Cowboy Crush. Liz Talley
killed, about him finding something safer to do...about him being too much like his deadbeat father drove him crazy. His cracked ribs were better and the punctured lung had healed, but his shoulder still hurt like a bitch. His agent called every other day wanting to know his progress. PBR and PRCA reps called, too. His sponsors emailed him. Friends texted him. Everyone wanted him back on the tour come August, except for his mother. And maybe the bulls. They’d never liked him much ’cause he could stay on almost half the time.
“Wait,” Maggie said, rising beside him. “Why would someone have to come get us? What are you guys not telling me about this place?”
“No worries, Maggie,” he said, gesturing toward the door before sliding the pill out of his pocket and popping it in his mouth. Only half the dosage. He had to wean himself from the painkillers. “I’m banged up but perfectly capable of looking after you.”
“I don’t need looking after. I’m a grown woman,” she said, quite serious about it.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” he said, refusing to slide his eyes suggestively down her body like he wanted to. Didn’t want her to think he was a pervert. She looked skittish enough at the thought of following him out to the Triple J.
Freda snapped her fingers. “See? Don’t say I didn’t warn you about this cowboy.”
Maggie shouldered her bag and perched her sunglasses atop her head. Then she gave Freda a wry smile. “I’ll be sure to keep my legs crossed.”
Cal barked a laugh. “I want to see you drive with your legs crossed.”
Maggie let a self-deprecating laugh escape. “Dear Lord, what am I doing?”
“I don’t know,” Cal said, pushing open the door to greet the sunny morning. “But I’m kinda glad you’re doing it with me this morning. I’ve been bored as hell around here.”
MAGGIE WIPED A sweaty palm against her linen shorts and focused on the hot cowboy’s tailgate, which bumped down the dusty highway at a fast clip. Nothing like a man in worn jeans who drove fast and talked slow. She wondered what other things he did slowly.
Then she swallowed hard and warned her libido that now was not the time to get interested in a man.
Of course, there had been too much of telling herself no over the past several years, which is probably why she’d noticed just how sexy one Mr. Cal Lincoln was. Being the personal and administrative assistant to Herbert “Bud” Edelman, owner of Edelman Enterprises, was a big job, but it was one she did surprisingly well. Growing up the fatherless child of the Edelman estate’s housekeeper had given Maggie a set of valuable skills—she was diplomatic, humble and hardworking. After college, she had planned on taking a position with a law firm, with the idea of applying for law school in the back of her mind, but life had a way of putting a person down where it wanted. Bud had needed her, so she’d taken advantage of the salary and security...and found out she was a damn good administrator. Her competency had allowed an ailing Bud to untie himself from his work and focus on recovering from his debilitating stroke.
But now her mentor was gone.
She glanced over at the box containing Bud’s ashes resting on her floorboard and tried not to tear up.
No time for tears, turkey.
The pickup in front of her slowed. To her left she saw a rusted sign arcing above the entrance to the ranch. From either side, fencing stretched across as far as she could see. Tall grass waved in the ditches and the land rose up so she couldn’t see where the graveled road led. Three rusty Js were woven into the sign. The Triple J had been named after Bud’s three children—James, Julien and Judith. All worthless idiots too busy to visit their father unless they needed money. Which meant they’d come by the estate fairly regularly.
Cal pulled in and put his truck into Park. She pulled in beside him, eyeing the locked gate, and rolled down the window of the rental car.
He climbed out, leaving his pickup running. “Let me look at the lock.”
He moseyed toward the padlock holding a length of chain threaded through the gates. He studied it and then let it drop, clanking against the metal. Then he moseyed back to his truck, opened the lid of a trunk thing in the back and brought out a large pair of bolt cutters. One hard squeeze—which caused a flash of pain across Cal’s face—and the chain fell uselessly to the side.
Turning, he gave her a dimpled grin that made heat shoot into her belly. “Don’t need keys in Texas.”
“So I see,” she said, glancing back at the lock before returning her gaze to the cowboy. Cal wasn’t a big man, but he covered a lot of ground with his broad shoulders and tight ass. He looked like a rodeo queen’s dream with his ambling walk, lazy grin and naughty blue eyes beneath the brim of the cowboy hat.
Cal kicked the two gates open and then gestured. “Ladies first.”
She pulled past the gate and waited for him to climb back into his truck. He shifted into Drive and followed her over the hill and down the path.
Her first impression was that Bud had been right. The Triple J was a piece of heaven on earth with wide, waving pastures, dotted with occasional scrubby brush. Shady trees she couldn’t identify framed a rippling pond, and a picturesque red barn sprawled not far away from several paddocks and a low building that looked like a hall of some sort. Situated to the right was a white farmhouse with a huge porch that sagged, broken windows that yawned and a roof covered by blue tarp signifying a leak. A skin-and-bones nag looked lonely in the far pasture, and when Maggie rolled up next to the house, about eight cats scattered from the yard, reminding her of a drug bust she’d once seen in a bad part of Philly.
Her heart sank.
“Shit,” she whispered as the tiny worm of an idea that she might have been gifted a new future shriveled up.
“Well, this is it,” Cal said, hopping down from his cab and slamming the truck door.
Maggie climbed out, shielding her eyes. “This is not what I expected.”
He surveyed the run-down ranch house. “Never is, is it?”
Truer words were never spoken.
“What’s with all the cats?” she asked.
“Dunno, feral cat problem?”
“Feral cat,” she repeated, walking over to the lonely horse.
“On the bright side, you probably don’t have much of a rat problem,” he said.
“Mmm,” she said, looking over the horse that looked as if it hadn’t been fed in weeks. She lifted a hand to its nose, though she’d only ever touched the nose of a pony at a friend’s birthday when she was eight years old. The horse blew out a gentle breath. “Is this horse malnourished?”
Cal walked to the beast. The horse turned toward him as if it knew he could be trusted. It blew again as he stroked the coat with his strong hands. “Hey, now, old gal, hey.”
His words soothed even her.
“Nah, she’s just old. Ain’t ya, girl?” Cal slapped a hand against the horse’s neck. “Let’s check the barn.”
She turned to the red barn and noted the graffiti scrawled across it. Some very naughty words along with the rendering of a giant penis graced the front. “Nice artwork.”
“Yeah, the kids in town come out here to drink and screw. This old place has probably seen more action than a Reno whorehouse.”
The barn doors had been busted open, so Cal didn’t have to fetch the bolt cutters again. Empty dusty stalls and an old tractor met them. Bags of feed spilled over. Several cats peeked out and she heard mewling kittens somewhere in the dank hay. “This is a mess. What in the hell has this Lowery