The Cowboy And The Calendar Girl

“What?”

Slowly Becky said, “Maybe I should have told you the whole story before now, but I thought we had a few more days before she actually got here and started—”

Hank glowered at his sister. “What whole story?”

“This...this calendar thing,” Becky said uncomfortably. “It’s not just pictures of good-looking guys’ faces. If that was the case, you wouldn’t have made the finalists’ list.”

Hank felt his mouth go very dry. “What are you talking about?”

“All those years of climbing and racquetball have done you some good, big brother. She wants to take pictures of the whole package.”

A pang of dread shot through him. “Hold it—”

“I sent a bunch of old photos to the contest. She said she liked your look. Your total look.”

“But—”

“I know, I know, you’re not as young as you used to be, and there’s a little flab around your middle, but modern photography—”

Incensed, Hank interrupted, “There is no flab around my middle!”

“Great,” said Becky. “Then you won’t be afraid to take off your shirt.”

“Now wait a minute!”

“Or your trousers.”

“Just a damn minute!”

“I hear a truck.” Becky frantically tugged Hank’s bandanna askew and tilted his Stetson to the correct angle. “There’s no time to give you a complete makeover. Can’t you—Oh, don’t you have some tobacco to chew, at least?”

She dashed out of the barn. Stunned by the information his conniving sister had just sprung on him, Hank stood frozen for a split second—just long enough for Thundercloud to reach around and sink his big yellow teeth into Hank’s arm.

With a yelp, Hank leaped out of the stall and slammed the door behind him. He could swear he heard Thundercloud chuckle with satisfaction. Fuming, he followed his sister outside.

Becky was already outside, calling hello to someone.

“Hi. Miss Fowler?” asked a female voice.

“That’s me,” Becky replied. “You must be Miss Cortazzo from Los Angeles.”

“Call me Carly.”

Hank arrived at the open barn door in time to see his sister clasp hands with the slender young woman dressed almost entirely in black. Her white-blond hair was a dramatic counterpoint to the dark clothes, and her fair skin and pale blue eyes looked gorgeous in the fading sunlight.

“We weren’t expecting you yet,” Becky said.

“I’m sorry. My office was supposed to fax you.”

“Oh, we don’t have a fax machine.”

“Well, I guess you really wouldn’t need one out here,” said Carly Cortazzo with a smile. She glanced around the barn and corral and let her gaze travel to the view of the Black Hills beyond. “This is beautiful country. I almost enjoyed getting lost in it.”

“Hen—I mean, Hank says he gave you directions to the ranch. Maybe he should have led the way.”

“Oh, I don’t think Hank wants to get too friendly with me.”

She turned and met his eyes with a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Hank hadn’t gotten a good look at her before. His terror of Becky’s runaway horse had muddled his head. But now he had a chance to give her a thorough once-over, and he liked what he saw.

Carly Cortazzo had self-assurance in every sinew of her lean, athletic body. Her blue gaze was confident, and her clothing had a cosmopolitan flare of drama. Hank liked the way her light hair wisped around the sharp contours of her face and emphasized the slender grace of her long neck. She had a businesslike manner—belied only by the lush curve of her sensual lips that lent a vaguely vulnerable cast to her face.

She wasn’t one of the fresh-scrubbed country girls Hank had grown up with in South Dakota, but had an energetic kind of beauty accompanied by a slight gleam of cynicism in her gaze.

He felt a shiver of excitement zap through his body as their gazes held and crackled with electricity.

Almost too late he remembered he was supposed to be a cowboy, so he lounged against the barn door and pulled his Stetson a little lower over his forehead.

“Nope,” he drawled laconically, doing his best Wyatt Earp imitation. “I don’t aim to get too friendly. Not just yet, anyway.”

Carly raised one elegant eyebrow and seemed undaunted.

Becky cleared her throat noisily and gave Hank a what-the-hell-are-you-doing glare. Then she said, “How about if my brother takes your gear up to the guest room, Carly? I’ve got a horse to tend at the moment.”

“Don’t let me keep you from your work,” Carly replied, still eyeing Hank with laserlike intensity. “I can take care of myself.”

“Fine. Hank, will you—”

“Sure,” said Hank, pushing off from the barn door and moseying over to the Jeep. He grabbed two large suitcases from the front seat. Together, they weighed almost as much as a Hereford steer, but Hank pretended he was accustomed to carrying much heavier loads as he hoisted the leather strap of one suitcase over his shoulder. “Think you packed enough duds, ma’am?”

“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” she retorted. “So I brought a little of everything.”

“Always good to be prepared,” he shot back in his best cowboy drawl. “You never know what might happen out in these parts.”

Maybe his cowboy act wasn’t as good as he’d hoped. He thought he heard Becky give a little moan of dismay as he led Carly Cortazzo toward the house.

Two

It was all Carly could do to keep from ogling Hank Fowler as he led her up the plank steps of his modest farmhouse. He had the nicest butt she’d ever seen encased in dusty blue jeans. And those leather chaps seemed to—well, she wanted to rip open one of her suitcases, get out her camera and start the test shots immediately.

“After you, ma’am,” he said, pushing open the door and stepping back a pace.

“Thanks.” Carly preceded him into the small house and hoped he hadn’t guessed where her thoughts had lingered. She glanced around to get her bearings in the house.

The main room was humble, with heavy wooden beams supporting the ceiling, but it was cozily decorated with calico curtains at the windows, rough-hewn furniture scattered around a stone fireplace and a hand-carved checkers game set out on a low coffee table that was also strewn with magazines, enamel coffee cups and a well-used sewing basket.

Very homey, Carly thought. Very country. Frankly, she hated the look, going in for the uncluttered modern mode of decorating herself. But it was definitely... homey.

From the connecting room wafted the rich aroma of hot food slowly steaming on the stove. A multicolor braided rug lay on the floor, and a large woolly dog snoozed contentedly by the fire.