How the Cowboy Was Won Read online

  “That’s barely a month away,” he protested. “I can’t write a grant and get it approved in a month.”

  “Your problem, not mine.”

  “Is ball busting your new hobby, Wes?”

  “Also, you can’t ask your old man or your brother Ridge for the money.”

  “Why not?”

  “You have to raise it like everyone else does, the hard way. We need to know you possess the social skills necessary for fund-raising before we can even consider giving you the job.”

  Dammit. There went plan A. But as unfair as this felt, Ranger’s blood surged at the challenge. He did love a good mental game—chess, poker, finding ways around Wes . . .

  “If I can’t ask my family and there’s no time to write a grant—”

  “Then you’ll have to find another way. An endowment perhaps? I hear Luke Nielson is close to making a decision on where he’ll distribute two million of his grandmother’s endowment money.”

  Wes, you son of a gun. His mentor knew Ranger and Luke were good friends. This whole damn thing was a setup to get at Luke’s money.

  “Anyway . . .” His mentor’s smile was part disarming, part Machiavellian. “I’ll leave the sourcing up to you.”

  Ranger glowered. “You expect me to fail.”

  Wes waved, turned, and headed back to the reception. Leaving Ranger wondering just how in the hell he was going to pull this off. And then he remembered his secret weapon.

  Ember.

  Chapter 3

  “Success supposes endeavor.”

  —Jane Austen, Emma

  A minute later, Ranger found Ember near the barn entrance scooping two longneck beers from a galvanized tub filled with ice. She was laughing with a younger, dark-haired man that he vaguely recognized. Her head was thrown back, exposing her creamy white throat, and a flirtatious grin lit up her face.

  The other man was leaning into her, practically drooling, his eyes fixed on her cleavage.

  Quick and sharp, a poke of jealousy stabbed Ranger’s gut, and he had an inexplicable urge to punch the leering guy in the nose. Which wasn’t him. He was normally the mediator, not the guy starting fights.

  But right now? He’d roll up his sleeves for a full-on brawl if it stopped the guy from staring at Ember.

  What was this? He knew Ember could take care of herself. She had no need for a chivalrous knight to protect her honor, but damn if he wasn’t mentally searching for jousting armor and a white horse.

  Confused, he blinked and shook his head, tried to figure out why he was suddenly feeling so possessive. She was Ember. No one could contain or control her. Nor had he ever wanted to, but right now? Watching this guy touch her shoulder? He felt positively Neanderthal.

  Ranger knotted his fists at his sides, bit down on the inside of his cheek.

  She caught sight of him and her eyes danced like a kid on Christmas getting the toy she’d long prayed for, and his jealousy vanished. “There you are!”

  Her words were a caress, a joyous gift.

  Cradling the longneck bottles, dripping with cold water, between her fingers, she reached out to take Ranger’s palm with her other hand and called, “Bye Warren,” over her shoulder to the other guy.

  “Come with me,” she said, guiding him out of the barn and across the dirt road to the cowboy wedding chapel. She opened the door into the empty building. At the back of the room, to the left of the altar, a wooden staircase led to an upstairs loft.

  The place was quiet and dark. Music and laughter from the reception barn sounded muffled and faraway, and the only light came from the full moon shining in through the curtainless windows. The chapel smelled of hymnals and wedding flowers and Ember’s cinnamon-and-anise scent.

  It felt mysterious and secret, and Ranger found the place strangely erotic.

  What was going on with him tonight?

  Ember dropped his hand and hiked up the skirt of her formal gown, a sapphire blue that perfectly matched her eyes, bunching the material in her small fist. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes and climbed barefoot up the wooden ladder, somehow still managing to hang on to those beers.

  Part tomboy, part girly-girl, she straddled both identities with ease. Poised and self-confident, Ember was one of those accomplished people who just naturally navigated any environment without having to think about it.

