Knight in a White Stetson (5 page)

“What the hell am
I
doing?” Lester sputtered. “What the hell are
you
doing? It’s broad-damn-daylight out here.”

“You got three seconds to get away from me, Lester, before I do something rash.” He was feeling rash. He was feeling homicidal. A moment ago he’d been as aroused as he’d ever been, and that arousal had viciously turned itself to something else, a readiness. He was anxious to do battle.

Lester was not intimidated. “You got less than that to get away from Calla, spud. I just passed her boyfriend on the road. He’s heading this way.” Lester gunned the pickup. “You’re welcome, you pissant,” he called through the open window.

Henry raked his fingers through his hair and stared after Lester’s pickup. Then he turned to look at Calla. Hay was sticking every which way out of her clothes and she was trying to tuck her hair back into its ponytail. His mouth went slack at the sight of her. Blood and desire still pounded heavily through his body. He was so hard, he ached.

She walked determinedly past him.

“I heard,” she said, not looking at him. He reached out to catch her arm, but she twisted out of his grip. “Don’t do that.”

Calla jumped the low wood fence that separated the stack yard from the road and walked across to the main compound. She reached the driveway just as Clark pulled up in a sports car. Henry stood in the stack yard and glowered at her. He couldn’t seem to move. Calla stood stiffly next to the little car until Dartmouth managed to untangle his skinny legs and step out onto the gravel drive.

Her
boyfriend—
Henry’s
hands clenched as the word passed through his thoughts—kissed Calla dutifully on her mouth, her beautiful, well-kissed, delicious mouth, and then said something into her ear. Henry watched Calla as she began to furiously brush the hay from her clothes.

Chapter 6

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”
S
o Dad and I wrapped it up last night and I decided to take the first morning flight out to see my little cowgirl, here.” Clark reached out and patted Calla possessively on her rump. She jumped a little, nearly dropping the stack of dirty plates she was carrying to the sink.

Henry’s fingers tightened around the short glass of whiskey he was holding. Too bad she didn’t drop ‘em, he thought. Right onto Dartmouth’s sorry lap.

Henry was well on his way to drunk, and he knew it. He couldn’t remember the last time … yes, he could. He’d drunk himself to a stupor the night Heidi left him. It was the least he could do in honor of his short and wretched marriage. He raised the glass to his lips and drained the last of the liquor. And glared gloomily at Dartmouth.

“You have a good trip?” Jackson inquired politely of Clark. He stepped over to the counter, retrieved the whiskey bottle and poured a healthy amount of the amber liquid into Henry’s glass. Calla’s eyes flew to her father in wide astonishment

“Very good.” Clark was smiling broadly. Henry wondered with scientific precision just how many of those capped teeth he could take out with one punch. “Dad and I made an offer on a piece of property out in the Hamptons. I think I told you about it, didn’t I, honey?”

Calla raised her eyebrows at him from where she stood at the sink.
Honey?
Clark had never called her honey. It sounded almost as silly as
cowgirl.

He’d also never patted her bottom. Bottom patting was a new and irritating affectation. She wondered if Clark’s friendliness had anything to do with the glowering, half-drunk Neanderthal facing him across the table.

“Uh, yeah. The golf course?” Everyone glanced politely in her direction except Henry, who continued his grim evaluation of Clark.

A freshly showered and shaved Henry had shown up on the kitchen stoop just as Calla, Clark, Jackson and Helen were about to sit down to a steak dinner. Lord knew where old Lester was. Calla had recovered from that amazing … whatever it was … out in the stack yard, barely, and wasn’t thrilled to see Henry and his hearty appetite show up for dinner. But she wasn’t exactly surprised, either. Now she regretted not slamming the door in his face before Jackson had had time to cheerfully invite him to join them.

“Much more than a golf course, dearest,” Clark replied indulgently.
Dearest?
“We’ll have housing developments and two separate clubhouses, a small greenbelt and a strip mall with the highest quality shops and restaurants. All very posh. Dad and I were thrilled. It took a lot of wheeling and dealing, and of course I resent every minute I have to spend away from you, hon—” he reached his hand out to Calla who took it hesitantly “—but it was worth it.” Clark gave a hearty laugh, which made Calla wonder if he wasn’t a little drunk, as well. “We’ll make a mint.”

Henry tipped back his chair and clunked his booted feet onto the kitchen table with a crash. The family turned to stare at him. He crossed his legs casually and sipped his drink.

Calla was annoyed. More than annoyed. Not only was this—fool—who had invited himself to dinner for the first time in two damn weeks—being about as rude as he could be, but her father and aunt were happily allowing it to continue. If anyone else on the planet dared to put his feet on her kitchen table, Helen would have put a broom handle in his ear. Now she just grinned into her coffee cup in a fit of humor Calla couldn’t begin to fathom.

