The Rebel Rancher

CHAPTER TWO

TYSON PULLED THE TIE from around his neck and rammed it into his pocket. The fall evening was cool and twilight was setting in. White solar minilights were twisted around the garden poplars creating a fairy glow, and chafing dishes held the last remnants of the wedding feast. This was so not his scene. He’d far rather be enjoying a steak in a comfortable pair of jeans. But he’d promised Sam to see out the day and he’d do it.

He hadn’t expected the sudden hit to his pride just now, though. He hadn’t even had the chance to actually ask Clara to dance before she’d flat-out refused. For the first time in as long as he could remember, his charm had let him down. It was humbling to a man who’d spent a good amount of his youth perfecting his way around women, and with a consistent rate of success. Riding bulls and charming cowgirls was what he’d done best.

And Clara Ferguson had seen right through his act.

He shouldn’t take it personally, he knew that. Not considering her past. But he did just the same. The same way he did whenever someone slapped him on the back but offered Sam their hand. Always second-best. Not that Sam had ever bought into the idea. He’d always insisted by word and deed that they were equal brothers.

Oh, he knew there were people who thought that there was some weird sibling rivalry thing between them, but they were wrong. It was why Ty was willing to come back now. For Sam. And deep down, for his dad, too. Virgil had always picked apart every single thing Tyson ever did. He’d never understood that Tyson loved this ranch as much as Sam did. Trying to get the old man’s approval had been killing him, so he’d ventured out on his own years ago to save his sanity. To avoid saying things he might always regret.

Now he was back and already feeling suffocated. But it was time to stop running away. Time to take his place in the family—whether the old man liked it or not.

He frowned and checked his watch. He’d give it ten minutes, and then he was taking his dented pride and packing it in. Tomorrow the real work began—Sam would be gone on his honeymoon, and the day-to-day running of Diamondback would be left to Ty. He was looking forward to the work.

The butting of heads with his dad would start, too, he imagined. He rolled his shoulders, willing out the tension. Virgil had hardly spoken to him since his return two days ago, other than a few grunts and disparaging comments that Ty had, for the most part, ignored, more out of consideration for his mother, Molly, than anything else. Ty knew very well that their father thought that Sam could do no wrong and it was a big mistake to give Ty equal say in running the ranch. He was a damn sight smarter than his father gave him credit for. He always had been. And he intended to prove it. He had ideas. But first he needed to assess the operation and make a plan. Virgil considered Tyson unreliable, but Tyson knew all about calculating risks. He’d been doing it for years.

The hired band whipped the crowd into a frenzy with a fast-paced polka, and Ty checked his watch again—only a minute had passed.

It had been a mistake to go after Clara. He’d been waylaid by the bouquet and garter catching, but when he’d gone in the house and realized she was locked in the bathroom he’d been alarmed. He knew what Butterfly House was about. He’d felt her fingers tremble in his when they shook hands and had been automatically transported to a day three years ago when he’d interrupted a “situation.”

All he’d wanted to do was reassure her that Diamondback was a safe place … and then she’d run into him, he’d put his hands on her and everything he’d planned to say evaporated. The shocking thing was for a moment he’d thought she’d felt it, too, when the air hummed between them in the kitchen.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong.

The music changed and a movement caught his eye. Clara, in her sage-colored dress, tugging a shawl closer around her shoulders against the fall chill. She’d be leaving now, then, he thought, and scowled. He’d been an ass, trying to flirt with her. He hadn’t mastered the art of polite chit chat and other social graces. Until tonight, they hadn’t been required. How did a guy talk to a woman who was in a situation like hers, anyway? He did the only thing he knew how—and came off looking like an idiot. What had he been thinking, asking her to dance?

Clara didn’t go around the house to where the cars were parked. Instead she crossed the grass towards the crowd. She looked up and around the throng until she met his eyes and her gaze stopped roaming. His heart gave a sharp kick in response—a surprise. Frightened girls with innocent eyes were so not his type. He was more into confident women who hung around waiting for the bull riders with the big belt buckles. Girls who were only in it for their own eight seconds and no further commitments.

There were at least a dozen reasons why he should stay clear of Clara Ferguson. He could list three off the top without blinking: she had too much baggage, she worked for the family and he’d only cause her trouble.

