The Tycoon and the Texan (15 page)

McCall's heart pounded out of control. The words
I love you
echoed in her ears as Nick pulled into the horseshoe driveway in front of Granny's house.

Stopping short of opening the door, McCall turned back to Nick. She cupped his face in her hands, rubbing her thumb along his jawline, brushing against a heavy five o'clock shadow. “I love you, too, Nick.”

Relieved that she had bared her world to him, she bolted from the car without waiting for a response. Nick had whispered the magical words—“I love you.”

Lights flooded the massive veranda. Lola Ruth Hicks flounced down the steps, tying a belt around her chenille robe. “McCall! McCall Johnson, if it isn't my baby girl.” She gathered the young woman into her arms in a familiar hug.

Nick rounded the car and stopped behind McCall, who was still locked in an embrace.

“And who is this handsome hunk of horseflesh you're lugging around?” Lola Ruth deposited McCall as though she were a bag of flour and gathered the towering man in a hug.

“Lola Ruth, this is Nicodemus Dartmouth—my best friend.” McCall smiled at the overwhelmed man, who looked comparatively small in the grasp of the sassy female. She couldn't tell for sure, but he might have been a bit frightened at the zealous welcome.

“Mrs. Johnson, it's a pleasure to finally meet you,” Nick said when she released him. He held out his hand to shake.

“Miz Johnson? Lordie-be, I'm not Miz Johnson. I'm Lola Ruth Hicks. McCall's, uh, what would you call me, sweetie?” She turned and leveled a questioning look at McCall.

“My everything. Lola Ruth took care of me when I was a baby, bought me my first bra, and told me about the facts of life. She's been Granny's right hand and best friend since before I was born.”

Nick smiled. “Well then, Miss Hicks—”

“Oh sweetie, call me Lola Ruth.”

“Well, Lola Ruth, you seem to be just the woman I've been looking for. So you can show me pictures of McCall missing her front teeth?” He flashed his best schoolboy smile to Lola Ruth, who in turn slipped her arms around his waist. “And, tell me all about her boyfriends—”

“Nicodemus, those aren't appropriate questions for the first date,” McCall squawked, knowing full well that he had suckered Lola Ruth into his wicked web of charisma. She followed the starry-eyed woman as she led McCall's new love up the stairs. “Where's Granny?”

“She's still up at the west camp helping the boys. Should be back tonight. Luther and Colt are branding and cutting. You know how she is about wanting to keep her finger in every piece of the pie.”

“Yes, ma'am, I sure do, but I think she likes not having to pay an extra hand more than anything. So, if they're cutting, we'll have mountain oysters tomorrow?”

“If they don't eat 'em up first.”

“That's the truth. Where's Mesa?”

“Down at the university teaching a weeklong course on how to handle rescue animals.”

“Nick, I told you that my aunt died and Mesa is my only cousin. She runs a horse rescue center on part of the land. We're really proud of what she's doing.” McCall smiled at Nick, then turned back to Lola Ruth. “So Granny's out working the roundup?”

“Yep. You know the only thing that will slow her down will be the Good Lord when that time comes.”

McCall turned to Nick and smiled again. “They run a calf-cow operation, too. Got any coffee, Lola Ruth?”

As hard as she tried, McCall couldn't help but smile at the memories of the times she went with Granny on roundups and watched her work side by side with the wranglers, not shying away from the nasty business of castrating and branding cattle.

“You know I always have a pot a perkin', girl.” Lola Ruth never let go of Nick and hauled him toward the kitchen, planting him in a kitchen chair.

Setting three mugs on the table, the older woman turned to McCall. “What brings you back home?”

“I just had some time off, and wanted to show Nick my little corner of the world. I'm sorry we're going to miss Mesa.” She blew on the hot liquid. “Nick, Granny doesn't believe in bottled water. It's a waste of money, and well water tastes better. Can I get you a glass?”

