Chapter 1
The sign on the door
of the ranch house read Be Right Back.
For the last hour Amanda Martin had been leaning against the
porch railing while she got hotter and dustier and crankier.
She glared at the sign. At home in Pennsylvania, Right Back
meant minutes; here in Colorado it must mean a lot longer.
She stamped her feet to restore her circulation before she
plodded down the wooden steps and plopped herself on the lowest
one. When her bottom hit the rough planks she lifted one hip,
smoothing her fingers over the back of her jeans, checking for
splinters. Now wouldn't that be a fitting end to a perfectly
rotten four days?
Driving 2000 miles cross-country alone had been frightening, to
say the least, but she'd made it safely. That was all that
mattered for now. Driving home would be yet another ordeal--one
she didn't want to think about.
Neither did she want to think about her ex-fiancé‚ Stuart. .
.the louse. Or the inconsiderate hired hand who was supposed to
have met her promptly at 10:00 A.M.
Amanda bowed her head and wiggled her toes. She should have
known better than to rely on a man, even for something as simple
as punctuality. Like a fool she'd driven all night to be here
on time--only to study her shoes.
Her canvas, laceless, once white sneakers were streaked with
Havoline oil and travel dirt, had one, two, three, four
eyelets--and were suddenly toe-to-toe with a pair of dusty
cowboy boots.
It was about time.
Her gaze swept upward to a pair of muscular thighs clad in
tight-fitting jeans with a well-worn fly, up to a silver belt
buckle initialed with the letters J.T. Five buttons higher, a
denim work shirt opened at the collar to reveal dark, coarse
curls. From there things got trickier. She had to crane her
neck backward to glimpse a face shadowed by a cowboy hat.
She couldn't make out his features, and the effort was knotting
the back of her neck, so she let her head fall forward--level
again with his 505 non-button fly. She shifted her eyes to his
belt buckle, and fretted. Why didn't he back up a step? She'd
have to belly-butt the man to stand up. Surely he could see how
embarrassing her position was. . .the clod.
From above her head, a deep, low voice boomed. "Been waiting
long?"
Amused. Did his voice sound amused? She whipped her head up,
but still couldn't make out the line of his mouth beneath the
shade of his hat. But she just knew he was grinning. . .the
snake--if snakes grinned.
"Not too," she answered, noncommittally, dropping her head to
relax the stiffness in her neck. She'd grow roots before she'd
admit that he rankled her.
"Your motor's running."
"I know." She glanced at the pink GEO Tracker. The strains of
Whitney Houston singing a ballad rose up through the partially
opened soft-top. "I was bored, so I turned on the radio."
And why was she explaining to him?
"Saving the battery?"
"Yes." He should’ve been thinking about a requiem for his watch
not her battery.
"You sound a mite peevish," he said offhandedly.
Mite didn't begin to describe it. His tall frame was blotting
out one of the 300 odd days of sunshine that Colorado boasted,
not to mention Amanda’s view of the purple mountains’ majesty.
Her hoped for glimpse of a real life cowboy--not the wannabe,
line-dancing kind--had turned into a close up that was too real
for comfort.
Looked like it was about time to back the cowpoke up and wipe
the smile off his face. Her tone sweetened. "I was a bit
cranky earlier, but talking to your zipper has cheered me
immensely."
It worked. With two dust swirls, the boots tripped backward as
if they had been lit with matchsticks. A verbal hot foot.
Amanda slowly unfolded herself from her lowly position on the
step and stood to face him.
The clod turned out to be quite handsome. Ruggedly so. Too
bad. Good-looking men were harder to take down; they were so
self-assured. And exactly the types she planned to avoid.
His square jaw, high cheekbones, and straight hard mouth, which
stretched taut over even white teeth, touted his masculine
allure. The hard mouth tempted a woman to want to kiss it,
soften it, make it moan. Enough.
She blinked and looked up into his eyes, expecting a calculated
cold stare. His eyes were liquid brown, like a doe's eyes.
They surprised her. They didn't belong with his hard-edged
demeanor. His eyes looked as if they could sap the soul of its
secrets, and he looked like the kind of man who would use those
secrets to his advantage.
