Tempted by a Cowboy Read online

  Diana lay absolutely still, considering his story…observing the sleek lines of his body as he paced the small room with the cell at his ear. It was a sure bet there’d be no more wild, impassioned sex now that she’d said the wrong thing, but she didn’t have the heart to get into her cold, wet clothes yet.

  “Yeah? Mike White Horse—the guy who called you about the black Chevy half-ton?” As he listened, he tucked his hair behind his ear, giving her a glimpse of his taut face…a face she wanted to see poised above her own again. “That’s what I figured. But you’ve got this number, right?”

  He clapped his phone shut and sat on the end of the bed. After a moment, he laid his hand lightly on her bare knee. “There’s only one tow service guy in these parts, and he’s been tied up with a couple of nasty wrecks in this rain. And the shop’s closed now—”

  “And tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “So he’ll call me when he’s hauled it in.” Michael turned, a pensive look on his face. “I guess I’m bunking here until then. And while I’m not saying you have to leave, Diana—”

  “Come home with me.”

  His eyes widened. “I can’t ask you to—”

  “I did the asking. Why would anyone want to stay in this low-down—”

  “Only if you’ve got work I can do around your place. I will not hang around like some gigolo—”

  “Well, damn. I’ve never had one of those and it sounds kind of…adventurous.” She grinned, reaching for his hand. “Come on, Michael. I might as well live up to the rep I got in the cafe parking lot. Gladys has us shacking up by now anyway.”

  He snickered. “If you’re sure I can repay you by doing whatever—”

  “Trust me. You’ll trip over stuff that needs doing before you get to the front door.”

  7

  She wasn’t ready for the sign posted out by the road: TO BE SOLD AT AUCTION. It gave the bank’s name and number, with Jerry Pohlsen’s name at the bottom.

  Diana clenched the steering wheel, determined not to bawl. In the seat beside her, Michael cussed under his breath and grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry, angel. Must be something cosmic, that we’re both getting our hearts ripped out today. Again.”

  She stomped the accelerator, to escape that blatant reminder of the bank’s power. They rumbled down the gravel lane toward the house, which sat on a rise overlooking one of the creeks the place was named for. The rain had stopped, and in the last rays of sunlight the ranch sparkled with promise, even to her own tired eyes.

  She’d hardly stopped the car before Michael hopped out to gaze around. “Wow, what a great place! Do you have horses, or cattle or—”

  “Yes. Past tense again,” she replied in a shaky voice. “Had to sell off the stock because we couldn’t pay any help while Garrison was ill. Nothing prettier than that pasture with the sun rising over the trees and little Hereford calves grazing alongside their mamas.” She turned sadly, fumbling for keys she couldn’t see through her unshed tears. Then she rushed up the porch steps, where another auction notice had been nailed to the post. “Those dirty sons of bitches! Posting this at the road was bad enough, but—”

  Michael stepped behind her and grasped the sides of the sign. The wood splintered in his grip, but a strip remained on the pillar where the nails were.

  “The thought that Pohlsen drove in here! Stood on my stairs to nail this damn sign to my—”

  When Michael wrapped his arms around her, Diana let loose. All the frustrations of the one-sided negotiations this morning—the sense that she’d been screwed before she walked in—and now these notices right here on her property were too much. As his warmth enveloped her, she pounded his chest and cut loose with a crying jag like she hadn’t had since she’d come home alone from Garrison’s funeral.

  He held her through the storm. Rocked her, letting her rant and carry on. Made an occasional sympathetic sound, but mostly let her release the despair and fear that had nearly killed her when there simply was no money to pay down her debts. She’d gone into hock, desperately believing Garrison would recover someday.

  “Diana,” he whispered. “This is a tough topic, but if the bank has taken your place by eminent domain, or they’ve done you dirty illegally, I know ways to—”

  “Unfortunately, it is what it is.” She mopped her face with her sleeve. “Garrison’s illness drained us, period. He’d have shot himself rather than undergo the transplant and all that expense, had he known it would come to this. But I just couldn’t…I just couldn’t…”

  “You made the only choice a woman who loved her man could make, angel. But damn,” he murmured into her hair. “There’s got to be a way around this. Come on, sweetheart. Take me inside.”

