The Cowboy And The Ceo

Her sister, Elaine, would have loved to spend time at a place like the Gold Buckle Ranch.

Susan stood and leafed through the clipboard again, not remembering what she was looking for. “A week is too long.”

Truthfully, she was exhausted. If she had enough energy to stand at the window and look down at the street, she’d see people pushing clothes racks from building to building. Vendors would be hawking goods from tables on the sidewalks, and shoppers looking for bargains would be haggling with them for better deals.

There was no place like New York’s Garment District, and Susan loved the hustle and bustle and the energy of it all.

She’d started Winners Wear seven years ago, after her mother died. She’d bought this century-old building with the money her mother had left her, her entire savings and a huge bank loan. Then she’d hired the best employees she could find, mostly eager young graduates from the city’s fashion and design schools.

It had been a big gamble for her financially, but her sales staff started bringing in contracts—big contracts—immediately.

For most of the past seven years, she’d felt overwhelmed, but it had paid off. She worked hard, but she couldn’t take all the credit. Everyone worked hard.

She hated to admit how tired she was. She couldn’t do her best when she felt like a pile of scrap material.

Maybe she should go to Wyoming.

“Go and breathe some clean mountain air, boss,” Bev said. “You’ll come back nice and refreshed and raring to go. Don’t worry about a thing here. We’ll take care of everything while you’re gone.”

Susan took in a deep breath and let it out. Maybe it would be a good idea—before she ended up in the hospital herself.

No thanks. She’d had enough of hospitals when her sister was alive.

“Okay. I’ll go,” Susan mumbled. “Not for a week, though. I’ll leave this Thursday and return on Saturday. Then I have to get back here and take care of business.”

Clint Scully meandered through the parking lot toward the front doors of the Mountain Springs Airport. Every now and then, he’d slow his pace even more and take a gulp of strong, black coffee from a white take-out cup.

Nothing like a perfect Wyoming day. Not too hot. Not too cold. A warm breeze and a lot of sunshine. A perfect July day to drag out a lawn chair and take a snooze in the sun. He yawned in anticipation of doing just that.

Mrs. D had promised to bake him a blueberry pie if he picked up Susan Collins at the airport. His buddy Jake Dixon had warned him about his mother’s matchmaking tendencies and reminded Clint that she’d sent Jake to pick up Beth Conroy, who became Mrs. Jake Dixon, just last year.

Clint swore under his breath. If Mrs. D had any ideas about matching him up with Susan Collins, she might as well spit in the wind.

Been there. Done that. He liked his freedom too much to commit to anyone.

Once inside the terminal, he checked the monitor and saw that Susan’s plane had landed a few minutes ago, so he headed for baggage claim.

“Anyone here from the Gold Buckle Ranch?”

He looked around to see who was speaking, and his gaze landed on the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. She was tall, slender and buzzing from person-to-person like a bee in a flower bed.

Clint grinned. That had to be Susan Collins.

Her red-brown hair was done up in some kind of fancy braid. Her dark eyelashes fanned out on her cheeks like paintbrushes. She was as pale as an Easter lily—she looked as though she hadn’t seen the warm kiss of the sun in years. She had on some kind of black jeans—designer jeans. A red blouse with a vee-neckline worked for her. The vee wasn’t very plunging—just deep enough to make things interesting. Strappy black sandals with a slight heel made her legs look long and slender.

He stifled a wolf whistle and approached her.

Clint tweaked the brim of his hat. “I’m Clint Scully from the Gold Buckle.” He stared into magnificent purple eyes. They must be colored contact lenses, he decided. No one had eyes like that. “And you must be…?”

“Susan Collins.” She held out her hand, giving him a strong handshake. “Are you here to drive me to the ranch?”

He enjoyed warmth of her touch and the sureness of her handshake. “At your service.”

“Thank you.” She studied her luggage. “Where’s the skycap for these bags?”

“I can get them. There’s only two,” he said, flexing.

“Oh, no. They are terribly heavy, especially that one.” She pointed to the bigger black suitcase. “It’s stuffed with samples and a couple of my catalogs.”

“No problem,” Clint said, lifting up the suitcases. Damn, they were heavy. What else had she brought from New York, the Statue of Liberty?

He managed a smile instead of a groan.

“No problem, darlin’. No problem t’all.” He laid on the Texas accent. Ladies from the East usually loved his drawl.

“My name is Susan,” she snapped. “And they wheel.”

Mmm…Seemed like she wasn’t the Texas-drawl type.

“Right this way, Susan. My truck’s out front.”

He wheeled her luggage and tried to keep up with her pace. She was walking fast, like she was late for a meeting or something.

“I’d like to get a massage after that dreadful flight,” she said. “I’m really looking forward to the spa.”

The words came out in a rush. She walked fast. She talked fast.

“The spa hasn’t been inspected yet. Should be soon, though.”

“Inspected?” she asked.

“A father of one of our campers donated the hot tub to the ranch. He said that it’d be good relaxation for the caretakers of the children. Mr. D had it installed on the deck of the Caretaker Hotel by the baseball diamond.”

She raised a perfect eyebrow. “A hot tub? But what about the spa? Massages? Facials? Wraps?”

He shook his head and looked confused. “Mrs. D is the only one who calls it a spa. Everyone else calls it a hot tub. I think there’s a communication problem somewhere.”

Susan closed her eyes. “I came all this way for a hot tub by a baseball diamond?” She sighed. “Wait until I tell Bev.”

Clint told Susan to wait at the curb and went to get his truck. By the time he returned, three cowboys were talking to Susan—hitting on her, really. Bronc riders, he assumed, probably on their way to Cheyenne for the Frontier Days festivities. Bronc riders thought they were hot stuff.

“Toss those suitcases in the back, boys,” Clint said, interrupting their conversation. They did so, and then went back to ogling Susan.

“Thanks for your help.” He shook their hands, in an effort to send them on their way. “Goodbye now.”

One of the cowboys pointed at him. “Hey, aren’t you…?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, always flattered by the recognition. “Yeah, I am.”