  Agog, he stood in the darkness watching her as if seeing her for the first time, amazed at her agility and grace. He noted her delicate feet and toenails painted a pearly peach. Or at least they looked peachy in the moonlight. He admired how soft tendrils of red hair floated from her upsweep to trail against the nape of her long, swan-like neck. God, she was beautiful.

  It was as if a year away had spritzed his eyes with window cleaner and rubbed them clear. How could he not have noticed before the ripe lushness of her breasts, the sexy curve of her hips, the pouty fullness of her bottom lip?

  She’s your best friend, Lockhart. Stop this.

  “Earth to Professor, head out of the clouds,” she called to him from the loft. “You gonna stand there all night?”

  Sheepishly, Ranger scooted up the ladder behind her.

  Once he joined Ember upstairs, she pushed open the wide barn door and walked out onto a ledge with roof access. Without missing a beat, and still holding the beers, she hiked up her skirt again, revealing those long shapely legs, and glided up a second, spindlier ladder that led to the roof.

  Behind her, Ranger felt like a lumbering ape, the heels of his cowboy boots clinging sluggishly to each rung.

  “Ahh,” she said, sinking onto the shingles, her knees drawn up, her dress tucked around her legs.

  Ranger’s heart thumped oddly, and he lowered himself beside her. “Cowboy boots and roof shingles don’t mix well.”

  “At least it’s not tin like the barn.” She shrugged, twisted off the top, and passed the beer to him before opening her own.

  “True.” He took a long swallow, tasted the familiar yeasty flavor of Lone Star.

  With her knees still raised, she lay back on her spine and exhaled forcefully. “Ahh,” she murmured again. “Ahh.”

  He doffed his Stetson, lay on his back beside her, resting his cowboy hat on his belly. Their shoulders barely touching, they stared up at the stars, resting in comfortable silence.

  How many times had they climbed up on a roof to get away from the hubbub of their large families. A hundred? Two hundred? More?

  “Look!” She pointed at the sky. “A falling star. Make a wish.”

  “You know stars don’t have the ability to grant wishes. It’s just—”

  “Bits of dust and rocks falling into Earth’s atmosphere and burning up. I know, I know, you’ve told me a million times, but I’ll never give up trying to make a romantic of you.”

  “You’re doomed to fail,” he predicted. “I can’t help being born with a scientific mind.”

  “Spoilsport,” she teased, and dragged a toe along the roof. “You could pretend once. For me.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I can’t eschew a lifetime of education.”

  “And that” —she tapped his right knee with her left—“is why you’re not married.”

  He didn’t say anything. What was there to say? He’d never much been interested in marriage. His career, and helping his family out with the ranch, took up most of his time, and what was left he spent with Ember.

  “So,” she said after a few more sips of beer. “How did it go with Wes? Did you cinch the job?”

  Ranger scowled at the sky and told Ember about his conversation with his mentor. Several minutes later, he ended with, “Basically, unless I learn how to be a fund-raiser there’s no place for me at the observatory.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fund-raising is definitely not your forte.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So what will you do?”

  He took a deep breath, gulping in the dry night air. He’d been dreading this
conversation. “I’ve been offered a teaching position at Canterbury.”

  “The New Zealand Canterbury?”

  “That’d be the one.”

  “And you’re just now telling me this?”

  “I wanted to tell you in person.”

  Ember grunted. “If you took that job, we’d never see each other.”

  “I know.” He heard the anchor in his own voice, dead and leaden. Another long moment passed as they watched several more meteorites streak across the sky.

  “That’s five more wishes you’ve missed out on,” she said on a lighter note.

  “If wishes were horses . . .”

  “I’ve got it!” She sat up like a jack-in-the-box, springy and unexpected. “You know what you need?”

  “No, but I’m certain you’re going to tell me.”

  She laughed, a deep, comforting sound that reminded him of a crackling fire on a cold winter night. “You, Ranger Lockhart . . .” she touched the tip of his nose with an index finger “. . . need a wife.”

  He groaned and sat up to join her. “Don’t you dare start in with any of your matchmaking.”

