A Cowboy Under Her Tree

“You’d pay me cold hard cash to play your hus—”

She leaned forward, closing her hand over his forearm. “I believe we understand one another.”

He understood that those long, slender fingers of hers might as well have been branding irons given the effect they had on his flesh. “Then understand this.” He shifted and caught her hand in his as she went to draw away, and spotted the flicker in her deep brown eyes that she couldn’t quite hide. “I may be just a rancher, ma’am. But I know how to smell cow patties when I see ’em.”

She tugged at her hand and he loosened his grip enough for her to slowly work herself free. “You think this is some sort of game for me?”

“I don’t know what this is for you,” he admitted. “But there’s no way in hell that I’d agree to this nonsense on just a handshake.”

“I thought a man’s handshake was his bond. Particularly in this part of the country.”

“You’re not from this part of the country.”

She winced a little. “Are you suggesting that Easterners can’t be trusted to keep their word?”

“Not the Easterners I’ve ever known. You want my help, then we get hitched for real. No pretense.”

“But, but that’s preposterous!”

“Is it?”

She sat back in her seat, brushing her fingers through her deep-red, lustrous hair. It fell back, perfectly, in its sleek lines against the nape of her long, elegant neck.

Even disconcerted, she looked as if she’d stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. Not the faddish magazines filled with outlandish looks, but the expensive publications that only people of her ilk bothered to peruse.

Nola’s kind of magazine.

“Don’t worry,” he added, brushing away thoughts of his ex-wife. “I’m not just trying to get into your pants.”

The red that had risen in her cheeks drained away, leaving her looking pale, but no less stunning. “How reassuring.” Her voice was thin.

Oh, yeah. He was the one who’d misheard.

She looked at him as if he were something to be scraped off the sole of her undoubtedly expensive holly-berry-red high heels.

“Unless that’s what you’re hoping for,” he goaded.

“No,” she assured hastily. “That is not on the table.”

He looked at the high-top beneath their empty drinks. “You sure now? This here table looks mighty sturdy—”

“Are you naturally odious or is that an acquired skill?”

He very nearly laughed. As far as he was concerned, Melanie McFarlane was the epitome of high maintenance. She looked expensive. She talked expensive. She smelled expensive.

But she did keep his mind moving.

And God help him, he’d always been taken in by leggy redheads. Not this time, though. The last time he’d lost more than he could bear.

“Maybe I’m a bit of both,” he allowed.

Her lips compressed.

The cocktail waitress appeared next to them, deposited a fresh round from her jam-packed tray and promised to return for the empties as soon as she could.

Melanie met his stare for an uncomfortable minute. Then she lifted her drink and gulped down half. She fiddled with her purse and drew out a slender gold pen, then pulled the fresh white napkin from beneath her drink. “I think your…idea…is overkill. Perhaps if we just put the terms in writing.” She began writing carefully, then lifted her pen, looking at him as she slid the napkin toward him. “Does that make you feel better?”

He looked down at the list as he took a pull on his beer and wished he’d ordered a whiskey, instead. But then again, they’d both already had plenty to drink.

They were still sitting together at the table, after all. That had to be the result of alcohol. There was no other logical explanation.

The first several items on the napkin were straightforward, considering the nature of the agreement. Act as her husband—for the benefit of her family—and teach her everything she needed to know without seeming to teach her.

“Better?” He let out a disbelieving snort. “This is pretty damn crazy.”

She didn’t reply. Just wrapped those long, cool fingers of hers around her glass and sipped. If he wasn’t mistaken, her hand wasn’t entirely steady.

Nerves? Alcohol?

He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the napkin. After six months of their make-believe marriage, she would sign over fifty percent of the property to him.

Free and clear.

He could finally expand the Flying J into the Hopping H’s prime territory. Not all of that territory, as he’d been planning to do for years, but half of it was nothing to sneeze at.

What was six months of his time, after all? He’d already put that, and more, into raising the funds to back his original offer on the H.

The offer that she’d trumped.

Now, he could have half the spread and plow his money back into it to boot.

From the corner of his vision, he watched her lift her drink again. Take a delicate sip. Set the glass carefully down.

She shifted slightly and the top of her red dress—a sort of wrapped thing that clung to her curves—gaped for a moment, giving him a fleeting glimpse of something pale and lacy against flesh that looked taut and full. It had to be his imagination that had him hearing the slide of her legs as she crossed one over the other. The bar was too damn noisy for him to have actually heard anything of the sort.

Imagination could be a pain in the ass.

He peered at her sloped handwriting, so cultured-looking and different than his own chicken scratching, as he reached the bottom of her stipulations.

“No hanky-panky,” he read aloud, glancing up at her.

She looked vaguely bored. But there was a thin line of white around her compressed lips that belied the demeanor. “It seemed prudent to add that point.”

He figured the humor winding around inside him would be sort of misplaced just then. “I think my grandmother used to use that term.” He leaned closer toward her, catching a whiff of her expensive scent. No imagination required there. Other than to wonder where she dotted that evocative perfume.

At the base of her neck? Her wrists? Between her breasts?

He stared into her eyes, making himself think of the Hopping H, and what he stood to gain. She’d said it herself.