Rich, Rugged Ranchers

“It’s not quite the same,” Thalia admitted, “although he is quite good-looking.” She shrugged. “When you’re around famous people long enough, you stop worrying so much about who’s the most famous or who’s the hottest. Sooner or later, it has to come down to whether or not they’re someone you can work with.” This blanket statement that could only be described as reasonable hung out there before she added, “Having said that, Denzel is someone that almost everyone enjoys working with, and his wife is lovely.”

Then she looked at him. Not the kind of look that asked if he’d bought what she was selling, but the kind of look that seemed to be asking for understanding.

What the hell was this?

“So what part did you have in mind for him?” Hoss jerked his chin toward J.R. with all the subtlety of a dead skunk in the middle of the road.

She favored J.R. with another look that was lost in the no-man’s-land of apologetic and sympathetic. It made her look vulnerable, honest even—which was completely disarming. He didn’t like that look or how it plucked at those strings inside him, not one bit. “I thought James Robert Bradley would be perfect for the role of Sean Bridger, the grizzled Confederate Civil War vet who unexpectedly finds himself helping defend the freedmen’s land.” Her face was almost unreadable, but he could see the pulse at the base of her neck pounding. “I wanted to see if you’d be interested in the part, J.R.”

Getting him signed on was her idea, not Levinson’s? Wait. There was something more to what she’d said. He scrambled to replay it while keeping his own face blank. She’d thought James Robert was perfect—but she’d asked him, J.R., if he was interested. Her gaze held tight to his, and he felt that flow of energy between them again. She’d been right to avoid looking at him before—he could get all kinds of lost in her ice-blue eyes. Because now she was not just looking at him, but into him, through all the walls he’d thrown up between James Robert Bradley and J.R. That’s why she wasn’t doing the full-court press. She understood the difference between his two lives. Understood it, and possibly even respected it.

She was more dangerous than he’d thought possible.

Eastwood to direct. Freeman and Washington to star. The who’s who of people who could pull off a Western—and she’d thought of him. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered, but that didn’t change things. “I’m not interested.”

Not in the part, anyway. He managed to break eye contact, which snapped the tension between them.

“Any Indians in this movie?” For once, J.R. didn’t want Hoss to shut up. It’d be better for everyone if Hoss did all the talking.

She was silent for two beats too long. He shouldn’t care that he’d disappointed her, so he ignored the inconvenient emotion.

“Sadly, no. I believe they were all pushed off the land before our story begins. If something opens up, I’ll be sure to keep you in mind.”

Conversation seemed to die after that, as if no one knew what was supposed to be said next. J.R. wanted her to leave and take this discomfort with her. He didn’t want her to look at him—through him—anymore. He didn’t want to think about her pretty eyes or long legs, and he sure as hell didn’t want her to give him another just-woke-up, so-glad-to-see-you look of longing. And if she wouldn’t leave, he had a good mind to bail.

But he’d promised Minnie to be polite. So he focused on eating the food that was tasteless. After a few moments, Minnie asked another question about some actor, and Thalia responded with what felt like a little too much forced enthusiasm.

“Now, I’ve got a chocolate cake or there’s blondies,” Minnie said, which meant J.R. was almost free.

“Oh, thank you so much, but I need to get on the road.” Thalia glanced at him and added, “This has been wonderful, and you’ve been more than kind, but I couldn’t possibly take up any more of your time.”

“At least take some of the blondies. I insist.” Minnie was up and moving. She never let anyone leave without an extra meal.

“I’ll get the dishes.” Hoss started clearing the table, which wasn’t like him at all.

Before J.R. could process Hoss’s sudden reversal of his no-housework policy, he found himself sitting alone with Thalia. It’s not that he was afraid to look at her, afraid to feel the way her presence pulled on parts of him he pretended he’d forgotten existed. Wasn’t that at all. He didn’t want to give her another chance to make her case. He didn’t want to tell her no again. He’d already done it twice. Once should have been enough.

Nice. Polite. He could feel Minnie’s eyes boring a hole in the back of his head. What the hell? He’d never see her again anyway. “What are you going to tell Levinson?”