“No thanks. I believe I'll have some of that delicious coffee Miss Hicks—I mean Lola Ruth—was so kind to pour.”

“I fried pies this afternoon. You do like pie, don't you Nicodemus?”

“It's just plain ordinary Nick, ma'am.” Sugar beets topped with molasses couldn't be as syrupy as his tone. “And, yes, ma'am, I love pie.”

“Okay, Nicky, which do you prefer, apple or peach?”

“You choose. If you made them, I know they'll be larruping. I believe that's the right word.” When he caught McCall's gaze, he winked.

McCall rolled her eyes. His attempt to sound Texan came off like a mix of Clint Eastwood in
Dirty Harry
and John Wayne. She expected Nick to start calling Lola Ruth “Pilgrim” any minute.

She grabbed his arm as Lola Ruth toddled off toward the pantry. “
Nicky, darling!
I know exactly what you are up to.”

“Up to?” His chocolate eyes danced with frolic.

She glared at him. “Nobody gets by with calling you Nicky, not even your own mother. You're sucking up to her.”

“Now, why would I want to do that?” He gave her a patronizing pat on her hand.

“Remember? You don't eat anything fried.”

“Maybe I'm acquiring a taste for Texas cooking.”

The older lady appeared with a tightly wrapped plate brimming with fried pies. After removing the foil, she carefully pressed the wrapping with her hands, folded it, and stored it in a drawer.

“Granny keeps the moo from a heifer,” McCall justified the woman's action. “She lived through the war and keeps everything, fearing there might be a shortage some day. I got my frugal ways from her.”

“Nothing's wrong with that. Pennies make into dollars.” Nick smiled. Pushing away from the table, he meandered over to the cabinet and slipped an arm across Lola Ruth's shoulders. “Those smell delicious.” He pinched off part of a fried pie and turned toward the table. “Want some, Angel Eyes?” He tossed the crust in his mouth and licked his lips. “I love good old-fashioned fried pies.”

Lola Ruth piped up. “And I don't use any of those new fang-dangled oils, either. It's lard or nothing for me.”

A pained expression curtained Nick's face. “And, lard is still made from—”

“Yep, good ol' hog fat.”

McCall smiled, knowing that she could bet the ranch on Nick wondering what in the heck he'd gotten himself into. And frankly it seemed fair. After all, he started it back on the boat, trying to make her believe he'd fixed the meal all by his lonesome.

Maybe, just maybe, if they both worked at it they could take the best part of both worlds and make it work.

But it'd be like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole.

After a good night's sleep in her old bed, complete with one of Granny's quilts, a down comforter, and pillows fluffy enough to hide in, McCall woke fresh and ready to wrestle the world.

She dressed quickly and stepped across the hall to Nick's room. She cracked the door and found him lying spread-eagle in the bed. Letting him sleep, she rushed downstairs to help Lola Ruth prepare breakfast.

Spying Granny's battered Ford F-150 pickup in the drive, McCall shook her head. She'd driven the ol' thing for years and most likely had a brand spankin' new one in the garage reserved for special occasions—weddings and funerals.

McCall smiled and thought back to the last argument Granny and her son had had over her refusing to buy a new pickup. He always knew when Granny had enough because she'd resort to using his full name—Charles Chilcote Johnson.

Impatient to see Granny, McCall rushed to the kitchen. Lola Ruth always was the first up, and today was no exception. Once coffee began perking, she'd begin biscuits. Sausage sizzled unsupervised in a cast-iron skillet, telling McCall that Lola Ruth hadn't ventured off very far. Granny had not come downstairs yet because her favorite mug and a jar of Sanka sat undisturbed on the counter.

McCall headed for the dining room and picked up serving spoons from the huge sideboard and added them to bowls of gravy, fried potatoes, and apple butter on the massive maple table. She heard footsteps coming from the stairwell and glanced up.

Nick appeared in the doorway and surveyed the spread. “What's this? Thanksgiving?” The even whiteness of his smile looked dazzling.