But she kept coming, her glossy walnut curls twisting over her shoulders like silk ribbons. The cut of her dress was simple and quite conservative, skimming down her figure and showing her curves without revealing much skin. The effect was sexier than it should have been, he realized. She was nothing like the women he dated. Maybe that was why he was noticing her today, but this was as far as it would go. Noticing. And he didn’t even need Sam’s earlier warning to tell him so.

She stopped in front of him and her chest rose as she took a deep breath. He realized he was holding his and slowly let it out. “Clara?”

She gave him a smile so sweet, so fragile, that it frightened the hell out of him.

“Would you like to dance, Tyson?”

A good puff of air could probably have knocked him over. He stared at her for a good five seconds until her smile began to waver and uncertainty clouded her dark blue eyes. He wasn’t sure why, but something had prompted her to change her mind, and he sensed it had taken a lot of courage for her to come out here and ask.

So what was he supposed to do now? She’d been very clear about not wanting to dance—particularly with him. She’d pulled away from him twice now, and if they danced he’d have to touch her. In several places. Odd, but that thought fired his blood more than anything—or anyone—had in weeks.

But he got the feeling that if he declined it would be about more than refusing a simple turn on the floor. “I thought you didn’t want to dance.”

She lifted her chin. “I changed my mind. But if you don’t want to, that’s fine.” She started to turn away.

“I didn’t say that.” Hell, he might have blown it the first time, but she was here now, right? Something had brought her back out here tonight.

She paused, looked over her shoulder at him. Like she wanted him to believe she was in control. He knew better. She had no idea what she was doing. He should walk away right now—it would be better for them both. This whole day had him out of his comfort zone, and Clara was waiting with her sweet, sad eyes for his answer.

He held out his hand and waited. Just because he wasn’t a gentleman ninety percent of the time didn’t mean he couldn’t fake it.

She put her hand in his and he felt the tremor against his palm. Hell. He was not good at this sort of thing. He was used to a not-so-subtle pressing of bodies on the dance floor. An invitation and a promise of things to come. Clara wasn’t like that, was she? She was as flighty as a scared rabbit. Innocent.

Ty led her to the dance “floor”—an expanse of even ground in front of the band. As a waltz began, he put his right hand along the warm curve of her waist and clasped her fingers lightly in his left. He had no idea how close to get or if he should say something or … A cold sweat broke out at the back of his neck. Wasn’t it hysterical that a man like him was suddenly so unsure what to do?

She’d gone quite pale, so he let go of her waist and put a finger beneath her chin.

Her last partner had abused her—Sam had said as much when he’d issued the warning to tread carefully. Now, as she tensed beneath his chaste touch, he felt an immediate, blinding hatred for the man who had damaged such a beautiful creature, followed by something unfamiliar and unsettling as he realized he was feeling unusually protective.

He lifted her chin with his finger and said simply, “You make the rules.”

Emotions flooded her eyes—what he thought was gratitude and relief and maybe even a touch of fear. He was not a particularly good man, and he was certainly not good enough for her, but he wasn’t cruel or oblivious. So he waited for her to clasp his hand in hers again before he made his feet move, taking her with him around the dirt floor, making sure there was lots of space between their bodies.

They made small steps around the dance area, neither speaking, but Ty felt the moment she finally began to relax in his arms. He wanted to pull her closer, to nestle her in the curves of his body, feel her softness against him, but he kept a safe distance, honoring his word to let her take the lead. Clara wasn’t like other women. There were different rules to be followed. Hell, usually there were no rules.

The first song finished and led straight into another. There was only a pause in their steps and then, by some sort of unspoken agreement, they moved as one again, swaying gently to the music. Her breasts brushed against his jacket, an innocent whisper of contact that he normally wouldn’t notice but right now sent his blood racing. Her temple rested lightly against his chin and the floral scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils. There was something inherently sweet about Clara, and he did not normally have a sweet tooth when it came to women. But he couldn’t deny that what he was feeling was attraction. Arousal. As the fiddle scraped in the background, his lips nuzzled against the soft hair at her temple and his eyes closed, drawing in her scent that reminded him of his mother’s lily of the valley. Her skin was warm and soft and tasted like summer.

The song ended and Ty stepped back, shaken.

But worse than that was looking down at Clara and seeing her eyes swimming with tears. A quick survey showed him that several people were watching them curiously, and why not? It was no secret that Clara was a resident at the women’s shelter, and Ty knew his reputation—quite intentional when all was said and done. The cocky, confident rebel image was a lot easier to maintain than the truth, after all.

