Cowboy Crush

“They call me the miracle worker,” he said.

She arched her brow.

“Okay, they don’t, but I spent every summer in high school working ranches and construction. If I can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can.”

Maggie squeezed her eyes closed and tried to center herself. This was going to be a huge undertaking and would cost a pretty penny. She had forty thousand dollars in savings and maybe five thousand in her checking account. No way would she cash out any investments. But if she wanted to sell the Triple J for more than a marginal profit, she’d have to spend some cash. Starting with Cal. “How much?”

“For what?”

“To get this place ready to list? I’m assuming you’re unemployed otherwise you wouldn’t have offered your services.” Her tongue nearly tripped on those last words. They’d sounded suggestive, though she’d not intended them to be.

A strange expression crossed his face, but he caught himself. “Four thousand. Should take about five or six weeks if the rain stays away. It’s mid-July so I don’t see an issue there. Probably have to hire some pros for some stuff, but I know a few guys who are good and won’t charge an arm and a leg.”

“That seems fair. I’ll draw up a contract.”

“But I need to inspect the place first. Let’s meet at the Barbwire tomorrow morning,” Cal said before jerking his head toward the barn. “A word of warning—Charlie has a drinking problem and a habit of interfering where he’s not wanted.”

“He owes Bud recompense. The shape this place is in rests on his shoulders. Find something for him to do, or I’ll sue him for breach of contract.” Maggie wasn’t sure if the contract would hold up since most of the terms were unwritten. But she’d bluff her way through. Charlie was a free laborer and free sounded good at the moment.

Cal shrugged. “Your rodeo.”

Yeah. A big, fat, disastrous one where she stood in the center of the arena wearing a barrel as her underwear like those funny rodeo clowns she’d seen in cartoons. “I’m heading back to town. I have a lot to do in order to relocate to Coyote Creek.”

“Relocate? You’re not going back to Pennsylvania?” Cal asked.

“After ten years of paying someone to do a job that didn’t get done, you think I’m going to leave this place unattended? If I’m plopping down money, I’m part of the process.”

“Define ‘part of the process.’”

“I’m a hard worker. I’ll pitch in.”

Cal lowered his gaze, taking in the new wedge sandals she’d scored on a half-price rack last week and the secondhand Louis Vuitton bag her cousin had bought at a yard sale. She could see his thoughts in those pretty blue eyes. He thought she was useless. “You’re going to help clean and repair the Triple J?”

“I know how to hold a paintbrush,” she said, sliding her sunglasses back in place. “As soon as I contact animal control about these cats, I’ll get the house habitable.”

Cal might have smirked, but she didn’t wait around to see. Cowboy Cal and Grumpy Charlie may have preconceived notions about her, but they didn’t know her veneer of sophistication had been shellacked on to survive the snooty world of the Edelmans. Her mother had been the housekeeper and Maggie had scrubbed many a toilet and polished many a silver serving tray. Hard Work was her middle name.

“You’re going to stay in the house?” Cal called to her.

Maggie glanced over at the sad dwelling. Poor place looked as if it had cashed in on existing. But at one time, the Triple J ranch house had been a home. “Have you seen the Coyote Creek motel?”

Cal twisted lips that made her think of morning sex. “Good point.”

Maggie climbed into the car, watching the cowboy through her windshield. He surveyed the house and then walked around back, perhaps looking for a place to park his trailer.

So many questions about him rambled around her mind, but she supposed there would be time for answers. After all, they’d be working together for the next month or so. The faster she sold the Triple J, the faster she could get on with her life.

Maggie slid an apologetic glance to the box holding the ashes of her late boss.

“Sorry, Bud. I know you hoped I’d fall in love with the Triple J, but I don’t even own cowboy boots.”

Though she might want to grab a pair if she was going to be here for a while.

3 (#ulink_113802f6-56a6-562f-be08-eebe63ee98c5)

THREE DAYS LATER Cal watched Maggie dip the sponge into the bucket of soapy water and scrub down the front door of the Triple J ranch house. Ten years of lightning bug and moth waste dotted the wooden door with the broken glass insets. Would have been easier to buy a whole new damn door, but Miss Maggie Stanton was tighter than Dick’s hatband when it came to letting go of cash.

She looked damned fine in a pair of cutoff shorts that cupped her ass, a loose tank top and sandals that allowed toenails of bright red to peek out. Her brown ponytail bobbed as she uttered indiscriminant curse words under her breath. Stepping back she tossed the sponge into the bucket, splashing soapy water onto the sagging porch boards.

“Damn it.”

He climbed the steps, avoiding the one with the loose board. “Looks better.”