“Nothing but a regular ol' working-day breakfast in Texas. How'd you sleep?”

“Alone.” A flicker of a seductive smile tipped the corner of his mouth.

“I heard the screen door slam, so hold on to your hat.” She met him halfway, swung him in her arms, and kissed him good morning. “And wipe that smug grin off your face.”

The door leading to the kitchen burst open and a troupe of rough-as-a-cob, rip-roaring cowboys entered, led by the feisty, petite matriarch of the Johnson dynasty.

The top of Granny's gray topknot barely reached the chin of the shortest man in the group. The woman wore weathered, full-quill ropers, a white western-cut shirt, and Wrangler jeans that fit her like she was melted and poured into them. A mother-of-pearl and silver squash blossom necklace nearly covered her chest.

Tiny fingers, appearing much too frail to hold up the turquoise rings on her fingers, animated the air as she announced breakfast. “Come and get it or we'll throw it out!” she bellowed in a deep Texas twang contrasting with her delicate features. “And whose rattletrap is out there blocking the whole dang driveway? I couldn't hardly get my pickup parked last night.”

“Is that a way to treat a guest?” McCall asked.

Dead silence settled in the air. All heads turned in the direction of McCall and Nick. The cowboys shot to attention at the presence of company, tearing their hats from their heads.

“Jumpin' Jehoshaphat, if it isn't my precious grandchild.” Granny crossed the room like a firefly and grasped McCall. Setting the younger woman at arm's length, she raked astute eyes over her, checking for any signs of damage.

“That dern Lola Ruth, dang her hide. She told me I had company, but I had no idea it was you, child.” She pulled McCall back into her arms. “I figured it was your Uncle Ralph and some of his rug rats.”

Never letting go of her granddaughter, Granny lifted her chin and leveled a stare at Nick. “And who's this handsome son of a gun?”

“Granny, this is Nick Dartmouth.”

Nick took her extended hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. “My pleasure, ma'am.”

“Boys, meet the prettiest thing I've seen since the first time I laid eyes on McCall's Paw-Pa.”

Grunted welcomes and prickly mumbles about wasting time on formalities when the wranglers were hungry filled the air.

“The boys are about to head over to the west camp and they're as hungry as a pack of coyotes just gettin' over a toothache.” Granny stood beside the chair at the head of the table. “Boys, better take your seats before you all have a conniption fit.” She remained standing until Nick pulled out her chair. “Thank you, Nicky.”

“You're welcome, ma'am.”

“Lola Ruth, you better hurry up. This grub is getting colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra.”

“
Nicky
, right here.” McCall patted the chair between her and Granny. As he sat down, she leaned into him, and whispered, “Careful,
Nicky
, you're about to run out of suck-up.” She pursed her lips into a smile.

Lola Ruth pushed through the swinging door, carrying a platter piled high with bacon, ham, and sausage, and stopped beside Nick. “Nicky, my baby girl told me you don't like a lot of grease, so take those two patties off the top. I sopped them up really good for you.”

He looked first to McCall, over to Granny, then up to Lola Ruth. “Thank you, ma'am.” He moved the sausage to his plate.

From across the table a young wrangler snickered and accepted the platter. “Miss Lola Ruth, why don't you ever drain our sausages? We'd like that a lot.” He raked off a hunk of meat. “Yes, ma'am, we'd like that a
whole
bunch.” He passed the tray to the next cowboy.

“Colton Jameson, mind your manners, you boot-lickin' scalawag,” Granny scolded. No doubt it wasn't just his verbal manners she referred to. “I should have sent you packin' years ago, but just like your daddy, you can pick out the meanest, roughest stock in a corral even on your worst day.”

To change the subject, McCall quickly said, “I was reading the paper last night and I saw that Sheriff Sullivan is running for county sheriff again.”

