Kitabı oku: «A Cowboy Under Her Tree»

“You are many things, Melanie McFarlane, but weak is not one of them.”

And then, because he was weak, he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.

She didn’t pull away. And when common sense finally penetrated the fog clouding Russ’s brain and he listed his head, her eyes were no longer wet with tears.

Just a wary confusion that he recognised all too well. Because he felt the very same thing.

He lowered his hand and took a step back. Softly cleared his throat. “If we’re gonna go, we’d better – ”

“Give me t-ten minutes.”

Russ nodded and backed towards the door. He felt as if he’d just run a marathon.

How the hell was he supposed to last for another five and a half months of this?

ALLISON LEIGH

started early by writing a Halloween play that her school class performed. Since then, though her tastes have changed, her love for reading has not. And her writing appetite simply grows more voracious by the day.

She has been a finalist for the RITA® Award and Holt Medallion contests. But the true highlights of her day as a writer are when she receives word from a reader that she laughed, cried or lost a night’s sleep while reading one of her books.

Born in Southern California, Allison has lived in several cities in four different states. She has been, at one time or another, a cosmetologist, a computer programmer and a secretary. She has recently begun writing full-time after spending nearly a decade as an administrative assistant for a busy neighbourhood church. She currently makes her home in Arizona with her family. Allison loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.

Dear Reader,

What is it about the MONTANA series that we love so much? As a reader and a writer, I’m thoroughly enamoured of these larger-than-life Western heroes and the strong, capable women who capture their hearts. It is just pure fun to wallow once again in the pages with them through their laughter and their tears, and triumph along with them when they find their happily-ever-after.

As for the hard-headed souls of this particular tale, Russ and Melanie have differences that at first seem insurmountable. But, of course, even with these two who are so used to pushing others away, love finds its way.

But isn’t that one of the best things about love?

It finds a way.

All my best,

Allison Leigh

A Cowboy Under Her Tree

ALLISON LEIGH

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my cohorts

in crime: Christine Rimmer,

Stella Bagwell, Crystal Green, Pamela Toth,

and Victoria Pade, and our extraordinary

editor, Susan Litman, who keeps it all together.

It has been a pleasure and an honour

working with you.

Chapter One

“You want me to what?”

Melanie McFarlane’s fingers tightened around the glass stem of her lemon-drop martini as she stared at the stupefied expression on Russ Chilton’s annoyingly rugged face. “I believe you heard me.” It took an enormous effort, but she kept her voice low. Mild. It helped that she had a lifetime of keeping herself well modulated and in control.

That’s what one did, after all, when one was a McFarlane. Heaven forbid that they actually indulge in some sort of human manner.

“I heard you,” Russ muttered. His long fingers were wrapped around the base of his beer bottle. No icy pilsner glass for him. He probably figured he was too salt-of-the-earth to bother with such niceties. “I just figured you’re off your bean or something.”

Or something, definitely. In her current vocabulary, or something was code for increasingly desperate.

She swallowed. Slowly turned the stem of her delicate martini glass and eyed the narrow twirl of lemon rind floating in the liquid. The waitress had already delivered their third round, and Melanie knew better than to finish off the drink when just two was already beyond her limit.

“It is important for me to make a success of this endeavor.” She didn’t believe it was any of his business just how important. Asking for his help in any way whatsoever was taking all of her strength as it was. Particularly when she knew he didn’t approve of her presence in Thunder Canyon in the first place.

She didn’t want anyone to know that it wasn’t “McFarlane” money that was invested here. It was only Melanie’s. And if she lost it all, she didn’t know what she would do. Because returning to work for one of the McFarlane hotels wasn’t an option for her.

Not anymore.

Russ snorted softly. “You mean you don’t wanna fail at turning a perfectly good working ranch into some damn fool tourist trap. As if there aren’t enough of those already cropping up around Thunder Canyon,” he added derisively.

“The Hopping H will be a guest ranch,” she corrected. “With your assistance, the actual—” her fingertips lifted “—ranch sort of activities will still continue.” She was banking everything on Thunder Canyon’s increasing popularity as a resort destination to help ensure her success. She knew plenty of people who would pay astronomical sums to get away from their high-pressure lives and at least play at getting back to what they thought of as “the simple life.”

