Date with a Cowboy: Iron Cowboy / In the Arms of the Rancher / At the Texan's Pleasure

Two

It was pouring rain when Sara reluctantly crawled out of bed the next morning. She looked out the window and sighed.

“Boy, I’d love to go back under the covers and sleep, Morris,” she mused as she fed the old cat.

He rubbed up against her pajama-clad legs and purred.

She yawned as she made a pot of coffee and some buttered toast to go with it. Her grandfather had insisted on a balanced breakfast, but Sara couldn’t manage a lot of food early in the morning.

She nibbled toast and watched the rain bounce down over the camellia bush next to the window. She was going to get wet.

She dressed in jeans and a cotton blouse and threw her ancient tan raincoat over her clothes. It was embarrassing to wear such a tacky coat to a rich man’s house, but it was all she had. Her salary didn’t cover many new things. Mostly she shopped at thrift stores. The coat had a stained neck and two or three tears where Sara—never the world’s most graceful woman—had tripped over garden stakes or steps or her own feet and brushed against nails and a barbed-wire fence. She looked down and noticed that she was wearing socks that didn’t match. Well, it was something she just had to learn to live with. The doctor told her she’d cope. She hoped he was right. She was nineteen, and sometimes she felt fifty when she tried to force her mind to comprehend matching colors.

Groaning, she checked her watch. It was fifteen to ten, and it would take her almost all that time to get to the White Horse Ranch. Well, the ogre would just have to make fun of her. She didn’t have time to unload her sock drawer and find mates. They were hidden under her jeans, anyway, and maybe he wouldn’t notice.

She stepped right into a hole filled with muddy water getting to her car. Her sneakers and her socks were immediately soaked. She groaned again as she unlocked the little car and quickly climbed in. The seats were leather, thank goodness, and they’d shed water. Her VW was seven years old, but the mechanics at Turkey Sanders’s used car lot kept it in good repair. Despite his reputation for bad car sales, Turkey prided himself on his mechanics.

She patted its cracked dash. The VW had been wrecked, so she got it very cheaply. Probably it would fall apart if she tried to drive it as far as San Antonio. But she never left the Jacobsville area, and it was dependable transportation.

It started on the first go, making that lovely race car sound that made her think of luxury racers as she gunned the engine. If she closed her eyes and did that, sometimes it sounded just like a Formula 1 challenge car.

“In my dreams,” she laughed to herself. She wouldn’t earn enough in her lifetime to make six months of payments on one of those fancy sports cars. But it was just as well. The little black VW suited her very well.

She pulled out of her driveway onto the dirt road that led out to the state highway. It had been recently scraped and a little new gravel had been laid down, but it was still slippery in the rain. She gritted her teeth as she felt the car slide around in the wet mud. At least it was flat land, and even if she did go into a ditch, it wouldn’t be a deep one. All the same, she didn’t look forward to walking for help in that molasses-thick mud. She remembered a long walk in similar red mud, overseas, with the sound of guns echoing. She drew her mind back to the present. Dwelling on the past solved nothing.

By downshifting, not hitting the brakes and going slowly, she managed to get to the paved highway. But she was going to be late getting to the ogre’s house … She grimaced. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She’d just have to tell him the truth and hope he was understanding about it.

“I specifically said ten o’clock,” he shot at her when he opened the front door.

He was wearing jeans and a chambray shirt and working boots—you could tell by the misshapen contours of them that many soakings had caused—and a ratty black Stetson pulled low over his forehead. Even in working garb, he managed to look elegant. He looked like a cowboy, but they could have used him as a model for one made of metal. An iron cowboy.

She had to fight a laugh at the comparison.

“And you’re dripping wet all over,” he muttered, glaring at her clothes. “What the hell did you do, swim through mud holes on your way here?”

“I stepped in a mud puddle on the way to my car,” she began, clutching a plastic bag that held his books.

He looked past her. “I don’t know what the hell that thing is, but I wouldn’t dignify it by calling it a car.”

Her eyes began to glitter. “Here,” she said, thrusting the books at him.

“And your manners could use some work,” he added bitingly.

“‘Cast not your pearls before swine!’” she quoted angrily.

Both eyebrows went up under the hat. “If that raincoat is any indication of your finances, you’d be lucky to be able to toss a cultured pearl at a pig. Which I am not one of,” he added firmly.