“I’m not sure.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her eyebrows knot together. She looked worried. For some reason, that bothered him.

“You seem like …” Aw, hell. Was he about to pay her a compliment? “You seem like a nice person. What are you doing working for him?”

Her gaze locked on to his, and that connection he didn’t want to feel was right there, pulling on him more and more. “I’ve found that life often takes you places you’d never thought you’d go.”

She was doing it again, looking right into him. So what if what she said made all kinds of sense? So what if she came off as decent? So what if she was completely at ease with Minnie and Hoss?

She didn’t belong here. She might well go back and tell Levinson all sorts of fabricated crap. He might find himself on the cover of next week’s Star, and he might find more people freezing to death on his property, trying to snap a picture of the elusive James Robert Bradley.

“Here we are.” Saved by dessert, J.R. thought as Minnie bustled up to the table. “Now don’t try to get to Billings tonight. Here’s directions to Lloyd’s place. I’ll call him and let him know you’re on your way. And our number’s here—” she tapped on the paper “—so call me when you get there.”

J.R. cleared his throat in the most menacing way possible. Minnie was giving out their number? When did that become a good idea? Never, that’s when.

“I want to make sure you get there, safe and sound.” Minnie said the words to Thalia, but she shot the look of death at J.R.

Thalia didn’t acknowledge his rudeness. Instead, she thanked Minnie and Hoss with such warmth that it felt like they were all old friends. Hoss got her coat and, doing his best impersonation of a gentleman, held it for her.

After Thalia buttoned up, she turned to face him. J.R. was torn between not looking at her so she’d leave faster and looking at her good and long. He wasn’t going to see her again, and he certainly didn’t want to, but he knew that the memory of her strange visit would haunt him for a long time after she left. He wanted to make sure he remembered her as she was.

“J.R.” That was all she said as she extended her hand.

He shouldn’t shake—for his own sanity if nothing else—but if he didn’t, Minnie might stop feeding him. Suck it up, he thought. So what if she was maybe the only other woman on the planet—besides Minnie—to call him J.R. after she knew about James Robert? Didn’t matter. She was leaving and that was that. “Thalia.”

Her skin was soft and much warmer now. A look crossed her face, almost the same as the one she’d given him when he woke her up earlier—except she was wide awake now. That look was going to stay with him. He wanted to be annoyed with it, and with her, but he couldn’t be.

“It’s been such a pleasure meeting you.” When Minnie started talking, Thalia let go of his hand. “You’re welcome back anytime, Thalia.”

Everyone paused, like they were waiting for him to say something gruff or rude, but J.R. held his tongue. Part of him wanted to see her again, to see if she was really like this, or if the whole evening had been an elaborate act designed to lull him into complacency.

He wanted to see if she’d still look at him like that. Into him, like that.

Minnie walked her to her car. Hoss watched them from the front window. But J.R. stood rooted to the spot.

He wanted to see her again.

He hoped like hell he never did.

Four

Billings hadn’t gotten any closer overnight, Thalia realized as she drove to the airport the next morning. Five hours was a lot of time to think. Maybe too much time.

“What are you going to tell Levinson?” J.R. had asked and she still didn’t have an answer. The night of dreamless sleep in a room that hadn’t been touched since the days of The Brady Bunch and a breakfast of bacon, eggs and extra-strong black coffee with Lloyd hadn’t gotten her any closer to a plan.

What were her options? She could quit before Levinson had a chance to fire her. That might help her reputation in the short-term, but sooner or later the rumor mill would start grinding again. People would dig up the old news and the old photos of her and Levinson and start asking if maybe another affair had led to her sudden departure. It wouldn’t matter that there was no affair this time. Just the suggestion of one would be damaging enough—for her. For the second time, Levinson would come out unscathed and Thalia’s career would be ground into a pulp. And like the last time, when no one had hired her as an actress, this time no one would hire her as a producer. And if you weren’t an actor and you weren’t a producer, then you weren’t anybody in Hollywood.

