped. “Beg pardon, Miss Victoria.” He opened the oven and took out his egg confection, which was sadly inverted rather than a puffy, airy dome.

  Cora rolled her eyes. “There are other women in the room besides Miss Tori.”

  “Woman,” Beau snapped. “I begged pardon, and it ought to suffice for everyone in the whole damned house—beg pardon again, Miss Tori—and you know good and well you was admonishing my bad manners in front of the young ’un, not the other two of you.”

  Sunny had recovered her wits and, giving Tori and her snake a wide berth, moved next to Simba. She looped her arm around his neck lest he be insulted or give in to the urge she could see in his eyes to bestow a couple of doggie kisses on Tori. She had no idea how her pet would react if he performed one of his walk-by lickings and got a tongueful of snake. He’d likely destroy the furniture—heck, she’d likely destroy the furniture if that snake touched her.

  “All right,” Jack said, obviously thinking that someone ought to regain control and, being the one who paid the bills, he was elected. “I believe that just about covers all the beg pardons and finger-pointing.” He gazed at Sunny. “I see you haven’t gotten over your fear of snakes. Seems that’d be a handicap for a vet.”

  “I’ve managed to work around it,” she said, ignoring his surprise and curiosity. “And we’re not quite finished begging pardons. At least, I’m not. Beau, I apologize for Simba running into your kitchen this way and messing up your soufflé. He’s a marshmallow, but he’s protective of me in his own silly way. If someone was actually trying to hurt me, about the extent of his aggression would be to sit on the person and lick him to death. He’s really a good dog. He’s just huge.”

  Beau studied her for a minute, and the twinkle in his eye told her he was a big bluffer.

  “Apology accepted, Miss Sunny. And welcome home. You’ve been missed.” His pale blue eyes moved from her to Jack and back again.

  Oh, no, she wanted to say. Don’t even act as though you’re remembering that!

  Years ago, Beau had caught Sunny and Jack in the hayloft, half-dressed. He’d merely said, “Boy, I hope to hell you got rubbers in your pocket. If you don’t, then you’d best restore that young lady’s clothes and go douse yourself in the horse trough.”

  From the time their relationship had turned intimate, Jack had never been without condoms in his pocket. But after getting caught by Beau that time, neither one of them could concentrate, which had put an end to their evening—more than likely just as Beau had intended.

  Even after all these years, Sunny felt her face flame at the memory, and she had a great deal of trouble meeting Beau’s eyes—or Jack’s, for that matter.

&
nbsp; Only a week later, her relationship with Jack had gone to hell.

  One extra stoplight while driving through town might have changed the course of her life. But every signal had been green, every cosmic force on earth aligned perfectly…perfectly enough to shatter her heart.

  Looking at him now, noting the sex appeal oozing out of his pores like sweet temptation, Sunny knew she wasn’t immune to him. Ten years could have been ten minutes.

  And during her stay in Hope Valley, she’d have a difficult time hanging tough against that much maleness.

  But she would. She had to investigate the possible outbreak of a contagious livestock disease in her hometown. If it proved out, it would tag Hope Valley with a nasty stigma forevermore, destroy the local economy and be written about in research journals and history books.

  Mostly, though, she would hang tough because she would not allow anyone to break her heart ever again.

  Especially Jackson Slade, the testosterone-laden cowboy who was eyeing her from across the kitchen with a masculine confidence that silently stated he had no doubt he could get lucky again anytime he wanted.

  If the room hadn’t been full of people with listening ears, she’d have told him right quick that he’d be picking cockleburs out of a skunk’s rear end before that happened.

  Chapter Four

  Sunny was hot and tired, and her nerves were screaming because she’d been in proximity with Jack again, but when she left his ranch, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Donetta’s number.

  Her friend answered on the third ring. “Donetta’s Secret.”

  “Hey, girlfriend. You busy?”

  There was a pause. “Sunny? Where are you? You said you were coming home, and I’ve been expecting you all day.”

  “I had to make a business stop first.”

  “Jack’s ranch?”

  “Does everybody know everything?”

  “Silly question. Of course we do.”

  Sunny grinned. “It’s good to hear your voice, Donetta.”

  “Ditto. But I’d much rather see your ugly mug than just talk to you.”

  “You’re such a pal. Can Simba come to the shop if he promises to behave?”

  Donetta laughed. “Simba’s always welcome. We’ll perm his hair.”

  “Don’t you dare suggest that in front of him.” She could picture Donetta rolling her eyes, and smiled.

  “Tracy Lynn and Becca Sue are already here. We’re waiting for you.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  She turned off the phone and stepped on the gas, lowering the power window on her Suburban to let the warm Texas breeze tangle in her hair. Simba crowded forward in the back seat and hung his head out the window, his ears flapping in the wind.

  The smell of freshly mowed alfalfa wafted in. There weren’t many cars on the two-lane road, and fields lined both sides of the highway, creating a restful, familiar sight. In California, she’d gotten used to bumper-to-bumper freeway traffic, and buildings and houses crammed into every available space. To look out and see the horizon was nice.

  As she drove into Hope Valley, echoes from the past engulfed her. The town itself encompassed about six square blocks, with the school, hospital and library on the outskirts. On the main drag was the drugstore, where Donetta had dared Sunny to buy a package of condoms, and Mr. Chandler had promptly called Grandma Birdie to report the incident; Grandma Birdie had been known to step out on occasion with the widower Chandler.

  Sunny passed Hope Motel—to which she and Jack had sneaked off after her senior prom—the grocery store, hardware store and saddle shop. She slowed in front of Wanda’s Diner. She and her friends had hung out drinking sodas and ruining their supper on Wanda’s famous French Fries—until good old Lanette McGreavy had set her sights on Jack and sent Sunny’s world spiraling.

