The Cowboy And The Calendar Girl

He groaned. “Like what?”

Becky snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. I’ll send you to look for strays! All you have to do is leave the ranch and stay gone for the whole day.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere! You can ride over the nearest hill, take a paperback book out of your saddlebag and read while the rest of us break our backs!”

“What happens if the horse runs away with me again?” Hank grinned as Becky blew an exasperated sigh. “Okay, okay, I can manage to stay in the saddle for a few hundred yards, I guess.”

“Good. The alternative would be to distract the calendar lady.”

“Distract her?”

Dryly, Becky added, “Of course, that wouldn’t be too hard, by the looks of things.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The two of you can’t take your eyes off each other.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Hank prided himself on his ability to resist women when the situation merited.

Becky looked delighted at having annoyed him. “Your tongues are practically hanging out.”

“Not true!” Hank flushed, hating the idea that he’d been so obvious.

Becky breezed out of the pantry and started to work on supper. “And she thinks you’re the sexiest thing since colored underwear.”

Hank followed his sister into the kitchen and couldn’t help asking, “You think so?”

Becky took a container of premixed biscuits out of the refrigerator, cracked it open and proceeded to line the biscuits up on a cookie sheet. “Believe me, big brother, you could distract Miss Cortazzo with one hand tied behind your back.”

Hank considered the situation. Yep, there was something exciting happening between himself and Carly Cortazzo. He found her very attractive. And according to Becky, the feeling might be mutual.

Trouble was, as far as Carly was concerned, Hank was supposed to be a tough cowboy.

Hank, however, preferred to live within walking distance of a subway system, fine restaurants, a good newsstand and at least one modern art museum. But every week he got out of the city to climb. Rock climbing was his passion. Fresh air, rock and ice. Those elements kept him sane. He wasn’t a trail-mix kind of guy, of course. No, he could appreciate fine dining. But now and then he needed to test himself. Hacking out a foothold in any icy cliff made him feel alive.

Hank shook his head. “If I get close to her, she’s going to see I’m no cowpoke.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s smart, dammit! Any fool can see I’m not Roy Rogers!”

Becky slid the tray of biscuits into the oven and bumped the door closed with her hip. “Did you get a look at her clothes?”

“Well, sure. They looked great.”

“That’s just it. She’s dressed to look good. Even you knew enough to bring your oldest, warmest clothes out here. She’s a complete dude!”

“Surely she’ll see through me.”

“Maybe you’ll have time to cloud her vision before she sees too much.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Becky said, lifting the lid on the stew pot and giving the contents a quick stir, “you ought to take her out to the hay barn and see what develops.”

“My allergy to hay?”

Becky laughed and replaced the lid on the pot. “You’re determined to despise this place, aren’t you?”

Putting his arm around Becky, Hank said fondly, “I just know I don’t belong here, Beck.” Looking down into his sister’s tight expression, he felt his heart soften. “But you do, so let’s do everything we can to keep the old family homestead.”

Becky gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Henry.”

“Call me Hank. I’m starting to like it.”

Becky laughed and punched his shoulder.

Dinner was ready by the time Carly came downstairs with her makeup freshly applied and a red bandanna around her throat just to get into the spirit of things.

“Dinner smells delicious.”

“It’s beef stew,” Becky said proudly, busy at the stove with plates and a ladle. “I grew the vegetables myself.”

“Not to mention the beef,” Hank added. “And the herbs are better than ever this year.”

“Herbs?” Carly asked.

Becky said, “Hank planned the herb garden himself, and his suggestions for seasonings are—well—uh—”

Hank opened the refrigerator. “Beer, anyone?”

“Why not?” Carly asked, wondering why Becky had faltered. She accepted a steaming plate of biscuits and stew from her as Hank got out the beer. There was enough food on Carly’s plate to feed an entire family in L.A.

Becky prepared another plate for her brother. “I’ve got some phone calls to make if I’m going to round up enough men to help tomorrow. You two mind eating without me?”

“Not at all,” Carly said, secretly pleased to have Hank all to herself for a while.

Hank seemed to hesitate for a split second. “You have to eat, Becky.”