She needed to avoid any action that had a hint of juicy gossip. So quitting was out. What could she do to keep her job? She could present Levinson with a list of reasons why Bradley had been a bad idea—her bad idea. Except that any reasons she came up with would pretty much have to be bold-faced lies. The man had been everything she’d hoped to find. He was less gorgeous than he’d been fifteen years ago—less polished, less perfect. He was less the pretty boy now.

No, he wasn’t pretty. Handsome. His hair had deepened from golden-boy blond to the kind of brown that only reflected hints of gold in the firelight. His ten-day-old beard made it clear he wasn’t a boy anymore. He’d put on weight, maybe thirty pounds, but instead of going right to his gut, as often happened when actors let themselves go, it seemed like he’d added an all-over layer of muscle. And not the kind that came from hours spent at a gym. No, the way his body had moved, from the way he rode his horse to the way he had sat on his heels in front of her spoke of nothing but hard-earned strength.

All of those things were swoon-worthy, but his amber eyes—those were what held Thalia’s attention. They were the only things that hadn’t changed. No, that wasn’t true, either. They looked the same, but to Thalia, it seemed like there’d been more going on beyond the lovely color. And for one sweet, confused moment, she thought she’d been privy to what he was thinking.

She mentally slapped her head again. Had she touched that beard? Had she acted like a lovesick schoolgirl, swooning over the biggest hunk in the world? Yes, she had. And why? Because when she’d opened her eyes, she’d thought she’d still been dreaming. How else to explain the small smile he’d given her—her, of all people. She’d been dreaming, all right. Neither part of him—James Robert the superstar or J.R. the reclusive rancher—would be the least bit welcoming to the likes of her. She felt like a fool. She’d embarrassed herself and, based on his behavior during the meal, she’d embarrassed him, too.

At least she thought she had. The exchange—the touch, the smile—between them couldn’t have taken more than twenty seconds. J. R. Bradley was hard to read. She could see so much churning behind his eyes, but she couldn’t make sense of it. She had no good idea if he’d been embarrassed, flattered or offended. Or all three. All she knew was that her little slipup had had some sort of effect on him. The other thing she knew was that J.R.’s eyes were dangerous. Looking into those liquid pools of amber was a surefire way to make another mistake.

Thalia shook her head, trying to forget the way his stubble had pricked at her fingers. She could relive that moment again when she had the time—all the time in the world, if she was going to be unemployed. Quitting wasn’t the best option. Lying about J.R. was out. Anything she said would take on a life of its own, and she had the awful feeling that if she started the rumor mill churning about him, he might trample her the next time. What could she do to save her job?

She was walking into Billings Airport when she realized that she only had two options. One was to present Levinson with a list of better-suited actors to take the role and hope that he wouldn’t ask questions about what had happened with Bradley. Which was asking a lot of hope. It had taken a great deal of negotiating to convince Levinson that Bradley was perfect for the role. It would take a heck of a lot more to convince him Bradley wasn’t.

The other choice was to go back and get Bradley.

“May I help you?”

Thalia realized she was standing in front of the check-in desk, her return ticket in one hand.

She had to get Bradley. She couldn’t give up on him. He wouldn’t be happy to see her again—at least, she didn’t think he would be—but Minnie Red Horse was another matter entirely. Thalia did have an open invitation to come back to the Bar B Ranch, after all. If she didn’t take advantage of that, did she deserve to keep her job?

“Ma’am? May I help you?” The clerk at the check-in desk was beginning to get worried.

Thalia couldn’t leave. But she wasn’t prepared to stay. She’d planned for a quick overnight trip. She had her makeup and meds, her laptop and a change of underwear. Her dress and coat had already proven to be woefully inadequate. If she was going back out to the Bar B, she needed to be ready this time.

“Yes,” she finally said as she advanced to the desk. The clerk looked relieved that Thalia wasn’t some weirdo flaking out. “I need to buy some clothes. Where’s a good place to shop here?”

The clerk went right back over to worried. “The Rimrock mall has a J.C. Penney.”

