Knight in a White Stetson (6 page)

Calla slowly raised her head from her hands.

“Sugarplum?” she said.
“Sugarplum?”

Clark looked at her, shocked by the tone in her voice. “I thought you liked those kind of endearments, Calla. Your father calls you darling and honey all the time.”

“My father—” Calla stressed each word “—calls me those things because he loves me. Not because he wants to start something with my hired man.”

Clark played idly with his empty wineglass. Grease from the steak he’d eaten earlier was imprinted in fingerprints around the bowl.

“Now, how would my calling you little endearments start something with your hired man, Calla?”

Calla dragged her lower lip between her teeth to keep from shouting at him. Calla was a shouter; everyone who’d ever known her knew it. On cattle drives, her temper was legendary. Let a calf go back, and you’ll face the sad consequences of Calla’s temper, her brother had always warned the cowboys.

But she’d been careful never to raise her voice to Clark before. His New England sensibilities couldn’t take it.

“I don’t know, exactly, Clark,” she said, as softly as she could manage. “I just know that we’ve been going together for about a year now, and you have never once called me by anything but my name.” She was losing control. She could feel it, but she didn’t care. “But tonight, with Henry here acting, admittedly, like a big fool, you called me everything but…” Calla searched for a vile enough word
“…lovergirl!
And you patted me on the ass, Clark!”

“Calla, I’ve talked to you about your swearing.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Calla!”

“I mean it, Clark. Take your feet off my table and hit the road.” She stomped into the hallway, flicking the switch on the wall as she passed. The kitchen, and Clark, were plunged into the sudden blackness of a moonless Idaho night.

* * *

Henry had the bunkhouse to himself. Lester was obviously in town on a drunk. He was grateful. If the old man had laughed at him tonight, in that raspy, wheezy way he had that made him sound like a cartoon dog, Henry would have had to kill him.

Dammit! Henry paced across the small room.
Dammit!

He couldn’t have handled that situation any worse if he’d tried. Calla, this very minute, was probably swearing him up and down. If she wasn’t busy kissing Dartmouth.
Dammit!

Who the hell was this woman? He’d known her all of two weeks, had maybe five conversations with her, kissed her one time, one time! Was it logical to be this riled up at the thought of her kissing the man she was fully intending to marry? No. It was not logical.

He flung himself onto his bunk like a teenage boy in a fit of temper.

It was more than a kiss. He hadn’t had time to really go over it in his mind. He’d been gripped by such a strange, debilitating rage when he’d seen Calla hop that fence and walk over to meet Dartmouth that it was all he could do to keep himself from challenging the shinny bastard to a duel at sunrise. With swords, something he could use to draw a good amount of blood.

He couldn’t think at all, much less clearly, a terrifyingly unfamiliar state for him to be in. He’d simply walked back to the bunkhouse, showered in the narrow bathroom stall, and plotted how to disrupt what he imagined was going to be a quiet family dinner.

He’d certainly done that, he thought with a small groan. He’d made a complete fool of himself. He tried to focus on that. Humiliation was certainly a new experience for him, but it was at least manageable. He didn’t want to have to think about the more emotional complications tonight’s outburst might entail.

He crossed his arms behind his head, concentrating for a moment on what had happened
before
the disastrous dinner. It was easy, too easy. Calla’s mouth, Calla’s breasts, the smooth, strong feel of her under his fingers. He felt himself relax a little. The four or five glasses of whiskey probably helped, he thought.

Calla had tasted better than he could have imagined; warm and sweaty and sweet. Her mouth had opened to him. He’d known it would. And her body. Had he ever pressed himself against anyone so curvy, so sexy, so firm and fluid?

The whiskey was getting to him. He felt drowsy, the battle-ready hostility he’d felt all evening damping down under the warm weight of the liquor. He didn’t want to fall asleep until he heard Dartmouth’s car leave, but he closed his eyes anyway. Dartmouth. What an ass.

He smiled again in the darkness. When had he picked up the fine art of cursing? He’d never mastered it before. Now he was swearing like a marine. Like Calla, in fact. His smile widened.

