Buch lesen: «100% Pure Cowboy»

Chapter One

What have I let myself in for? Danielle Herte asked herself for the millionth time that day.

Her aquamarine eyes widened at the scene that seemingly transported her back in time to the opening of the American West. Almost a hundred girls wearing long skirts were engaged in a myriad of activities: some cooking over open fires, some quilting, some braiding one another’s hair, the heartier among them tossing tomahawks at stumps set up for target practice. In the background, a string of covered wagons stretched across the horizon like so many billowing sheets hung out to dry.

Blinking hard, Danielle reminded herself that this was the present, not the past, a fact driven home by the repetitious pounding of a rap song blaring unceasingly from a boom box in the back of the van. Before embarking upon the four hour drive from Denver, Danielle hadn’t realized that en masse, girls her daughter’s age communicated at one volume only—full blast. Assuming that it was a blessing she was unable to make out most of the lyrics, Danielle swallowed her last aspirin before her car limped into the tiny, windblown wayside known as Muddy Gap, Wyoming.

Unbelievably, this insignificant dot on the road managed to prove even more unappealing than its name. Wondering why anyone had even bothered to name the place at all, Danielle switched off the ignition and announced with a false note of cheer, “Everybody out. We’re here!”

Instantly, ten boisterous, adolescent girls spilled out of the van eager to immerse themselves in this mock site of an 1850s wagon train. The first one out, a leggy brunette with a pageboy bob and pretty but uncertain eyes, held an old-fashioned bonnet in her hands.

“Put this on, Mom,” Lynn insisted. “Plee-eease...” Added as an afterthought, the obligatory courtesy typified Danielle’s daughter. At thirteen, her sweet little girl was blossoming into a hormonally driven bundle of contradictions—at one moment mature beyond her years, at others hotly embarrassed to be so much as caught in her mother’s company. Even Danielle’s impetuous decision to update her look with a store-bought rinse that promised to make her feel young and carefree again had been perceived by her daughter as a deliberate act to sabotage the precarious status she held among her peers.

What it actually had been was a symbolic act of casting off the old and donning a new life; one devoid of a domineering husband, who for well over a decade had wielded complete control over Danielle. Not only had Scott selected their home and all its furnishings, he’d also decorated his wife as he’d seen fit—conservatively so as to keep her as inconspicuous as possible.

When Danielle had picked the hair care product off the shelf, she’d naively expected the color to match the gentle hue sported by the lovely model on the box. Instead the foul-smelling concoction had turned her naturally auburn hair a screaming firecracker red that, in her own humble opinion, made Lucille Ball’s crowning glory seem demure. With a brave smile she had assured her horrified daughter that the color was guaranteed to wash out in less than a month’s time.

Taking the proffered bonnet, Danielle tucked in as much of her offending hair as possible and instructed the girls to stay together and follow her. Lifting the hem of her long skirt out of the dirt, Danielle picked her way through the throng, dodging a pigtailed girl rolling a wooden hoop with a stick, a braying mule kicking up a cloud of dust, a teetering unicyclist, and one incredibly brave soul demonstrating the proper technique for walking on stilts.

“Like herding geese through a minefield,” Danielle mumbled, searching the area for a registration booth.

“Over here, ma’am,” trilled a clear voice.

Overhead fluttered a brightly colored banner reading Romance In The Winds. Behind a table perched the owner of that voice—a ponytailed blond imp whose sparkling blue eyes were shaded by the brim of a straw cowboy hat.

Sticking out her hand, she introduced herself. “Hi, my name’s Mollie. Welcome to Romance In The Winds, the first annual Wyoming Prairie Scout Jamboree on the Oregon Trail through the scenic Wind River Mountains.”

Though Mollie had obviously parroted these same words countless times throughout the day, she somehow still managed to sound enthusiastic.

“You’re the last group. We’ve been waiting for you,” she added. “I hope nothing went wrong on the way here.”

Danielle didn’t bother explaining how her dilapidated old van had overheated some fifty-odd miles back, stretching an already long trip into an epic excursion. Smiling into that fresh-scrubbed, freckled face, Danielle simply paid their registration fee and sealed her fate for the next fourteen days.

After collecting their money and required waiver forms, Mollie passed out copies of a life history of an actual pioneer to each of the participants, informing them that starting tomorrow their “assignment” was to read ten pages a day and be prepared to give a summary each evening around the campfire. Pointing to one of the Conestoga wagons, she then directed them to “Load up.”

