Counterfeit Cowgirl (Love and Laughter) Page 5

  She rose to her feet. The calf rose with her.

  “I was defrosting the casserole…as instructed.” It took her a moment, but she could draw dignity around her like a magical cloak. Even half asleep, obviously in the wrong, and caught dead to rights, she could look like an offended queen.

  “Mom puts tin foil between the layers,” he said. “You have to take it out before you defrost it. Didn’t they teach you anything in…” He eyed her. Seeing her like that, with her defenses only half in place and her eyes sleep-softened, took his breath away. Maybe she was royalty. “London?” he guessed.

  She strode toward him. “Colorado,” she corrected. He watched her enter the kitchen and noticed for the first time that she had cleaned it. Well, actually what she had done was wash some of the dishes and stuff everything else into a broken laundry basket. “And I did not put tin foil in the—”

  Her mouth fell open. Her fair brows rose.

  The microwave oven stood open, its door melted, its walls singed.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” He stared at her, trying to resurrect his anger. His justifiable anger. “Oh.”

  “You should have told me the appliance was defective,” she said, turning toward him.

  “It wasn’t defective.”

  She propped her hands on her hips, looking accusatory. “There’s a hole in the door. Obviously it’s defective.”

  He prepared to voice an objection, but instead drew a deep breath, took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “You’re right, of course. I should have noticed that,” he said. “Listen, Hannah, I don’t have time to argue. I’ve got a hell of a mess out there. Houdini got in with the heifers again. One cow’s calving, three more look like they’re going to come in tonight, and there’s a storm blowing out of the northwest.”

  “Houdini?”

  “HV Black Sultan’s his registered name. A bull,” he explained. “Best, winningest and most irritating animal I’ve ever paid good money for. We’ve got to get him out of the heifer pen.”

  She blinked, and somehow, against all odds, he couldn’t help but think of long afternoons spent in her arms. Her skin would feel like sun-warmed satin beneath his fingers, and her laughter would trickle through his system like primitive music. They would kiss and…

  “Heifer pen?” she said, blinking sleepily.

  “Yeah.” He was beginning to sweat, and wondered vaguely if it was because of his outdoor clothes or her proximity. When he was done calving he was going to find himself a girlfriend, get laid, spend a month in bed and not think about Hannah Nelson’s Audrey Hepburn eyes ever again. “Yeah, them heifers don’t know much ‘bout safe sex and if we don’t get Houdini out of there we’re going to have babies having babies in December. Or he might get himself banged up and then his chances at the stock show would be shot all to hell.”

  “That’d be bad?”

  “It wouldn’t make my life any easier.”

  “I’d offer to help,” she said. “But I’m afraid you’ve ruined dinner again and I’ll have to find something else to—”

  “Get your coat,” he interrupted, glad he could save himself from one more of her failed attempts at cooking. “Your training begins now.”

  HOUDINI LOOKED rather like an overstuffed plush animal. He was very large, very black and very determined to stay with his young harem. But with shouts and a few whacks on the head from the wooden canes they’d armed themselves with, he was convinced to abandon the heifers and lumber back into his own quarters, a bachelor pad he shared with eight other bulls.

  Hannah stood in the muck that rose nearly above her borrowed rubber boots and squinted against the swirling snow. “Now what?” she yelled over the wind.

  “Come on,” Tyrel shouted back.

  They trekked together through the darkness with the snow whirling around them. Finally they reached a long, deep building. It was no more than three walls and a roof, really, but it kept the wind at bay, making it seem unreasonably cozy. There was a row of lights on the ceiling, and by their glow, Hannah saw the cattle. They were lying on their sides with their legs curled beneath them, grunting softly as they chewed their cuds. Calves lay beside them, looking content and sleepy, like tiny kittens curled into the straw.

  “Pretty,” she said softly.

  “What?”

  She scanned the herd, then carefully shut away any tender feelings this scene might evoke and raised her voice. “Pretty…many cattle,” she said.

