The Accidental Cowboy

She looked at him without looking at him. Had she bored the pants off him? If only. Dang it. She went on to distract herself from the memory of him, her and nothing between them but a thin layer of cotton. “We became part of the US in 1854 with the Gadsden Purchase. Before that it was definitely claimed by Mexico... Spain. Actually, it was Hohokam land... You know all that.”

When she saw he now had on his patient, professorial expression she was certain he used on particularly dull students, her babble dried up. “Here’s our lunch. Empanadas—”

“Spanish pasties. They stole the idea from us.”

He startled a laugh out of her and, without thinking, she touched his arm. Tingling awareness shot through her body. She seriously considered whether one of them should steal a kiss. His lips softened. He must have read that on her face because his green eyes darkened. She leaned in enough to capture his cool and dark moss scent. Stop. She subtly shifted her body away and his features moved back into something that was a mix of “aloof academic” and Clint Eastwood in Two Mules for Sister Sara—a classic, according to Daddy. She didn’t want to start anything, even if he was interested, which was hard to know for sure. It just wasn’t the time or place, right? She’d been at a crossroads and restless for months now. On the other hand, maybe going against her usual type would knock her out of her holding pattern and onto a new path. Yep, keep telling yourself that, sister. This could be a disaster of epic proportions.

“Here.” She thrust an empanada at him. She picked up her own and sat three boulders away, near Reese. He was just about as good at conversation as the professor, anyway.

* * *

TWO DAYS AFTER his hike in the desert, the image of Lavonda with the cartoon-princess eyes and luscious lips kept distracting him while he video-chatted with his colleagues in Glasgow. The chair had asked him three times if they needed to reschedule the call because Jones had missed key points in the presentation. The situation was ludicrous. He’d pulled it together enough to finish the call and tie up loose ends on a joint project. One or two more calls, a review of the material and the project would be complete.

He was sure he’d never have been invited to work on this paper after Dolly-Acropolis—or the “ancient” burial site created by a manufacturer of baby dolls, as it had been described by the papers. The university had insisted on publicity for his find. They’d called in the press, thinking, as he had, that he’d find a significant Viking site, not a doll dumping ground. The toys had been destroyed and hidden because they’d been made with illicit products during World War II. The company could have been fined and shut down, so they buried the evidence.

The damned dolls were the reason—at least part of it—he had to keep his search for Kincaid’s Cache secret. If it came to nothing, no one would know and it wouldn’t play over and over again on YouTube, courtesy of the video shot on camera phones by student workers.

If he found the cache, though, the dolls would be forgotten and he’d be back on his way to the top of the department. His colleagues would also have to acknowledge that he’d not gotten his position because of his brother.

Jones gathered his laptop and overstuffed file folder for the short walk to the nondescript building that housed Stanley’s office. The man was head of the history department for the university’s Angel Crossing campus, and Jones hoped he would have another recommendation for a guide. He’d looked at his problem from all sides. He didn’t have the time to find a guide on his own in an unfamiliar place. Plus, after going out into the desert with Lavonda, he realized that while he might stumble on something on his own, a guide familiar with the area could help him quickly eliminate dead ends.

He also wanted to confirm the teaching schedule he had agreed to for the remainder of the spring and the full summer semesters. The seminar on identification techniques would not meet every day. Plenty of time to do both sets of explorations.

Jones paused at Stanley’s door. The professor was speaking with Dr. Gwen Hernandez. He recognized the president of the college from her picture on the website. He hesitated but Stanley said, “Jones, come in. How are you settling in at Hacienda Bunuelos?”

“Pardon?”

“The ranch,” Dr. Hernandez said. “It’s the traditional name of the ranch, although we will be renaming it to honor the very generous alum who donated the property to the university.”

“Very comfortable now that we’ve sorted the cat problem.”

“The cat problem?”

Jones had been keeping himself dosed with medication. The damned animal had decided that she was his personal exterminator. Today there had been a small lizard outside his bedroom door.

“Have you met our president?” Stanley asked. Jones shook his head and his colleague made the introductions before gesturing for Jones to sit. “Now. What did you need from me?”

“I am currently without a guide. The gentleman I contracted cannot provide his services—”

“Wait,” Dr. Hernandez said. “I know I authorized reimbursement for the guide.”