At that precise moment Danielle lost all control. Racing back to the van to gather up their things, the girls scattered in all directions. By the time Danielle managed to lug her own baggage over to their wagon, all that remained of Troop No. 83 was an enormous pile of luggage heaped upon the ground.

Apparently worried that their late arrival would cause them to be left out of the camp activities, the girls had abandoned her. After a moment of irritated reflection, Danielle decided it would simply be easier to load the wagon herself than to try to reassemble her troop amid this cacophonous melee. Rolling up her gingham sleeves, she set to work, all the while composing a scathing lecture to be delivered before their journey officially got under way. She had no desire to spend the next two weeks as a doormat for a group of overly indulged teenagers.

The wagon bed was too high off the ground for Danielle to simply hoist the bags inside. She had to pull herself up and into the wagon each time to deposit an armful of baggage. It didn’t take long to discern that the girls had grossly overpacked. Unnecessary cosmetics, battery-operated curling irons, CD players, toiletries, forbidden candy bars, and teen magazines spilled from their bags. By the time she finished squeezing in the last sleeping bag, Danielle was exhausted.

Feeling a trickle of sweat roll down the valley between her breasts, she tore the hot bonnet from her head and ran her fingers through a riotous mass of curls.

On the other side of the rendezvous site, Cody Walker almost fell off his horse as he wrenched around in his saddle to double-check his eyesight. He thought he’d just seen some crazy punk rocker cramming a Louis Vuitton tote bag into the back of a wagon that, at the moment, looked more like a stuffed sausage than a viable means of transportation. A second glance confirmed his worst suspicions. He was not in need of an eye exam.

“Why me, Lord?” he implored the clear blue skies of Wyoming.

If it wasn’t enough that his daughter Mollie had cajoled him into playing guide for more than seventy giggly girls, it seemed he was now to be saddled with yet another immature mother more into competing with her daughter than providing a suitable role model for her. That red hair was something else! The woman looked more like a rock ‘n’ roll groupie who had taken a wrong turn on the way to recapturing her youth than a suitable sponsor for as wellrespected an organization as the Prairie Scouts.

Cody knew the type. He’d been hotly pursued by a good number of such attention seekers—and run away as fast as a jackrabbit facing the wrong end of a shotgun. In fact, at this very instant his highly honed bachelor instinct was shooting off warning signals advising him to stay just as far away from this particular den mother as possible. A woman with hair like that could spell nothing but trouble with a capital T.

Running a hand along the back of his bare neck, Cody hoped the transformation from his bearded, long-haired image was significant enough to keep his identity a secret for the duration of this expedition. He had promised Mollie that this was to be special time for them together, away from the publicity hounds they both despised. Equally important was the promise he had made to himself. Still bristling from his mother’s stinging accusation that somewhere along the road to fame and riches he had misplaced all that was really important in life, he was determined to prove that opinionated, old woman wrong.

But deep down he knew that it was time to reevaluate his life, to get back to his roots. The truth of the matter was that Cody was flat-out tired: tired of being on the road for months at a time, of donning fresh smiles for the press, of acquiescing to his agent’s overly dramatic sense of showmanship. He was tired of sequins and flashbulbs. Tired of being away from home.

Acting as wagon master for this crazy outing wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind as a relaxing vacation away from it all, but once Mollie had her heart set on something, the devil himself couldn’t talk her out of it. She was just as stubborn as her mother had been. And every bit as pretty.

The thought of his wife Rachael brought with it the old, familiar ache that had become such an integral part of who he was. Cody tried to shake off the sense of guilt he felt whenever the passage of time blurred the lovely portrait of her that he carried in his mind. That the memories so dear to his heart were slowly fading was a cruel mockery of the ascetic way he had lived his life since her death. A good dose of “see me” redheaded terror was just what he needed to remind him of all that he had lost when his sweet, gentle angel had taken wing.

Acknowledging his responsibility to check all the wagons before the trip could begin, Cody decided he might as well confront this particular prairie prima donna as quickly as possible and be done with it. She probably wasn’t even aware of the fact that only drivers were allowed to ride in the wagons for most of the trip.

Just as it had been in pioneer times, concern for how much the horses had to carry took priority over human comfort. A look in any history book, pages strewn with fatal citations of poor choices along the very route they were to take, would confirm the wisdom of that decision. Not to mention the problems he’d have on his hands if he let one red-haired greenhorn ride at the head of this grand parade like some silly homecoming queen. Every pampered little miss from here to the state line would be whining to ride for the duration of this expedition.

