The Cowboy And The Calendar Girl

Although he was based in Seattle now, Hank had begun to make a reasonably good living by writing his syndicated column—a few short paragraphs of weekly diatribe that resulted from the forays he made into the mountains with so-called celebrities. Mostly Hank invited local politicians on physically challenging outings and wrote about their reactions. His piece on a presidential hopeful had ruined the man’s plan for a national campaign. Good thing, too. A man who threw trash on a mountain trail didn’t deserve to be president of anything.

Over the past couple of years, Hank had begun to attract a loyal following, who now sent him more material than he could use. Every day he received a bucketload of letters that fulminated on subjects ranging from the logic of pasting brassiere advertisements on the sides of city buses to the latest political faux pas committed by an elected dunderhead. Hank used the material to create funny columns that newspaper readers loved.

“You’re the perfect guy for this column,” one of his former girlfriends had told him. “You hate everything but your precious mountains. And you’re funny about it.”

“I don’t hate you,” he’d said to her.

“Not yet,” she predicted, and she’d been right. Soon thereafter, her habit of chewing gum during every waking moment had driven him to distraction.

Dragging her brother into the privacy of the barn, Becky began to coach him urgently. “All right, the best thing to do is the strong and silent act. Cowhands are always strong and silent.”

“Aren’t we perpetuating movie stereotypes?”

“Don’t talk like that! You can’t—Oh, just keep your mouth shut when she gets here, and—”

“Have you ever known me to keep my mouth shut?”

“You’ve got to try!”

“Listen, Beck, this woman can’t be looking for anything but a pretty face——or in my case, a beaten-up mug. She isn’t going to care if I can ride a horse or swing on a flying trapeze! Trust me. I know these Hollywood types, and all they want is a square jaw to photograph. If she’s so demented as to want mine—”

“She said she wanted a cowhand. For ten thousand dollars, we’re going to give her a cowhand!” Becky pulled the huge black horse into a stall and proceeded to loop the reins around the hay rack. Then she moved to untie the saddle girth, saying, “Just behave yourself, all right? Can’t you remember anything about ranch life?”

“I’ve spent the past twenty years trying to forget.”

Becky sighed impatiently and shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re really my brother!”

Hank put his arm across his sister’s narrow shoulders, finding them tense with emotion. “Hey, take it easy, Beck.”

“This is important, dammit! I could lose this place. And it’s my home!” Her blue eyes suddenly flashed with tears. “I really need the money, Henry.”

“Cool down,” Hank soothed, sorry he’d teased her. “I said I’d help, didn’t I?”

Becky tried to focus on unfastening the saddle again. “It was a silly idea. I should never have asked you to come out here—”

“Hey, I had a few vacation days saved up. No problem. I’ll just explain to this calendar lady that I’m not who she thinks I am. I’m sure she doesn’t give a damn about my line of work.”

“But she does! She wants a real person. She said so on the phone.”

“I am a real person.”

“I mean an authentic cattle rancher.”

“It doesn’t matter what I do. She’ll still want to put my face on her silly little calendar, so—”

“It’s not just your face, Henry,” his sister interrupted.

“What?”

Slowly Becky said, “Maybe I should have told you the whole story before now, but I thought we had a few more days before she actually got here and started—”

Hank glowered at his sister. “What whole story?”

“This...this calendar thing,” Becky said uncomfortably. “It’s not just pictures of good-looking guys’ faces. If that was the case, you wouldn’t have made the finalists’ list.”

Hank felt his mouth go very dry. “What are you talking about?”

“All those years of climbing and racquetball have done you some good, big brother. She wants to take pictures of the whole package.”

A pang of dread shot through him. “Hold it—”

“I sent a bunch of old photos to the contest. She said she liked your look. Your total look.”

“But—”

“I know, I know, you’re not as young as you used to be, and there’s a little flab around your middle, but modern photography—”

Incensed, Hank interrupted, “There is no flab around my middle!”

“Great,” said Becky. “Then you won’t be afraid to take off your shirt.”

“Now wait a minute!”

“Or your trousers.”

“Just a damn minute!”

“I hear a truck.” Becky frantically tugged Hank’s bandanna askew and tilted his Stetson to the correct angle. “There’s no time to give you a complete makeover. Can’t you—Oh, don’t you have some tobacco to chew, at least?”