But Clara didn’t deserve gossip or prying eyes. To his dismay a tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and down her cheek.

“Let’s get you away from here,” he murmured, squeezing her hand, feeling instantly sorry he’d let things go as far as they had during the dance. In another time, another place, with another woman, that sort of soft kiss would have been nothing. But here he’d forgotten himself. The best he could do now was get her away from the gossip.

Her eyes widened at his suggestion. “Away … as in?” He watched as she swallowed.

“Away from busybodies,” he said quietly. “I promise you, Clara, you don’t have to be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you.”

She pulled her hand out of his and her face paled. She seemed oblivious to the inquisitive stares of the wedding guests as she stumbled backwards.

“I’ve heard that before.” The words sounded jerked from her throat, harsh and disjointed. “This was a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake.”

She turned on her heel and ran off, dashing out of the garden as she rushed to the house. Her shawl fluttered out of the crook of her arm and settled on the grass. Ty was left standing in the middle of the dance area feeling like a first-class fool.

He walked over to where her shawl lay on the cool grass and picked it up, running the soft fabric through his fingers.

He’d spooked her big-time. It was probably just as well when all was said and done. But now he had an additional reason he wished he hadn’t promised Molly he’d move back into the ranch house. He wasn’t sure what would be worse—the awkwardness with Clara or the antagonism between him and his father.

She was afraid of him.

The next few months were going to be hell.

Clara kneaded the biscuit dough with a bit more force than necessary, flattening it on the countertop before rolling it and pushing the heels of her hands against it again. She’d put Virgil through his physio exercises already and he’d fallen asleep over his crossword puzzle, tired from the exertions and from all the excitement of the previous day. She’d changed his bedding after his bath, given him his meds and made sure he was comfortable in his favorite chair. Molly was out at a church women’s breakfast. And Ty was …

Ty was out in the barns somewhere. Thank goodness.

Just the thought of Tyson made her cheeks grow hot. The few times they’d crossed paths in the days since the wedding, he’d offered a polite greeting and moved on, barely meeting her eyes. And who could blame him? She’d cried, for Pete’s sake, and run off. For someone who wasn’t into drama or making a spectacle, she’d indulged in plenty. No wonder he kept his distance from her now. Her intentions to smooth the way had been a big fat failure.

Then again, he never should have kissed her either. Even if it hadn’t been technically a kiss.

She flipped the dough and kneaded it again, welcoming the rhythmic motion. It was almost therapeutic the way her arm muscles moved and flexed as she pushed the dough around the board. She tended to cook when she needed to empty her mind. And her mind was plenty full.

But so far it wasn’t working. Things around the Diamond place were tense. Ty complicated matters—and not just for her. Virgil had been irritable lately, growling at her during his exercises and wearing a scowl more often than a smile. She had half a mind to sit the both of them down and tell them to talk rather than stomp around beating their chests. There was clearly some sort of power struggle at work and it wasn’t good for Virgil. It wasn’t her place to say anything, though. And sheer embarrassment kept her from offering Ty more than a quiet hello.

She’d fallen quite under his spell while dancing. Their bodies had been touching. Her hands paused over the dough for a minute, remembering. On one hand, it had been a stunning victory over her personal-space phobia. But it had also been a huge mistake. Come on—Ty Diamond? And it had been in front of half of Cadence Creek. She gave her head a shake.

She employed the rolling pin next, rolling the dough out exactly half an inch thick. The more Ty stayed out of her way the better. Virgil needed to stay focused on his rehabilitation, and Ty made Clara feel …

Well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? He made Clara feel, full stop. She’d gotten as caught up as any other woman in the romance of the wedding, wooed by the adoring looks Sam and Angela shared, the soft music, the beautiful flowers and pretty dresses. That was the only explanation that made any sense at all.

Clara applied the cookie cutter to the dough with a vengeance, cutting circles and plopping them on a cookie sheet. In the clear light of day she realized he had felt sorry for her. That stung, but she should have retained a little dignity rather than fleeing. She had no one to blame but herself.

She heard the front door shut. Molly couldn’t be back already, Sam and Angela were going to be in Ottawa on their honeymoon for another week, and no one else would walk in without knocking. That left Ty. Speak of the devil.

“Morning,” he said, coming through to the kitchen in his socked feet. Buster, the family retriever, trotted in on Ty’s heels and rubbed up against Clara’s leg to say hello with a wag of his tail.