Cody had every intention of starting this wagon train off on the right foot. Heck, if he was lucky, maybe this red-hot mommy would be so angered by his insistence that the wagon be repacked properly that she would load up her girls in a huff and relieve him of the burden of overseeing them altogether. He brightened at the thought.

There was no harm in hoping anyway.

Between the kids’ deafening rap music, her van breaking down on the desolate stretch of road from Denver to the middle of nowhere, and having to single-handedly pack a covered wagon, Danielle was completely spent. She was just positioning a pillow atop the hard wooden bench that served as the wagon’s seat and settling in for a welldeserved break when a deep voice called out behind her.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Red, unless you’re planning on driving this rig yourself.”

Danielle whipped around to find herself staring into a striking pair of eyes that exactly mirrored the color of the infinite, blue Wyoming sky. Atop a magnificent black and white Appaloosa sat a long-legged, slim-hipped cowboy regarding her with unconcealed amusement. He looked well over six feet tall in the saddle. Besides an infectious grin, he wore a plaid Western-cut shirt with pearl snap buttons and a pair of faded jeans that sinfully molded to the lower half of his body. Cupped in his stirrups was a pair of boots so scuffed and well-worn they verged on being downright tacky. Though much of his hair was hidden beneath a white straw hat, Danielle could see that it was the color of dark molasses shot through with just a hint of silver at the temples. One glance alone told her that this was not a man merely playing the part of a cowboy for the sake of a Prairie Scout Jamboree. The lines etched upon that tanned face had been put there by wind and sun and experience. Indeed, it was no dime-store cowboy who was so intent on stealing her seat out from under her. He was one hundred percent pure cowboy.

“I’m a den mother,” she explained succinctly.

Well, actually a substitute den mother, she corrected herself, recalling Hildy Fustis’s broken leg and heartfelt plea that Danielle step in for her at the last minute lest the trip have to be canceled altogether. With a suspicious little hitch in her voice, Hildy had promised she would have to do little more than ride along in relative comfort and chaperon the children.

When this elucidation failed to erase the smirk from the man’s chiseled features, Danielle hastened to add, “When I signed on as a sponsor, I was told I could ride in the wagon.”

This only served to deepen the cowboy’s grin so that a matching pair of dimples was revealed at both corners of his mouth.

“Then you’re planning on driving this team?” he asked.

Danielle emphatically shook her head no. She could no more drive a team of horses than she could direct Santa’s sleigh across the sky. The very thought was almost as unnerving as the sexual vibes exuded by this mysterious cowboy.

“Well, then, I suggest you climb right on down from there,” he said. Though cordial, his tone was nonetheless authoritative.

Why the man was being so purposely obtuse was beyond her. Danielle set her chin at a stubborn angle. After the morning she’d had, she wasn’t about to meekly give up her seat without a fight. Husky indignation tinged her protest.

“There’s plenty of room for two on this seat. I see absolutely no reason why I can’t share it with the driver.”

Tipping up the brim of his hat with two fingers, the man tossed her a wry smile. “On my wagon train, horses don’t pull any more than they absolutely have to. So unless you’re in some way incapacitated, you’ll be walking along with the rest of your troop. That is, unless you’re ready to call it quits before we get started.”

Just what did he mean by saying it was his wagon train? Behind a fading smile, Danielle persisted. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. Like I said before, I was promised I could ride.”

“I’m afraid you were misinformed.”

Cody was as taken aback by the fire glittering in those extraordinary aquamarine eyes as he had initially been by the color of her hair. All of a sudden that hair didn’t look quite so ridiculous framing a heart-shaped face and the most heavenly pair of eyes he’d ever encountered. The woman was closer to his thirty-four years than he had expected—and far prettier. And her trim figure did all sorts of wonderful things to that old scrap of gingham she was wearing.

Danielle felt scorched by the blue fire of the wrangler’s eyes as they traversed her body from head to toe. The heat radiating from his appraisal was as disquieting as the hammering of her heart echoing off historic Split Rock Mountain looming like a broken anvil in the distant background.

He extended her a hand. “Are you going to step down on your own, or am I going to have to climb up there and haul you down myself?”

Sensing that he was on the verge of bursting out laughing, Danielle felt a fierce surge of resentment well up inside her. Oh, how she would love to knock him right off that high horse of his!

