When the Rancher Came to Town (5 page)

All in all, as she tossed the last item in her trunk, she was feeling pretty confident about herself.

Until she saw Mason across the street, waving to her. She waved back, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure as she remembered their kiss. But no, she couldn't let herself make more of this than it was: a flirtation with a cowboy who was going home.

Then he crossed the street and headed for her.

 

Chapter 6

W
HEN
M
ASON SAW
Amanda on the street, he felt a rush of happiness and pleasure and satisfaction all rolled together. He was happy just watching her ponytail bob as she walked to meet him. And the pleasure—­he'd barely been able to concentrate on his meeting that morning, for remembering the hot kiss they'd shared.

They both came to a stop facing each other, a little closer than was necessary. He almost swept her up in a hug but thought better of it.

“Hi,” he said, unable to stop grinning.

A blush pinkened her cheeks, and she didn't quite meet his gaze. “Hi.”

He lowered his voice. “I almost kissed you right here on the street as if I had a right to.”

She seemed to redden even more. A lock of hair had come loose from her ponytail, and he tucked it behind her ear slowly. He thought he detected a shiver.

“There,” he murmured. “I was just about to get some lunch. Want to join me? You do owe me a date.” He stuck out his elbow.

She hesitated, staring at his arm but not touching.

He waited, as if the rest of his life could be affected by Amanda's decision to trust him. He wanted to be with her; he'd never met another woman who so fascinated him. “We'll go to Tony's Tavern. It's off the tourist track, and the locals know how to mind their own business.”

“Since when?” she said lightly.

But to his relief, she slid her arm into his. He smiled. “Valentine Valley can't be as full of busybodies as Elk's Crest. Surely there have to be some strangers down here.”

“Guess I'm a stranger to most ­people around here,” she said. “And you've met the widows—­we have our busybodies. But okay, I'll go and check out the tavern. I've always heard good things.”

“Yep, saw it on your restaurant list.”

“How about if I drive you to Tony's? My car is full of stuff. And later I can drive you back to wherever your pickup is.”

He grinned. “All so I can drive the ­couple blocks to my next appointment.”

“Small towns,” she said, shaking her head.

At Tony's, there were a few ­people at tables within the dark bar. Flat-­screen TVs alternated with mounted animal heads on the walls. A back room featured a pool table, where Mason had played once or twice. But none of that mattered as he focused all his attention on Amanda. He closed the door, shutting out the July heat. She tossed a smile over her shoulder at him, and it set off his own hot simmer.

Though a sign said to wait to be seated, the bartender, a guy in his early thirties with longish brown hair that touched the collar of his black polo shirt, gestured for them to pick a table. When the bartender was finished bringing an order of food to another table, he introduced himself as the owner, Tony, and they placed a drink order. Amanda stopped him before he could leave.

“I already know what I want,” she said, closing her menu. “I'll take a burger and coleslaw.”

“I like a woman who knows her own mind,” Tony said, smiling.

“I'll take the same,” Mason said, “except make mine French fries.”

Tony nodded. “I'll be back with your drinks.”

“So tell me about your meeting,” Amanda said to Mason.

He leaned back in the wooden chair. “Our ranch is bringing stock—­calves, steer, horses, and bulls—­for the rodeo this weekend, so I wanted to make sure the local ranchers came out and saw what we have. There's a national-­level bull I want to buy to really improve our stock, but unless I come up with an investor, I can't swing the loan on my own, not with the problems my dad accidentally caused.”

“Bulls cost that much?”

“Bulls with this kind of lineage and track record do. A cattle company can be made on the success of good breeders. I can't tell you how much of my daily thoughts are about which of my cows I'd cross with that bull to produce the perfect bucker.”

“Ah, those are your thoughts when you insist you're meditating,” she said, giving him a sly grin.

He snorted. “I have time for those thoughts, too, trust me.” He glanced down at the shadow of cleavage produced when she leaned forward. In a softer voice, he said, “I have time for other thoughts, too.”

She dropped her gaze, and he couldn't tell if he'd embarrassed her or not. She sat back as Tony set her Diet Coke in front of her, and a beer bottle in front of Mason.

When Tony had gone, Amanda turned a serious expression on him. “How old are you, Mason?”

“Thirty-­three.”

“I'm thirty-­four. I'm not ever going to be a regular girl like the ones you've dated in the past.”

“And you know all about my past?” He lightened his tone, attempting to tease, but he was curious where she was going with this.

“No, but . . . I have issues. You already know about them, so that's good. But . . . with all you've got going on, with the ranch and your dad . . . you don't need to deal with someone like me.”

He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand.