  She wasn’t going to think about that.

  Two doors down from Donetta’s hair salon was Becca’s Attic. Becca had always been the Texas Sweetheart who imagined herself a lady in the 1800s. Ha, Sunny thought. Becca’s love of history and frilly things might have served her well in the olden days, but society wouldn’t have been ready for her outspoken ways.

  After pulling the SUV into a parking spot in front of Donetta’s Secret, Sunny got out, and had to grab the door for support when Simba nearly knocked her down in his exuberant leap from the back seat.

  “Mind your manners, or I’ll let Donetta put curlers in your hair.” Simba’s ears lowered and he hugged her side. “I’m just kidding. I wouldn’t let her mess with your masculinity that way. But you do have to be good.”

  By rote, she secured her vehicle, the alarm chirping as she pushed the button on her remote control. Probably half the pickup trucks lining the curb had their keys in the ignition. That was the way Hope Valley was. Everyone watched out for everyone else and everyone else’s property. It was a good town with good people.

  After the sticky heat outdoors, the air-conditioned salon felt heavenly.

  Sunny paused at the doorway, and everything within her shifted. Simba was hidden from view by the reception desk, and due to the noise and activity, no one had noticed their arrival. Gratefully, she took a moment to steady her rushing emotions.

  Home.

  She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it until just now.

  The smell of bleach and perm solution filled the air. Country music coming out of a portable boom box vied with the hum of hair dryers and feminine chatter. Like its proprietress, the interior of the shop made a bold statement. Decorated in bright red, black and chrome, the place was trendy and fun, even though the majority of Donetta’s customers were older ladies wanting a shampoo and set rather than the latest fad cut or color shown in the photos hanging on the walls of the salon.

  Donetta was dressed in tight jeans that rode low on her hips, a pink cropped top that left her belly exposed, and platform shoes that added five inches to her height. Her flame-red hair was piled on her head in a messy up-do held in place by chopsticks. Only a self-assured woman could get away with the crazy style.

  Sunny tapped the bell on the reception desk and everyone in the salon looked toward the front door.

  A hush froze the moment.

  A second later, Donetta dropped her bleach brush and squealed, leaving her customer with tinfoil sprouting from her hair. Tracy Lynn jumped out of the empty salon chair she’d been using to dab at her makeup, and Becca Sue sent a magazine sailing. The four of them met in the middle of the salon in a group hug.

  “I can’t believe you’re back,” Tracy Lynn said. “It’ll be just like old times.”

  “Still double-booking your date calendar?” Sunny asked.

  “Of course,” Becca answered for her. “And she’s still trying to pawn her leavings on to us.”

  Sunny stood back and looked at her friends. The Texas Sweethearts. They’d gone from childhood to braces to acne together, then to boyfriends and adulthood. Donetta ran a successful beauty salon where all the gossip was exchanged. Becca owned the quaint boutique down the street that sold books and coffee on one side and antiques, trinkets and gifts on the other. Tracy Lynn, former cheerleader, prom queen and Miss Hope Valley, spent her time on charities, spearheading programs to benefit newborn babies and the elderly and acting as hostess for her wealthy widowed father, the mayor.

  “I’ve missed you guys,” Sunny said. “And Becca, what are you doing off work in the middle of the day?” The youngest of the Sweethearts by six months—which she delighted in reminding them of—Becca loved to try new things. That was evident by her short, raven hair adorned with chunky streaks of maroon. “Who’s minding your store?”

  “Abbe Shea. You remember her, don’t you? She transferred to Hope Valley High in our junior year.”

  Sunny nodded. “I remember.”

  “She moved back to Hope Valley last year. Teaches fifth grade, and since school’s out for the summer, she’s helping me at the store. She has a little girl now—Jolene. Cutest thin
g. Three years old.”

  “I didn’t know Abbe got married.”

  Donetta tsked, but it was Tracy Lynn who answered. “Why do people think you have to be married to have a child? Honestly, Sunny. You’ve been in California for ten years. I’d expect you to be more with it.”

  The heat in Tracy’s statement caused Sunny’s brows to raise. She held up her hands in defense. “Darn. I’ve been here less than five minutes and already I have to hang my panties on Bertha.”

  There was a moment of silence, then they all laughed, dissolving Tracy Lynn’s strange mood. Bertha was a gnarled cottonwood on the banks of the lake. Hanging panties from the branches was a Texas Sweetheart ritual that took place whenever one of them did or said something beyond the pale.

  Donetta went back to her customer and picked up where she’d left off, painting bleach solution on sections of hair and wrapping it in foil. Sunny didn’t recognize the woman.

  “If you’re wearing a thong,” Donetta said, “you’d better forget it. That brother of yours will have his deputies combing the area for sexual perverts.”

  “I doubt it. Storm knew about our ritual.”

  “He did not!” Donetta’s mascara-enhanced lashes lifted to within a hairsbreadth of her red brows.

  Sunny grinned. “Yes. And it was yours he saw. That time you went out with Tommy Drew when he was still dating Tracy.”

  “I didn’t know she was still dating him.” Donetta glanced at Tracy Lynn, who gave a wicked smile and fluffed her silky, straight blond hair.

  Sunny shrugged. “Water under the bridge. Still, Storm saw you.”

  “How come you never told us?”

  “He’s my brother.” In Sunny’s opinion, that said it all. The four girls were as close as sisters. That made Storm an honorary brother to them all.

  “How’s Storm getting along?” Becca asked.

  “Y’all would probably know that better than me. I just got into town this morning. I haven’t seen him yet.” Storm was an ex-Texas Ranger who’d been injured on the job. He’d come home to recuperate—at their mother’s insistence—and ended up staying, quitting the Rangers and getting himself elected sheriff of Hope Valley.