“My boss said she’d call you …”

“She did.” He took a folded check out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Next time I order books, I’ll expect you at the stated time. I’m too busy to sit in the house waiting for people to show up.”

“The road I live on is six inches thick in wet mud,” she began.

“You could have phoned on the way and told me that,” he retorted.

“With what, smoke signals?” she asked sourly. “I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he asked with pure sarcasm.

“And my finances are none of your business!”

He glanced down. “If they were, I’d quit. No accountant is going to work for a woman who can’t afford two matching socks.”

“I have another pair just like this one at home!”

He frowned. He leaned closer. “What in the world is that?” he asked, indicating her left sleeve.

She looked down. “Aahhhhhh!” she screamed, jumping from one leg to the other. “Get it off, get it off! Aaaahhhh!”

The large man in the house came out onto the porch, frowning. When he followed his employer’s pointed finger, he spotted the source of the uproar. “Oh,” he said.

He walked forward, caught Sara’s arm with a big hand, picked up the yellow hornet on her sleeve, slammed it to the porch and stepped on it with a shoe the size of a shoebox.

“It’s just a hornet,” Mr. Danzetta said gently.

Sara stared down at the smashed insect and drew in a deep breath. “It’s a yellow hornet. I got stung by one of them once, on my neck. It swelled up and I had to be taken to the emergency room. I’ve been scared of them ever since.” She smiled up at him. “Thank you.” Odd, she thought, how familiar he looked. But she was almost certain she’d never seen him before. Her condition made it difficult for her to remember the past.

The ogre glared at his employee, who was smiling at Sara and watching her with something like recognition. He noted the glare, cleared his throat and went back into the house.

“Don’t start flirting with the hired help,” he told her firmly after the front door had closed behind Tony.

“I said thank you! How can you call that flirting?” she asked, aghast.

“I’ll call the store when I need a new supply of books,” he replied, ignoring her question.

She read quickly herself, but he had eight books there. But he might not be reading them, she thought wickedly. He might be using them for other purposes: as doorstops, maybe.

“You brought the books. I gave you a check. Was there something else?” he asked with a cold smile. “If you’re lonely and need companionship, there are services that advertise on television late at night,” he added helpfully.

She drew herself up to her full height. “If I were lonely, this is the last place in the world that I’d look for relief!” she informed him.

“Then why are you still here?”

She wouldn’t kick him, she wouldn’t kick him …

“And don’t spin out going down my driveway,” he called after her. “That’s new gravel!”

She hoped he was watching her the whole way. She dislodged enough gravel to cover a flower bed on her way down the driveway.

It was a long, wet weekend. She knew that nobody around Jacobs County would be complaining about the rain. It was a dry, unusually hot spring. She read in the market bulletins online that ranchers were going to pay high prices for corn. Floods in the Midwest and Great Plains were killing the corn there, and drought was getting it in the South and Southwest. Considering the vast amounts of the grain that were being used as biofuel, and the correspondingly higher prices it was commanding, it looked as if some small ranchers and farmers might go broke because they couldn’t afford to feed it to their cattle. Not to mention the expense of running farm machinery, which mostly burned gasoline.

She was glad she wasn’t a farmer or rancher. She did feel sorry for the handful of small ranchers around town. One day, she thought, there would be no more family agriculture in the country. Everything would be owned by international corporations, using patented seed and genetically enhanced produce. It was a good thing that some small farmers were holding on to genetically pure seeds, raising organic crops. One day, the agricultural community might be grateful, if there was ever a wholesale dying out of the genetically modified plants.

“Well, you’re deep in thought, aren’t you?” Dee teased as she walked in the door the following Wednesday, just before noon.

Sara blinked, startled by her boss’s appearance. “Sorry,” she said, laughing. “I was thinking about corn.”

Dee stared at her. “OOOOOkay,” she drawled.

“No, I’m not going mad,” Sara chuckled. “I read an article in this farm life magazine.” She showed it to the older woman. “It’s about the high prices corn is going to get this year.”

Dee shook her head. “I don’t know what the smaller ranchers are going to do,” she said. “Gas prices are so high that it’s hard to afford enough fuel to run tractors and trucks, and now they’ll have to hope the hay crop is good or they’ll have to sell off cattle before winter rather than having to feed them stored corn.” She sighed. “I expect even the Ballengers will be feeling a pinch, with their feedlot.”