“No, it doesn’t, but at least it’s clean.” She brushed her hands on her shorts. The waistband dipped giving him a glimpse of apple-green panties. She turned to him. “Did you call the guy about the leak?”

“Yeah. The roofing company’s sending a guy for an estimate.”

“The roof has to be fixed before we can do any other work inside. And there’s a lot of work to be done.”

Cal looked at the door and then pulled a small notebook from his back pocket. He added “paint front door” to the list. “I’m heading to physical therapy, but I’ll be back by five o’clock. The painters will be out in the barn. If you have a problem, call me.”

“So I’m supervising now?” Her eyes dipped down to his chest. He knew he’d sweated buckets and his T-shirt clung to him. He’d been helping Ray and his team tear out rotten boards and replace them on the west side of the barn. Her noticing the clinging material made something naughty rear up inside him. One thing he knew was when a woman was interested. He’d caught Maggie’s gaze on him more than once. Firm indicator.

Two mornings ago, he and Maggie had come to an agreement regarding the renovation of the Triple J over pancakes at the Barbwire Grill. He had no clue why he’d agreed to help Maggie. Okay, he did. Some of it was wanting to get away from living with his mom and her husband. After the wreck on Rasputin, his mother had resurrected her petition that he give up bull riding. And some of it was feeling bad his old mentor had allowed the ranch to fall into disrepair. But most of it had to do with the insane attraction he held for Maggie. It had been months since he’d felt any interest in a woman. Maybe longer than that. Occasionally when he won big and drank enough, he took advantage of the willing women who frequented the bars. Yet he never felt anything more than a passing attraction.

Until Maggie had walked in.

Of course, he was bored and depressed by the lack of healing in his shoulder. He’d spent the past two weeks in bed watching Divorce Court and champing at the bit to get back to competing for the million-dollar prize. So doing a little work would make the hours go faster and being able to eye the sexy Maggie Stanton while doing it would be an added bonus.

So he made the list and hired the crews to repair the outer buildings for a ranch he cared nothing about. After inspecting the buildings, he’d decided the barn was too big of a job to attempt alone. He’d asked around and found a crew of painters who’d had a job fall through. They’d started work that morning, prepping for repainting right after the county animal control had picked up ten full traps of angry, snarling cats. Cal had started working on repairing stalls, carefully using his bad shoulder, hoping the natural movement might do some good since the prescribed therapy hadn’t done what he’d hoped. Still hurt like hell, but the therapist said moving it was good for him.

Charlie had shown up midmorning and with a grunt started helping. Cal didn’t have much left for the old man...or at least that’s what he told himself.

Charlie had taken him under his wing when Cal had been a restless green buck set on causing trouble rather than being useful. The former rodeo star had taught Cal how to be a cowboy, watching Cal ride his first bull, teaching him how to position his hands and when to use the spurs. Once upon a time, Cal had worshiped Charlie. Until the curmudgeonly cowboy had started drinking too much...and hitting on Cal’s mother.

When Cal was in high school, his lonely mom had shared a few meals with Charlie. She’d seen it as casual companionship, two people who cared about Cal spending time together. But when she met Gary Whitehorse, Charlie got jealous. It spilled over onto Cal’s rodeo life. The dam broke when Charlie tried to play daddy, demanding Cal quit bull riding after a particularly dangerous ride. Cal and Charlie had clashed like only two hardheaded fools could and the result was a sixteen-year silence. But Cal supposed they could hand each other nails and measure two-by-fours without talking much.

“I told you I’d have to go to physical therapy twice a week,” he reminded her.

Maggie silently regarded Cal. He knew her thoughts, namely the unstated question of why he went to a physical therapist. He hadn’t revealed he was a bull rider yet and he didn’t know why he withheld the information. All he’d accomplished was something to be proud of, but after years of buckle bunnies hopping after him and reporters haggling him, he was tired of the fascination. Being a regular dude felt good. Like pulling on an old pair of blue jeans.

“Right,” she said when she realized he wasn’t going to explain. “Oh, so you know, I checked out of the motel. I’m staying here tonight.”

“But the windows are still busted.”

“I found the screens in the attic. Cats are gone and I’m tired of motel life.”

“But it’s hotter than hell without AC.” His thoughts flickered to an image of her in a short nightie, sweat glistening between her breasts. Maybe no air-conditioning would be a good thing, especially since he’d pulled his trailer out this morning and had a nice view of the house. Of course, he wasn’t a pervert who’d sit around, peering out his blinds, trying to catch a peek. But if she did venture out to the saggy porch in her barely there nightie, he damned sure wasn’t looking away.