  Diana unlocked the door and looked warily around the living room. Everything seemed to be in place—and of course, she was silly to think Jerry Pohlsen had come inside after he nailed that damn sign to her porch. Thank goodness she’d picked up the newspapers, so the house looked halfway presentable.

  But as she glanced at the careworn furniture…the mix of pieces they’d laughingly called “early American attic”…Diana sensed her home was the antidote to the spell Michael White Horse had cast over her. Surely, as the CPA for a big-money casino, he preferred swankier surroundings. Probably liked glass and chrome and contemporary artwork, rather than the old paintings that hung on these paneled walls.

  “This house feels like such a home.” Michael stood in the middle of the living room to drink in its atmosphere. Then he squatted in front of the curio cabinet. “Wow, feather paintings! Did you do them, Diana?”

  A huge lump choked her. “Actually, my husband did. Painted on turkey feathers, eagle feathers—whatever he found in the fields.”

  “May I open this and look more closely?”

  Diana’s fingers went to her lips. It felt like a betrayal of Garrison’s memory to have this young, vibrant man—her lover—in the house. And now that Michael wanted to study her husband’s hobby…

  “It’s okay, babe.” He smiled gently. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “There’s no reason you shouldn’t see his pieces. He showed them at the heritage festival once, but otherwise only a few friends know about them.”

  “That’s a shame. He had a great eye for wildlife.” Michael’s eyes glowed as he carefully removed the feathers from their dark velvet display blocks. “Look at this falcon…and the bison…and the elk. These are awesome, Diana.”

  “Yes, they are. Thank you for…for understanding why I have a hard time talking about…” Something compelled her toward the bedroom, and as she felt Michael’s gaze following her she wondered why she had to show him the largest feather from the wall display in there. When she placed it in his hands, his breath came out in a rush.

  “A white horse,” he breathed. “A glorious white stallion like you only see in the movies, or—”

  “Or like the guy standing beside me right now?” Diana blinked rapidly: Michael White Horse held the large feather as though he treasured it. He looked at her then, as though he could cherish her, too, given half a chance.

  “Sweetheart, if this was a bad idea, bringing me here—”

  “Stay! I’m so damn tired of being alone and—”

  He held her against his long, strong body until her despair passed. As evening shadows fell, they ate potato soup at the small kitchen table. Applesauce and peanut butter sandwiches rounded out the meal, over Diana’s apologies about not buying groceries for a while. Michael assured her he’d gone too long eating alone to care what she cooked.

  Afterward he sat on the couch and patted his lap. Diana was too exhausted—too enthralled—to resist his invitation. Just simple affection: the warmth of his arms around her, the steady rise and fall of his breathing as they sat in the pale light of a single lamp, the softness of his voice, the tender caress of his lips against her temple as he assured her there had to be a way to save her home place. When he scowled as she told how Jerry Pohlsen’s wife, Fritzi, alrea
dy planned to own the first mega-mansion in the Seven Creeks resort community, Diana knew she’d found a kindred spirit.

  But what would she do about him? What the hell had she been thinking, bringing Michael White Horse home with her?

  Yet it felt so right to have him here, didn’t it? Curled up like a child in his protective embrace, she drifted off to sleep.

  Diana awoke with a start. Full sunlight made her squint, and when she sat up in the bed she’d shared with Garrison, it kicked her in the chest to see Michael’s duffel on the floor among her clothes. She’d slept in his T-shirt, too, and the pillow she hugged smelled like the mahogany-skinned cowboy she’d met just yesterday. If her husband were here…if her mother knew what she’d done…

  If they’re looking down on you now, what makes you so sure they disapprove? You’re an adult. You’re alone…

  She grunted. Her mother would lay on the shame about how she’d become a stranger’s whore—

  A pounding outside made her peer through the window. That handsome stranger was replacing boards in the pasture gate, and he’d stacked the fallen branches from last winter’s ice storm behind the stable. Amazing, how the place already looked better. It embarrassed her that Michael was cleaning up after her, yet he understood her despair…how she’d holed up in the house, overwhelmed by the outside work during Garrison’s illness.