“Yep, he'll never retire. He'll die sitting at his desk waiting for a crime to happen in Kasota Springs. I think the most exciting criminal activity the town has seen was when Bonnie and Clyde drove down Main Street and that was back in the thirties,” Granny piped up.

Flashing a smile at McCall, she gazed up at Nick. The action brought an immediate softening to her features. “Nicky, tell us all about yourself.”

 

Nick propped his boot on the lower rail of the corral and with a critical eye watched a broncbuster wrangle a horse. McCall had been with her grandmother since after breakfast and Nick felt about as useful as a saddle on a jackrabbit.

Although she insisted that he stay, he dug deep for an excuse to get away and allow them time together. No doubt the two ladies had plenty to talk about.

“Done any bronc-bustin', Nick . . . it's Nick, isn't it?” Colton joined him along the railing.

“Colton . . . isn't it?” Nick tartly responded.

“Colt to my friends.” His eyes became hooded like a hawk. “Colton to you.”

Nick tilted back his Stetson with one finger and eyed the young buck. “Well, Colton, I can stay on long enough to beat a horn.”

“Yeah, that thousand-dollar pair of crocodile boots don't look like they've seen much cow manure.” A stream of tobacco hit the dirt, spraying muck on Nick's boots. “Yep, believe they've seen more of the south side of a northbound bronc than anything else.”

Holding raw anger in check, Nick stared across the corral and watched a pair of squealing scrub jays swoop down on their unsuspecting prey. “I take it you don't like me much?”

“You're smarter than you look. This is a working ranch, not some drugstore cowboy's wet dream. Mrs. Johnson raises roughstock. You know, broncs and bulls used on the rodeo circuit. Plus, they rescue horses, so we don't have time to wet-nurse some flannel-mouthed city slicker that's come sniffin' around here like a stud with a hard-on. Want some advice?”

“Not to squat with my spurs on?” Nick wiped off his boot with the edge of the rail. “And, I don't need wet-nursing.”

“My advice, take those fancy Lucchese boots back to California . . . or you might just find yourself in a heap of trouble.”

“Threatening me?” The muscles in Nick's jaw tightened and he clenched his fist.

“Nope. Makin' a promise.” Another stream of tobacco puddled on the ground.

McCall appeared from nowhere. “What's going on?”

“Just spinnin' a yarn with your friend here,
Mac
.” Colt slapped Nick on the back.

“Don't call me that.” Her eyes blazed azure fire as she cast the words at him like stones. “I'll kindly remind you, I'm McCall to you.”

“You used to like it, but then you used to like a lot of things I did.” Colt turned to Nick. “Enjoyed jawing the fat with you, cowpoke. Maybe you'll get your chance to beat that horn.” Colt bowlegged off toward the bunkhouse.

“Nick, what were you guys talking about?”

“Nothing, Angel Eyes. Not anything I can't handle.” He slipped his arms around her and kissed her.

Damn
. Nick wanted to ask if Colt was the guy who had hurt McCall so badly, but he didn't have to ask. He could tell by the anger in her eyes. Whether he had been the one or not, she'd made it very clear she didn't appreciate Colton's approach. Nick would respect her look that seemed to plead . . . please don't pry.

“Everything okay with your grandmother?”

“Wonderful. She's a bit more cantankerous than you imagined, isn't she?”

“Let's just say she burst my illusion of a little old mousy lady sitting on the porch, sipping a mint julep. I see where you got your spunk. She calls it like she sees it. I like a woman like that.”

“Good, 'cause she's sure smitten with you.” McCall returned his kiss. “And, that's no easy task.”

“What're our plans for tonight?”

“I've got good news and bad news. The drive-in hasn't opened for the season, but there's a kickin' band over at the Texas Moon Palace in Kasota Springs. Want to go?”

“Sure, if that's what you'd like to do,” Nick said.

“Think you can steer clear of trouble long enough to do some boot scootin'?”

“I'll try, but don't bet the ranch on it—”

“Well, Slugger, you're gettin' that Texas thing.”