Authors: Joanne Kennedy
One Fine Cowboy
Copyright © 2010 by Joanne Kennedy
Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Randee Ladden
Cover photography and illustration by Aleta Rafton
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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To Scrape McCauley, with love.
The cowboy boot was the most pathetic piece of footwear Charlie had ever seen. Upended on a fence post, it was dried out and sunbaked into dog-bone quality rawhide. She glanced down at the directions in the dude ranch brochure.
After pavement ends, go 1.6 miles and turn right. Boot on fence post points toward ranch.
The boot’s drooping toe pointed straight down toward the ground. Evidently, Latigo Ranch was located somewhere in the vicinity of hell.
No surprise there.
Still, the boot was a welcome sight, signaling the last leg of the weird Western treasure hunt laid out in the brochure, and putting Charlie one step closer to getting done with this cowboy nonsense and going home to New Jersey where she belonged. Back to New Brunswick, with its crowded streets and endless pavement; its nonstop soundtrack of whining sirens; its Grease Trucks and commuter buses. Back to the smog-smudged brick of New Jersey and the slightly metallic, smoky scent of home.
Wyoming, on the other hand, smelled disturbingly organic, like sagebrush and cowflops, and offered nothing but endless expanses of featureless prairie with a few twisted pines wringing a scant living out of the rocky ground. If this was home on the range, the deer and the antelope were evidently taking the summer off. She hadn’t seen so much as a prairie dog at play since she’d crossed the Nebraska border.
Cranking the steering wheel to the right, Charlie let her back end spin up a plume of dust, then winced as the Celica jerked to a halt. Yanking on the emergency break and flinging open the door, she stomped around to the front of the car to watch the right front tire hiss out its life in a deep, jagged pothole.
She pulled in a long breath and let it out slow. She could handle this.
Reaching under the seat, she hauled out the jack and climbed out of the car. After a fair amount of fumbling around, she managed to set the jack handle and start cranking, ignoring the itch that prickled between her shoulder blades as the sun leached sweat from her skin. The car rose, then rose some more. Then it shifted sideways, groaned like a tipping cow, and slammed back onto the ground, its wounded tire splayed at a hideously unnatural angle.
This was no ordinary flat tire.
Charlie knelt in the dust, staring at the crippled car. What now? She was in the middle of nowhere with a screwdriver, a roll of duct tape, and a 1978 Celica hatchback that looked as if euthanasia would be the only humane solution.
She pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets to push back the tears. She wasn’t scared. She really wasn’t. That couldn’t be her heart pounding. Couldn’t be. It was… it was…
Hoofbeats.
Hoofbeats, drumming the road behind her. She turned to see a Stetson-topped silhouette approaching, dark against the setting sun. Lurching to her feet, she fell back against the car as a horse and rider skidded to a stop six feet away, gravel pinging off the car’s rear bumper.
The sun kept the horseman’s features in shadow, but Charlie could see he was long-boned and rangy, with pale eyes glimmering under a battered gray hat. She could almost hear the eerie whistle of a spaghetti Western soundtrack emanating from the rocky landscape behind him. She’d have been scared except one corner of his thin lips kept twitching, threatening to break into a smile as he looked her up and down.
It had to be her outfit. Saddle Up Western Wear called it “Dude Couture,” but she was starting to think “Dude Torture” would be more appropriate. The boots were so high-heeled and pointy-toed she could barely drive in them, let alone walk, and she was tempted to follow local tradition and upend them on a fence post for buzzard bait. Then there was the elaborately fringed jacket and the look-at-me-I’m-a-cowgirl shirt with its oversized silver buttons. She cursed the perky Saddle Up salesgirl for the fourteenth time that day and straightened up, squaring her shoulders.
“Whoa,” the rider said, shifting his weight as the horse danced in place. “Easy there, Honey.”
“I’m not your honey.” She tossed her head and her dark hair flared up like a firecracker, then settled back into its customary spiky shag. The horse pranced backward a few steps, then stilled, twitching with restless energy.
“I know. Easy, Honey,” the rider repeated, patting the horse’s neck. “Tupelo Honey. That’s her name,” he explained.
“Oh.” Charlie looked up at the animal’s rolling eyes and flaring nostrils and blushed for the first time in fifteen years. “I thought you meant me.”
“Nope. The horse. So you might want to calm down. You’re making her nervous, and she’s liable to toss me again.” Honey pitched her head up, prancing nervously in place as he eased back on the reins. “It’s her first time.”