“It must be tough, having your livelihood depend on the weather,” she remarked.

“Yes, it is. I grew up on a little truck farm north of here,” Dee told her. “One year, we had a drought so bad that everything we grew died. Dad had to borrow on the next year’s profits to buy seed and fertilizer.” She shook her head. “Finally he couldn’t deal with the uncertainty anymore. He got a job fixing engines at one of the car dealerships.”

“It’s so bad, you know—floods in the Midwest and drought here and in the Southeast. Too much water or not enough. They need to build aqueducts like the Romans did and share that water with places that need it.”

“Not a bad idea, but who’d pay for it?”

Sara laughed. “I don’t guess anybody could. But it was a nice thought.”

Dee checked her watch. “You’d better get a move on, before we get swamped with customers and you’re late leaving.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks, Dee.”

The older woman smiled. “Good luck with those drawings.”

Lisa Parks had blond hair and a sweet smile. She was carrying Gil, her eighteen-month-old toddler, when she came to the door to let Sara in. The baby had brownish colored hair and his eyes were green, like his father’s. He was wearing a two-piece sailor suit.

“Doesn’t he look cute!” Sara enthused over the little boy, while Lisa beamed.

“Our pride and joy,” Lisa murmured, kissing the child on his soft nose. “Come in.”

Sara stepped into the cool confines of the house. It had been a bachelor house for years, but Lisa’s feminine touches made it into a home.

“Want coffee before you start?” Lisa asked, shifting Gil on her hip while he chanted happy noises.

“After, if you don’t mind,” came the smiling reply. “I always try to avoid work if it’s at all possible.”

“Don’t we all? I’ve got the puppies out in the barn.” She led the way down the back steps, pausing at the sound of a horse approaching. Gil was still making happy baby sounds, cradled on his mother’s hip.

Harley Fowler was just riding into the yard. He spotted Sara with Lisa and smiled hugely. “Hi, Sara.”

“Hello, Harley. How’s the Spanish coming along?”

He glanced at Lisa, who grinned at him. He shrugged. “Well, I guess I’m learning some. But Juan is a better teacher than any book.”

“How’s your jaw?” Sara asked with twinkling eyes.

He fingered it. “Much better.” He smiled back.

“Uh oh, Mama,” Gil said, frowning. “Uh oh.” He squirmed.

“Uh oh means somebody needs a diaper change,” Lisa laughed. She glanced at Harley and, sensing something, concealed a smile. “Harley, if you’ve got a minute, would you mind showing Sara the pups while I change Gil? We’re working on potty training, but it’s early days yet,” she added on a laugh.

Harley beamed. “I’d be happy to!” He climbed down gracefully out of the saddle and held the reins, waiting for Sara. “Are you going to adopt one of the puppies?”

She blinked. “Well, I hadn’t thought about that. I have a cat, you know, and he really doesn’t like dogs much. I think one tried to eat him when he was younger. He’s got scars everywhere and even dogs barking on television upsets him.”

He frowned. “But you came to see the puppies …?”

She showed him her drawing pad. “I came to sketch the puppies,” she corrected, “for the children’s book I’m writing.”

“Someday she’s going to be famous, and we can all say we knew her back when,” Lisa teased. “I’ll have coffee ready when you’re done, Sara. I made a pound cake, too.”

“Thanks,” Sara called after her.

Lisa waved as she took the baby back into the house.

Harley tied his horse to the corral fence and walked into the dim confines of the barn with Sara. In a stall filled with fresh hay were five puppies and Bob the Collie. She was nursing the babies. In the stall beside hers was Puppy Dog, Lisa’s dog, no longer a puppy. He looked exactly like Tom Walker’s dog, Moose.

“A girl dog named Bob,” Sara mused.

“Boss said if Johnny Cash could have a boy named ‘Sue,’ he could have a girl dog named Bob.”

“She’s so pretty,” Sara said. “And the puppies are just precious!”

“Three males, two females,” he said. “Tom’s got first choice, since they’re Moose’s grandkids.” He shook his head. “He’s taking Moose’s loss hard. He loved that old dog, even though he was a disaster in the house.”

“Moose saved Tom’s daughter from a rattler,” Sara reminded him. “He was a real hero.”

“You want a chair?” he asked.

“This old stool will do fine. Thanks anyway.” She pulled up the rickety stool, opened her pad and took her pencils out of her hip pocket.