She dashed out of the barn. Stunned by the information his conniving sister had just sprung on him, Hank stood frozen for a split second—just long enough for Thundercloud to reach around and sink his big yellow teeth into Hank’s arm.

With a yelp, Hank leaped out of the stall and slammed the door behind him. He could swear he heard Thundercloud chuckle with satisfaction. Fuming, he followed his sister outside.

Becky was already outside, calling hello to someone.

“Hi. Miss Fowler?” asked a female voice.

“That’s me,” Becky replied. “You must be Miss Cortazzo from Los Angeles.”

“Call me Carly.”

Hank arrived at the open barn door in time to see his sister clasp hands with the slender young woman dressed almost entirely in black. Her white-blond hair was a dramatic counterpoint to the dark clothes, and her fair skin and pale blue eyes looked gorgeous in the fading sunlight.

“We weren’t expecting you yet,” Becky said.

“I’m sorry. My office was supposed to fax you.”

“Oh, we don’t have a fax machine.”

“Well, I guess you really wouldn’t need one out here,” said Carly Cortazzo with a smile. She glanced around the barn and corral and let her gaze travel to the view of the Black Hills beyond. “This is beautiful country. I almost enjoyed getting lost in it.”

“Hen—I mean, Hank says he gave you directions to the ranch. Maybe he should have led the way.”

“Oh, I don’t think Hank wants to get too friendly with me.”

She turned and met his eyes with a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Hank hadn’t gotten a good look at her before. His terror of Becky’s runaway horse had muddled his head. But now he had a chance to give her a thorough once-over, and he liked what he saw.

Carly Cortazzo had self-assurance in every sinew of her lean, athletic body. Her blue gaze was confident, and her clothing had a cosmopolitan flare of drama. Hank liked the way her light hair wisped around the sharp contours of her face and emphasized the slender grace of her long neck. She had a businesslike manner—belied only by the lush curve of her sensual lips that lent a vaguely vulnerable cast to her face.

She wasn’t one of the fresh-scrubbed country girls Hank had grown up with in South Dakota, but had an energetic kind of beauty accompanied by a slight gleam of cynicism in her gaze.

He felt a shiver of excitement zap through his body as their gazes held and crackled with electricity.

Almost too late he remembered he was supposed to be a cowboy, so he lounged against the barn door and pulled his Stetson a little lower over his forehead.

“Nope,” he drawled laconically, doing his best Wyatt Earp imitation. “I don’t aim to get too friendly. Not just yet, anyway.”

Carly raised one elegant eyebrow and seemed undaunted.

Becky cleared her throat noisily and gave Hank a what-the-hell-are-you-doing glare. Then she said, “How about if my brother takes your gear up to the guest room, Carly? I’ve got a horse to tend at the moment.”

“Don’t let me keep you from your work,” Carly replied, still eyeing Hank with laserlike intensity. “I can take care of myself.”

“Fine. Hank, will you—”

“Sure,” said Hank, pushing off from the barn door and moseying over to the Jeep. He grabbed two large suitcases from the front seat. Together, they weighed almost as much as a Hereford steer, but Hank pretended he was accustomed to carrying much heavier loads as he hoisted the leather strap of one suitcase over his shoulder. “Think you packed enough duds, ma’am?”

“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” she retorted. “So I brought a little of everything.”

“Always good to be prepared,” he shot back in his best cowboy drawl. “You never know what might happen out in these parts.”

Maybe his cowboy act wasn’t as good as he’d hoped. He thought he heard Becky give a little moan of dismay as he led Carly Cortazzo toward the house.

Two

It was all Carly could do to keep from ogling Hank Fowler as he led her up the plank steps of his modest farmhouse. He had the nicest butt she’d ever seen encased in dusty blue jeans. And those leather chaps seemed to—well, she wanted to rip open one of her suitcases, get out her camera and start the test shots immediately.

“After you, ma’am,” he said, pushing open the door and stepping back a pace.

“Thanks.” Carly preceded him into the small house and hoped he hadn’t guessed where her thoughts had lingered. She glanced around to get her bearings in the house.