  “Yeah. Two, three hundred all together. But it’ll be a whole lot less if we don’t get ‘em bedded down good. Pneumonia can put a hell of a dent in a cow herd.”

  He led the way through the barn, weaving around the clusters of cows that felt no need to move more than their heads to allow them past. Toward the back of the building there were huge, rolled bales of sunshine yellow. Hannah stared at them.

  “Here’s the deal,” Ty said. “We cut the twine strings, unroll the straw, and spread it out nice and soft.”

  For the next hour that’s what they did, working their way around the bovine. Finally they were finished. Hannah leaned against the wall, pitchfork in hand, to watch a pair of calves, their tails kinked high in the air as they frolicked in the fresh bedding.

  “Pretty,” he said quietly.

  “What?” She glanced at Ty. He didn’t look away, but stared into her eyes. Self-consciously, she pressed a few strands of half-frozen hair back under her borrowed hood. After this little stint, she was going to spend a whole week at the spa, have everything that could be conditioned conditioned, and never think of Tyrel’s whiskey-rough voice again. “What?” she repeated.

  “It’s pretty late,” he said. “We better get going.”

  “Where?” Her back ached and her stomach was grumbling. When was the last time she’d had a decent meal? Spago’s beckoned.

  “Know anything about horses?” Ty asked.

  Even bundled up like an underweight abominable snowman in borrowed clothes, she could look like a misplaced queen, Ty noticed, and wasn’t at all happy about the knowledge.

  “I believe that’s what you hired me for,” she said.

  There was silence for a moment, except for the keening wind.

  “Yeah,” Ty said. “Come on.”

  The trek through the cow pens was not a pleasant one, but in a few minutes they stepped into the horse barn. He fought the door closed behind them. It took a moment to adjust to being out of the wind, and by then he’d flipped on the lights.

  Horses blinked at them from the stalls that lined a clean swept concrete aisle. Country music crooned from an unseen source.

  “If I give you a list of their rations, can you feed them?” Tyrel asked.

  She gazed at the rows of faces behind the stall bars then back at him. “Why do you insist on thinking I’m daft?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it has something to do with the microwave or the kitchen fire or—”

  “I can feed them,” she interrupted, looking irritable.

  He grinned, then turned and went into a room to the left of where they were standing.

  “Grain’s in here,” he said, opening the feed bin.

  She surveyed the tack room, but didn’t comment on its immaculate appearance. Apparently the good fairy that cleaned the barn had been frightened off by the sight of the house. Moving on, she peered into the wooden box that contained the horse feed. “Rather rich for pregnant mares, isn’t it?” she asked, scooping a handful into one palm.

  “You know horses?” he asked in surprise.

  “That’s what you hired me for,” she repeated.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. And here I keep thinking it’s ‘cuz of your sweet personality.”

  She smiled grittily. “Fiddle dee dee.”

  “Or because of the way you look in a pair of jeans.”

  “Well, shucks, Mr. Fox, you’d look good, too, if—”

  “I didn’t say you look good,” he said. “I just meant someo
ne as skinny as you isn’t likely to distract Nate.”

  He watched fire spark in her eyes. “I’m so sorry I can’t live up to your pork queen’s measurements.”

  “That’s pork princess,” he corrected.

  “My mistake. But I have to tell you, Mr. Fox, you’re no Mel Gibson.”

  He snorted. “It gets pretty lonely here in the northland, honey. By summer I’ll look like Tom Cruise to you.”

  “You already do,” she said. “Did you see Interview with the Vampire?”

  He scowled. “No, I missed that one, too.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Umm,” he said. “Should I assume he was the vampire?”

  “With fangs and everything.”

  “Really?” They were very close. “And I hardly ever bite anyone.”

  “I’ll remember to thank my lucky stars.”

  “Or…” he said, leaning a fraction of an inch closer. “Was he one of them seductive kind of monsters?”

  For a moment, she said nothing, but then she looked away. “So how much do I feed them, anyway?”