It had been ages since she’d been in the kind of mall that had a J.C. Penney—not since she had been back in Oklahoma. It seemed fitting—and would probably cost her a fourth of what stuff in Hollywood would. She could absorb a little wardrobe adjustment, especially if it kept her employed. “Perfect.”

Thalia got directions, made sure her open-end ticket was still open and then re-rented the car. She called Lloyd to tell him that she’d be back tonight, and if it was okay with him, she’d probably be staying a few nights more.

Then she went shopping.

J.R. was getting sick of winter. Another day of riding out on the range to make sure that the cattle and buffalo had open water, and another day of trucking hay out to the far reaches of the ranch for wild mustangs they pastured. The chores didn’t bother him—it was the bone-chilling cold that hurt more every day, and they hadn’t even had a big winter storm yet. Which was another source of worry. If it didn’t start snowing a little more, the ranch would be low on water for the coming summer. If it snowed too much, he’d lose some cattle.

“Getting too old for this,” Hoss muttered off to his side.

“You’re only thirty,” J.R. reminded him. “Many happy years of winter ranching ahead of you.”

“Hell,” Hoss said as a gust of wind smacked them in the face. “At least you have options. I’m stuck out here.”

“Options? What are you talking about?”

Hoss turned in the saddle, holding his hat to shield his face from the wind. “You could have gone to California, you know. You didn’t have to stay out here with me and Minnie.”

“Didn’t want to.” He was surprised at how much that statement felt like a lie.

“Man, why not? Pretty woman like that offers to give you money for nothing to go where the sun is shining? Shoot. I’d have gone.”

J.R. chose not to respond to this. It had been two days since Thalia Thorne had shown up. On the surface, nothing had changed. He was still the boss, cattle still had to be watered and it was still cold. But something felt different. Minnie had been quiet after their visitor had left—not happy, like J.R. had hoped she’d be. But she hadn’t scolded him on his lousy behavior. She hadn’t said anything, which wasn’t like her. And now Hoss was laying into him.

He saw the something that was different as soon as they crested the last hill between them and the ranch house J.R. had built a year after he’d bought the place. There, in the drive, was a too-familiar car.

“Would you look at that,” Hoss mused, suddenly sounding anything but grumpy. “Looks like we got ourselves a pretty guest again.”

“What is she doing here?”

Hoss shot him a look full of humor. “If you ain’t figured that one out yet, I’m not gonna be the one to break it to you.” Then he kicked his horse into a slow canter down to the barn.

Damn. And damn again. If he weren’t so cold, he’d turn his horse around and disappear into the backcountry. Thalia Thorne might be able to find the ranch house, but she wouldn’t survive the open range, not in her sexy little boots and tight dress.

The fact of the matter was, he was frozen. “She better not be in my chair again,” he grumbled to himself as he rode toward the barn.

Hoss whistled as he unsaddled his horse. The sound grated on J.R.’s nerves something fierce. “Knock it off. She’s not here for you.”

“And you know that for sure, huh?” Hoss snorted. “She came for the shiny gold man in your lair up there—but that don’t mean she won’t stay for a little piece of Hoss.”

J.R. felt his hands clench into fists. One of the things that had always made him and Hoss such fast friends had been that they didn’t argue over women. Hoss went for the kind of bubbly, good-time gal that always struck J.R. as flighty, while he preferred women who could string together more than two coherent, grammatically correct sentences at a time. In the eleven years he’d been out here, he and Hoss had never once sparred over a woman.

There was a first for everything, apparently.

“She’s off-limits.” The words came out as more of a growl than a statement.

“Yeah?” Hoss puffed out his chest and met J.R.’s mean stare head-on. “I don’t see you doing a bang-up job of getting her into your bed. If you aren’t up to the task, maybe you should stand aside, old man.”

J.R. bristled. He was only six years older than Hoss. The idiot was intentionally trying to yank his chain, and he was doing a damn fine job of it. J.R. did his best to keep his voice calm. As much as Thalia’s reappearance pissed him off, he still didn’t want to walk into the kitchen with a black eye or a busted nose. “I don’t want her in my bed.” Hoss snorted in disbelief, but J.R. chose to ignore him. “I don’t want her in my house. And the more you make googly eyes at her, the more Minnie gushes at her, the more she’ll keep coming back. She doesn’t belong here.”