Calla’s gaze shifted to her father, who was smiling absently at Henry.

And since when did Jackson Bishop ply people with whiskey? Where had he even got the bottle, for heaven’s sake? She knew Jackson saw how smashed Henry was slowly getting. Why did he keep pouring liquor into his glass?

And where the hell was Lester? Calla couldn’t remember the last time that weasel had missed a free meal.

She was furious, and getting madder all the time. Cowgirl? Honey? Dearest?
Hon?

Clark was still talking. “And you should see the plans for the mall, Jack.” He leaned forward earnestly, Calla’s hand still captured in his. “We’re still working on investors, but Dad and I have managed all the up-front money. It’s our biggest deal yet. Huge. You’ll have to come out and see it. I really think you would be impressed. Seriously. We could give you the grand tour. You might even decide you want to throw a little cattle money in that direction. Big bucks to be made in this development, Jack.”

“You know, I don’t much like leaving the place anymore, Clark,” Jackson said, one age-spotted hand pulling thoughtfully down his face. “I haven’t been back East in I don’t know how long. Before Calla was born, anyway. Her mother and I took a trip to Maine, remember that, Helen? Oh, beautiful country, Maine. Lot of wilderness up there. Reminds me a little of Idaho.”

“Maine reminds you of Idaho?” Clark guffawed good-naturedly, slapping Jackson on his knee. “You mean except for the rain and the trees, right? Never heard that before. You got one on me there, Jack.”

Calla began to relax a little. She was still painfully aware of Clark’s possessive hand on hers and of Henry’s defiant feet on the table in front of them. They were both idiotic male statements of some kind, she knew. She’d certainly been around enough men to recognize an idiotic male statement when she saw one. But the conversation wasn’t threatening, and Clark and Jackson were communicating in a way she hadn’t seen before. It was nice, she thought. Suspicious, but nice.

Henry shifted his feet and Calla glanced over at him. His eyes were on her now. Unreadable, deep pools of darkest brown. His gaze went to her hand in Clark’s. After a moment, he met her eyes again. There was an open challenge in them. She turned to Clark and stole an arm around him, sitting on the narrow arm of the dining chair. She could almost feel those dark pools, drugging her, dragging her in. Clark slid a gangly arm around her waist.

There was another small crash as Henry slammed his boots on the linoleum and heaved himself out of his chair. He walked steadily to the whiskey bottle on the counter, helped himself to another glass and then leaned against the sink, scowling. Helen choked a little on her coffee. Jackson leaned forward and patted her companionably on the back.

“Careful there, sister,” he said with a smile.

Clark didn’t seem to notice the exchange, but Calla’s back became straighter, stiffer, as she perched on the chair.

“We had an architect make up some preliminary plans. They look great. Not quite what we were looking for, but they’ll do until we can come up with the investors, then we’ll hire a good firm from New York to do the final polish on them. Someone with a big name. Dad thinks he might get Beacham and Beacham. I went to school with a Beacham. A son, not a partner. Hell of a tennis player.” Clark suddenly turned to where Henry had loaned his large frame against the sink. Calla nearly fell off the arm of the chair. “You play?”

“What?” Henry’s question was a little chip of ice. It chilled the warm room.

“Tennis, old man. I thought we might have a game sometime. We’d have to go in to Boise, but I’ve got an old Dartmouth brother who belongs to a club there, and I’m sure he’d get us a court. He’s in politics. If you can imagine, a brother pressing the flesh way out here in the sticks.” Clark’s tone was challenging, but he was smiling. Calla willed Henry to be polite.

She shouldn’t have wasted her time.

“I don’t play.”

“Did you play any sports in college?” Clark gave a small, insincere gasp. “Oh, sorry. You must not have gone to college. I mean, you wouldn’t be working for Calla right now if you had a degree, would you? Well, lucky you, I say. An education can really be a burden sometimes. It puts so much pressure on a man to succeed. You’re lucky, really.”

Clark took a smug sip from his wineglass, and squeezed Calla closer. Calla couldn’t decide who she was going to kill first tonight. The Neanderthal or the snob. She deliberated on it for a second.

“Hockey,” Henry said quietly after an interminable pause. He took a long pull from his glass, set it gently on the counter, and crossed his arms across a chest that Calla realized with a jolt was broader than she remembered. Hadn’t she just had her fingertips on that chest two hours ago? When had it got all puffed up like that?

“I beg your pardon?” Clark said, still smiling. “You played hockey? When? In high school? Or did you go to high school?”

“In college.”