She’d been one of them, after all.

Only simple was turning out to be not quite so simple.

His lips twisted in a motion that ought to have made them look less sensual. “Ranch sort of activities,” he mocked softly. “What’s the matter, Red? Talking about shoveling manure and castrating calves a little too earthy sounding for you?”

Sadly, she had plenty of earthy thoughts where he was concerned, and not a single one of them were prudent.

Particularly for a McFarlane.

She needed this man’s help, not his…his—

She managed to shut off the untoward thoughts as she softly cleared her throat and shifted in the hair-on-hide chair where they sat across from each other at a leather-topped table in the lounge at the Thunder Canyon Resort. The live band wasn’t playing its usual eclectic mix, though, choosing instead to go with Christmas standards that were more in keeping with the holiday party that had been going on around them for the past few hours.

Melanie had never been a huge fan of the holidays, but just then, she felt even less than her usual smattering of holiday spirit. “I’m perfectly willing to shovel manure and do whatever as well as manage my guests’ lodging and entertainment needs.” She’d even learn how to cook and change bedding if she had to. And given her luck lately in holding on to ranching staff—well, hands, they were called—she just might need to.

He made a strangled sort of sound, as if he were trying not to choke. Or laugh.

This was not going the way she’d hoped.

Nothing about coming to Thunder Canyon was going the way she’d hoped. Scratch that. Even before she’d come to Thunder Canyon, nothing had gone the way she’d thought it would.

She was supposed to be in Atlanta, still capably running the newest jewel in the family crown—McFarlane House Atlanta. She would be, too, if she hadn’t found out that while she’d been running things, her father and brother had been behind the scenes really calling the shots. She’d been nothing more than a figurehead. An ignorant, humiliated figurehead.

“Mr. Chilton—”

“Think you might as well call me Russ, ma’am.” He leaned back in his high-backed bar stool, hooking an elbow behind him and looking every inch the poster boy for Western living.

Only there was nothing boyish about Russ Chilton.

From the tips of his leather boots—polished only because this was supposed to be a Christmas party, she suspected—up the six feet-plus of rangy muscle covered in black denim and thick Irish wool to the top of his dirty-blond hair that always seemed disheveled and an inch too long, he was a supremely well-grown male.

He wasn’t handsome in the strictest sense. His nose was too hawkish, his jaw too square and stubborn.

But the end result was definitely good-looking.

But was he too good-looking for her peace of mind?

She needed someone believable, but she certainly didn’t need someone she was in danger of falling for.

Fortunately for her, Russ Chilton could hardly stand her. So all she had to do was convince him they could help one another, and maybe she had a chance of success where the Hopping H was concerned.

“Fine.” She sipped her drink, reminding herself that she was the one in control of this little tête-à-tête. “Russ. I know that you were interested in acquiring the Hopping H.”

He sat forward suddenly, folding his elbows on the small high-top table, and seeming to take up all of her oxygen as he fairly loomed over her. “Interested?” There was no Western hospitality showing in his flinty brown eyes. “I had an offer in on the place with those city fools who inherited it from their grandparents, and you know it.”

“And I beat your offer,” she said reasonably. “It was simply a matter of business, Mr., er, Russ. It was nothing personal.”

“Things in a town like Thunder Canyon are personal,” he said evenly. “At least they always have been before—” His lips twisted again and he jerked his chin slightly, as if to encompass not only their surroundings, but the town beyond the walls of the Thunder Canyon Resort. “We don’t need more progress,” he said flatly. “We damn sure don’t need more tourists to fill up the beds at your guest ranch. Go open a McFarlane House somewhere else, honey.”

The “honey” was hardly an endearment. If anything, it was condescending, and her resolve stiffened. She didn’t need condescension from anyone. She’d been living with plenty of it from her own family, thank you very much.

It was one of the things she hoped to put an end to once and for all. All she needed was to turn the Hopping H into a success. A McFarlane-sized success.

Then maybe she’d finally get the respect she deserved.

“Progress is inevitable, Russ.” Her teeth snapped off his name as it lingered on her tongue. “Which any intelligent person should recognize.”

