A Cowboy for Christmas Read online

  No, she didn’t know Dutch. Not really.

  “He just kept working. Workaholic, your dad.”

  That Mariah knew. Dutch lived and breathed horses.

  “We were at an event, Dutch swung off his horse, staggered, coughed. I could tell he was suffering. His face was pale and sweaty. He looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Don’t call Mariah until after the funeral.’ Then he just dropped dead.” Joe’s voice cracked again. “He died with his boots on, doin’ what he loved.”

  A long pause stretched out between them. Chicago and Texas in an uneasy marriage over the airwaves.

  “Joe,” she murmured, “are you okay?”

  “No,” he said. “Dutch was my closest friend.”

  Joe’s words finally hit her, a hard punch to the gut. Her head throbbed, and she felt as if a full-grown quarter horse had squatted on her chest. Dutch was dead, and the last thing he said was Don’t call Mariah until after the funeral. Her father hadn’t wanted her there.

  “You’ve already buried him?” A soft whimper escaped her lips.

  “At Oak Hill Cemetery in Jubilee. It’s what he wanted.”

  She turned to stone inside. Iced up. Shut down completely. “I see. Well then, thank you for calling to let me know.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Don’t hang up.”

  Her hand tensed around the cell phone. “What is it?”

  “Dutch left you his ranch.”

  Dutch left you his ranch.

  The words echoed in her head, breaking the thin thread of memory and bringing Mariah back to the present.

  The morning sun pushed free of the horizon, bathing the ranch in a butter-and-egg-yolk glow. The joyous twitter of birds greeting the dawn, filling the air with song. How long had it been since she actually paid attention to birds singing? She blinked, seeing Stone Creek Ranch clearly for the first time in full daylight.

  It was a country-and-western palace.

  The main house sprawled over acres and acres of rolling grassland. On the drive up in the predawn, it had looked like a fat dragon sleeping peacefully after a heavy meal of virgins and villagers. In the daylight, it appeared more like a lazy but handsome king lounging on his throne. Not unlike the lazy cowboy draped insouciantly over the horse trough.

  Constructed from limestone and accented with wood finishes, the cowboy mansion boasted a Ludowici clay tile roof, an elevated stone porch, and an accepting veranda. It had to have at least five bedrooms, but probably more like six or seven. A circular flagstone driveway swept impulsively up to the house.

  Mariah had parked just short of the main entrance, pulling her rental sedan to a stop by a planter box filled with rusty red chrysanthemums. Numerous other buildings flanked the house. Horse barns, sheds, garages, all well maintained.

  Dutch owned this?

  She now owned this?

  All these years her father had been living in luxury while she and her mother scrimped every penny. The emotions she kept dammed up flooded her—hurt, anger, sorrow, regret, frustration.

  Yes, frustration. She had no idea how to run a ranch. She was a wedding planner’s assistant, for crying out loud.

  Correction. She used to be a wedding planner’s assistant. “Used to” being the operative phrase.

  What was she going to do with the place? And on a more immediate note, what was she going to do with the man in the horse trough?

  Tentatively, she inched closer.

  He didn’t move.

  The shy part of her held back, but the part of her that had learned how to slip into the role of whatever she needed to be in order to get the job done—and right now that was assertive—cleared her throat. “Hey, mister.”

  No response. Clearly, it was going to take cannon fire to get through his stupor.

  You’ve got to do something more to get his attention. Hanging back and being shy has always put you in hot water. Take the bull by the horns and—

  Okay, okay stop nagging.

  She reached out and poked his bare shoulder with a finger. Solid as granite.

  No response.

  Come on. Put some muscle into it.

  She poked again. Harder this time.

  Not a whisper, not a flinch.

  What if he was dead?

  Alarmed, Mariah gasped, jumped back, and plastered a palm across her mouth. Dread swamped her. She peered at his chest. Was he breathing? She thought he was breathing, but the movements were so shallow she couldn’t really tell.

  Please don’t be dead.