The main room was humble, with heavy wooden beams supporting the ceiling, but it was cozily decorated with calico curtains at the windows, rough-hewn furniture scattered around a stone fireplace and a hand-carved checkers game set out on a low coffee table that was also strewn with magazines, enamel coffee cups and a well-used sewing basket.

Very homey, Carly thought. Very country. Frankly, she hated the look, going in for the uncluttered modern mode of decorating herself. But it was definitely... homey.

From the connecting room wafted the rich aroma of hot food slowly steaming on the stove. A multicolor braided rug lay on the floor, and a large woolly dog snoozed contentedly by the fire.

Upon their arrival, however, the dog got up and growled. He was the size of a small pony, with a ragged gray coat snarled with shaggy tufts that gave him the appearance of a huge porcupine that had been tumbled in a clothes dryer.

“Don’t mind Charlie,” said Hank, behind her. “He’s too old to do any real damage.”

“He looks like a wolf,” Carly said, stopping in the middle of the room as the dog approached. Normally she liked dogs—the kind small enough to be carried in a woman’s handbag at least. But this one looked as though he could swallow her arm for an appetizer.

“Half wolf,” Hank explained. “He’s my sister’s idea of a pet.”

The beast came closer and smffed Carly suspiciously, still making a gurgling growl in the back of his throat. But his tail started to wag gently, so she risked patting his broad head. “Nice boy. Nice Charlie.”

As Hank went past, Carly could have sworn the dog started to growl again, but Hank didn’t seem to take notice. He said, “Don’t worry. Charlie only bites if he’s hungry.”

“Are you trying to scare me into leaving, Mr. Fowler?”

He turned and grinned. It was a devastating smile, complete with crinkled eyes that glinted appealingly. “Would it work if I tried?”

“Not likely. I’d like to stay and give your sister ten thousand dollars.”

“In exchange for my picture, you mean.”

“I think it’s a fair deal.”

Hank unslung the suitcase he’d been carrying and braced one shoulder casually against a timbered beam. Leaning there, he looked almost too big for the room—like a man who belonged in the wide-open spaces instead of a little house cluttered with countrified knickknacks. Carly might have felt small and insignificant—if she hadn’t seen the gleam of mutual attraction in his blue gaze.

He said, “There must be guys who are really worth that much money. But me—I’m just ordinary.”

“Ordinary can be nice.”

“I hate looking silly.”

“The photo doesn’t have to be silly.”

The amusement in his gaze sparkled. “I’ve seen the particular kind of calendars you make, ma’am. And they look mighty silly to me.”

“They make money. A lot of money.”

“Money’s not the most important thing in the world.”

“It seems pretty important to your sister,” Carly reminded him. “Are you going to disappoint her because you’re afraid to let yourself look foolish?”

“But—” he shook his head as if confounded “—why me, Miss Cortazzo?”

“Why not you?”

“There’s nothing special about me!”

“You’re wrong.”

Carly almost told him the truth then. About her daydreams and nighttime fantasies ever since laying eyes on his photograph. There was something special about Hank Fowler—something that spoke to the deepest part of Carly’s soul. Maybe not every woman would see him the same way, but she knew she had the right man to use to create an object of desire. A lot of women were going to pay money to admire Hank Fowler. He was good-looking. He had a strong, lean, tensile kind of body that could seduce a camera.

Better yet, there was something in his gaze that few men possessed. It was magnetism and intelligence and humor and—oh, hell, Carly wasn’t sure exactly what else. She only knew that looking into his eyes made her feel sexy.

“You’re the right guy for this contest,” she said finally. “You have the look that our marketing department wants most.”

“Marketing department?” he said doubtfully. “You actually pay people to decide what kind of pictures go on those calendars of yours?”

Carly hesitated to reveal that the marketing department was made up of herself and Bert—just like nearly every other department at Twilight Calendars. But it sounded good.

She went on. “Our marketing department has been very successful in the past. We manufacture one of the bestselling products in the country. We know what we want. And we want you, Mr. Fowler. We want a cowboy who can handle a horse, ride the range, shoot a gun—”

“Oh,” he said with a grin. “For a while there, I was afraid I was going to have to take my clothes off.”

“That wouldn’t hurt, either.”