  He should laugh at her sudden nervousness, he thought. But as it was, he was standing so close to her he could barely breathe. Somehow it seemed that all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He cleared his throat. “Here’s the list of rations,” he said, pointing to the typed and laminated paper tacked to the wall. His arm brushed hers. A spurt of excitement rushed up his spine. He jerked his arm away.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He was acting like a twelve-year-old kid with his first crush. And she wasn’t the kindly librarian type to let him down easy. If he gave her so much as a clue to his feelings, she was likely to smack him up against the wall and spit in his eye. The thought made him irritable. “You think you can do this without screwing up?” he asked.

  Hannah drew back a pace. She felt like the Michelin Man on steroids. It was hard to manage a good haughty expression in this ridiculous getup, but she did her best.

  “I have two options here,” she said. “I can hire a hit man, or I can pretend you didn’t say that.”

  He snorted. “Listen. I don’t mind you poisoning me and my brother, but don’t mess up with the horses. Got it?”

  “Fiddle dee dee. Charmed yet again,” she said. “Do you have rolled oats for the mares?”

  He stared at her. “Like I said, the list of rations is there.”

  “The mares are going to get impacted if you don’t give them more fiber.”

  “They never have yet.”

  “Colonel Shelby says—”

  “Colonel Shelby?” he asked, using her own tone on her.

  “Never mind.” She turned away. “You’re the expert, of course.”

  “Colonel Shelby? Who could that be, I wonder? Your father, your lover, your dog?” he asked, following her to the row of bridles that hung on the wall.

  “No one to concern yourself with.”

  “Your parrot, your piano teacher, your…Your riding instructor!” he said, sounding as if he was certain of himself.

  She stiffened. Daddy had warned her to be careful. “No. You were right. He’s my parrot.”

  “He’s your riding instructor,” he argued. “In New York.”

  She breathed a snort through her nose, hoping she sounded derisive.

  “In Maryland, Kentucky, LA?”

  “That’s right,” she said, turning to him. “He was my riding instructor in Los Angeles.” She put one mittened hand dramatically to her heart. “Oh, the rides we used to share. Just the colonel and I in Central Park.”

  “Central Park’s in New York.”

  “Could it have been Hyde Park?”

  “London.”

  “Glacier Park?”

  “Montana.”

  “Oh. Maybe it wasn’t Colonel Shelby at all. I think it was Mary Poppins.”

  “Fine,” Ty said. “Don’t tell me. Just take care of the horses. Feed ‘em and clean their stalls.”

  “Clean their stalls!”

  He smiled. She would have liked to have said it was an ugly smile. Instead, it curled the edges of his mouth up enough just to call it entrancing. “Yeah. The wheelbarrow’s right there. And the manure…Well, just follow your nose.”

  “Wait a minute, I didn’t—”

  “Yeah, you did. Anything that needs doing I believe was the agreement. The stallion’s got his own corral beside the heifer pen. Feed him inside. And don’t forget the herd out back.”

  “Out back?” she asked. “You mean you have horses outside in this weather?”

  “That’s right.” Tyrel opened the door. “Barn’s not big enough for all of them. This ain’t no ride in the park—Central or Hyde.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Welcome to North Dakota,” he said, and stepped outside.

  HANNAH STAGGERED through the snow toward the house. Her toes were frozen, every muscle ached, and if Spago’s had even given her linguine that looked as limp as her arms felt, she’d send it straight back.

  Perhaps she should help Tyrel with the rest of his chores, but if she spent one more minute in the cold she was going to freeze up and turn blue like a therapeutic eye mask. Still, when she opened the door, guilt made her stop and squint at the barn.

  “Close the door. You’re letting the snow in.”

  She turned slowly.

  From the kitchen Ty grinned at her. He looked warm and toasty in his stocking feet. His square hands were wrapped around a steaming mug and his blue-black hair was brushed back behind his ears. He had funny ears, small, flat on the top, and for one crazed moment she could think of nothing but boxing them.