“Go lie down, Buster,” Clara said firmly. “Last thing I need is you in my biscuit dough.”

The dog obediently found his bed in the corner and curled up on it.

Ty looked around, saw Virgil sleeping, and an indulgent smile curved his lips. She looked down to cover her surprise. The smile changed his face completely, softening his jaw and cheekbones, erasing years off his face and making it appear almost boyish.

Clara slid the pan into the oven, determined to finally put things on an even keel. “Good morning, Tyson.” She deliberately kept her voice pleasant and impersonal.

He tilted his head, studying her as she straightened, brushing off her hands. “Ty, remember? Unless I’m in trouble, it’s Ty.” The smile changed, his lips curving in a devilish grin. “Does calling me Tyson mean you’re still mad?”

In trouble? He was trouble. It would have been easier if he hadn’t smiled, she realized. His smile was the one thing she couldn’t get out of her head. At the wedding it had been warm, intimate and slightly lopsided as though he was sharing a joke. The warmth of it had extended to his eyes, the brown-as-molasses depths of them with sundrenched crinkles in the corners.

She avoided his gaze and set the timer on the oven instead. He thought she was mad? Embarrassed, yes. Awkward—definitely. Angry? Well, maybe a little. He shouldn’t have rubbed his lips over her temple like that. It was presumptuous. It was …

Glorious. It had made her feel feminine and alive. Lordy, but he was a distraction! She wished he’d get out of the kitchen and back to the barns so she could focus better.

“Miss Ferguson?”

She was surprised that he persisted in addressing her so formally—to the rest of the family she was just Clara. His sober tone turned her head and she bit down on her lip at the sight of him, his weight on one hip, all well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, the grin no longer in sight. He wore a baseball cap. The curved peak made him seem—for the second time in as many minutes—ridiculously young. She had to stop noticing and simply do her job. It was the most important thing right now, her ticket to a new life. She was saving as much as she could so she could afford her own place. And Ty Diamond wasn’t going to screw that up for her.

“Did you want to ask me something?”

He hesitated so long that Clara fought the urge to squirm. The timer on the oven ticked down painfully slowly. Virgil, asleep in his favorite chair in the living room, let out a random snore. It broke the silence, and alleviated a bit of the tension. Clara let out a soft laugh as Virgil snored again and shifted in his chair.

“Your father always falls asleep during his crossword,” she said quietly. She wasn’t quite sure what to call Virgil in reference to Ty. He was Ty’s adopted dad but also his uncle by blood. And the tension between the two sometimes made her wonder if they even acknowledged each other as relatives at all.

“He gets tired easily, doesn’t he?”

She nodded. “The stroke took a lot out of him. He’s made wonderful progress, though. He did great in his physio this morning. Even if it did take a lot of prodding and a fair amount of sass.”

“From you or from him?” Ty’s eyes seemed to twinkle at her.

“From him, of course. He’s been irritable lately.” She met his gaze with a look that told him she knew the source of Virgil’s displeasure.

“That’s probably my fault,” Ty admitted. “He’s changed more than I expected. Sam warned me. About a lot of things.”

His gaze was steady on her again and the ridiculous fluttering she’d felt at the wedding came dancing back. What had Sam warned him about? That Virgil was more stubborn than ever? That things weren’t exactly calm and peaceful around Diamondback Ranch? Or had he warned Ty of something else—about someone else? A sudden thought struck. Had Ty asked her to dance because he’d been put up to it?

Each time she thought of that night she regretted it more.

“I’m just his nurse,” Clara replied, turning away and taking the rolling pin and empty biscuit bowl to the sink.

“I didn’t realize nurse duties included baking.” He stepped forward and snuck a small bit of raw biscuit dough from the countertop, popping it in his mouth.

Clara felt a sharp and sudden pain in her heart, watching him sneak the scrap of dough. How many times had she and her brother done that as kids? Bread dough, cookie dough, it hadn’t mattered. Their mother would scold but never yell, saying that she hoped they had children someday who did the same thing and drove them crazy. The memory sent a bitter pang through Clara’s heart. Life had been so uncomplicated then.

Clara missed her family terribly. She’d followed Jackson to Alberta when he’d claimed he’d make his money in the oil patch and set them up for life. She’d been blind and stupid to leave all the good things behind to chase empty promises. But it was too late to go back home now. How could she possibly explain the changes over the years that had passed? No, the gulf was too wide. Saskatchewan was only a province away but it might as well have been a continent.