He blinked, startled. “Do you have any idea how cold it gets out in this godforsak—I mean, out here in God’s country? A guy would have to be nuts to take off his shirt and go riding around—”

“Our calendars are fantasies, Mr. Fowler. They’re not supposed to portray real life.”

“Fantasies,” Hank repeated.

He had a few fantasies starting in his own head at that moment.

Carly Cortazzo was the sort of woman he’d spent most of his adult life avoiding—smart, opinionated, ambitious and assertive. Probably temperamental, too. Mostly, Hank preferred to keep the company of beautiful but soft-willed women who let him dominate the relationship. It was immature of him, he knew, but it was easier to be the boss, he’d decided long ago. With the right partner, he got to do the things he enjoyed most and have the added benefit of a beautiful companion, too.

But Carly was a challenge. He guessed that starting a relationship with her would be like setting off a boxful of fireworks in a closed room. Just watching her tight, erect posture as she confronted him made Hank think of hot, passionate arguments. She was unpredictable and could probably do a lot of damage, if she chose.

He found himself fantasizing how explosive she might be in bed, too.

“Mr. Fowler?”

Hank yanked his attention back to the present and gave her a grin. “Sorry. What did you say?”

She controlled her patience with an obvious effort. “I asked if you have any objections to taking off your clothes for the calendar.”

Hank nearly choked. “Hell, I haven’t agreed to do it with my clothes on, let alone—”

“But your sister needs the money.”

True, Hank thought, suppressing a groan.

For some insane reason he would never fathom, Becky had tied her heart and soul to the Fowler cattle ranch, and she needed a miracle to save the place from bankrupcy. A few years of low beef prices, hard winters and the high cost of feed had driven Becky to desperation. Of course Hank had pitched in his savings to help his sister, but eventually his own finances had run painfully dry. They needed a miracle, all right.

Unfortunately, Hank hadn’t foreseen the miracle requiring him climbing into cowboy duds just to have them stripped off for a camera-toting beauty with a kissable red mouth and blue, bedroom eyes.

“Look, Miss Cortazzo,” he began firmly, “I guess I have to go through with having my picture taken because my sister gave you her word, but wild horses won’t get me out of my jeans.”

She pounced. “How about your shirt?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Absolutely not.” Thoughts of his fellow journalists catching a glimpse of his photographed face had been hard enough to imagine. But if his colleagues got hold of anything more risqué, Hank knew he would be getting blackmail notes for the rest of his life. “No way, Miss Cortazzo.”

She tried a more subtle approach. “I was thinking we could try some shots of you chopping wood. You might actually do that without a shirt, right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How about—”

“There’s no way I’m taking off anything.”

He was saved from further arguments as they were interrupted at that moment by rushed footsteps on the porch. A moment later Becky burst into the house, breathless and flushed.

“Hen—I mean, Hank! Doc Vickery just stopped by. He says there’s a buyer coming from out East who wants to look at our stock!”

“Great,” said Hank, although he had no idea what in the world his sister was talking about.

Becky must have understood his meaningful glare, because she glanced toward Carly Cortazzo and explained—as if for the benefit of a newcomer, “That means we’ve got to have a roundup. You know, to gather up all the cattle and pen them here at the ranch for inspection.”

“How exciting.”

How awful, Hank almost said aloud. “What about Fred? Didn’t you just give him a few days of vacation?”

“Who’s Fred?” Carly asked.

“My—our hired hand,” Becky replied, already headed for the telephone. “He helps around the ranch. I better call him right away. I can’t round up all the cattle by myself.”

“What about Hank?” Carly asked innocently. “Can’t he help?”

Becky stumbled just as she reached the telephone, but Hank was glad to see she managed not to howl with laughter at the idea of her brother actually performing cowboy work. “Hank? Oh...sure. He’ll help. Won’t you, Hank?”

“Of course,” Hank said, hoping he hadn’t turned white at the thought of galloping all over the ranch in search of runaway cows.

“This will be great,” Carly said with a big smile. “A real roundup! Maybe I’ll get some good action shots—preliminary ideas to give to our photographer when she gets here.”

Hank swallowed hard. “Uh, Becky, how about if I show Miss Cortazzo to the guest room, then you and I can talk this over?”