“I will,” his sister promised. “In a few minutes. You go ahead. Entertain Carly for a while, all right? Tell her some stories about life on the ranch, why don’t you? I’m sure she’d be interested in—Ouch!”

“Did I step on your foot?” Hank asked innocently. “Sorry, sis. This way, Miss Cortazzo. Let’s eat on the porch, shall we?”

Carrying her plate, a bottle of beer and a napkin that Becky had thrust into the crook of her elbow, Carly followed Hank through the house and out onto the front porch. Besides two wooden rocking chairs and a porch swing suspended by chains from the rafters, there was a small painted table placed in one corner between a couple of old wicker chairs. Someone had already set the table with silverware and plaid place mats. A flickering yellow candle in a jar made the table look surprisingly romantic.

“Alfresco,” Carly said. “How nice to be dining outside tonight.”

“Unless the mosquitoes show up. Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Carly set her plate on the table and made herself comfortable in the wicker chair. Then she noticed Hank wasn’t following her example. He stood over her, as if undecided about joining Carly at all. She smiled up at him, one eyebrow raised. “I hope you don’t feel as if you’re having dinner with the enemy.”

“The enemy?”

“Me.” She gestured for him to sit down, which he finally did. “I’m your enemy because I’m pushing you to pose for my calendar.”

“Trust me. If you were really my enemy, we wouldn’t be so civilized, Miss Cortazzo.”

“Carly,” she corrected automatically, picking up a fork. “I detect a chill in the air, nevertheless. Or don’t you go for city girls?”

“I go for all kinds of girls,” he retorted, slugging his beer as if to steel himself for a difficult conversation.

“All kinds of girls? Care to tell me about some of them?”

He regarded her warily over the glowing candle. “Well, we don’t get many unattached women in these parts.”

“What about attached ones?”

“Married women? No, I don’t go in for that stuff. Too messy. I like to get in and out of relationships as cleanly as possible.”

“I gather you don’t go in for the lasting kind of relationships, either.” Carly sampled the stew and found it warm and savory.

“I haven’t been lucky in love.”

“You certainly are the quintessential cowboy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Carly glanced up, surprised by the heat in his voice. “Why, nothing really. You must fall in love with horses, not women.”

He snorted. “That’s a laugh.”

“Then you do have a girlfriend?”

“Look, I don’t know why we’re talking about me,” he began irritably, looking surprisingly uncomfortable.

“I like to get to know my subjects, that’s all.”

He leveled her a suspicious stare. “Really?”

Carly sipped from her own beer bottle to give herself time to think. “To tell the truth, no. But you—well, I’ve never met a real cowboy before. I just—I want to know what your life’s like. Call it professional curiosity. For example, do you and your sister run this ranch all by yourselves?”

“Um, well, we have a hired hand, of course, to help out. But usually, it’s just a one—er, two-person operation.”

“That must mean a lot of hard work.”

He shrugged. “If you love it, it’s not really work.”

“You love it, then?”

He took a huge forkful of stew into his mouth and took forever to chew it. “This stew is great, isn’t it?” he asked, after swallowing.

“Yes, it’s delicious.”

“Becky has been adjusting the recipe again. I like the sage. And not too much onion.” He thoughtfully selected a carrot with his fork. “The touch of jalapeno is just right. Not overwhelming, but definitely a statement.”

Delighted, Carly laughed. “You’re a cowboy foodie!”

He looked up at her as if startled out of his thoughts. “A foodie?”

“Someone who appreciates good food.”

He bristled. “I’m not a gourmet. I hate pretentious stuff—”

“Like snooty French restaurants?”

“I do like French cuisine,” he said cautiously, “if it’s done well. But not an overly rich menu and a wine list that’s past its prime.”

“Provençal food, though?”

He nodded. “Simple, but elegant.”

Carly leaned forward, glad to see him relaxing at last. “What’s the best restaurant you’ve ever visited?”

Hank hesitated only for an instant. “There’s a diner in Cheyenne that’s top-notch. The best homemade sausage this side of the Mississippi.” He looked cautious again. “Why are you asking?”

“No special reason. Conversation, I guess. And I like food myself. I keep a scrapbook of my favorite restaurants.”

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