Cowgirls Don't Cry

He fitted a smile on his face but was interrupted again. This time his phone erupted with the sounds of a siren. People stopped, turned and stared. She stepped back farther.

“That sounds like an emergency,” she hinted.

* * *

Chance fumbled in his jacket pocket and found the blasted phone. He planned to cheerfully kill whichever brother had reprogrammed his ring tones. Stabbing at the screen, he growled, “What!” He held up an index finger to indicate it would be a short conversation, hoping she’d stay.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Chance could feel his brother’s smirk through the phone. “It’s always a bad time when you call, Cord. Tell the old man not even he can control the weather. I’m stuck in Chicago until this freaking blizzard blows over.”

Chance barely listened, his attention focused on the blonde. Something in her expression captured his interest. Every time she blinked, her lashes appeared to leave bruises under her eyes. He peered closer and noticed the dark circles marring the delicate skin. Sadness. That’s what he saw on her face and in her eyes.

“Chancellor! Are you even listening to me?”

“No.” Not even the use of his full name could distract him.

“Well, you better. He called a family meeting for tomorrow. Clay is flying in from Washington. The old man tried to send one of the planes for you, but every pilot on staff refused to fly because of the weather. Pissed him off to no end, but he couldn’t fire all of them.”

Chance resisted the urge to scrub at his forehead. The old man’s temper and propensity for firing people kept Chance hip deep in fixing the messes made by his father. In fact, he cleaned up all the predicaments his family got embroiled in. It was his duty, according to Cyrus Barron, and part of the price to pay for being a member of one of Oklahoma’s richest and most powerful families. The perks of being a Barron were many, so Chance paid the dues.

“I have a seat on the first flight out in the morning. Any clue about the hornet’s nest we’re walking into?”

“Trouble with a capital T. The old man’s worn a path in the carpet from all his pacing. He keeps muttering something about ‘that old bastard thinks he can outsmart me by dying’ with a lot more choice cuss words sprinkled liberally throughout. He had a map spread out on the conference table, so I have the feeling he’s in acquisition mode and isn’t going to take no for an answer.”

“So what else is new?” The rhetorical nature of the question was lost on Cord. Chance resisted the urge to hang up on his brother as he continued to watch the girl. He liked her looks, but the playboy side of his brain told him to run. The abiding sorrow in her eyes boded nothing but trouble—and entanglements. With his father on the warpath, he couldn’t afford either one. He tuned back in to his brother’s voice.

“It’s not enough that Clay is a senator. The old man is bugging Chase to run for governor next year.”

This was a conversation he didn’t want a stranger to overhear. He turned his back and stepped a few feet away. “Chase? In politics? Oh hell, no. Trouble follows him like an ambulance-chasing lawyer. The old man must be losing his grip on reality.”

“Hey, at least he’s not after you or me, bro.”

Chance snorted. “I had that conversation with the old man when I was twelve.”

Cord laughed again, harder this time. “Yeah, I remember that. You couldn’t sit a saddle for almost a week after he finished tanning your hide with that switch. And he got back at you by making you go to law school.”

Chance turned around just in time to see his plans evaporate behind the elevator doors. He laughed as he saw the woman lean over to continue watching him until the doors closed. His intellect remained curious about her. His body had a more basic interest involving naked skin and sheets. He could still smell the scent of her perfume, or shampoo or simply her. Almonds, orange and a hint of cinnamon—the fragrance as distinctive as the woman. With a frustrated snarl, he focused on his brother’s voice yammering in his ear.

“The old man is livid, Chance. I’ve never seen him like this. Not even when Tammy ran off with the foreman. I’m worried he’s actually going to stroke out.”

Chance rolled his eyes. Tammy was wife number six. Or seven. Half his father’s age and built like Dolly Parton, she’d turned her charms on the ranch foreman and convinced him to take off with her. The Barrons owned the two major papers in Oklahoma so she’d threatened to go to the tabloids with fabricated family secrets. She would sink to that level to cause a scandal. As the family lawyer, Chance negotiated a monetary settlement to avoid the nuisance and filed the divorce papers while the ink was still wet on her signature.

“So what the hell’s going on, Cord? You just cost me a roll in the hay. There’d better be a damn good reason for the old man’s fit.”

“Does the name Ben Morgan mean anything to you?”

Chance rifled through his memory. “Vaguely. Old rodeo cowboy, right?”

“That’s him. The old man and Morgan butted heads a few times, including once over a woman.”

“Aw, hell... Which one of the stepmonsters?”

“That’s the funny thing. None of them. This was years ago. Before he married Mom.”

Chance rubbed his forehead. “Damn, Cord. I know the old man is legendary for holding a grudge, but that’s a little ridiculous.”

“You’re telling me? I’m the one he’s been cussing the last few minutes, ever since he found out Morgan died tonight.” Cord paused for a breath. “He’s upset enough he forgot about your failure to find the colt.”

“Now you’re giving me grief about that, too? Come on.”

“Hey, you know how he reacts to losing, little brother. The good news, he’s distracted. There’s some sort of legal BS involving this Ben Morgan guy. The old man wants you to wade through it. Thought I’d give you a heads-up so you don’t walk in blind.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll fire up the laptop and do some research.”