Their eyes locked in a tempestuous clash of wills. Defiantly she jutted out her chin and wrapped her fingers around the edge of her seat.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she countered in a regal, howdare-you-address-me-in-that-manner tone of voice. “And stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel like your mother.”

“Well,” the man drawled, grabbing hold of the wagon with one hand and lifting himself out of the saddle in one, fluid motion to position himself into the seat beside her. “You sure as hell don’t look like her.”

A ripple of heat washed over her. Feeling suddenly lightheaded, Danielle suspected that it had less to do with the sun beating down overhead than it did with the virile man whose leg had just inadvertently brushed against hers.

Cheeks flaming, eyes flashing, she demanded to know, “Just who do you think you are, ordering me around?”

He leaned so near that she could feel his warm breath upon her face. Assailed by the very scent of him—a tantalizing mixture of sagebrush, horse sweat, and pure bottled masculinity—she was totally unprepared for the sudden onslaught of sexual awareness that swept over her with the force of a flash flood. This man was far too sexy for his own good—and far too close for comfort.

Sweeping the cowboy hat off his head, he formally introduced himself. “Cody Walker, ma’am, your wagon master.”

Wagon master!

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Danielle guffawed, so startled by the announcement that she neglected to complete introductions by providing him with her own name. Suspicion swirled in the aquamarine depths of her eyes. He certainly didn’t fit the image she’d been carrying around of the sort of man who would be in charge of leading this wagon train. She had pictured someone older, more genteel, certainly less overtly virile. Someone weathered and grandfatherly. In her opinion, this man with his rugged, all-American good looks was too self-assured to be trusted with a wagonload of young girls.

Danielle gave him an intentionally condescending once-over. “Are you aware, Mr. Walker—” her icy tone indicating she found him to be a living relic of the past “—that the term master hasn’t been politically acceptable since well before the turn of the century?”

“That may be, but remember, Re-ed...” Cody informed her, drawing the one syllable word into two. “For the next two weeks we’re living in the 1800s, and, like it or not, I am your wagon master. Now enough of this foolishness. I’ve got other business to attend to so let’s just cut to the chase. Are you getting down off of this rig peaceably or am I going to be forced to make an unpleasant and surely politically incorrect scene?”

The softness of his voice was misleading for it was also tinged with determination. There was also something about the arrogant tilt of his firm, square jaw that suggested this wasn’t a man who would stand for having his orders disregarded.

Danielle worried her lower lip between her teeth. Gentle by nature, she usually tried to avoid confrontation. But since her divorce she had been working on becoming more assertive. Just thinking of the way Scott had walked all over her for years brought a blush of shame to her cheeks. To meekly acquiesce to this stranger’s oh-so-virile domination was paramount to undoing all the progress she had made.

Besides, she was dog tired, and the thought of having to walk beneath the heat of the summer sun in such outlandish garb galvanized her sense of defiance.

Tightening her grip on her seat, Danielle insisted, “One rider more or less won’t make any difference.”

Cody was tempted to let this airhead go right ahead and bruise that lovely bottom of hers till it was black and blue bouncing up and down on that hard buckboard seat, but ultimately he decided not to bother with a rebuttal.

“Have it your way, then,” he said, searching the depths of her eyes as if combing the ocean floor for lost treasure. Gently he brushed a wayward curl back from her forehead.

Sucker-punched by the heat that settled in her stomach, Danielle released her grip on her seat to swat at his hand. He took the opportunity to grab her around the middle and sling her over his shoulder like a sack of feed. His touch burned right through the thin material of her dress. Feeling her breasts pressed against his well-muscled back, Danielle pushed herself away and pummeled him with her fists.

Impervious to the fury raining upon his back, Cody hopped down off the wagon and set her roughly on her feet. Though her full height just grazed his chin, Danielle was nonetheless formidable with her eyes blazing and arms akimbo.

Taking a wide-legged stance, he announced breezily, “Now that the front of this rig is in order, let’s have a look at the back.”

“I intend to make a formal complaint to your superiors when this trip is over!” A fulminating glare accompanied Danielle’s announcement.

The thought of anyone trying to throw him off his own land almost made Cody laugh out loud. Remembering how thrilled his foreman had been to find out that Mollie and her grandmother had railroaded him into taking his place on this nutty Western safari, Cody met that threat head-on.

“You be sure to do that,” he said, turning to walk to the back of the wagon.

A moment later a string of expletives exploded from beneath the heavy sack canvas. “Where in the hell do you think you’re going, lady? The Sagebrush Hilton?”

