Cowboys and Cabernet. Margot Dalton
looked around, his taut features relaxing. “Really? When were you in France, Ruth?”
“I spent a year in Paris doing the thesis for my master’s degree.”
“Yeah? What was your topic?”
“Carbonation methods in French sparkling wines,” she said casually, peering out at an unusual limestone formation capping a small hill.
“Wow,” Tyler said. “Pretty heavy stuff.” He was silent a moment. “I guess,” he ventured finally, “that you’re a real expert on all this, aren’t you, Ruth? Wine making, I mean?”
“Pretty much,” she said. “Whatever ‘expert’ means. The field is expanding so rapidly and changing so fast that the things you learn today are practically obsolete by tomorrow.”
“Well, thanks. That’s real encouraging to us beginners,” Tyler told her with a wry grin.
Ruth smiled back at him. “Sorry. It’s just that wine making is like computer technology these days. You really hesitate to call yourself an expert. Every time I read a trade publication, I run across new things that I’d like to go away and take courses in.”
“Where did you go to college?”
“Davis, in California,” Ruth said. “They have one of the most extensive wine-making research and teaching facilities in the world.”
“I sure envy you that education, Ruth. I don’t know how much my business degree is going to help me with the details of something like this.”
“Education is okay,” Ruth said thoughtfully. “But what’s really important is the hands-on experience. I grew up in the winery, hanging around listening to my father talk with the other workers, smelling and tasting the wine, watching all the different processes from harvesting to bottling. I think that’s how you really learn wine making.”
“So, what about me, Ruth? Is it too late for me to learn?”
“Of course it isn’t. Not if you want to learn badly enough. After all, my father never set foot in a winery until he was an adult, and now he’s one of the very best.”
Ruth gazed out at the remote brush-covered hills, feeling a sudden painful flood of homesickness for the neat vineyards of the Napa Valley, for the salt tang of the Pacific Ocean breezes blowing over the hills and the comfortable rooms of their house, with her father and Hagar and the orderly sprawl of the brick winery nearby.
Tyler seemed to catch some of this mood, because he gave her a glance of quick sympathy.
“You really love it, don’t you?” he asked, looking intently down the winding road as a loaded cattle truck swayed past them.
“What do you mean?”
“This whole business,” Tyler said. “Wine making, I mean. When you talk about it, your face gets all passionate and your eyes have that faraway look, just like my sister, Lynn, when she talks about horses.”
Ruth smiled awkwardly. “I guess we can’t help what matters to us. You’re right, I do love the business. I love everything about it, from the vines growing in the fields to the wine bottled in rows in the cellar. It’s such a satisfying process.”
“Like I said, Lynn feels that way about every horse on the ranch,” Tyler mused, “and Cal loves his rodeo. Both of them are passionate about what they do.”
“What about you?” Ruth asked, glancing over at him. “Are you passionate about anything, Tyler?”
Apparently unsettled by the sudden serious turn of the conversation, Tyler turned and gave her a flashing grin. “Well, sure I am,” he said. “I’m passionate about making money. I just love seeing my books in the black. And if wine making is going to accomplish that particular goal, then you can bet I’m going to love the business just as much as you do.”
Ruth felt a sharp stab of disappointment. She looked for a moment at his clean-cut profile, then turned to gaze out the window again, fighting the urge to say something brusque and tactless.
If Tyler McKinney wanted to open a winery on the ranch and make a lot of money, that was his business. Ruth was only here to advise him on feasibility, as a courtesy to her father. She’d test the soil, check the climate and water conditions, examine Tyler’s site for drainage and exposure potential. Then she’d look at his plans, give him her honest opinion and return to California.
And she’d forget about how his dark eyes sparkled when he laughed, or the engaging way he tilted one eyebrow and turned to look at her with a warm teasing grin. Those things might make her heart flutter, but Ruth Holden certainly wasn’t the kind of woman to be taken in by a handsome face and a charming smile.
There was no doubt that this man looked good. In fact, he was strongly appealing to her on a purely physical basis. But when the chips were down he was just another greedy Texas opportunist, looking to make a quick fortune from something that she cared deeply about, and Ruth could hardly wait to get away from him.
CHAPTER THREE
WITHIN the cool shadowed depths of the Longhorn, afternoon coffee time was in full swing. The place was crowded as usual. Most of the regulars were already there, including the people from offices like Martin Avery, a busy lawyer, and Vernon Trent, a real estate agent.
A few local ranchers were present as well, in town for supplies and gossip. Tyler noticed Bubba Gibson and Brock Munroe sitting around with hats pushed back and booted feet extended, shouting and wrangling cheerfully with veterinarian Manny Hernandez and Sheriff Wayne Jackson.
They seemed to be arguing over the intricacies of setting up a football pool for the Super Bowl, which was coming up on the weekend. Apparently one group favored a richer payoff while the opposing faction wanted more opportunities for each entrant to win.
Tyler grinned privately, thinking that the coffee-shop crowd fought about the same thing every single year and never came to any firm conclusion.
When he entered with Ruth, the men fell abruptly silent for a moment, staring and nodding at her with bluff respect. A few even touched hats and caps while Bubba, with his usual showmanship, swept the Stetson from his shaggy gray head and placed it soulfully over his chest as he greeted the newcomers.
Texas men just hadn’t moved into the modern world, Tyler thought, gesturing toward the nearest booth, then smiling at Dottie and ordering coffee and doughnuts for two. These men still made a firm distinction between “ladies” and “gals,” and what was more, their instincts were remarkably consistent.
When someone like Ruth Holden appeared, they greeted her with respectful deference. But if Bubba’s current flame, Billie Jo Dumont, came sashaying into the coffee shop, she’d be met with lewd jokes and slaps on the rear. And these men would probably be outraged if anyone suggested they were doing anything out of line.
While Tyler was pondering the socialization of the Texas male, his companion was gazing around with parted lips and wide eyes, clearly enchanted by the Longhorn and its genuine fifties ambience. Tyler stole a glance at her, and felt another surge of impatience with himself.
Why had he made that stupid remark about caring for nothing but money?
They’d been getting along so well up to that point, but he’d sensed a chill as soon as he uttered the words. He could almost feel her disappointment in the way she’d turned aside and deliberately excluded him, gazing out the window with concentrated attention as if he were simply a hired cabdriver, not worthy of her further attention.
Tyler had been enjoying her company so much, and now he regretted the rift between them. He almost considered apologizing for his words, but a kind of stubborn annoyance kept him from doing so.
For one thing, it was true, what he’d said.
He did like making money and seeing the books balance, and what was so terrible about that? Tyler’s sister reacted the same way as