“I’ll email the particulars. And Chance? Sorry if I messed up any sort of extracurricular activity you might have planned for later.”

“Yeah, right. I can hear the remorse ringing in your voice. I’ll head to the office straight from the airport when I get back tomorrow.”

“I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Chance tapped his phone and dropped it into his pocket. This whole trip had gone to hell in a handbasket, and now he was quoting the old man’s clichés. That was so not a good sign. He glanced toward the bar. The waitress would get off sooner or later but after getting up close and personal with the blonde, his desire for any other woman waned—at least for tonight. In three strides, he reached the elevator and stabbed the button. He had work to do.

Two (#u4ff283cb-3456-5b7a-be51-1f50fa1db1d1)

Cass loosened her seat belt as the flight attendant announced the flight would be delayed. Seemed a passenger was running late. The economy section was packed, so it had to be somebody in first class. She rolled her head on her neck and listened as her vertebrae snapped, crackled and popped. Better to sound like a bowlful of Rice Krispies than suffer the headache that would follow.

She closed her eyes and tried to forget her situation. Going home was always hard—that’s why she’d avoided it for so long, even though Boots had urged her to visit. And now with her dad gone—with things left unsaid and apologies not made, her heart hurt. She swallowed her guilt but it churned in her stomach like raw jalapeños. Cass forced her thoughts away from her dad. She’d say goodbye when she got to the funeral home, but until then, she’d just have to hope he had heard what was in her heart when she talked to him last night.

The pilot’s voice echoed over the intercom, scratchy and hard to hear over the hum of conversations. Evidently, whoever they’d been waiting for had arrived, and they were finally ready for takeoff. She braced her feet against the floor and clasped her hands in her lap. Flying was not her favorite activity, especially getting off the ground and landing. She measured her breathing, concentrating on remaining calm, then remembered the scent of the guy in the hotel. Leather and rain on a hot day. That’s what he smelled like—an odd combination that evoked memories of her childhood growing up on the ranch and around rodeo arenas all over the West.

He’d been wearing a starched white shirt with a button-down collar, like a banker, but it was tucked into a pair of well-fitting jeans, even if they were pressed to a knife-edged crease. Her brow furrowed. He’d also been wearing boots. Not that people in Chicago didn’t wear Western boots. Some of them even wore them “for real,” not just as a fashion statement.

Her stomach dropped away as the plane rumbled into the cloudy skies, chasing all thoughts of the guy out of her head. The fuselage shuddered several times before she heard grinding as the landing gear retracted. The plane continued to climb at a steep incline, and the pilot mumbled something about weather and flying altitude that she couldn’t really hear over the throbbing in her ears. She swallowed to make her eardrums pop, pushed back against her seat and returned to thinking about her close encounter.

Had the timing been different, she might have let the guy buy her a drink, just to see what percolated between them. He was sexy as all get-out. Tall. Muscular. His hands strong as they gripped her arms, but with a certain amount of gentleness. She wasn’t petite by any measure, but he’d towered over her. He radiated heat, too, or maybe he just touched something in her that created heat. She hadn’t been so intrigued by a man in ages. Then she remembered the reason for her trip, and all thoughts of the sexy encounter fled.

I’m sorry, Daddy. She offered the apology to the heavens, knowing it covered so much more than her wayward thoughts. Cass squiggled her nose, fighting the burn of tears. She couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

Her dad’s voice echoed softly in her memory, reminding her to be strong. She flashed back to the time she’d just lost the final round of a barrel-racing event by mere tenths of a second. That she’d lost to the reigning national champion, who was twenty years older didn’t mean a thing. At the age of seven, all she’d wanted was that shiny buckle and the saddle that went with it for winning.

“No, Daddy. No time for tears. Cowgirls just get back on and ride.” Back in the present, she whispered the words in the hopes that saying them out loud would make them true. She hadn’t been a cowgirl for ten years. Not since she’d left home to attend college back East. Not since she’d taken the job in Chicago. In fact, she’d only been on a horse a handful of times since then. She hated going home. Hated the heat and dust, the smell of cattle manure.

She didn’t want to be a cowgirl. She’d liquidate the ranch, get Boots set up somewhere comfortable and haul ass back to Chicago where she belonged. No regrets. It’s what her dad would expect her to do. She’d told him often enough she’d never be back, never take over the ranch.

Those guilty jalapeños boiled and raged in her stomach again. Returning to Chicago was the right thing. Really. She conjured up the picture of her close encounter from the night before in her mind, shutting out the remorse. His chiseled face still seemed familiar, and she felt as if she should know him. Was he an actor? Or maybe a professional cowboy? She nudged the feeling this way and that, seeking an answer, but didn’t find one.

The passenger in front of her shoved his seat all the way back jostling her tray table so that the coffee, served moments before by the flight attendant, sloshed out. The man on her right in the window seat snored as his head fell over toward her shoulder. She dodged him but bumped the woman on her left. That earned her a scathing look. Cass rolled her eyes and shrugged. She could only hope this flight from hell ended sooner rather than later.