Dodging a flying hair-blower, Danielle did her best to ignore the look of utter disbelief the wagon master wore as he turned to face her.

“Whoever packed this thing must not have the sense God gave a gnat.”

Danielle stiffened at the unflattering description as she helplessly watched him pile the luggage from the back of the wagon onto the ground. Gesturing to the modern conveniences spilling out of the bags with a dismissive air, he inquired, “Do you really think there are plug-ins along the Oregon Trail? Do you think the coyotes care whether you’re wearing makeup or not? If you do, I’d suggest that you load Troop Beverly Hills up right now and spare us both two long weeks of agony. This trip is dangerous enough, and I can’t be bothered playing nursemaid to a wagonload of spoiled, rotten brats who have no business being on the open range!”

Danielle glared at him as if she were seeing the devil himself up close and personal. When she spoke, her words dripped honeyed sarcasm. “You obviously need a refresher course in geography. The last time I checked Denver, Colorado is a ‘fur’ piece from Beverly Hills, ‘Californy.’ And, for your information, I wouldn’t take your help if you tied a pink bow around that fat cowboy hat of yours and begged me!”

What if I tied it somewhere else? Cody was tempted to ask but felt certain that that, too, fell well outside the realm of political correctness. Leave it to some city slicker to come marching into camp self-righteously spouting political platitudes about equal treatment of the sexes while simultaneously expecting to be treated like the Queen of Sheba.

It mattered little to Danielle that not ten minutes earlier she had entertained the exact same thoughts about the girls’ extra baggage. Right now all she wanted was to wipe that damned grin right off her wagon master’s smug face.

With a start, Danielle realized that she was being baited. Clearly, Cody Walker was hoping to goad her into packing up her girls in a fit of righteous indignation and heading back to the city. Well, this ornery cowboy had another think coming if he believed lightening the load for the horses meant dumping Troop No. 83!

Mostly from upper-income families, these girls had everything that money could buy, and precious little of the commodities that fuel real self-esteem: their parents’ time and attention. Bored with shopping malls and too much unrestricted time on their hands, the girls had been looking forward to this excursion for a long time. It was a rare opportunity for them to shuck off the brittle masks they put on as part of their daily makeup routine and to simply be kids for a while. The image of their disappointed faces strengthened Danielle’s resolve. Dynamite wouldn’t loosen her determination to finish that which she had started.

“And get your hands off of that. It’s mine!” she sputtered at the sight of her suitcase in Cody’s hands.

Grabbing it from him, she gave a hard tug. The latch on the old piece of luggage snapped apart, raining clothes in all directions.

“Damn it!” Danielle cried in frustration as Cody hopped out of the wagon bed and bent to help her reassemble her things.

“Just leave me alone!” she snapped, wondering what more could possibly go wrong.

The answer to that question lay on top of the pile of clothing now heaped upon the dirt—a pair of simple cotton briefs.

Cody straightened as if a snake were coiled on top of her things. His eyebrows shot up as if to question whether someone with hair the color of hers really wore anything so prim beneath her clothes.

Only the fact that this rough-and-tough cowboy was blushing like a schoolboy could make her believe that he wasn’t enjoying her discomfort. His embarrassment fed her own as she remembered how Scott had needled her about her sensible, boring undergarments. Little had she realized at the time that he had based his comparative analysis upon live models. Maybe that was why she was so defensive about this man’s reaction to her modest cotton briefs. Hotly reminding herself that she was far too practical a woman to spend a couple of weeks trekking along the Oregon Trail in a sexy, little thong, she mumbled under her breath, as much to Scott as to the tongue-tied cowboy in front of her, “You disgusting pervert!”

She snatched her underwear from the ground and wadded it into a ball in her hand. “By the time I’m done reporting you to your superiors, you’ll be lucky to be the ‘master’ of any little red wagons in a children’s parade!”

Considering that all he’d meant to do was help, Cody thought the insult totally uncalled-for. Mollie, who had spent the last two years trying to force him back into the dating game, would have laughed to have heard the term “pervert” applied to her father. Since her mother’s death, he hadn’t been in the least tempted by any of the women on the road who threw themselves like rose petals at his feet. As far as that went, he’d had his share of ladies’ underwear flung upon the stage when he was performing, and they were a whole lot skimpier than the surprisingly plain pair that had his cheeks blazing like some twelve-year-old caught peeking in the lingerie section of a clothing catalog.