Calla shifted to look at Henry. He seemed to be staring at Clark’s teeth.

“You went to college?” Clark asked coolly. His smile was gone. “You don’t seem the type.”

“What’s the type?” The temperature in Henry’s voice went down a degree. If they didn’t knock this off, Calla thought grimly, she’d have to turn on the furnace in the kitchen. She chanced a look at Jackson and Helen. They were positively serene.

“Well, not you.” Clark laughed, real amusement in his voice. “I haven’t met many ranch hands—” he practically snickered the words “—with a college education. Where’d you go? Ag Tech? Bumpkin Junior College? You get you an A.A. in changing sprinklers, paaardner?”

Calla stared down at Clark in shock. He
must
be drunk. She couldn’t believe her ears. She’d never seen him lose that polite Ivy League veneer. Ever.

Henry pushed himself off the counter. He crossed the distance between himself and Clark in a couple long steps and leaned over the thinner man with unbelievable physical menace. Calla held her breath. It was something like watching a rangy old herd bull approaching an upstart in a pasture, Calla decided. Uncomfortable, fascinating.

Henry put one hand on Calla’s free arm and held it there, squeezing. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she was being punished for something. Henry’s other hand hung in the air at his side. His fist was bunched, Calla noticed with sick alarm. Circling was one thing; this was quickly getting out of hand.

“No, not Bumpkin Junior College, you skinny, insufferable, elitist son of a bitch. Harvard. Class of ‘88, Bachelor’s degree in Chemistry,” Henry said quietly into Clark’s face. He was so close, Calla could smell the whiskey on his breath. It was a heady scent. “Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Class of ‘90, Masters in Chemical Engineering. Purdue University, Class of ‘92, Doctorate in Chemical Engineering.”

Henry released Calla’s arm and raised himself to a standing position with deliberate slowness.

“And I played hockey.” He turned and walked calmly to the door. “Not tennis. There’s blood in hockey. That’s what I liked about it. Remember that, Dartmouth, the next time you try to jerk me around.” He nodded at the older couple. “Thanks for dinner, Helen, Jackson.” Henry didn’t look at Calla. He walked out the door and closed it gently behind him. Calla could hear the crunch of gravel under his feet as Henry strode deliberately out toward the bunkhouse.

For several seconds, no one in the shadowy kitchen spoke. Even Jackson and Helen had been alarmed when Henry had accepted Clark’s baiting. At least they’d had enough sense for that, Calla thought breathlessly. Maybe next time they wouldn’t be so free with the Wild Turkey.

“That guy’s a menace,” Clark said after a moment, wiping a sheen of sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand. He picked up his wineglass with a forced flourish. “And, good God, what a story. Can you believe he thought we’d buy that? Where did you find this guy, Calla? I thought he was pretty uncivilized when I first met him, but this is ridiculous. If he can make up a wild tale like that, I wonder what else he’s capable of? I hope you checked his references. More than that, I hope you lock the house at night.” He was babbling.

“What makes you think he made it up?” Jackson asked quietly.

“Please,” Clark snorted. “I’ve been around the academic world all my life. I would certainly know a
doctor
if I saw one. In chemical engineering, no less. What a laugh.” As if to prove his point, Clark chuckled mirthlessly into his glass. His hands were shaking, Calla noticed. “If he has a degree, it’s in ditch-digging. I’d bet my Beta Theta Pi colors on it.”

Jackson rose from the kitchen table.

“Well,” he announced mildly, “I think I’ll hit the sack.”

Helen could hardly get up from her chair fast enough. “Me, too,” she chirped. “Night.”

“My,” Clark said after Jackson and Helen disappeared down the long hallway, “that was fun.”

He tipped his chair back and boldly planted his feet on the kitchen table and crossed his arms across his chest. Calla looked at his long, aristocratic feet sheathed in expensive penny loafers and fought a sudden urge to deck him. Then she had to fight an equally sudden urge to laugh. She put her head heavily into her hands. What was happening to her?

“I’m a little upset, Clark,” she said through her fingers.

“I don’t blame you. That man would upset anyone. What a jerk.” He patted her comfortingly.

“You weren’t exactly innocent, Clark. You baited him. He really didn’t have any choice but to make that stuff up.”

What was she doing? Defending Henry? He was rude and he was a liar. If she could blot out the image of him kneeling at her feet in the stack yard today, his mouth hot and hungry on her breast, she’d have a better chance of remembering that.

“Now, Calla. He made that stuff up because of you, not me. He must know how impressed you are with the whole idea of college. It’s because you never finished, sugarplum, and you don’t know what a real grind it can be. He’s playing on your obvious fascination. A doctorate in Chemical Engineering, indeed.” Clark grunted uncharacteristically.