The Cowboy And The Calendar Girl

Belatedly, Carly stuck out her hand. “I...I’m Carly Cortazzo. It’s great to meet you.”

He used his teeth to yank off the glove on his right hand, then took Carly’s in a bone-crushing grip. His blue eyes remained narrow, however. “Am I supposed to know you?”

Carly laughed, feeling like a starstruck basketball fan suddenly landing on the same planet with Michael Jordan. “Well, uh, not exactly, I guess. I just—you see, I’m from the calendar contest.”

“The what?”

“Twilight Calendars. Surely you—I mean, your sister did tell you I was coming?”

His suspicious expression changed into a glare that was far more disturbing. “My sister Becky? What in tarnation has she gone and done now?”

For the first time since leaving L.A., Carly felt a twinge of consternation.

“You don’t know?” she asked. “Nobody’s told you about winning the contest?”

He lifted one menacing brow. “I’m betting it ain’t like winning the lottery.”

“Well, a little.” Carly attempted to smile again, but suddenly found herself gulping in the presence of the man who had haunted her fantasies for several weeks now. If he only knew what’s been flitting around in my head....

“Look,” he said when she didn’t continue. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’ve just crossed onto Fowler land, and—”

“Oh, I’m not trespassing. I’ve been invited.”

“You mean Becky’s actually asked you to come onto the ranch?”

“Why, yes. To take your picture.”

“To take my picture? What the hell for?”

“Our calendar.”

He peered at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. “What kind of nonsense are you talking? You must have the wrong guy.”

“Believe me, I don’t. You’re perfect, Mr. Fowler. I’ve never met anyone so naturally photogenic.”

He squinted. “You calling me some kind of pretty boy?”

“Oh, no, of course not!” Carly said hastily. “Not exactly, that is. The camera does catch certain elements that might be unappreciated by the naked eye, so—”

His patience ran out and he interrupted her. “Look, I’ve got work to do. If you get this truck turned around, you’ll find the main road in a couple of miles.”

“But...but...I’ve already made all the arrangements with your sister to take your photograph.”

“My sister,” said Hank Fowler, “is not my keeper.”

“But—”

“Forget it.” He turned back to his horse.

Carly felt the beginnings of anger start to steam behind her eyelids. “Look, Mr. Fowler,” she said, “I’ve communicated with your sister on this matter and I thought we’d reached an agreement. A ten-thousand-dollar agreement. Perhaps you’d better give me directions so that I can settle the details with her.”

He tilted his hat and shot a measuring glance at Carly from beneath the brim. “Why don’t you take a picture of yourself, Miss—what was your name?”

“Cortazzo. Carly Cortazzo.”

“Right. Now, your picture might actually sell.”

Carly felt herself flush. “Is that a compliment, Mr. Fowler?” It hadn’t felt terribly complimentary.

With an easy swing, he climbed back into the saddle. An unsettling ghost of a grin flashed briefly across his rugged features as the magnificent horse danced beneath him. He put two fingers on the brim of his Stetson in a John Wayne salute before saying, “Take it any way you like, Miss Cortazzo.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to work.”

“But...but...you can’t leave like this!”

“Can’t I?”

Carly gritted her teeth. “I...I...oh, hell.” Throwing pride to the four winds, she said, “I’m lost! I’ve been wandering around these same three godforsaken counties all afternoon, and I’m darn sure I’ll never find my way out of them without Sacajewea to guide me.”

“All right, all right,” he said, perhaps hiding a grin. “Maybe you’d better not try driving back to town before dark. Something tells me you’ll get worse than lost. Go up to the house.”

“What house? I never saw a house.”

He pointed. “Backtrack a mile. Take a right at the clump of pine trees, go two miles and you’ll see the ranch. Becky’s there. The two of you can wrangle this out.”

“But you—”

“Get along, Miss Cortazzo,” he growled, reining the horse around. “It’ll be dark soon.”

And he left her in a cloud of dust. With a gulp, Carly watched him go, forgetting her troubles. Dazzled by the glare of sunset and the vision of manhood that disappeared as magically as he’d come, she stared after him, entranced. Her heart pounded along with the rapid strides of the galloping horse.

“Wow,” she breathed.

Thundering into the corral, Hank Fowler let out a whoop.

Of terror.

Then his horse jammed his forefeet into the ground, and Hank tumbled head over heels over the animal’s head.

He landed in the dust at his sister’s feet and lay stunned at the impact.

“You’re a diaster!” Becky exclaimed, not moving from the spraddle-iegged stance that was as natural to her as breathing. Becky was the real cowhand—the one who’d been born to run a ranch. When the horse reared over Hank’s prone body, Becky grabbed the loose reins to keep the panting beast from trampling Hank into a million pieces.

“What the hell,” she demanded, furiously glaring down at her brother, “do you think you’re doing, Henry? Don’t you know how valuable Thundercloud is?”

He spat dust from his mouth. “That stupid horse of yours ran away with me!”