  In that moment, the possibly deceased naked cowboy was the cherry on top of the dung cake that was her life. Three months ago, she’d lost her dream job working for the number one wedding planner in Chicago, and then her vindictive boss had blackballed her in the industry. And now Dutch was gone too and she’d been left a ranch complete with a dead naked cowboy.

  Be rational. He’s probably not dead.

  Maybe not, but clearly he was trespassing, and she couldn’t have him thinking that it was okay for him to go around stripping off his clothes and falling into other people’s horse troughs during his drunken stupors.

  Be bold, do something about this.

  Bolstered by her internal pep talk, she stepped up to flick his Stetson with a thump of her middle finger. “Yo, cowboy, snap out of it.”

  She was just about to thump the Stetson again when one of those sinewy arms snapped up and his steely hand manacled her wrist. The tequila bottle made a dull pinging sound as it fell against the ground. Big fingers imprinted into her skin.

  “Eep!” Oxygen fled her lungs. Panic mushroomed inside her. So much for being bold.

  “Never thump a man’s Stetson,” he drawled without moving another muscle, his voice as rich and luxurious as polished mahogany. “Unless you’ve got a death wish. You got a death wish?”

  “N-n-no.” Mariah stammered.

  She tried to pull away from the Clint Eastwood clone, but pushing against his grip was like trying to bully marble. In fact, struggling only seemed to ensnare her more tightly.

  With a lazy index finger, he slowly tipped the brim of his cowboy hat upward, revealing eyes as black as obsidian, and he studied her with a speculative scowl, like he was the big bad wolf just aching for a reason to eat her alive.

  Oh man, oh wow, oh just kill me now.

  He was one hundred percent alpha male, the kind who staked a claim on a woman with one hard sultry stare and who would fight to the death to hold on to her. The kind of man whose self-confident arrogance had always unsettled her.

  She shivered.

  His gaze lasered into her as if he could see exactly what she looked like with no clothes on, his intelligent eyes full of mysterious secrets. He didn’t seem embarrassed in the least. In fact, he had an air of entitlement about him. As if he had every right to sleep off a berserk bender in her fancy horse trough.

  Strangely enough, he made her feel as if she were the naked one.

  Who was this man? Did he live here? Was he one of Dutch’s cowhands?

  Even though he was sitting up and she was standing, he seemed to tower over her. He would tower over her when he was on his feet. Of that she was certain. Almost everyone towered over her.

  The steady pressure from his strong fingers stirred a bizarre fluttering inside her. Her stomach quivered. Unnerved, Mariah marshaled her courage, gritted her teeth. “Please let go.”

  His smile exploded, exposing straight white teeth. This cowboy possessed serious star quality. “What if I don’t?”

  “I’ll dunk your Stetson in the water.”

  His devilish eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Her knees wobbled. She was scared witless, but she learned a long time ago to hide her fears behind bluff and bravado and act brave whether she felt it or not. Ignoring her sprinting pulse, she swept the cowboy hat off his head with her free hand. A thick tumble of inky black hair, two months past the point of needing a trim, spilled out.

  “Try me,” she said as tough as
she could, hoping her voice belied her trembling legs.

  His hard laugh clubbed her ears as he slowly released her. Mariah slapped his hat down on his head and snatched her arm back, held it across her chest. He hadn’t hurt her at all, but his sizzling body heat had branded her.

  “What’s the deal?” She glared. “You don’t have indoor plumbing?”

  “You’re funny,” he said. “And I don’t mean ha-ha. Who are you?”

  His ebony voice unnerved her. That and his big, lean, bare body. It occurred to Mariah that she was completely alone here with this stranger. If this were a slasher flick, she’d be in deep trouble.

  She swallowed hard, notched up her chin, and silently repeated the mantra her mentor and former boss, Destiny Simon, had taught her. Never let ’em see you sweat. Then again, Destiny had been the one to put her in the sweatbox, so what did she know? “I should be asking you that question.”

  “Oh yeah?” An amused smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Why’s that?”