“Her first time,” Charlie repeated blankly.
“First time in the open under saddle,” he said. “Doing just fine, too.” He bent down to fondle the horse’s mane. “Doing just dandy,” he crooned softly.
Charlie watched him rotate his fingers in tiny circles, rubbing the horse’s copper-colored pelt. Honey’s long-lashed eyes drifted shut as she heaved a hard sigh and loosened her muscles, cocking one hind leg.
“Niiiice,” the rider purred. Charlie felt like she’d interrupted an intimate encounter.
“Sorry.” Dammit, she was blushing again. “I’m trying to get to Latigo Ranch. My car broke down.” She gestured toward the crippled Celica.
“Latigo? You’re already there,” he said. He swung one arm in a slow half-circle to encompass the surrounding landscape. “This is it. You a friend of Sandi’s or something?”
“A customer,” she said. Sandi Givens was listed as “your hostess” in the glossy dude ranch brochure that lay on the Celica’s front seat.
He straightened in the saddle and widened his eyes. “You came all this way for Mary Kay?”
“Mary Kay?” Charlie shook her head. “No way. They do animal testing. I came out here to do some research on horse whispering.” She attempted a smile. “I’m a grad student. Psychology.”
The rider bunched the reins in his fist and backed the horse a step or two. The horse moved cautiously, one foot at a time, nodding her head and laying back her ears. “Well, Sandi could sure use a shrink, but she’s not home. And don’t let her tell you she knows anything about horses. Whispering or otherwise.”
Charlie shrugged. “Well, duh. She’s just the hostess.”
“Hostess of what?”
“The dude ranch. I’m going to a Nate Shawcross clinic.”
The cowboy narrowed his eyes. With his battered hat and the two-day growth of stubble on his chin, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the young Clint Eastwood. That eerie, fluttering whistle pierced her subconscious again.
“Nate Shawcross doesn’t do clinics,” he said.
“Yes, he does. I have a reservation.” She set her fists on her hips and squared her shoulders. “Is there some kind of problem?”
“Kind of.” He leaned forward and pointed a thumb at his own chest. “Because I’m Nate Shawcross, and I don’t know a damned thing about any clinic.”
Charlie stood stunned, her mouth hanging open. “But… but I’m Charlie Banks. From Rutgers. I came all the way from New Jersey. My boss sent a deposit.”
“To Sandi, I guess,” he said. He looked down and fiddled with the reins. When he lifted his head, a muscle in his jaw was pulsing and his gray eyes glistened. He swallowed and looked back down at his hands. “Sandi’s my girlfriend,” he finally said. “She up and left, though. Went to Denver. I guess that makes her my ex-girlfriend.” He shook his head, still looking down at the reins. “Sorry. She didn’t tell me anything about this.”
“I’m supposed to stay here for three weeks,” Charlie sputtered. “And my boss expects me to come back with enough notes for a paper. There’s a conference…” She shook her head and blinked fast, pushing back tears. “I got lost, and now the car’s broken down and…” A single tear welled up in one eye and she flicked it away, praying he hadn’t seen it. She was angry, not scared, but she always cried when she was mad. And the madder she got, the harder she cried. It made her look weak, and she didn’t want to look weak in front of this stupid cowboy.
Because that’s what he was—a cowboy. No matter what the brochure said about “horse whisperers,” the man in front of her was a cowboy.
And she didn’t like cowboys.
She’d tried to explain that to Sadie Tate, but Sadie really didn’t care what Charlie liked.
***
Three days earlier, Charlie had parked her butt in an orange vinyl chair and devoted a solid half-hour to convincing Sadie Tate that the trip to Latigo Ranch was a bad idea.
The orange chair was part of the psychology department’s sixties vibe—a decorating concept as attractive and up-to-date as Sadie herself. The woman looked like an advertisement for
What Not to Wear
in her shapeless gray sweater and high-water pants.
“So you want me to spend the summer on a dude ranch, harassing innocent animals with a bunch of cowboys.” Charlie grimaced. “Please. I’m begging you. Don’t make me do this.”
“But it’s perfect.” Sadie’s nasal voice meshed perfectly with her appearance. “You love animals. And this is valuable field research.” She pushed her heavy glasses up the long slope of her nose and glanced down at the research proposal on her desk. “You’ll be assessing the parallels between the training techniques of Western livestock managers and the nonverbal cues with which humans communicate their wants and needs.”