“Guess I’m just a dumb, backwoods hick, then.” His drawl was deliberately thick. “Mebbe I should ’jess tip ma hat and thank ya for the opportunity of purrtendin’ to be yer—”

“Shh. Keep your voice down. Please.” She looked around them. Even at the late hour, there were plenty of partygoers still present, and she certainly didn’t want someone overhearing. It had been foolish of her to bring up the subject with Russ at this time, anyway.

But she’d been watching him most of the evening as he worked through the crowd, seeming to be friendly with about half the guests. And then, when he’d been standing with his friend, Grant Clifton, who owned the original property she’d hoped to purchase, her thoughts had just seemed to finally coalesce.

Russ Chilton owned the Flying J, which bordered a sizable portion of the Hopping H.

He was her closest neighbor and he’d wanted the property for himself.

So she’d taken the bit between her teeth and run with it.

Just like her parents were always telling her—she’d obviously acted too hastily.

“What’s the matter, Miz McFarlane?” His brown eyes hadn’t warmed one iota. “If you’d wanted strict privacy for this discussion, you could have chosen a more discreet setting.”

He was absolutely correct, of course. All he needed now was to tell her that she was behaving impetuously, and she’d suspect that Russ Chilton counted mind reading among his various talents. “Perhaps I thought you might be more approachable in a social setting.” She turned the stem of her glass again. “A miscalculation on my part.” She slid off the chair and gathered up her small red purse. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

Her heart was in her throat as she turned to leave.

“Hold on there, Red.”

Everything inside her sagged with relief but she knew that not a speck of that weakness showed on the outside. Thirty years of McFarlane existence had taught her that, at least.

She slowly turned on her heel, ignoring the way her head swam, and smoothed back a lock of her short hair that had fallen forward against her cheek. She gently lifted her eyebrows with inquiry. “Yes?”

“Is that look an acquired skill or a genetic trait?”

She tucked her slender purse beneath her arm, remaining silent.

He let out an aggravated breath. “Sit back down.” He reached over and jerked her chair a few inches out from the table.

“Such gallantry.” She slid back onto the high chair, slowly settling her purse in her lap. Outside the windows that overlooked the mountainside, the bright twinkly white lights seemed to dance more than usual. She blinked and focused instead on Russ’s face.

It was not twinkly at all, and far more steady.

“Do I take it that you are interested in my offer, then?”

“Like you said. I’m interested in the Hopping H.”

“Then we have an agreement.” Act as if success were a foregone conclusion. Her parents had fed that to her along with her baby formula.

He lifted his hand. “Not so fast, sugar pie.”

She wanted to shout with impatience. For six months now, ever since she’d stepped foot in Thunder Canyon, this particular man had been a thorn in her side. It was no wonder she’d needed an extra dose of Dutch courage to even approach him with her business proposition. “Is there something you’d like me to clarify?”

His lips twisted. “Oh, you’ve been pretty clear already.”

“Then you can see that this arrangement is mutually beneficial. In return for your assistance, you’ll receive a very generous interest in the Hopping H.”

“Which only benefits me if you don’t run the place into the ground.”

“Which is why I need your assistance,” she returned evenly. For pity’s sake. How long would it take for the man to give his yea or nay? “You can ensure that never comes to pass by teaching me what I do need to know.”

“What about your hired hands? Be an easier matter, I’d think, if you just learned about ranching business from the people you’re already paying.”

She studied his face, wondering if he were being sarcastic or not. Thunder Canyon was still, in many ways, a small community. And given her experience in the months she’d lived there, gossip was as much an avocation as skiing or hunting for gold. “My last two hands quit.”

A faint flicker in his eyes warned her that maybe he truly hadn’t known that fact. “Harlan and Danny?”

“Yes.”

His lips tightened. “When?”

“Five days ago.”

“And you’ve been staying on trying to manage everything on your own since then.”

“Yes.”

He made a noise under his breath that sounded like a rather creative oath. He gave her a square look that had her breath catching oddly in her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

She was grateful for the purse in her lap. It gave her fingertips something to dig into. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” she assured smoothly. “It’s not as if you were responsible it.” The brothers who’d been her last remaining hands had simply quit with no notice whatsoever. They’d collected their final pay and had moved out of the bunkhouse by the end of the day. Where they’d gone, she had no clue.