"That's one sassy mouth you've got there, Ma'am." Despite the
annoying twang he put on the Ma'am, his soulful gaze held hers
captive--right through the lenses of her mirrored sunglasses.
When his eyes released hers, for all of a second, she was
thankful--until those dark brown eyes blazed a heated trail over
her person. Starting first at the visor of her black baseball
cap, they moved down lazily over her mirrored sunglasses and
down to her lips, which she knew were chapped from nervously
chewing on them in traffic. She followed his gaze as it scanned
to the vee at the first button of her baggy baseball shirt, then
to her shirttails, the worn through holes at the knees of her
jeans, and to her beat-up tennis sneakers. Then a torturous,
slow journey back upward ended on her mouth. His lip curled in
obvious disapproval.
Who hired this man? He must be awfully good at wrangling, or
whatever they did on ranches. Why else would anyone employ such
a disagreeable person? He'd left her waiting in the hot sun,
made no apology, then propped himself in her face, to his
amusement. Now he snarled his distaste at her appearance. She
planned to report his conduct to the owner of the ranch the
first chance she got. She was keeping a running mental list of
his transgressions.
In the meantime, she refused to be intimidated. Deliberately,
she eyed him from head-to-toe and back. She skimmed over the
soft brown eyes and the kissable mouth, then did an unhurried
study of his thick neck, muscular shoulders, and broad chest.
She wondered just how many of those dark, coarse curls matted
that broad chest? Slowly, she observed his flat stomach and
narrow hips, avoiding his fly--she'd seen enough of his fly.
She’d already examined his muscular thighs and calves and his
booted feet in depth earlier, too.
She inched her perusal upward, hoping for a flaw. A chipped
tooth on the bottom row of those beautiful white teeth would
have to do. Hastily, she moved on, avoiding the tantalizing
mouth, and the soul-searching eyes. Her stare rested on his
nose. His nostrils were flared. Good. She'd gotten to him.
"I
guess you'll be wanting to see the cabin, too," he said.
"I'd like to see it before I commit. A month is a long
stay."
"Big commitment," he drawled. "Longer than some marriages."
She ignored his comment. "Should we walk or take the truck?"
She tapped her foot, stirring up little puffs of dirt.
"You call that pink thing a truck?"
"I call it Mountain Laurel Pink," she said, her pride pricked.
"After the Pennsylvania state flower. And since the truck is
running, be my guest. Unless you're afraid driving it will
threaten your masculinity."
"Come on. Let's get it done," he said. As he climbed into the
driver's seat, she heard him mumble something about
'Pepto-Bismol pink.'
While she skirted around to the other side of the vehicle, he
unexpectedly reached across the passenger seat and opened the
door for her. She didn't want him to do anything nice. She
wanted to dislike him, along with every other man who breathed
and walked and had danger written all over him. "Thanks,"
she muttered.
"Gears? I'm impressed." His tone said he wasn't.
Sarcasm. . .she was glad. She'd rather deal with that than most
men's phony sweet talk. "I told you it was a truck, four-wheel
drive and all."
He
shifted into first, engaged the clutch, and veered the vehicle
down past the weathered barn. At the bottom of the hill, within
view of the log ranchhouse, she spied five cabins dotting the
pastoral horizon.
"I hope I'm going to like it," she murmured.
"We sent brochures."
"I didn't have time to wait. I booked without them."
Impatiently, she wiped her damp palms on the thighs of her
ragged jeans. "I don't have a B."
"A bee?" His brows creased.
"B, as in backup. I don't have a backup plan."
"You won't need one." He braked to a dusty stop in front of the
nearest wooden clapboard cabin.
She followed him in through a squeaky screen-door which latched
with an eye hook, then through a wooden main door that luckily
sported a deadbolt lock. He leaned his shoulder against the
doorjamb and shoved his hands in his pockets while she toured
the premises.
There wasn't much to tour, a living room, a kitchenette, a
bedroom and a bath. Quaint, cozy, livable. It would do.
"Questions?"
"What's indigenous hereabouts? You know. . .animal, mineral,
vegetable?"
"We deloused," he said.
"I wasn't being insulting. I'm worried about things that crawl,
bite, sting. . .go bump in the night."
"Then stop worrying."