He had scared the hell out of Dartmouth tonight, he thought with a measure of satisfaction. He’d recognized the sudden sweat on the other man’s upper lip for what it was. He’d seen enough of it. Flop sweat.

He hoped Calla had seen that sweaty lip.

She was going to be furious with him. He felt a fuzzy dread of morning. He dropped an arm over his eyes and let his head spin. And hell, he was bound to have a brutal hangover.

Chapter 7

«
^
»

H
enry jolted awake.

He’d been dreaming. Calla had been walking toward him, wearing a long white T-shirt and nothing else. The shirt skimmed her smooth, strong thighs and he could see her rouge-tipped breasts swinging beneath the fabric. When he’d reached for her, she broke his grasp and walked past him. She walked up to the barn, pulled the big door open and stepped in. He tried to follow her but she closed the door on him. He peered, as desperately as a child, through the crack in the door.

He felt a soft touch on his shoulder. Heidi smiled up at him, her red-tipped fingers pressing into his shoulder.

Henry sat upright on his bunk. His tongue was oddly thick and he couldn’t seem to shake the heavy feeling in his head. But despite the strange sensations, he knew the dream alone hadn’t shocked him awake. It was something else.

Someone was running.

He could hear the footsteps on the gravel. They were coming for the bunkhouse. Barely dormant instincts came to life in a rush.

He leapt to his
feet
and realized he hadn’t bothered to undress for bed. He was at the door in an instant, snatching his boots from the floor next to the door. He yanked the door open and ran hard right into Calla. He caught her as she stumbled into his chest.

“Henry!”

“What’s wrong?” His body was tensed from head to toe. Pete had called that something, during his training. What? Oh, yes, his fighting stance.

“You’ve got to come with me. I think I just killed Lester.” She straightened suddenly, jerked free of his grasp and took his hand in hers. “Hurry, Henry. He’s bleeding.”

“Where?”

“From his head.”

“Calla, where is Lester?”

“Oh, I thought you meant … he’s in the house.” Calla felt reaction set in, and started to shake. “In the kitchen.”

Henry didn’t wait to pull on his boots. He tucked them under his arm and loped across the compound to the house in his socks. Calla was at his heels, her bare feet traveling the gravel behind him. He’d watched her walk the compound a dozen times without shoes. The bottoms of her slender feet had to be as tough as the leather on the chaps she wore into the hills every morning.

He didn’t allow himself the luxury of imagining Calla in nothing but those leather chaps, as he had a dozen times already that day.

He could hear loud groaning before he reached the door. Lester wasn’t dead, at least.

Henry yanked open the kitchen door. Helen was on the floor, ministering to a bleeding Lester. Jackson was standing in the door of the laundry room, a first aid kit in his hands. Lester was sprawled ignominiously on the linoleum. Henry could smell alcohol, but couldn’t tell if it was him or Lester. He smelled something else, something definitely coming from Lester. Aftershave. Henry smiled in spite of himself.

“Lester, this is the second time today I’ve had to warn you about scaring Calla,” Henry said as he strode forward and kneeled next to Lester.

“Scaring Calla?” Lester squeaked. “She almost killed me.”

Henry examined Lester’s head. “Almost isn’t quite,” Henry muttered, borrowing one of Lester’s favorite expressions. There was the beginning of a goose egg and a small crack in the skin above his right eye. Not much more than a scratch. But the old man was bleeding profusely, Henry acknowledged. Years of drinking will thin the blood, Henry thought. He’d try to remember that the next time he felt the urge to drink a half bottle of Wild Turkey in front of Calla’s family.

He pressed his palm to Lester’s wound. “Give me that first aid kit, will you, Jack?” Henry said. Jackson stepped forward and handed the blue metal box to Henry. Calla had yet to move from the doorway, though Henry was gratified to see the color returning to her cheeks.

“Hold this,” Henry commanded Lester as he placed a bandage on his head. “Tight. We want to stop the bleeding.”