“Just hear me out,” she continued. “We've kissed, and it was good, really good. And I don't mean to sound like I'm assuming we'll have more, but . . . I've given this a lot of thought. I would understand if you want to stop right here, before things get serious.” She winced. “Damn, I'm really making a lot of assumptions here. Maybe to you I sound arrogant or—­”

“No, you don't. I know you think you're protecting me or something, but you can stop. Do you think we're all so perfect compared to you?”

She blinked at him. “Of course not. But Mason, I have issues that won't go away overnight.”

“This may be our first official date, but I promise we can still take things as slow as you need to. Give us a chance.”

She studied him for a long time, until they were interrupted by Tony bringing their burgers. Tony set the plates down, looked between them, then backed away slowly, hands upraised.

Amanda chuckled, her expression relaxing. As she cut her burger in half, she said, “Mason, I've laid my cards on the table. I don't know how else to be plainer.”

“I'm glad to know where we stand. We're getting to know each other; that's what dating is about. And then if you decide we should only be friends, I'll accept it.”

“You will?” she whispered, her eyes soft on him.

“I will. But I still think we're destined for more.”

A
M
ANDA WAS GLAD
she could use the Wild West Weekend to escape her conflicted thoughts about Mason. She called Erin back to work, and the two of them dove into the decorating and baking. When Mason returned from his dinner out, he tried to join in, but she refused, saying he was a guest, and it was nice enough of him to participate a ­couple of hours tomorrow afternoon. She kept a folding screen up and the lights low to block most of his view of the parlor. After giving him his holster, gun, and badge, she shooed him off to his room.

She hoped he didn't think she was trying to get rid of him, but . . . she sort of was. His very presence was distracting, making her forget she shouldn't be focusing on flirtation when she had so much work to do.

The four Sassafras Girls checked in, totally thrilled to be asked to participate in the Wild West Weekend. They oohed and giggled over their costumes, and even offered to play a song or two every half hour for the afternoon, which would allow Amanda to host house tours in between. But Amanda wanted them to have fun in town, too, so they agreed they'd alternate their participation with only two of them at a time hanging out as saloon girls.

By the time Amanda collapsed into bed at one in the morning, she assumed she was too tired to think about anything. But that powerful kiss with Mason lingered in her dreams.

 

Chapter 7

M
ASON HAD TO
spend the morning at the Silver Creek Ranch, meeting up with his sisters and making sure their livestock was settled in preparation for the next day's rodeo. Other contractors were there as well, so although he saw Nate Thalberg from a distance, he didn't get a chance to talk to the busy man. Mason was going to have to win tomorrow to get any kind of notice. He was feeling pretty confident when he returned to Connections around eleven. He had to grin at the sign on the front lawn, advertising the B&B as a stop for Valentine Valley's Wild West Weekend.

Inside, he came to a stop and simply gaped. The curtains were now covered by a fall of red velvet draped over the rods. There were oil lamps on the tables, candles on the mantel, and the recorded sounds of a player piano in the background. Brochures were spread on an end table in the hall, advertising the Wild West Weekend, as well as Connections B&B. A round table with a deck of cards and poker chips sat in the middle of the floor. Amanda's cat, Blue, curled its way around the table legs.

And at that table, playing poker, were two strangers in saloon girl clothes, satin bodices over frilly skirts that ended around their knees. Near at hand rested a guitar, which reminded him who these ladies were: Sassafras Girls, playing their part, grinning and flashing him some thigh.

He tipped his cowboy hat to them both.

“How does it all look?”

He turned around at the sound of Amanda's voice, and his mouth dropped open. She was dressed in red satin with black trim that fell in languid folds to the floor. It hugged all her curves in a way that made it difficult for him to swallow. At the neckline, white lace obscured any plummeting depths. He swallowed.

She smiled shyly and did a little twirl. “Howdy, Sheriff.”

He cleared his throat, although he still sounded hoarse as he said, “Howdy, ma'am.”

“You can call me Miss Amanda. Glad you're here. These girls are gettin' too uppity for me.”

The “girls” laughed aloud, and Amanda took his arm and pulled him back into the hall.

“Did you see this sign advertising our wares?” she said in her normal voice, now laced with excitement. “It'll go right over a kid's head, won't it?”

She pointed to a rough piece of paper tacked on the wall that read:

Hot under the Collar: 10 cents

Starch in Shorts: 50 cents

Remove Starch from Shorts: $1

All payment in advance. High Grade silver ore will be accepted.

Mason laughed. “That's perfect. And I like the piano music, too.”

She winced. “I ended up downloading that. It was hard to find something just right in the small CD section of the Open Book. Did you look in the corner?” She pointed to a miner's pickax resting next to silver rocks. “I sprayed the rocks with paint.”