“Will it make you nervous if I watch?”

She grinned up at him. “Of course not.”

He lolled against the stall wall and folded his arms, concentrating on the way her hand flew over the page, the pencil quickly bringing the puppies to life on the off-white sheet. “You’re really good,” he said, surprised.

“Only thing I was ever good at in school,” she murmured while she drew. She was also noting the pattern of colors on the pups and shading her drawing to match. Then she wrote down the colors, so she wouldn’t forget them when she started doing the illustrations for her book in pastels.

“I can fix anything mechanical,” he said, “but I can’t draw a straight line.”

“We all have our talents, Harley,” she said. “It wouldn’t do for all of us to be good at the same thing.”

“No, it wouldn’t, I guess.”

She sketched some more in a personable silence.

“I wanted to ask you in the bookstore, but we got interrupted,” he began. “There’s going to be a concert at the high school this Saturday. They’re hosting a performance by the San Antonio Symphony Orchestra. I wondered if, well, if you’d like to go. With me,” he added.

She looked up, her soft eyes smiling. “Well, yes, I would,” she said. “I’d thought about it, because they’re doing Debussy, and he’s my favorite composer. But I didn’t have the nerve to go by myself.”

He chuckled, encouraged. “Then it’s a date. We could leave earlier and have supper at the Chinese place. If you like Chinese?”

“I love it. Thanks.”

“Then I’ll pick you up about five on Saturday. Okay?”

She smiled at him. He was really nice. “Okay.”

He glanced out of the barn at his horse, which was getting restless. “I’d better get back out to the pasture. We’re dipping cattle and the vet’s checking them over. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Thanks, Harley.”

“Thank you.”

She watched him walk away. He was good-looking, local and pleasant to be around. What a difference from that complaining, bad-tempered rancher who hadn’t even sympathized with her when she’d almost drowned delivering his stupid books!

Now why had she thought about Jared Cameron? She forced herself to concentrate on the puppies.

Harley picked her up at five on Saturday in his aged, but clean, red pickup truck. He was wearing a suit, and he looked pretty good. Sara wore a simple black dress with her mother’s pearls and scuffed black high-heeled shoes that she hoped wouldn’t be noticed. She draped a lacy black mantilla around her shoulders.

“You look very nice,” Harley said. “I figure there will be people there in jeans and shorts, but I always feel you should dress up to go to a fancy concert.”

“So do I,” she agreed. “At least it isn’t raining,” she added.

“I wish it would,” he replied. “That nice shower we got last Saturday is long gone, and the crops are suffering. We’re still in drought conditions.”

“Don’t mention that shower,” she muttered. “I was out in it, sliding all over Jeff Bridges Road in my VW, bogged up to my knees in mud, just to deliver Jared Cameron’s books!”

He glanced at her. “Why didn’t he go to the store and get them himself?”

“He’s very busy.”

He burst out laughing. “Hell! Everyone’s very busy. He could spare thirty minutes to drive into town. God knows, he’s got half a dozen cars. That big fella who works for him is something of a mechanic in his spare time. He keeps the fleet on the road.”

“What sort of cars?” she asked curiously.

“There’s a sixties Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, a thirties Studebaker and several assorted sports cars, mostly classics. He collects old cars and refurbishes them.”

“He arrived at our store in a truck,” she said flatly.

“From time to time that big fella wearing fancy suits drives him around.”

“Do you know where he came from?”

Harley shook his head. “Somebody said he was from Montana, but I’m not sure. He came here for a funeral about eight months ago. Nobody can remember whose.”

“A relative, you think?”

He shrugged. “It was at one of the old country churches. Mount Hebron Baptist, I think.”

“That’s where I go to church,” she said, frowning. “Grandad’s buried there. But I don’t remember reading about any funeral in the bulletin for out-of-town people.”

“It was a private service, they said. Just ashes, not even a coffin.”

She pursed her lips and whistled softly. “I wouldn’t like to be burned.”

“I would,” he said, grinning at her. “A true Viking’s funeral. Nothing wrong with that. Then they can put you in a nice-looking urn and set you on the mantel above the fireplace. Nice and neat. No upkeep.”

She laughed. “Harley, you’re terrible!”

“Yes, but I do have saving graces. I can whistle and carry a tune. Oh, and I can gather eggs. Just ask the boss’s wife!”