  “No, wait, wait, hear me out.” She raised a hand, solid as a stop sign.

  He snorted, shoved fingers through his hair, and settled his Stetson back onto his head. “I’m not biting.”

  “Listen, listen, stubborn coot.” She thumped on his chest with her knuckles. “If you married someone with social graces and people skills, someone practical and grounded and down-to-earth, someone who could sweet-talk investors into supporting your projects . . .”

  Someone like you, he thought, and felt weird about thinking it.

  “You would be free to keep your head in the stars and your nose in a book, and you could still appease Wes and make the board of directors happy as your charming wife keeps the grant money rolling in. If you marry the right woman, you could stay in Texas. That’s the important part.”

  It touched him that she’d go to such lengths to keep him near her. “It sounds like a very unromantic proposition for a marriage. Marry me and be my career wingwoman.”

  “Unromantic maybe, but as we’ve already established, it would be the perfect solution for a scientific-minded person like you. Of course,” she mused, getting a faraway look in her eyes and tapping her chin with a finger, “you’d have to find a woman without any illusions about soul mates and true love and yak like that. She’ll have to be devoted to you, but also understand her supporting role in the grand scheme of things.”

  “Or I could just learn to raise funds on my own. That’s a viable option.”

  “Your brilliant mind shouldn’t have to worry about money.” She patted his cheek. “Nope, you need a woman who is good at that sort of thing so you can devote yourself to saving the world.”

  “I’m not claiming I can save the world—”

  “I am,” she said. “You’re a rare mind, Ranger Lockhart. You’re not like everyone else. Your relationships shouldn’t be like everyone else’s either.”

  That, he knew. He’d always been the odd duck out, never quite fitting in with anyone except other astronomers . . . and Ember.

  He wasn’t quite sure why they were such fast friends; they were pretty much opposites, other than she’d taken a shine to him when they were kids and their relationship had been glowing ever since.

  Fresh noises came from the reception barn. More laughter and a throng of people gathering outside.

  Ember craned her neck, observing the goings-on. “Looks like the bride and groom are leaving. C’mon, let’s go throw birdseed—or whatever it is people throw these days—at the happy couple.” She reached for their empty beer bottles. “Oh, and might I just add, I was the one who matched them up.”

  “Yes, I know. Your matchmaking skills are renowned. Susan and Bryant, Archer and Casey, Kaia and Ridge—”

  She swept her hand in a panoramic gesture. “Ranger and his witty new missus . . .”

  “Stop it.”

  “That directorship at the observatory could be yours if you just let me have a shot at finding you the right woman.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll muddle through on my own.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, then scooted down the ladder and out of sight.

  And Ranger couldn’t help thinking that Miss Ember Alzate was going to suit herself. She always did.

  The bride and groom cut such a touching picture driving away in Bryant’s shoe-polished and tin-canned-tied Ford King Ranch that it almost brought a tear to Ember’s eyes.

  Almost, but not quite.

  After all, she wasn’t a sappy sentimentalist moon-eyed over love. Rather, she was a pragmatic marriage broker, looking for core-values compatibility in the couples she introduced.

  Well, except with Kaia and Ridge. They’d already been well on their way to falling in love. In their case, Ember had merely given her sister a shove in the right direction. But they’d both told her she was the reason they’d managed to work past their conflicts to grab their happily-ever-after, which was why she counted them as one of her matches made.

  She stuck around to help clean up the barn and give the beer time to wear off before she got on the road. It was well after ten when Ember got home from the reception, her mind whirling with Ranger’s news.

  Bottom line, if he didn’t develop fund-raising skills, ASAP, he’d be off to New Zealand for good.

  The thought of him living seven thousand miles away permanently struck her with bone-deep loneliness. A year without him in her life had been bad enough. Problem was, even if he could learn how to glad-hand and backslap for donations, he didn’t enjoy such machinations. He was an introvert’s introvert. The proverbial absentminded professor. If he couldn’t remember to eat or check to see that his boots matched, how could he remember things like how many children a potential donor had, what their names were and where they went to school. Blah-de-blah.

