In A Cowboy's Embrace. Charlotte Maclay
Yet for the sake of family harmony, having her here for one night wouldn’t hurt him any. Tomorrow he’d discuss how Tasha would be better off to spend her vacation at the main ranch house with her sister.
Outside, the air was unseasonably warm and there was still a touch of light in the late April sky, although the red-streaked clouds of sunset had faded to gray. The distant mountains of Glacier National Park were only faint silhouettes. A couple of bats whipped past the willow tree his wife Yvonne had planted; in the flower beds that she had lovingly tended and Cliff had let go a little wild, weeds bent their heads in the gentle evening breeze. With a son to raise and a job to hold down, there was never enough time to do everything that needed doing.
Tasha popped the trunk on her BMW.
“Nice car,” Cliff commented. Though it wasn’t the kind of car most folks in this part of Montana would want, he admitted, it was more suitable than the Mazda Tasha’s sister had arrived in a year ago.
“Living in New York City, I’ve never had much of a chance to drive it. I think James enjoyed being out on the road.”
“James?”
“That’s the car’s name.” Her easy smile came his direction this time. “As in, ‘Take me home, James.”’
Right, she named her car. Once she saw his truck, she’d probably call it Brute and his police cruiser would be Hi-Ho-Silver.
She handed Stevie a child’s suitcase and lifted out a larger one for herself. “If you could bring my makeup kit, that’d be great,” she said to Cliff, indicating the remaining piece of luggage in the trunk.
“Sure, no problem.” Reaching inside, he grabbed the handle, yanked…and nearly pulled his arm out of its socket. “What the hell have you got in there? The Brooklyn Bridge?”
“You’re not ’pose to swear, Daddy.”
“You’re right, kid.” He rubbed his shoulder. “I forgot.”
Amusement made Tasha’s eyes sparkle even in the dimming light, like the first two stars to appear in the night sky. “A little of this and that. Makeup, cleansers, moisturizers, a blow dryer with a defuser attachment. Only what every woman needs to look her best.”
“What the—” frowning, he glanced at his son “—heck is a defuser?”
“I’ll show you later, if you’d like.”
Cliff wasn’t sure he wanted to know, or if Stevie was old enough to be hearing this conversation. “Let’s get this stuff inside. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. You didn’t happen to put dinner on before your nap, did you?”
Half dragging the smallest suitcase, Stevie staggered along the walkway and up onto the porch that went across the front of the house.
“Dinner?” she questioned. The wheels on her suitcase rattled on the uneven concrete path.
The case Cliff was carrying weighed as much as an anvil and didn’t have wheels. “Uh, that’s what housekeepers usually do—take care of dinner arrangements.”
She brightened. “Oh, sure. I can do that.”
“Great. I’m due for a shower. It’ll take me only about ten minutes and then we can eat.”
Tasha looked at him askance. How on earth did he expect her to have something ready to eat in ten minutes? Maybe that was how things were done in Reilly’s Gulch.
But five minutes after putting her bags in her room, she still didn’t know the secret of getting dinner here so quickly, though she’d searched the entire kitchen and the minuscule phone book for the number of a pizza or deli delivery service. Even Chinese would have worked. The best she could find was a diner in town and Sal’s Bar and Grill. Neither of them delivered.
She went down the hall, glancing briefly into the living room where Stevie was watching TV, and knocked on Cliff’s door. There was no sound of water running, so he must have finished his shower.
“Be there in a minute,” he called.
“I can’t find the phone number.”
There was a pause. Then the door opened and Tasha realized she’d made a serious mistake in timing. He had a clean pair of jeans on, which he hadn’t yet bothered to snap, and no shirt. The broad expanse of his chest, furred by only a modest amount of sandy-blond hair, invited a woman’s caress. His nipples peaked in perfect circles of brown; muscles ribbed his washboard stomach. Overall he reminded her of the bronze sculptures on display in New York City museums but far warmer and more tempting to touch.
She licked her lips. Being this man’s housekeeper was definitely going to be a challenge when her mind kept toying with other ideas.
“What phone number?” he asked.
It took her a couple of heartbeats before she recalled why she was standing at his bedroom door. “For a deli or pizza place that delivers. I can’t find a thing in the phone book—”
His shaking head suggested she’d made another error in judgment. “No pizza parlors here, Goldilocks. What I had in mind was for you to fix dinner.”
“Fix?” A few minutes ago Melissa had been Goldilocks. Now Tasha had acquired the nickname.
“As in cook. You do know how to cook, don’t you?”
“Well, of course I do.” She gave a disdainful huff. “Every Greek girl learns to make baklava almost before she can walk.”
He shook his head again, a truly irritating habit he’d developed. “Let’s try for soup and sandwiches. More times than not, that’s what Stevie and I have when Sylvia isn’t around.”
Tasha could handle that. Cliff didn’t have to look at her as if she were totally incompetent. In the city, you ordered takeout. No need to spend your time slaving over a hot stove. It didn’t mean she couldn’t cook—just that she didn’t have many occasions to. She was on the road a lot, and when she wasn’t her hours were grueling.
As she walked away from his bedroom door, she wondered if he’d be all that swift at picking delis out of the phone book that wouldn’t stiff him with a bad case of salmonella or inflate their charges. It took talent and experience to survive the inhumanities of the big city.
From her perspective, cow country looked easy.
TEA SANDWICHES. She’d removed the damn crusts and cut them in triangles. Cliff could hardly believe this was what Tasha considered dinner, but he was too hungry to complain.
With the same delicacy as her mother, Melissa selected one of the tuna triangles and took a dainty bite.
Cliff ate his in a single gulp and took another one from the plate Tasha had prepared.
“My mommy says you’ve got horses, Mr. Swain.”
“Why don’t you call me Uncle Cliff and I’ll call you Melissa. Unless you’d rather I call you Ms. Reynolds?” he teased.
She giggled. “I’ve got an Uncle Bryant, too. We’re going to see him tomorrow and my Aunt Ella.”
“Eat your dinner,” her mother reminded the girl, who after one bite had evidently forgotten her meal.
“I’ve got a horse all my own,” Stevie said. “She’s a cow pony and goes like the wind. Her name’s Star Song.”
“Can I ride her?” Melissa asked. “Can I?”
“Sure. I guess.” Stevie shrugged and glanced at Cliff for direction.
“Now wait a minute, young lady,” her mother said. “I don’t want you trying to ride on your own. You’ll need proper lessons—”
“I can teach her,” Cliff said impulsively before thinking through his offer. If he had his way, Melissa and her mother wouldn’t be