“Good idea,” Becky said. “I’ll call Fred while you take her upstairs.”

Hank picked up Carly’s luggage again. “This way, Miss Cortazzo.”

He led the way up the narrow steps to the cramped second floor of the house. There was no hallway at the top—just a landing with four doors leading into the three small bedrooms and the bath. Hank shouldered open the door to the smallest of the three bedrooms.

And he promptly whacked his head on the low-hanging dormer. He staggered in pain, and smothered a curse.

“Are you all right?” Carly asked, right behind him.

“Yeah, sure.”

Manfully pulling himself together, Hank tossed her luggage onto the single bed that was tucked under the eaves. He hoped she hadn’t guessed that he hit his head because he’d forgotten the layout of the house he’d grown up hating.

Carly strolled to the bed and glanced around the small bedroom that Becky had carefully aired out and decorated with a watering can full of wildflowers. “How... quaint.”

“Well, it’s home,” Hank said, for lack of anything more imaginative. His head was still spinning from the crack he’d taken on the dormer. Or maybe it was the heady perfume Carly wore that made him slightly dizzy. The scent was intoxicating. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

“The window props open if you like fresh air at night.”

“What an novel idea.”

“No fresh air where you live?”

“In Los Angeles? We have smog, not air.”

“I see. Well, the bathroom’s the door opposite.”

“Thanks.” She turned away from the window and stood facing Hank just eighteen inches away in the small room. “I’d like to fix my makeup before dinner.”

For a moment Hank forgot about risking his life in a roundup. Carly had the pale, peaches-and-cream skin of a pampered English lady—unusual for a California native. That creamy skin stretched down an elegantly long throat and plunged to the softly rounded curves of her breasts. Hank thought about tracing the line of her throat with his thumb just to test the delicacy of her skin, but banished the idea in favor of an indirect compliment instead. “You won’t need makeup out here, Miss Cortazzo.”

She heard the double meaning laced in his murmur and slanted a wry smile up at him. “I need makeup no matter where I am, Mr. Fowler. It’s my link to civilization.”

He laughed. He liked her, and decided it was safer not to discuss civilization. “Supper’s ready when you are.”

“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Hank lingered another moment, inhaling her fragrance, enjoying the light in her eyes and wondering what made her so damn tempting. She was good-looking and clever—a combination he enjoyed very much.

He hoped to hell she wasn’t so clever that she’d see through his masquerade too quickly.

Remembering to keep up appearances, Hank tipped his hat and drawled, “Welcome to the Fowler ranch, ma’am. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“I’m sure I will.”

Then he left the bedroom and thumped down the steps. Charlie growled at him. Hank growled back, then hurried to the kitchen. He cornered his sister there. Becky was just hanging up the phone as he arrived.

In a hushed whisper he demanded, “What the hell have you gotten me into, Becky?”

“I’m sorry!” Becky hissed back, trying to keep her voice down so they wouldn’t be heard from upstairs. “How was I supposed to know a buyer was coming this week?”

“When’s he coming?”

“Day after tomorrow. We only have one day to round up all the cattle.”

“Did you get in touch with Fred?”

“He already left for his vacation in Disney World!”

“Then who—” Hank saw the expression on his sister’s face and felt the cold claw of dread grab his heart. “I can barely sit on a horse, let alone get it to do anything but run away with me! You’ve got to find somebody else to help, Beck.”

Becky folded her arms over her chest and leaned back against a shelf full of preserved peaches. “It’s going to look awfully suspicious to the calendar lady if you don’t saddle up and work the ranch, cowboy.”

“Then we need to come up with a plan—a logical reason why I’m not trying to get myself killed in a stampede.”

“You’re not as bad at ranch work as you think you are,” Becky soothed. “Heavens, you were riding before you were three years old!”

“And getting thrown off every pony within five hundred miles. I hate horses, Becky, and they know I hate them. Now it’s a conspiracy thing with the whole species.”

“We can’t tell the calendar lady who you really are. She specifically wants a cowboy, and we don’t get the money unless you come through.”

“Maybe I could break my leg or something. That would keep me out of harm’s way.”

Becky shook her head and frowned. “Too wimpy.”

“Wimpy! A real cowhand would work with broken bones, is that it?”

“Probably. Think of something else.”