Charlie snorted. “You can’t fool me with your academic double-talk, Tate. I know what a Western livestock manager is. It’s a
cowboy
.” She shoved the glossy brochure under Sadie’s nose, tapping one crimson fingernail on a color photo of a man in Wrangler jeans and a Stetson. “I’m a PETA member in good standing, Sadie. That’s ‘People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.’ I won’t ‘bust a bronc,’ and I don’t want to deal with anyone who does.” She sighed. “Can’t we just experiment on a few more freshmen instead?”
“Times have changed, Charlie.” Sadie dismissed her last question with an imperious wave of her hand. “They’re not called ‘cowboys’ anymore. They’re called ‘horse whisperers.’ They use nonverbal cues to communicate with another species. They soothe them and gain their confidence by mimicking the body language the animals use to communicate with their own kind. It’s exactly the sort of thing we need to understand.”
Charlie sighed. Her summer was ruined, but she’d stand on her head and whistle Dixie for Sadie Tate if she had to. Sadie was the only professor who’d been interested when Charlie shopped around for grad schools. The others figured out that her choice of psychology as a field of study was an afterthought. She’d majored in biology with an eye toward veterinary school, but she’d never make it with her mediocre grades. She’d spent too much time at PETA protests and not enough at her desk.
At least a degree in psychology would lead to some kind of meaningful work. No way was Charlie going to end up like her mother, sacrificing her life to making a living in a succession of dead-end jobs. Waitress. Receptionist. Hostess.
Mom.
Charlie knew her mother loved her, but being saddled with single motherhood at seventeen had been the equivalent of a life sentence to New Jersey’s minimum wage gulag. Mona Banks could have escaped, but she’d saved every penny she earned for her daughter’s education. That’s why she was still waitressing herself half to death on the night shift at the All-American Diner, still pushing Charlie to succeed at something, anything.
There’ll be time enough for fun later, after you get your education,
she’d said.
Make some sacrifices.
But cowboys?
That was going too far.
“Do you realize what you’re asking me to do?” Charlie demanded. “You’re asking me to spend half my summer with men who make their living subjugating helpless animals. Men who think getting ground into the dirt by angry bulls is the ultimate proof of manhood. Who swagger around in chaps and cowboy hats, chewing tobacco and looking for ‘buckle bunnies.’”
“Exactly,” Sadie said. “I’m glad you have such an accurate grasp of the concept. Your flight leaves in three days.”
“Flight?” Charlie blanched. “Oh God, Sadie. Don’t make me fly. I hate flying. Can I drive? Please let me drive. I’ll take my own car.”
Sadie smiled and slit her eyes like a satisfied cat. “Why certainly, Charlie. I’m so glad you’ve agreed to go.”
Charlie cursed herself silently. She’d fallen right into Sadie’s trap.
“But you’ll need to leave tomorrow since you’re driving,” Sadie said. “It’s at least a two-day trip, and I arranged for you to arrive early in order to receive some individual instruction.”
Individual instruction? That meant Charlie would be on her own—all alone with a cowboy who would no doubt try to tell her what to do. She pointed a finger at Sadie and took a deep breath, preparing to plunge into verbal battle.
Sadie stared back, calm as a Buddha, and Charlie felt her anger fade into hopelessness.
“I need to pack,” she mumbled and slouched out of the office.
Reaching the doorway, she turned. “But if they abuse their horses, I’ll—”
“You’ll observe and report,” Sadie said, raising her eyebrows and stabbing the air with a ballpoint pen. “As a student of psychology, you will maintain an objective perspective and will eschew any personal involvement with your subjects.”
“Yeah, that’s just what I was about to say,” Charlie muttered.
“Good.” Sadie shoved the pen behind her ear and nodded sharply. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
***
Charlie’s mother tossed a plastic-wrapped package into Charlie’s suitcase.
“Here,” she said. “I got you these.”
Charlie scanned the model on the cover. “Mom, these are granny panties,” she said. “Yuck.” She flipped through her underwear drawer and pulled out a pair of polka-dotted hi-cuts and a matching bra. “I wear pretty stuff.”
Her mom flipped her waist-length gray hair over her shoulder and peered into the drawer, picking through the satin and lace pretties. Pulling out a flimsy scrap of lace, she held it at arm’s length and eyed it as if she’d found the decaying corpse of a dead trout.
“What is
this
?”