  She drew herself up to her full five-foot-one. “Because my name is Mariah Callahan and this”—she swept a hand at the land around them—“is my ranch.”

  “Oh yeah?” he repeated.

  “Yes, and you’re trespassing.”

  “Am I?” He lowered his eyes half-mast. Bedroom eyes the exact color of the cup of strong coffee she’d snagged at the Starbucks drive-through in the last big town she’d passed.

  “You are.”

  He studied her as if she was the most comical thing he’d ever seen. As if he wasn’t lying naked in a gold-plated horse trough looking as sexy as three kinds of misdemeanors.

  Not that she cared. Not really. She had no room in her life for men—especially those of the cowboy persuasion. She knew just enough about cowboys to know she never wanted one.

  “You sure about that?”

  His words gave her pause, but, determined not to let him intimidate her, she plunged ahead. “I just inherited this ranch from my father, Dutch Callahan, and I’d appreciate it if you’d remove yourself from the premises immediately.”

  “Okay.” He made a move to hoist himself up.

  “No wait.” She shielded her eyes with her hands. “I don’t need to see that.”

  He chuckled, clearly finding her amusing, and sank back in the trough. But beneath the incongruous smile, she spotted the shadows that dug into the hollows beneath the angular blades of his cheekbones.

  “Your father, huh?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s funny. I don’t ever recall you coming to visit him.”

  Was that an intentional dig? Or just an innocent observation? Mariah glanced over at him. There was nothing innocent about this guy. “You knew my father?”

  He crossed his middle finger over his index finger. “We were like that.”

  She felt envious, melancholy, and irritated. “We were estranged.”

  “And yet he left you this impressive ranch. I wonder why?”

  Sarcasm. From a naked cowboy. The guy was cocky.

  Mariah shifted her weight, feeling like she was being indicted or mocked. “I didn’t say it made any sense.”

  “That’s because it doesn’t.”

  “Look,” she said. “Could you just go?”

  He shook his head. “I’m just not buying it.”

  “Buying what?”

  “That you own this ranch. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Perfect fingernails.” He waved a hand at her. “You look like a Barbie doll.”

  “I’m not tall enough to be Barbie.”

  “Barbie’s sidekick then.”

  “Sidekick?”

  “I don’t know what they call Barbie’s sidekick. Tonto Barbie. Doc Holliday Barbie. Sundance Barbie. Pick one.”

  “Are all your references movie cowboys?”

  “Pretty much. Except the Barbie one. I could call you Calamity Jane instead if you prefer symmetry.”

  Seriously annoyed, Mariah sank her hands on her hips. “Do I have to call the cops?”

  “Do you?”

  What a jerk. “I’m calling the cops,” she threatened, pulling her cell phone from her purse.

  “Are you always this friendly?”

  “Whenever I find a naked cowboy in my gold-plated horse trough I am. I’m pretty sure there’s laws against public nudity, even in this backwater place.”

  “First off, I’m not naked,” he said.

  She couldn’t stop herself from raking a gaze over his amazing body. “You look naked.”

  “Appearance can be deceiving. For instance, you look stuck-up.”

  “Sometimes appearance can be deceiving, but on the whole, I’ve found that generally what you see is what you get.”

  “So you’re saying you are stuck-up?”

  “I’m saying you look like a drunken derelict.”

  “Hungover derelict,” he corrected. “I’m not drunk anymore.”

  “Excuse me for missing the distinction. I’m sure your mother is so proud.”

  “I have underwear on,” he offered.

  “How comforting.” As if a little strip of soaking wet cotton cloth hid anything. Why she should find that even more tantalizing than full nudity, she had no clue, but she did.

  And that bothered her. A lot.

  “Secondly, this isn’t public,” the cowboy continued. “It’s private property.”

  “I know,” she said. She couldn’t believe this conversation was happening. Had she driven down a rabbit hole when she wasn’t looking and ended up in Wonderland? She half expected to see the White Rabbit pop up at any moment, muttering about being late. “My property.”