She was filled with such exuberance that he couldn't take his eyes off her. This was a woman who knew how to enjoy life, to make her own fun, but she'd been hiding out too long in fear.

“I even have a dartboard for guests to try,” she said, pointing to the board next to the mantel. “Of course, it's magnetic. Can't have holes in my walls. Come on and see the food we're serving.”

She led him through the library to the dining room, where a woman in a plain skirt, blouse, and apron was carrying out a tray.

“Erin, this is our guest, Mason Lopez, but you can call him ‘Sheriff' today.”

The woman put down the tray and they shook hands. Erin was in her forties, with short, curly black hair and green eyes that looked upon Amanda in almost a motherly way.

“What do you think about the food?” Amanda asked, sliding her arm into his so naturally. “We tried to make it as authentic as we could.”

The display included cornbread, pork and beans, biscuits and gravy, mini chicken pot pies, and bread pudding, served along with apple cider and coffee. All of it was offered in appetizer-­sized portions.

As he was beginning to take a piece here and there, Amanda looked at the watch face pinned to her chest.

“Oh, it's almost eleven thirty. Time for another house tour.”

“They've been going well?”

“It's only my second, but I love talking about the history of my home.”

“How did it get to be a brothel if it was first built as someone's home?”

“When the silver market collapsed, the owners lost everything and abandoned the place. A ‘bad element' moved in,” she said, using air quotes.

“So you think you'll get some new customers out of this?”

“I almost don't care. I'm having such fun!”

Grinning, he watched her walk back toward the parlor, hips swinging with exaggeration, the red satin of her dress catching the firelight of the lamps and candles.

Erin was watching her, too, but with satisfaction. “She seems so much happier than she's been in a long time.”

“I'm glad,” Mason said. “The widows really knew what they were doing, inviting her to participate in this weekend event.”

Erin gave him a speculative glance. “I don't think it's just the widows. I spent last evening in the kitchen with her. She mentioned you a lot, Sheriff.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, thanks, ma'am. But it's Miss Amanda who really shines.”

“I certainly like hearing that. Now, you better go change. You can take the back staircase.” She pointed into the hall outside the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, Mason came down the main staircase, taking his time and looking around, hand on his gun holster which was slung low around his hips. Amanda was talking to a half dozen ­people about the B&B's having been a “disorderly house” run by a con woman. He swaggered over to the poker table, straddled a chair backwards, and sent a meaningful stare at the two Sassafras Girls.

“You girls better be behavin' yourselves,” he warned, maybe a bit melodramatically.

The girls, their hair at each end of the blond spectrum, wore exaggerated eye makeup and red pouting lips.

“Then you better keep us out of trouble, Sheriff,” said the dark blond. “I'm Nikki, and this is Brandy. Do you play poker?”

“Do I play poker,” he echoed confidently, taking the deck from her hands and shuffling.

Brandy giggled and sipped something amber-­colored from an old-­fashioned glass. She poured him two fingers in a glass, and when he tasted apple cider, he grinned.

The afternoon passed by almost too swiftly. Amanda worked harder than any of them, giving tours, helping Erin in the kitchen, overseeing her “girls” when they played poker. The Sassafras Girls switched out, and the next two—­Danielle, a shaggy-­haired brunette, and Felicia, who had close-­cropped black hair—­decided to give him a run for his money at darts. Danielle was a little more free with her hands, running one along his arm or shoulder, and then once pinching his ass and giving him a wicked grin when he shot her a startled look.

“Girls, nothin' given away for free to the customers—­even if he is the sheriff,” Amanda said sternly as she was seeing another tour group out the door. “And isn't it time for a song?”

Mason was glad to escape Danielle, who picked up her guitar, playing and singing harmony for Felicia, who had a deep, soulful voice that sounded as if she'd once sung gospel in church. The tourists who'd been sampling food in the dining room filtered back toward the parlor to listen.

Amanda slid her arm possessively into Mason's, and he pulled her down to sit on his lap. Playing her role to the hilt, she gave a low, throaty laugh.

“Miss Amanda,” he crooned near her ear, “I do believe I wish it was you who'd given me an encouragin' pinch.”

She laughed softly, then donned her good-­time “madam” expression. “Why, Sheriff, it's my girls who earn the money here.”

“I don't think I offered to pay with anything but pleasure.”

She blushed and playfully tucked his arm around her waist, while they listened to the Sassafras Girls sing about lost love.

Mason hoped she knew he wasn't kidding about the pleasure.

A
MANDA HAD THE
best afternoon she'd experienced in a long time. Mason jumped into the playacting wholeheartedly, acting as if the sheriff was Miss Amanda's lover. He stayed by her side and teasingly warned away the occasional male tourist who tried to flirt with her. He fetched her food and drink, looked over her shoulder to give her poker tips when she played, until she was intimately aware of his warm breath on her bare shoulder.