  That’s not what you’re really looking at.

  Diana laughed at herself. Michael expertly swung the hammer, making his shoulders bunch and his ass point at her with each drive of a nail. He’d bound his hair at the nape, and it fell down the center of his bare back in a sensual black column. With his hat angled low over his forehead, he could be the cowboy, the rancher, the good-as-gold hero from the movies and TV westerns she’d loved as a kid. Her heart fluttered with hope.

  As though he felt her watching, Michael straightened to gaze toward the bedroom window where she stood. He lifted his black hat to swipe his forehead, his gaze never wavering. The heat coiled and bunched in her stomach. When he laid the hammer on the gate post to walk purposefully toward the house, Diana scurried into the bathroom. Her hair was a rat’s nest and she needed to shower before he saw her looking so grungy. She should fix him a decent breakfast, and as her mind inventoried the nearly naked pantry she leaned over the sink with her loaded toothbrush.

  “Now there’s an invitation if I ever saw one. Leaning over, ass sticking out beneath my T-shirt…long sexy legs,” he murmured. “Jesus, woman, how’m I supposed to get any chores done? I laid awake, wanting you, letting you sleep last night—”

  She leveled her gaze at him in the mirror. “Come to think of it, that’s the first night of real sleep I’ve gotten since—”

  “I’m glad.” As he hung his hat on the doorknob, then unfastened his jeans, his eyes never left hers. “Better rinse your mouth, angel. I’m ready to kiss you into next week—and that’s just for starters. You okay with that?”

  8

  “What’s your next trick, cowboy? How ’bout another long hard ride?”

  Michael’s pounding pulse drove him to pleasure her yet again, to chase away the ghosts that haunted this bedroom…to make this visit memorable in a lot of positive ways before he left. He could get way too comfortable in this cozy home, with this delicious woman, working again in pastures and stables and somehow making her dream of keeping this ranch come true.

  But he had dreams, too. And they’d all been waylaid by women.

  He stroked on another fresh condom. He loved it that Diana watched him from the bed, her eyes and body still eager. She’d sat on the bathroom vanity and wrapped her legs around him the first time, and then surrendered to her aftershocks when he washed her slit in the shower. Her hair hung in damp waves around her fresh face as she sprawled on sky-blue sheets in a sturdy four-poster with the rumpled comforter drifting off one side. They’d done a fine job of wrecking the bed when he’d tossed her there, barely dry from their shower. Her laughter drove his need deeper. This wasn’t like anything he’d known with lesser women, and it scared the shit out of him.

  Diana spread her legs and teased herself with a finger. “Do I need to show you the spot?” she taunted. “Draw you a map? Take your hand and lead you—”

  “Careful what you wish for, witchy woman,” he rasped. “Michael White Horse might just rear up on his hind legs and claim you as—”

  Diana knelt to point her ass at him, and he was off like a shot. Her cry was that of a wild mare seeking her mate as he entered her. Her muscles sucked him inside and squeezed until he clenched his jaw to hang on to his sanity—to hold his load until he’d penetrated her to her point of no return as well. He suspected she’d never shown such passion for her husband, although she’d loved him deeply. And for this opportunity to show Diana Grant just how high she could soar, Michael felt sincerely grateful.

  “Come on, angel,” he whispered. “Spread your wings and take me along.” Michael closed his eyes and slid his hands higher up her hot body when she stood on her knees. Her breasts bobbed in his palms, so firm and luscious. Her sighs became the words to the song in his heart.

  In and out of her he rocked. His thighs slapped hers, still damp from their shower. He chuckled: he wasn’t teaching her a thing he didn’t need to learn himself. Never had he known such stamina or sustained need. And rather than exhausting him, it revived his soul, his spirit. This long hard ride gave him a foretaste of his return to the rodeo.

