Always A Cowboy. Linda Miller Lael
he’d reached his room, he shut the door hard, kicked off his boots, peeled off his shirt, which stuck to his skin.
At least he didn’t have a farmer’s tan going, he observed, after a glance in the mirror; what he had was a rancher’s tan. He was brown from elbow to wrist, since he had a habit of rolling up his sleeves when the weather was decent, and the brim of his hat saved him from the famous red neck.
Tanned or not, he felt about as sexy as a tractor—and why the hell he was thinking along such lines in the first place was beyond him. Luce made for some mighty fine scenery all on her own, but that wasn’t reason enough to put up with her, or have her stuck to his heels 24/7.
Besides, she was a know-it-all.
He moved to a window, looked out, drank in what he saw. Even in the rain, the scenery was beautiful.
Drake’s bedroom was on the eastern side of the house, which was convenient for someone who got up at sunrise, his favorite time of day. He never got tired of watching the first dawn light brightening the peaks of the mountains, of anticipating the smell of damp grass and the fresh breeze. He liked to absorb the vast quietness, draw it into his very cells, where it sustained him in ways that were almost spiritual.
He loved the sights and sounds of twilight, too. The lowering indigo of the sky, the stars popping out, clear and bright—unsullied by the false glow of crowded communities—the lonely howl of a wolf, the yipping cries of coyotes.
Drake had little use for cities.
Sure, he traveled now and then, for meetings and a few social functions his mother dragged him to, but Mustang Creek suited him just fine. It was small, an unpretentious place, full of decent, hardworking people who voted and went to church and were always ready with a howdy or a helping hand.
Crowds were rare in those parts, except during tourist seasons—summer, when vacationers came to marvel at Yellowstone or the Grand Tetons, and winter, when the skiers and snowboarders converged. But a person got used to things like that.
Drake left the window, went into his bathroom, finished undressing and took a steaming shower, letting the hard spray pound the soreness out of his muscles and thaw the chill in his bones.
Afterward, he chose a white shirt and a pair of jeans, got dressed, combed his hair. He considered shaving, but he was blond, so his light stubble didn’t show too much, and anyway, there was a limit to how much fuss he was willing to undergo. He was starting to feel like a high school kid getting ready for a hot date, not a tired man fixing to have supper in his own house.
Shaking his head at his own musings, he looked at the clock—Harry served supper right on schedule, devil take the hindmost—and then he made for the dining room, which was downstairs and on the other side of the house.
As far as Harry was concerned, showing up late for a meal was the eighth deadly sin. If he was delayed by an unexpected problem, she understood and saved him a plate—as long as he let her know ahead of time.
If he didn’t, he was out of luck.
And he was so ravenous, he felt hollow.
He had one minute to spare when he slid into his seat. The dogs, Harold and Violet, immediately headed for the kitchen, since it was suppertime for them, too. They had it cushy for ranch dogs, sleeping in the house and all, but they weren’t allowed to beg at the table and they knew it. Plus, they both adored Harry, who probably slipped them a scrap or two, on the sly, just to add a little zip to their kibble.
Tonight, the beef stew smelled better than good. Harry knew how to hit that particular culinary note. Stew was one of her specialties—great on a rainy day—and he was starved, so when she brought in the crockery tureen and set it in the middle of the table, he favored her with a winning smile.
Harry didn’t respond, except to wave off his grin with a motion of one hand.
So far, Drake thought, he had the whole table to himself—not a bad thing, when you considered the extent of his brothers’ appetites.
Harry left the room, returned momentarily with a platter of fresh-baked biscuits and the familiar butter dish.
Things were looking up, until Mace ambled in and took his place across from Drake. Slater soon appeared, along with Grace, smiling and sitting down in their customary chairs, side by side. Drake and Mace, having risen to their feet when their sister-in-law entered, sat again.
If their mother, Blythe, was around, she was occupied elsewhere.
Once settled, everybody eyed the soup tureen, but nobody reached for the spoon. In the Carson house, you waited until all expected diners were present and accounted for, or you suffered the consequences.
“Where’s Ryder?” Mace asked. They all liked Grace’s teenage stepson and considered him part of the family.
“Basketball practice,” Grace replied, arranging her cloth napkin on her lap. Drake and his brothers would have been all right with the throwaway kind, or even a sheet of paper towel, but Blythe and Harry took a dim view of both, except at barbecues and picnics.
Luce trailed in then, looking a little shy.
Slater, Mace and Drake stood up again, and she blushed slightly and glanced down at her jeans and shirt—blue this time—as though she thought there might be a dress code.
Drake drew back the chair next to his, since there was a place setting there and his mother always sat at the head of the table.
Luce hesitated, then seated herself.
Harry bustled in, carrying a salad bowl brimming with greens.
“Go ahead and eat,” she ordered good-naturedly. “Your mother’s having supper in her office again. She’ll see all of you later, she said.”
Having delivered the salad, the housekeeper deftly cleared away the dishes and silverware at Blythe’s place and vanished into the kitchen.
For a while, nobody said anything, which was fine with Drake. He was hungry, fresh out of conversation and so aware of the woman sitting beside him that his ears felt hot.
He helped himself to stew and salad and three biscuits when his turn came and hoped Luce wouldn’t whip out a notebook and a pen and make a record of what he ate and the way he ate it.
There was some chitchat, Grace and Slater and Mace all trying to put Luce at ease and make her feel welcome.
Relieved, Drake ate his supper and kept his thoughts to himself.
Then, from across the table, his younger brother dragged him into the discussion.
“So,” Mace began, “have you warned Luce here that she ought to be careful because you like to swim naked in the creek some mornings?” He paused, ignoring Drake’s scowl. “I’m just saying, if she’s going to follow you around and all, certain precautions ought to be taken.”
Drake narrowed his eyes and glared at his brother, before stealing a sidelong look at Luce to gauge her reaction.
There wasn’t one, nothing visible, anyway. Luce seemed intent on enjoying Harry’s beef stew, but something in the way she held herself told Drake she was listening, all right. She’d have had to be deaf not to hear, of course.
Drake summoned up a smile, strictly for Luce’s benefit, and said, “Don’t pay any attention to my brother. He’s challenged when it comes to table manners, and he’s been known to dip into his own wine vats a little too often. Must have pickled his brain.”
“Now, boys,” Grace said with a pleasant sigh. “Let’s give Luce a little time to get used to your warped senses of humor, shall we?”
Slater met Drake’s gaze, saying nothing, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.
Mace pretended to be aggrieved, not by Grace’s attempt to change the course of the conversation, but by Drake’s earlier remark. “My wine,” he said, “is the finest available. It won’t pickle anything.”
“That