“You did and I paid him. Now he says that he cannot begin the job for another month, which is unacceptable. He also was reluctant to return the deposit, but I believe I convinced him otherwise.”

“Well, hell,” Dr. Hernandez said.

“That’s why I’ve stopped by for new recommendations for a guide, Stanley.”

Stanley and Gwen had a back-and-forth about the legalities. Since he was not familiar with the area or the university’s systems, Jones didn’t have anything to contribute. Finally, Gwen snapped her fingers and grinned. “I’ve got it. Lavonda.”

“What about Lavonda?” Jones asked.

“She can guide you. She knows the area well and has plenty of desert experience. It will allow you to do the preliminary explorations. Perfect short-term solution.”

“Lavonda?” He had been keeping her at arm’s length, worried his housemate would figure out his trip wasn’t about beans. She was much smarter than he’d assumed a cowgirl would be. Of course, he’d been picturing a cowgirl with big hair, sprayed-on trousers, and big—

“Absolutely.”

“But she—”

“I know she doesn’t look like a roughing-it camper, but believe me, she’s tougher than she looks. That girl has a bronc riding champion buckle.”

Jones still hadn’t reconciled her rodeo riding with the pixie-sized woman with the sleek hair, polished nails and soft skin, but her boots looked well used. “I don’t know that—”

“Let me call her.” Gwen pulled a phone from her pocket. “Stanley can help you look for a professional guide, but this will get you out in the field right away.” She stood and walked out as she spoke to Lavonda.

“Gwen is a problem solver,” Stanley said. “I’ll call around, but most guides are booked in advance.”

Jones’s stomach roiled with excitement, fear, anticipation—he had no idea with what. He and Lavonda alone in the desert could be a recipe for disaster or... Affairs happened at dig sites. He’d seen more than one start during the plotting of a Bronze Age village. His current decision must be based on what was best for his career, not what might get him into Lavonda’s sleeping bag.

“Is there a problem with this woman?” Stanley asked.

Jones pulled himself together. “I just didn’t understand that she had trail skills.”

Stanley shrugged his narrow shoulders. “If Gwen says she does, then she does. It’s not that unusual for a cowgirl.”

Gwen entered, smiling, “She’ll do it, and she’s the kind of price we need. Free.”

“Free? I don’t think that we can—”

“Don’t worry. We’ve have worked out an agreement. She understands that it’s a temporary thing until you find a real guide. Her words. Not mine. So, Dr. Kincaid, we have that little problem solved. This is working out well. Our students are very excited for your seminar. I didn’t realize that beans were so popular. Got to go,” she finished abruptly.

Jones shook her hand and tried to read the older woman’s face. There was something there that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was like finding a number of pottery shards and piecing them back together. You knew it was a pot but not its shape.

Jones made himself leave the office at a stroll, unconcerned and confident. What had he just committed himself to? Days on end with a sexy woman affiliated with the university from which he was attempting to hide his real mission. Having an affair with a cowgirl had not been on the map or his plan, even if it seemed as though the Fates were setting things up that way.

Chapter Four (#ulink_300152de-e220-568c-90e1-003edc393292)

Back in her old life, Lavonda had been fearless, telling 60 Minutes they couldn’t film on her company’s property and pushing away Anderson Cooper’s mic. But when Gwen called, she’d caved, saying yes to leading the kilted giant on his search for beans. The older woman had been Lavonda’s first boss. She’d helped her find her footing in the corporate world, from what to wear to understanding the hierarchy of vice presidents. Giving in to one friend meant facing another. Lavonda would have to call Olympia to back out of helping at her and her attorney husband’s ranch. Lavonda felt bad about letting her down and worse because she’d been ducking calls. She just wasn’t up to defending herself from questions about why living at the university’s run-down ranch as the “caretaker” was a good career move.

“Hi, Lavonda.”

Darn her friend. Why had she answered? Lavonda had hoped to just leave a message. “How’s it going?”

“You don’t want to know. Remind me again why I thought it was a good idea to get married?” Olympia asked, her tone somewhere between exasperation and affection.

“Because it was easier than arguing with a lawyer about it?”

Olympia laughed. “You got that right. What’s up?”