"Could
you do a spot check anyway?" She chewed her bottom lip,
waiting. Amanda was no animal lover, but a working ranch was
probably as good a place as any to learn to be less neurotic
about them. So far he hadn't answered any of her questions.
She still didn't know if southwestern Colorado was inhabited
with snakes, spiders, bats, wolves. . .her list was endless.
Bears, bobcats, Yeti, The Abominable Snowman.
He humored her. He flung open all the drawers and doors,
peering into cabinets and closets. "Nothing," he announced
blandly.
"Can you guarantee my safety?"
"Yes."
"Okay." She nodded, believing him. He didn't look like the
type to boast idly.
"The power's been turned on, and the fridge and stove are hooked
up. The phone doesn't ring out." He awaited her reaction.
She shrugged.
"Line one is the house, line two, the barn. Either Shorty or I
will answer. One of us will always be at either place for the
duration of the month."
She nodded. Shorty must be another of the ranchhands.
"If you want to call out," he explained, "you'll have to use the
office phone up at the house."
"I won't be needing a telephone. I'm not expecting any incoming
calls, and I won't be calling out."
"A woman who doesn't talk on the phone. Now there's an odd
one." He chuckled disparagingly.
"How cliched," she said in a droll voice. "How about hot
water?"
"We've got it."
"How much? Enough for a fifteen minute shower?" she
asked. The man dodged questions like a politician running for
office.
"Gallons."
"I was promised an air-conditioner."
His eyebrow shot up.
"By Mr. Cutter." Her chin jutted out. She had him now.
"If I said so. . .then you'll have one."
"You're Mr. Cutter?" Her shoulders slumped.
"J. T. Cutter. J.T. will do," he threw at her.
Great. The mental list of indignities she'd planned to report
had just been torn to shreds.
She shook his extended hand. He didn't feel like a viper at
all. His hand wasn't cold and slimy. Instead, it was warm,
roughened with calluses, and charged with a current of
attraction she quickly denied. As if jolted, she snatched her
hand from his, tucking it behind her back.
"Guess I'm your new neighbor for the next thirty days."
"Guess so." His mouth looked even more somber.
"You're already down to twenty-nine and a half," she consoled
him.
"There are papers to sign up at the office."
"Let's unload the truck first."
"I'm no bellhop."
"Good," she said, "then I won't have to tip you."
His lip twitched. She watched it waver somewhere between a
snarl and a smile. It continued to waver with each neon pink
plastic crate he stacked inside the front door.
After she'd handed off her suitcase and was latching the
tailgate, an auburn-haired woman with huge golden eyes came
barreling down the lane.
"J.T.,
J.T.!" the woman shouted in a shrill voice. "The bank called.
We don't need her. Tell her to go."
The woman with the pretty face, pouting lips, and full hips and
full bosom yanked J.T. off of the porch by his arm. With their
backs turned away from Amanda, the woman alerted him.
"We don't need her lease. Or the others. I'll call and cancel
them. The want ads, too. The bank lent Hardy the cash he owed
us on last year's cattle. Send her away."
Amanda overheard every word. She stubbed the toe of her sneaker
into the dirt. Perhaps he'd allow her to stay the night. She
wasn't up to driving another mile, let alone battling the
upcoming holiday traffic. Maybe he knew of other cabins nearby.
No way could she start the exodus back to Pennsylvania this
soon. She wasn't ready to go home yet. She needed to keep
distance between herself and the gossip--although 2000 miles
might have been a bit drastic.
The advertisement in the back of the magazine had been the
clincher. The Cutter-a-Break Ranch sounded like a perfect
haven. Let the beauty of the
Four Corners area inspire you. Colorado
retreat. Private cabins on a working ranch. Horse and range
optional. June through September.
Today was July first. Colorado's beauty indeed butted a corner
with Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico. The mountains, the skies,
the vastness of land was overwhelming. She'd opted for the no
work, no horse plan--unless they came up with a very tame
horse. She was extending that plan to include no cowboys,
unless, of course, they had a very tame one. Now if Mr. and
Mrs. J.T. would just leave her to the privacy of her cabin. . .
The auburn-haired woman spragged her booted feet in the dirt
like a bratty child as she tread her way back up the hill.