“Oh, poor Lester,” Helen fretted, looking worried and oddly guilty. “Poor dear. Can I get you something?”

“No, that’s all right, ma’am,” Lester said bravely. “If we can just get this bleeding under control, I’m sure I’ll be okay.” He groaned again loudly for effect. Helen nearly swooned, her hand fluttering across her ample chest. It was all Henry could do not to laugh. He met Jackson’s eye. The older man was obviously suppressing the same urge.

Henry pried Lester’s hand away from his forehead and applied a dab of antiseptic ointment to the oozing wound. Lester winced and moaned dramatically again.

“Is he going to be all right?” Calla asked quietly from the doorway.

“He’s fine, Calla. Just a little bump. What’d you hit him with?”

Calla looked solemnly into Henry’s soft brown eyes.

“A bat.”

Henry gave a short crack of laughter. Calla turned on her heel and vaulted down the stone steps.

“You’re okay, Lester, but you’ll have a headache for a while, and your eye will swell shut.” He helped Lester up off the floor. “You’ll look like a hockey player. Drives the women wild.”

“You pissant,” Lester jerked away from the grasp Henry had on his arm. He weaved a little and Helen reached out to steady him. “That hellcat nearly killed me. Didn’t even bother to turn on the light before she hit me.”

“What were you doing in here in the middle of the night, Lester?” Jackson inquired softly.

“Well,” Lester had regained his composure enough to recover his drawl, Henry noticed. “I missed dinner. I was just looking to see if Miz Helen had saved me a little old lump of that apricot pie I saw she was making this afternoon.”

“Why didn’t you turn on the light, old man?” Henry asked.

“Why don’t you go jump off a cliff, young fella?” Lester retorted. He put his hand to his head. “Ooh, I feel a little dizzy. Maybe I got me a concussion.”

“Oh, poor Lester,” Helen wailed. “Here, come sit down.”

“More likely it’s the liquor,” Henry whispered in Lester’s hairy ear as he helped him to a kitchen chair. “You smell like a still.”

“I ain’t the only one,” Lester snarled.

Henry straightened. “Try to stay awake for another hour or so. I’ll come back and check on you. But I’ve seen a lot of concussions, and this is just a bump on the head.”

“Thank you, son,” Jackson said. “You’re mighty handy to have around. You might want to lay your hand to going out and checking on Calla.”

“I planned to.”

Henry washed his hands at the laundry room sink, pulled on his boots and headed for the barn. Calla was probably out there crying her eyes out, Henry thought fondly. A little feminine angst was a pleasant thing, in his view. Brought out the best in a man.

He found her where he knew she’d be—perched on the top rung of the stall where Bubba spent his lonely, gelded nights. Her back was to him.

“Is he okay?” she asked as he pushed the barn door shut.

“He’s fine. You must have pulled up.”

“I realized it was him at the last second. He went down like a brick, though. Thought I might have killed him.”

“I know. You okay, sweetheart?”

She turned to him. Her eyes were not full of tears. Or even a little feminine angst. They were blazing. He felt that plank slam against his chest.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t call me anything but Calla. I’m your boss, not your sweetheart. Got it?”

“Got it.”

She turned her back on him again. He stood at the barn door, regarding the strong slope of her back. He could imagine it perfectly, arching under him in climax. He ran his tongue over his teeth and jammed his hands in his pockets.

“That stupid Lester.”

“Yep,” Henry said. “He’s not the sharpest tack in the box.”

“What was he doing in the kitchen at three o’clock in the morning? Looking for something to eat?”

“Or something.”

“I really could have killed him with that bat.”

“I know.” He was standing next to her. Her smooth, rounded hip was at eye level. He couldn’t see her skin under her nightgown, but he could smell her. She smelled incredibly good. “You’re tough.”

Calla looked down at him warily. He returned her gaze with studied innocence.

“That bat your only protection, Calla?”

“I don’t need much out here. Protection, I mean.”

“I could teach you to use a gun.”

“I’ve been using a gun since before you were out of short pants, Henry.”