  “How long have you been in here?” Her voice sounded rather gritty, she noticed.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Two, three hours maybe, huh, Nate?” He turned toward the kitchen.

  His brother, just visible as he passed the door, blew on his coffee and snorted. His nose was still red from the cold.

  “Damn!” Ty said. “You look chilled to the bone. Nate warmed up some soup. Want some?”

  She blinked at him. Her eyelashes, she noticed suddenly, were frozen in clumps. “I hate you.”

  He laughed. “But I’ll grow on you if you stay around long enough.”

  “In that case I’ll be leaving in the morning.”

  “But your car don’t start.”

  “I’ll walk.”

  He laughed again. “It don’t look like you’re gonna be walking far tomorrow. In fact, the way you look, I’ll be surprised if you get out of bed at all. Want some soup?”

  She didn’t answer, but silently peeled off her sleet-covered coat and thought of various ways to dismember him.

  “No?” he said. “It’s pretty good. How ‘bout some coffee?”

  Removing the hooded, zip-up sweatshirt, she let it drop to the floor. It had a hole in the pocket and smelled distinctly of cow manure. Looking down, she saw that her socks had somehow gotten wet and were now stained a strange sort of parchment yellow. It seemed a sad commentary on the decline of her life.

  “I’m going to take a bath.” She said the words more to herself than to him.

  “Really? Need any help?” he asked, watching her cross the living room toward the stairs.

  “Mr. Fox,” she said, turning to stare at him point-blank.

  “Yes, Ms. Nelson?”

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “I wait with bated breath.”

  “I have Mace in my purse. The first…” She glared at him, then glared at Nate who appeared in the doorway behind him. “The first creature who comes through that bathroom door is going to get a blast up his nose.”

  “Oh.” Ty gave her an expression of mock fear that he almost managed to let overtake his grin. “But what if you fall asleep?”

  “Then maybe I’ll be lucky and drown before I wake up here again,” she said, then marched up the stairs.

  TRUE, THE WATER PRESSURE was still pathetic, but the warmth was heavenly. It seeped into Hannah’s very soul, easing
her muscles, melting her aches.

  Her hair floated around her shoulders and arms. She released a heavy sigh. She couldn’t go on like this. She was simply going to swallow her pride and beg Daddy for help. True, a Clifton Vandegard should never have to apologize to anyone. But she would even do that if Daddy would send her enough money to get home.

  But where was Daddy? He’d said that he, too, had to disappear. That LA wasn’t safe for either of them anymore. Her throat contracted. She’d never meant to cause trouble for him, and if he were hurt…

  She refused to allow herself to think any further along those lines. George Vandegard was still a powerful man. He could take care of himself. Always had. He had never needed her—except as his little showpiece—the product of the perfect union between European class and American drive. His little princess, rewarded when she was pretty, when she curtsied, when she smiled just so for the cameras. Or so it had seemed to a lonely, out-of-place child with no friends and no understanding that she should even long for some.

  Now she wondered. For in the past couple of years, her father had aged, mellowed maybe. Sometimes she would find him watching her with a strange melancholy expression that, if she had been raised differently, might have enabled her to ask him to share his thoughts, and to share her own with him.

  But she hadn’t. She had grown up emotionally independent and environmentally disabled. She could accessorize like a supermodel, she could exchange dry witticisms with dukes and megastars, but she couldn’t microwave a meat loaf.

  In short, she was unequipped for life.

  It seemed strange now that she hadn’t realized that before. While she’d been learning what kind of hat looked pert yet sophisticated, her peers had been learning how to live.

  She was good at nothing.

  Weariness sloshed over her, but even so, she knew her thoughts were not quite the truth. She was good at something. She was a fine equestrienne. Colonel Shelby had said so enough times. She had good hands, a firm seat and balance extraordinary, he had said with the fervor of a zealot. But—if she was going to reach Olympic standards, she would have to learn to be selfless, to sacrifice. She would have to have heart.