  “Thirdly, it’s not your horse trough.”

  Her finger hovered over the keypad. Should she call the cops? By challenging him, was she making things worse? Maybe she should just walk away and let him get out of the horse trough at his own pace. She was thirty-six hours without sleep and hungry and sad and strung out from the road and she wanted to find a place to curl up and take a nap, but first she had to set things straight with this cretin.

  Before she could make up her mind whether to call the cops, a sheriff’s cruiser motored up the road.

  “Ha! Apparently someone else has already reported you,” she said. “Nice of them to save me the trouble.”

  “I wouldn’t gloat too hard,” he observed. “The deputy will be on my side.”

  “Why’s that? Just because you know each other? The good old boy network in action?” Mariah clenched her teeth. She’d had enough of cronyism in Chicago.

  “Nope. The deputy is a woman.”

  “Then why are you so sure she’ll side with you? Did you sleep with her?”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Why should it bother me? I don’t care who you sleep with. Why would I care about who you slept with?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Why you’re upset at the idea that I slept with a lady deputy.”

  “I’m not!” She snorted.

  “You look upset.”

  “I’m upset because you’re naked in my horse trough.”

  “This conversation is going around in circles.”

  “No kidding.”

  “It’s not your horse trough.”

  “It is.”

  “Nope, because it’s not your ranch.”

  “It is and I can prove it.”

  “It’s not and here’s the reason why. My name’s Joe Daniels, this here is Green Ridge Ranch, and I have a sneaking suspicion you’re looking for Stone Creek.”

  The Cowboy and the Princess

  Chapter One

  You might be a princess if . . . you have to ditch your bodyguards to get some “me” time.

  Brady Talmadge had five unbreakable rules for leading an uncomplicated life.

  One stormy June night in Texas, he broke them all. Starting with rule number five.

  Never pick up a hitchhiker.

  He’d honed t
he rules through twenty-nine years of trial and error, most of them compiled while towing his vagabond horse trailer from town to town, and as long as he stuck to his edicts, life flowed as smooth and simple as the Brazos River ambling to the Gulf.

  In regard to the hitchhiker rule, he learned it the hard way. He had a permanent whup-notch on the back of his skull from a pistol-whipping meted out by a wiry, goat-faced thief who’d taken him for thirteen hundred dollars, his favorite belt buckle, and a pair of ostrich skin cowboy boots. Never mind the four-day hospital stay that drained his savings account to zero because he’d had no health insurance.

  On the satellite radio, the weatherman warned of the fierce line of unrelenting storms moving up from Hurricane Betsy. “It’s gonna be a wet night, folks. Find someplace warm and dry to hole up with someone you love.”

  Brady took the exit ramp off Interstate 30, heading for the parking lot of Toad’s Big Rig Truck Stop on the outskirts of Dallas. His headlights caught a lone figure huddled on the road shoulder, thumb outstretched. Automatically, his hand went to his occipital bone.

  No dice.

  Lightning flashed. Thunder crashed. Rain slashed. The hitchhiker shivered violently.

  Sorry about your luck, fella.

  The eighteen-wheeler in front of Brady splashed a deluge of water over the skinny stranger. Small, vulnerable. Been there. Done that. Lived through it. The fella raised his face and in a flash of fresh lightning, from underneath the hooded sweatshirt, he saw it wasn’t a guy at all, but a woman.

  No, a girl actually. Most likely a runaway.

  Don’t do it.

  Trampas, his Heinz 57 mutt—who, come to think of it, was a hitchhiker of sorts as well—peered out the window at the dark night and whimpered from the backseat. A year ago, Brady had found the starving puppy, flea-bitten and tick-ridden, on a long stretch of empty road in the Sonoran desert.

  He was already driving past her. He’d almost made it. Then hell if he didn’t glance back and meet the girl’s eyes.

  Please, she mouthed.

  Aw, shit.

  He didn’t mean to do it. Hadn’t planned on doing it, but the next thing he knew he was slowing down and pulling over. And that’s when he broke rule number four.