“Oh. My mistake.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

Henry shook his head gravely. “Nope.”

“Good.” She considered the wall in front of her for a minute. “What else would Lester have been in the house for?”

Henry climbed the stall one rung at a time until he was perched next to her. “Calla, have you ever caught Lester in your kitchen before?”

“That’s a laugh.”

“I mean, in the middle of the night.”

“Once or twice.”

“And you think he goes there for food?”

“What’s your point, Beckett?” she asked, shifting until she was turned toward him, her ankle cocked on the board under her. Henry could hardly tear his eyes away. He imagined her naked under her nightgown. The thickness in his tongue was gone now, and his head was blissfully clear.

“Nothing.” He paused. He took a deep breath, as much to capture the scent of her as to fortify himself. “I’m just saying Lester must have a tapeworm. He isn’t in his bunk from eleven to midnight, every single night. You could set your watch by it.”

“Oh, Lord.” Calla groaned and put her head in her hands. She really might cry now, Henry thought without alarm.

But when she lifted her head a minute later, he could see the laughter in her beautiful hazel eyes.

“Lester is boinking my Aunt Helen.”

“Not very romantically put, but yes, I’d say that’s the gist of it.”

Calla started to giggle, and couldn’t stop. She laughed so hard, Henry thought she’d fall off her perch. He reached out a hand just in case.

“That’s probably why he doesn’t show up for work until nine. He’s exhausted, the big stud.” She howled with laughter. “Eleven to midnight? What does he do after the first five minutes?”

Tears started to show in the corners of her eyes. Henry watched in fascination. He’d never seen anyone laugh so hard, so uninhibitedly, before. In spite of himself, he began to laugh, too. It bubbled up from inside him. He felt like a little kid, caught up in some excruciatingly funny knock-knock joke.

“Don’t laugh,” he managed to say. “I’ve seen Lester in his underwear. He must terrify your poor Aunt.” Calla doubled over and clutched at him, laughing so hard the sound became choked in her throat. He rocked with her back and forth on the narrow board.

What in the world was happening to him? he wondered.

After a minute, their laughter slowed. He breathed deeply once more and watched Calla wipe her eyes on the hem of her nightgown.

How this woman got to him! Nine hours ago, watching her leave his embrace to go to Clark, he’d been ready to kill her, or kill for her. When she’d come running to him across the compound in her plain white nightgown, he would have lain down his life to save her. Ten minutes ago, he’d have opened a vein to be allowed to comfort her, and now his stomach hurt from laughing at what only she could think was funny. His tidy engineer’s brain was fading fast in this Idaho desert. He should flee to California and his ordered life as soon as possible. But that was impossible, for more reasons that just this wild-driving, belly-laughing, chestnut-haired cowgirl.

“You were such a jerk tonight,” she said. She had finished dabbing at her eyes and had turned back to face the stall. She reached out a long, suntanned foot and scratched Bubba’s back with her toes.

“I know. Sorry.”

Calla looked at him, surprised, suspicious.

“I didn’t expect such a quick apology,” she said.

“Disappointed, I’ll bet.”

“Oh, funny.”

“No, I’ll bet you had a good hour’s worth of scolding all saved up, didn’t you?”

“I don’t scold.”

Henry grinned. “The heck you don’t.”

They were silent for a moment.

“You drove Clark to it, you know. He’s really very nice.”

“Well, that must be exciting.”

Another minute passed. Henry breathed steadily beside her. His heart had slowed somewhat, but the tension in him was intense. He was glad it was dark in the barn. He would have been somewhat embarrassed if she’d been able to look down and see just how little control he had over his libido these days.

“You didn’t have to make all that stuff up about Harvard and MIT. You’re not in competition with Clark.”

“No?”

“Come on, Henry. It was one little kiss.”

“I may have had a lot to drink tonight, but I remember a lot more than just one little kiss. I remember everything, in fact. Down to the very finest detail.”

His voice was calm and serious. Calla shifted away from him a bit, her toes still on the warm back of Benny’s horse.