Nor much care. They’d barely been better than no help at all.

“No wonder you’re anxious for an answer,” Russ was saying. “Look, Miz McFarlane—”

“Melanie. You have a mouthful of nicknames for me. Surely you can manage that. Russ,” she added pointedly.

He ignored her. “I don’t know what kind of people you’re used to, ma’am, but around here, neighbors tend to watch out for neighbors.”

“Is that what you were doing three months ago when I moved onto the Hopping H and you assured me I was doomed to failure?”

“Pardon me for pointing out the obvious,” he countered, “but you’re sitting on land now with no hands on the payroll and judging by your offer to me—a desperate offer, I’ll bet—not much of an idea how to manage on your own without them. Is that how you folks define success?”

Success was what being a McFarlane was all about.

She dropped the lemon rind from her unfinished drink on the small square napkin beneath the glass and tossed back the rest of the cocktail. “I’m looking for replacements for Harlan and Danny,” she said. “But even when they are replaced—” the assurance was more bravado than anything since her efforts at hiring more hands had thus far been futile “—I want to know more about the ranch workings. I need to know.” She leaned toward him, lowering her voice. “The Hopping H is my future, Mr. Chilton. As a working guest ranch. I am not going to let it fail. Either you can help me in that endeavor, and benefit quite nicely in the process, I might add, or I’ll find someone else.” She didn’t know who, though. Hiring someone was out of the question, given the state of her finances. “Yes or no?”

“I get half an interest in the H.”

“Yes.” She’d thought about offering less, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And if—no, once—the guest ranch was on its feet and operating in the black, she’d be able to buy the man right back out again.

McFarlanes didn’t “do” partnerships any more than they ever asked for help.

“And all I have to do is teach you enough about running a ranch so that you can keep your place from sinking under.”

Her gaze darted around them. But nobody was paying them any heed, particularly since the lavish midnight buffet was being set out. “Yes. That, and—”

His brows drew together in a mighty frown. “And do it all while pretending to be your husband,” he finished.

Chapter Two

Russ watched the faint tide of red climb in Melanie McFarlane’s lily-white cheeks at his flat summation.

“Yes,” she replied in her slightly crisp voice. “That’s the deal.”

He picked up her empty martini glass and gave it an exaggerated sniff. “My old buddy Grant must be telling his barkeeps to pour heavy these days.”

“I am not inebriated,” she enunciated with the exaggeration of one who pretty much was. “Nor am I…off my bean, as you so eloquently phrased it.”

“Nobody ’round here will believe we’re hitched.”

“Why not?”

He very nearly laughed out loud at that. “People know me, for one thing.” And he’d made it more than plain that he had no intention of following the path to matrimony that every one of his buddies had been taking lately.

“Which means what? That you’re not interested in women?”

“Not redheaded women with Boston in their vowels, that’s for damn sure.” Been there. Done that. Nobody who knew him would believe he’d repeat the experience.

“I’ve never lived in Boston,” she assured snootily. “My family is from Philadelphia.”

The moneyed part of it, he added silently, where he knew the headquarters of her family’s hotel empire was located.

“And besides, the only people we need to convince of anything are my family,” she continued.

“Why?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, seduction is key.”

“What’s the key?”

“Discretion,” she repeated so smoothly it left him wondering if he was the one who’d misheard, or she was the one who’d misspoke.

Either way, he damn sure needed to keep his mind off seduction where this woman was concerned. “What are you hoping to prove here, Melanie McFarlane?”

Her long lashes swept down, hiding her gaze. “I don’t know what you mean. This is a business venture. Of course, I expect to succeed at it.”

“Business ventures that involve you playacting as someone’s wife. What’s the deal? You’d rather have them think you’re married to someone like me, than let them think you couldn’t manage on your own?”

Her lashes flew up and he saw a tinge of guilt in her expression. Enough to wonder if he hadn’t hit on some truth. But all she did was turn up her nose a little in that way of hers. “I would be grateful if you could keep your voice down.”