They stayed in character so much that when Amanda brought in the street sign at seven o'clock, signaling an end to a successful day showing off Connections, he was still waiting for her, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his broad chest, cowboy hat tipped low over his eyes. The Sassafras Girls had left to explore Valentine Valley's rodeo-­weekend nightlife, and Erin had gone home to her family.

It was just the two of them alone in the silence of the empty house. Shadows of the setting sun had swept across the parlor, already darkened by the red swaths of curtains. The oil lamps and candles illuminated recessed corners and hidden décor.

And suddenly she was very, very aware of the open neck of his shirt emphasizing bare skin, his rolled-­up sleeves displaying veins in his forearms, evidence of hard work. The way his hips were cocked, with that gun on display, made him seem like he really was from another time, dangerous to a girl's virtue.

Not that she had any maidenly virtue. And she was playing the part of a woman who knew men well. It was . . . exciting to be someone other than herself, to pretend, just for a night, that she had everything under control, including this sensual, dark man.

When he spoke, his voice was a low, rumbling murmur meant just for her. “Miss Amanda, I do believe I could use a drink—­a real one. I don't suppose you can help out a thirsty cowboy-­sheriff?”

She kept her smile flirtatious. “I don't keep libation freely available in the public rooms, Sheriff. It encourages the rowdy clientele. But I do believe I have something you'd like in my private stock. Why don't you follow me?”

Deep inside, a part of her seemed to be waving her off, reminding her of her caution, but she ignored it. She and Mason were having a drink, that was all. With her hands on her hips, she swept past him and up the stairs, exaggerating the rolling motion of her walk, using her curves to all the advantage she never usually did. The folds of her satin skirt rubbed along each other with a sibilant hiss that seemed to whisper between the heavy, advancing steps of his cowboy boots.

On the second floor, she went to the back of the house through a door marked
PR
IVATE,
where she entered another hallway. There were several doors, one to the back staircase, another to a storage closet. The third was to her bedroom, and she opened it, stepping inside and sinking into the soft rug on the wooden floor.

She treated herself, as she treated her guests, with expensive duvets and sheets. They covered the four-­poster bed, which now seemed to dominate the room. She didn't look at it, and instead went to the sitting room, where gauzy curtains fluttered in the evening breeze and the scent of fresh flowers wafted over them. An antique washstand held a pitcher and basin, but on the shelf beneath were several bottles of liquor and, lower still, a small refrigerator.

“Sheriff, name your poison,” she said, still exaggerating a Western drawl. She was having too much fun. “There's ice in the fridge if you need it.” Okay, that wasn't exactly a historic detail.

Soon they were sitting side by side on a curved-­back love seat, clinking glasses together, ice cubes tinkling, their outer thighs touching. The scotch slid down smoothly and hit her belly with a shot of heat—­but it wasn't hotter than the smoking gaze he was trailing down her body.

And then he reached up and plucked the lace handkerchief out of her neckline, revealing the deep valley between her breasts. She let him look, feeling branded wherever his gaze touched.

“I
thought
that was removable,” he said hoarsely.

“The dress was a little too revealing for the tour. But . . . I like how putting it on made me like a different person.”

He slid closer, their hips touching now, making her take another fortifying sip of scotch.

“Different in a good way?” he asked, then slowly leaned in and pressed a kiss just beneath her ear.

She inhaled swiftly, shakily, but she didn't stop him—­didn't
want
to stop him. She was languid and aware and so desperate for his touch.

When his teeth tugged gently at her earlobe, she shuddered with pleasure and closed her eyes. It had been so long since she'd let down her guard with a man—­years of self-­denial, of mistrust. But Mason was a man who knew her secrets, and rather than judge her, all he'd tried to do was help. She was done retreating from life. She was young and full of passion, and she wanted to remember what that felt like.

He didn't touch her with his hands, just his mouth, sliding his moist lips down her throat, taking the occasional gentle nip that made her moan. He traced his tongue along her neckline, delving beneath to hidden, sensitive skin. Sliding her hands up to his broad, hard shoulders, she arched backward over the arm of the love seat and held him to her, feeling the warmth of his kisses between her breasts, desperate to have nothing at all separating them.

He rose over her, his chest pressing her down, his hand sliding up beneath her skirt, along the outside of her leg. She hadn't bothered with the historical accuracy of bloomers, so his touch trailed along her bare flesh, raising goose bumps in its wake. Then he hit the small string of her thong, and they both moaned.

He lifted his head and stared down at her, dark eyes narrowed, face intent with passion, while his hand cupped her hip. “Amanda, if you don't want this . . . if I'm moving too fast . . . tell me now.”