Amanda watched the woman a moment, then put her hands in her
back pockets and braced herself. She looked at J.T.
She looked pitiful, J.T. thought. He wondered how anyone that
sorry looking had been able to drive cross-country alone. He
admired the feat. She had guts, even if he didn't much like
them. The woman was darned unlikable.
For
that reason, he'd let her stay. Another reason was the way she
stood her ground. He'd given her 'that look,' the one that made
grown men back off. He'd given her 'that tone,' the one that
made men cringe. Yet, she'd gone toe-to-toe with him. He
figured she deserved to have her way.
But he'd have to handle Jolene. Her amber eyes had been
speckled with sour shades of green this afternoon. Jolene was
more than a mite on the jealous side, a minor flaw--one he chose
to ignore, even though it overstepped their friendship. Joley
was a good pal who sometimes tended to overprotect both him and
the ranch.
She was also a tad bossy, another minor flaw. What was
important was her heart. She loved the ranch life, and with the
Cutter spread being bigger than most she loved it most. He
found that understandable.
Her jealous streak, which was as long as the Colorado River,
would have to be appeased. Although--he eyed the pathetic,
bedraggled stick figure in front of him—-there wasn't much for
Jolene to be jealous of. Still, he'd have to handle Jolene.
"About the lease--"
Amanda raised her hand to stop him. "Your wife doesn't want me
here. I don't want to cause trouble. If I could stay until the
morning though." Doubt deepened with the furrowing of his
brows. She and the rancher had gotten off on the wrong
foot--make that boot. Hope was not an option here.
"Jolene's not my wife." His words were scratchy, as if the idea
of him having a wife was abrasive. She agreed; it was.
"Well, if your girlfriend doesn't want me to stay, perhaps there
are other cabins in the area."
"She's not my girlfriend."
"Your
sister?" Amanda wondered why she'd asked. At this point she
really didn't care who the woman was. Again he was evading
direct answers. Things weren't looking too promising.
"Jolene updates the computer and ties up the loose ends in the
office one afternoon a week. This afternoon."
"She said we. . .you must date." Amanda felt compelled to
defend her reasoning. Why? She didn't know. It had nothing to
do with her situation.
He shrugged his shoulder to show his indifference to her
opinion.
"Bad business practice J.T.," she said. "Dating the hired
help." She decided he wasn't going to let her stay so she might
as well nettle him.
"Jolene doesn't exactly work for me. I pay her, but she comes
out to the house as a favor. And why am I explaining to you?
Worry about your own boyfriend."
"He eloped without me."
"Probably had something to do with that nasty mouth of yours,
Ma'am."
"Do I have to vacate tonight?" Amanda put her fists on her hips
and stared up at him, hoping to force an answer.
"No," he snapped.
"Tomorrow morning then." She nodded in agreement.
"No."
"No?"
"The end of the month was our agreement."
"But I didn't sign."
"My
handshake's binding. . .same as my word." His tone was stern,
final.
"Thank you, J.T."
"Don't thank me. Anybody'll tell you I'm honest—-and mean."
And proud of both, the grim set of his mouth told her.
An honest man? She doubted one existed.
"You're not so mean, J.T." Then just to unnerve him, she tipped
her sunglasses onto her nose and flashed him a wink over the top
of the frames. He frowned.
"Better come up to the house at noon tomorrow to sign. No sense
riling Joley anymore today."
***
Too travel weary to think about food, Amanda collapsed onto the
oak bedstead, which was covered in a patchwork of colors. Fuzzy
TV reception and fitful dreams carried her into the next
morning.
She unpacked her clothing, but not the crates. The dry hot air
inside the cabin was stuffy. After showering, she used a double
dose of her deodorant. Her blond natural curls had almost dried
by the time she finished dressing. She finger-combed her hair
and glossed her chapped lips.
Her long, lean legs carried her up the hill toward the house.
Every stone and rut indented her thin leather soles. The thong
sandals had been a mistake, but the short culotte dress wasn’t.
Amanda's flash point was low; any time the temperature inched
toward ninety, she wilted.
A
quarter way up the lane, she turned herself around. Driving was
quicker, easier, and cooler. Besides, as soon as she paid J.T.
off, she had to head into town--if those several streets of
buildings she'd driven through yesterday could be called a town.