  But she wasn’t one to give into despair. She had a few cards up her sleeve, a couple of strings she could tug on. She would do whatever it took to keep him home and happy.

  Yawning, she poured herself a cup of chamomile tea and curled up on the couch with her gray tabby, Samantha, to watch a half hour of House Hunters to unwind before heading to bed.

  She settled onto the cushions, Samantha in her lap, and glanced around at the small adobe house she rented in Marfa after her divorce. She’d kept the furnishings simple and understated. This arrangement was temporary. She’d come home with her tail between her legs to lick her wounds and figure out her next step in life. But that had been eighteen months ago, and she hadn’t figured out anything. A few months of wound licking was okay. But for the past year—basically since Ranger had been gone away, come to think of it—she’d been in a holding pattern.

  Rejoining the real estate agency where she’d first started out. The agency had three agents, including herself, and even though their business covered a wide territory—including Marfa, Alpine, Cupid, Fort David, Presidio—the senior agents got the bulk of the business, and there often wasn’t enough inventory to keep Ember busy for more than ten or twenty hours a week, and most of that was spent showing houses on weekends, leaving much of her weekdays free.

  She’d squirreled away money from her high-flying San Antonio real estate days, but she couldn’t live on her savings forever. Sooner or later, she had to make a move in one direction or another. For now, however, she was happy to cool her once-overachieving jets and work this part-time real estate gig. She would soon be directing the Cupid Chamber of Commerce film for tourism—although they still hadn’t cast the leads—and now, finding a proper wife for Ranger. Her life was full.

  The doorbell rang.

  Who was it this late?

  Gently, she eased Samantha off her lap, slipped into her housecoat, and padded to the door in her socks. She flipped on the porch lamp, peeked through the peephole, and saw the new church secretary, Fiona Kelton, standing there in the circle of light.
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  Fiona had been at the wedding and she still wore her tasteful beige dress, sensible matching pumps, and a strand of pearls, looking a bit like a 1950s-era housewife.

  Ember didn’t know Fiona well. The woman had moved to Cupid from Pennsylvania a few months ago. Quite honestly, such migrations didn’t happen that often. Most of the transplants to the Trans-Pecos were either avant-garde artists, retirees, or social misfits.

  The church secretary was none of those things. She was a rather ordinary, thirtysomething single woman with a winsome smile, a talent for organizing things, and a knack for making people feel good about who they were.

  Central question. Why had Fiona driven to Marfa so late at night when she simply could have spoken to Ember at the wedding?

  Interest piqued, Ember posted her best real estate agent smile and swung open the door. “Hello there, Fiona. What brings you out to Marfa so late?”

  “May I come in?” Fiona’s hands were clutched around a simple beige purse, and her muddy brown eyes looked troubled.

  “Sure.” Ember waved her inside.

  Fiona moseyed into the living room, scanned the clean, contemporary colors and lines of the airy decor, and sighed wistfully. “I should have known your house would be as elegant and put together as you are.”

  Elegant? Her? Not hardly.

  “Have a seat.” Ember waved Fiona onto the dove gray, Danish-design couch she’d paid way too much for.

  Fiona perched on the edge of the couch, locked her knees together, and tugged down the hem of her dress to cover her legs. Samantha ambled over to eel around Fiona’s ankles, which was surprising. Sammie was a one-woman cat.

  Fiona leaned down to stroke her. “Coo, coo, kitty.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Ember offered. “Water, soda, hot tea, bourbon?”

  “Oh no! I don’t drink and even if I did, I’m driving.”

  “The bourbon thing was a joke.”

  “Was it?” Fiona hoisted a wispy smile. “I’m sorry, it went over my head. I don’t have much of a sense of humor.”

  “It’s not you. My wit leans toward dryness, and I tend to shoot from the lip.”