  But he was a fool to think he could mount up and hang on for those frenetic eight seconds without recalling how he’d ridden Diana…how she’d shown him the true meaning of triumph over tragedy.

  He held her hips as the need to surge overtook him. His cry filled the room, escalating with his thrusts until she called out his name. Her ass flailed against him and she milked him, squeezed him, until he couldn’t writhe any longer. When they collapsed sideways on the bed, he wrapped Diana in his embrace. She smelled sweet and clean—better than any damn saddle bronc. And for a fleeting moment, Michael was ready to ask if he could stay. He could set her place to rights while they fought the bank…

  But that’s not how the script went. This was just down-and-dirty sex with a stranger.

  Hah! You still believe that?

  Diana swiveled in his arms, beaming at him. “You were wonderful, Michael,” she gushed. Her grin looked lopsided, like a little girl’s. “I’m going to make you a nice breakfast as thanks for fixing the gate. Just for the fun of it, I think we ought to eat naked. You in?”

  He muffled his laughter against her shoulder. “I want in every chance I can get, sugar,” he replied in a playful growl. “And if eating naked gets me where I wanna go, I’m your slave, woman.”

  God, but it was good to see that sunshine in her smile. He caught a glimpse of the woman she’d been in happier times—the woman she’d be for him, if he said the word. Diana was that open, that obvious. That trusting and wonderful.

  But Carina had been that way before she ran off with his daughters, too.

  He set aside those thoughts. Watched Diana as she cracked eggs against the counter and beat them with a fork. The coffeemaker gurgled his name and the salty scent of crackling bacon beckoned him to clear the coffee table so they could eat on the couch. It was all so damn cozy, so easy, to be with Diana. Her breasts bobbed when she scraped the scrambled eggs into their plates. The sway of her hips as she walked ahead of him to the living room made him wonder if he’d finish fixing the gate any time soon.

  The pounding on the door froze them midstep. Michael saw he hadn’t shut the curtains last night before he’d carried Diana to bed. Had he locked the door?

  “Hey, now! I know you’re in there!” came a mocking male voice. “That bacon didn’t cook itself.”

  Diana’s plate clattered to the coffee table. When she glanced around for something to cover herself, Michael drew her against his bare body. “Just nod or shake your head,” he whispered. “Do you know who it is?”

  Sh
e scowled as if she’d bitten into a lemon.

  “You could invite me to breakfast,” their visitor spoke through the door. His voice had a wheedling edge Michael despised immediately. “Maybe we could strike up a little deal, Diana. I know how you love this place Garrison built.”

  “Bastard!” she muttered against Michael’s chest. He held her tighter, his heart hammering against hers.

  “Diana, you all right in there?” Pohlsen sounded concerned, but it raised the hairs on Michael’s neck. “Your deadbolt’s undone. Garrison would want me to be sure you were safe, so I’m going to—”

  As the door swung open, Michael quickly shifted Diana’s bare body behind his own. He glared at the thick, middle-aged man who dared to enter this house uninvited. “Don’t take another step, Pohlsen,” he snapped. “Diana was just fine—until you showed up.”

  The banker’s eyes narrowed. “And who the hell’re you? If Garrison knew some low-life escapee from the reservation was here with his wife—”

  “Get out!” Diana remained behind Michael’s body as she glared at the banker. “If he knew how you were taking over his land, without giving me so much as a chance to—”

  “Oh, this is rich!” Pohlsen pointed at them, braying derisively. “Hubby’s hardly cold in the ground, and you’re playin’ house with—hey, wait a minute! You own a black Chevy pickup? The one left alongside the road in the storm yesterday?”

  Michael stiffened. “The tow service took it to—”

  “Damn straight they did! The sheriff impounded it and had Bernie haul it to the station!” The banker cut loose with another of his irritating laughs. “Guess you better dress and come with me, so’s we can—”

  “Guess you better follow the lady’s orders and leave.” Michael forced himself to think straight. Diana was depending on him to defuse this unspeakable situation. “It’s Sunday. The station’s closed. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”