She pulled up and parked alongside the all too familiar,
rough-hewn pillars of the porch. After clanging the metal
hitching ring that served as a doorknocker, she called out,
"It's me and my checkbook." No answer. She rapped harder, then
eased the door open.
"Come in," J.T. answered, appearing from a doorway to the left.
He clasped both hands on the doorjamb above his head and looked
down at her with curiosity, and a sleepy-lidded, approving
leer. He was hatless, and the locks that tousled across his
forehead were dark with reddish highlights, like mahogany.
He had a rumpled, sleepy look. Quite some approach. Obvious,
but effective. She resisted, with a tentative smile.
Twice he scanned her tanned legs, and a grin cracked his lips.
His languid brown gaze stroked each golden curl framing her face
before flirting with her green eyes, tempting them with unspoken
lusty promises.
Arrogantly masculine, he exuded sexuality. He dared her,
excited her. And she hated him for it with a passion.
When his slitted stare lowered to her slick chapped lips,
recognition struck, wiping the lazy grin from his mouth, turning
it into a hard grim line.
"It's you."
"It's noon," she said.
"Yesterday you looked like a delinquent boy--"
"And today?"
"You don't," he accused.
He led her into the office and quickly signed the papers before
shoving them across the desk toward her.
Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the computer, the maple
desk with its matching bookcases, and the forest green leather
chairs. She sighed her relief after she’d searched the wood
paneled walls. There were no mounted dead heads.
Animals made Amanda nervous--dead or alive, large or small.
Well, mostly large and alive kind; they were too unpredictable.
But the stuffed and mounted kind with glassy fake eyes
positively gave her the creeps.
When he barked, "Sign here, and here," she snapped to attention.
Her fingers snatched the pen from his and a charge grazed them.
The floors were hardwood. No rugs. No static. This troubled
her as she inked on the dotted lines.
"About the air-conditioner?" she asked, dropping her check onto
the desk in front of him, curling her fingers away from his,
careful not to make further contact.
"Nagging already?" He leaned across the desk on braced arms,
his face coming dangerously close. "Check hasn't even cleared."
"As long as we're being honest, and mean," she said in a huff.
"I don't nag, and I won't beg. I was merely asking when you
planned to uphold your end of the bargain." She backed away
toward the door. She wasn't foolish enough to turn her back on
the varmit.
"End of today. If not, definitely end of tomorrow," he
taunted. "Is that honest and mean enough for you?"
"I'll be waiting," she sniped at him from the open doorway. She
swirled around to leave, then twirled back. "When is the end of
the day?"
"About six o'clock." He grinned.
His smirking grin ticked her off. His dark sultry gaze, which
was touring her legs again, really ticked her off. But not as
much as the words he spoke.
"Honey. . .don't prance around my ranch in that outfit,
otherwise my hired hands won't do much roping."
"J.T.,"
she spit out, "I'm not your honey."
And then, just to prove that he couldn't run her off with crude
remarks, she lingered. Her mind frantically sought a comment,
something bland, safe. "Can I get groceries on that dusty
stretch of road that passes itself off as a town?"
"Yes." His brown eyes shone with amusement.
"My truck washed?"
"Yes."
"Lunch?" she asked.
"Yes." With one swift movement, he came around from behind the
desk. Grabbing his Stetson hat with one hand and her elbow with
the other, he escorted her out the door. "Thanks for the
invite."
Romance Reviews Today
“I
really enjoyed Never Dare a Cowboy. Sparks fly from the
moment Amanda and J.T meet, and the sexual tension between the
two could heat a house on the coldest of nights.” - Tracy
Farnsworth
Sime~Gen 4 Star Review
"Set against the
mountains, wildflower-filled meadows and endless skies of the
West, peopled with folks both good and bad natured, this is a
love story that rates a read. Come on, girls, we've all dreamed
about being swept up and carried away by a cowboy. Pick up
Never Dare a Cowboy
and revisit that
delicious notion one more time."
Judie Dupre
Writers Club Romance Group on AOL
"Never
Dare a Cowboy
was a fun read, full of
sassy dialogue that never failed to draw a smile."
Lisa Ramaglia