He wasn’t exactly yelling. Hell. He didn’t want any of his friends overhearing their conversation, either. At the rate that weddings and engagements were occurring around Thunder Canyon, God only knew what sort of rumors might be set into motion. “And you figure six months is all it’ll take for you to learn the ins and outs of running the H.” It was laughable, really. Either she thought he had superhuman abilities—which he doubted, given the uppity looks she usually gave him—or she had no clue what a huge bite she was trying to swallow.

“I should certainly understand the basics by then. At least enough to know whether my ranch hands are doing their jobs or not.”

If Russ saw Harlan or Danny Quinn any time soon, he’d have a few words to say to the dolts. It wasn’t as if hands didn’t come and go. They did. But leaving a woman—no matter who she was—high and dry like they had was pretty damn low. “And if it’s not enough time?”

She didn’t look away. “Then naturally I would expect to renegotiate our agreement.”

“You’d give me more than fifty percent?”

Her lips curved, revealing the perfect, gleaming white edge of her teeth. “I’m a businesswoman, Russ. What do you think? Not in this lifetime. But there could be some additional financial remuneration.”

“You’d pay me cold hard cash to play your hus—”

She leaned forward, closing her hand over his forearm. “I believe we understand one another.”

He understood that those long, slender fingers of hers might as well have been branding irons given the effect they had on his flesh. “Then understand this.” He shifted and caught her hand in his as she went to draw away, and spotted the flicker in her deep brown eyes that she couldn’t quite hide. “I may be just a rancher, ma’am. But I know how to smell cow patties when I see ’em.”

She tugged at her hand and he loosened his grip enough for her to slowly work herself free. “You think this is some sort of game for me?”

“I don’t know what this is for you,” he admitted. “But there’s no way in hell that I’d agree to this nonsense on just a handshake.”

“I thought a man’s handshake was his bond. Particularly in this part of the country.”

“You’re not from this part of the country.”

She winced a little. “Are you suggesting that Easterners can’t be trusted to keep their word?”

“Not the Easterners I’ve ever known. You want my help, then we get hitched for real. No pretense.”

“But, but that’s preposterous!”

“Is it?”

She sat back in her seat, brushing her fingers through her deep-red, lustrous hair. It fell back, perfectly, in its sleek lines against the nape of her long, elegant neck.

Even disconcerted, she looked as if she’d stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. Not the faddish magazines filled with outlandish looks, but the expensive publications that only people of her ilk bothered to peruse.

Nola’s kind of magazine.

“Don’t worry,” he added, brushing away thoughts of his ex-wife. “I’m not just trying to get into your pants.”

The red that had risen in her cheeks drained away, leaving her looking pale, but no less stunning. “How reassuring.” Her voice was thin.

Oh, yeah. He was the one who’d misheard.

She looked at him as if he were something to be scraped off the sole of her undoubtedly expensive holly-berry-red high heels.

“Unless that’s what you’re hoping for,” he goaded.

“No,” she assured hastily. “That is not on the table.”

He looked at the high-top beneath their empty drinks. “You sure now? This here table looks mighty sturdy—”

“Are you naturally odious or is that an acquired skill?”

He very nearly laughed. As far as he was concerned, Melanie McFarlane was the epitome of high maintenance. She looked expensive. She talked expensive. She smelled expensive.

But she did keep his mind moving.

And God help him, he’d always been taken in by leggy redheads. Not this time, though. The last time he’d lost more than he could bear.

“Maybe I’m a bit of both,” he allowed.

Her lips compressed.

The cocktail waitress appeared next to them, deposited a fresh round from her jam-packed tray and promised to return for the empties as soon as she could.

Melanie met his stare for an uncomfortable minute. Then she lifted her drink and gulped down half. She fiddled with her purse and drew out a slender gold pen, then pulled the fresh white napkin from beneath her drink. “I think your…idea…is overkill. Perhaps if we just put the terms in writing.” She began writing carefully, then lifted her pen, looking at him as she slid the napkin toward him. “Does that make you feel better?”

He looked down at the list as he took a pull on his beer and wished he’d ordered a whiskey, instead. But then again, they’d both already had plenty to drink.

They were still sitting together at the table, after all. That had to be the result of alcohol. There was no other logical explanation.

The first several items on the napkin were straightforward, considering the nature of the agreement. Act as her husband—for the benefit of her family—and teach her everything she needed to know without seeming to teach her.

“Better?” He let out a disbelieving snort. “This is pretty damn crazy.”

She didn’t reply. Just wrapped those long, cool fingers of hers around her glass and sipped. If he wasn’t mistaken, her hand wasn’t entirely steady.

Nerves? Alcohol?

He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the napkin. After six months of their make-believe marriage, she would sign over fifty percent of the property to him.

Free and clear.

He could finally expand the Flying J into the Hopping H’s prime territory. Not all of that territory, as he’d been planning to do for years, but half of it was nothing to sneeze at.

What was six months of his time, after all? He’d already put that, and more, into raising the funds to back his original offer on the H.

The offer that she’d trumped.

Now, he could have half the spread and plow his money back into it to boot.

From the corner of his vision, he watched her lift her drink again. Take a delicate sip. Set the glass carefully down.

She shifted slightly and the top of her red dress—a sort of wrapped thing that clung to her curves—gaped for a moment, giving him a fleeting glimpse of something pale and lacy against flesh that looked taut and full. It had to be his imagination that had him hearing the slide of her legs as she crossed one over the other. The bar was too damn noisy for him to have actually heard anything of the sort.

Imagination could be a pain in the ass.

He peered at her sloped handwriting, so cultured-looking and different than his own chicken scratching, as he reached the bottom of her stipulations.

“No hanky-panky,” he read aloud, glancing up at her.

She looked vaguely bored. But there was a thin line of white around her compressed lips that belied the demeanor. “It seemed prudent to add that point.”

He figured the humor winding around inside him would be sort of misplaced just then. “I think my grandmother used to use that term.” He leaned closer toward her, catching a whiff of her expensive scent. No imagination required there. Other than to wonder where she dotted that evocative perfume.

At the base of her neck? Her wrists? Between her breasts?

He stared into her eyes, making himself think of the Hopping H, and what he stood to gain. She’d said it herself.

This was business.

But seriously. Hanky-panky?

“I’m a rancher, babe,” he said with the cocky wisdom of a ten-year-old poking a sleeping cat with a stick. “We call it by more basic terms.”

Her eyes widened a little.

“Sex,” he said wryly.

The relief that crossed her face was comical. Did she think he was so uncultured that he’d drop something way more basic?

Probably.

“Here’s the deal.” He set the napkin squarely in the center of the table, his palm covering her neat little list. “You can list your terms like this all you want. We can sign it. We can flippin’ notarize it. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m not pretending to be anything. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

A swallow worked down her throat, drawing his eyes to the hollow at the base of it. Just below that seductive indentation, a single sparkling diamond seemed to almost float at the center of a nearly invisible chain. “Evidently, I misjudged the level of your interest in the Hopping H.” She pinched her fingertips around the edge of the napkin. “I don’t suppose I can prevail upon your holiday spirit to keep this discussion between the two of us?”

He kept his hand on the paper, preventing her from pulling it free. “People ’round here would tell you I don’t have any holiday spirit.”

She looked insulted. “I don’t indulge in gossip, Mr. Chilton.”

“What do you indulge in, Miz McFarlane?” Below the sparkling diamond, there was another sweep of smooth, ivory skin, leading down to that wrapped dress.

She shifted in her seat, affording him another woefully brief glimpse of lace. “Quite obviously, wasting our time.” She tugged at the napkin again.

“I didn’t say you were wasting your time.”

She let out a faint sigh. “Then what are you saying?”

“I told you. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this for real.”

She leaned forward, the edges of her fine white teeth meeting in a smile that seemed remarkably close to a clench. “I am not looking for a real husband,” she assured under her breath.

He leaned closer, too, mostly to see how quick she’d back away.

Only they ended up nose to nose, because the infernal woman didn’t retreat.

“I’m not looking for a real wife, either,” he murmured. Her skin was just as fine this close as his imagination suspected. And her lashes were long. Not the clumped-up, mucked-up kind of long that came out of some tube. He didn’t kid himself that she went without cosmetics. Life with Nola had shown him just how effective that particular art could be. But he’d bet his favorite saddle that those lashes of Melanie’s didn’t have any need for artifice.