Hoss didn’t back down. But he didn’t push it, either. Instead, he turned and headed for the house at a leisurely mosey, still whistling. Still planning on making a move on Thalia Thorne.

Cursing under his breath, J.R. groomed his horse at double-time speed. He did not want Thalia in his bed, no matter what Hoss said. She represented too big a threat to his life out here, the life he’d chosen. The fact that she was here again should be a big, honking sign to everyone that she was not to be taken lightly.

So why was he the only one alarmed? And why, for the love of everything holy, was his brain now imagining what she’d look like in his bed?

He tried to block out the images that filed through his mind in rapid succession—Thalia wrapped in the sheets, her hair tousled and loose, her shoulders bare, her everything bare. Waking her up with a kiss, seeing the way she gazed at him, feeling the way her body warmed to his touch …

J.R. groaned in frustration and kicked a hay bale as he headed toward the house. When had this become a problem? When had he let a woman get under his skin like this—a woman he didn’t even like? When had his body started overruling his common sense, his self-preservation?

And when had Hoss decided a woman was more important than their friendship?

His mood did not improve when he walked into his kitchen to find Thalia, sitting on his stool, leaning into a hug with Hoss. That did it. J.R. was going to have to kill his best friend.

He must have growled, because Hoss shot him a look that said I got here first and Thalia sat up straight. The way her cheeks blushed a pale pink did not improve J.R.’s situation one bit.

“J.R., look who’s back!” Hoss’s tone of voice made it plenty clear that he was going to keep pushing J.R.’s buttons. His arm was still slung around her shoulders. “I was telling Thalia how good it was to see her pretty face again.” The SOB then gave her another big squeeze. “You found a casting couch for me yet?”

Thalia laughed nervously as she pulled away from Hoss’s embrace. “Sadly, I haven’t found the couch that can handle you, Hoss. But I’ll keep looking.”

Then she turned her bright eyes to him. “Hello, J.R.” She made no move to get up, no move to shake his hand—much less hug him. He wouldn’t have trusted her if she had, but damned if it didn’t piss him off all over again that she didn’t.

Behind the Thalia and Hoss tableau, Minnie tapped her big wooden spoon on the counter as she looked daggers at him. Be nice, her eyes told him. Why was it his job to make nice when everyone else was flaunting his rules in his house? Screw it. Without a word, he turned away from the interloper and the two traitors and walked—not stomped—upstairs. He heard Hoss coming up behind him, but he didn’t wait.

The shower did little to improve his mood, mostly because he couldn’t stop thinking about that woman. At least this time, she was dressed appropriately. A cowl-neck sweater in an ice-blue color that matched her eyes had clung to her curves, revealing as much—if not more—than the short dress. Instead of those teasing tights, she was wearing jeans that hugged every inch of her long legs. And instead of delicate stilettos, she had on a pair of real cowboy boots. Her hair had been freed of the severe twist so that now it fell in loose waves around her face and shoulders.

She looked like someone who did, in fact, fit out here. Worse than that? She looked like she belonged out here.

It’s a costume, he reminded himself as he rubbed dry with more force than normal. That wasn’t the real her. He didn’t know what the real her looked like, but it couldn’t be that cowboy’s dream come true down there.

If Hoss touched her again, J.R. would have to kill him.

He almost put on his favorite frayed shirt in protest of this whole ridiculous situation, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. He went with the sweater Minnie had knit him two years ago for Christmas. It usually made her happy when he wore it. Clearly, it was his only hope of keeping her on his side right now.

He could do this. He wouldn’t lose his temper, and he wouldn’t add fuel to the fire. If need be, he wouldn’t say anything. If he didn’t engage, sooner or later Thalia Thorne would get tired of asking. It was that simple.

The glint of sunlight off gold slowed him up, and he found himself staring at his Oscar. He didn’t know why he kept the damn thing out—after all, his Golden Globe and all his other awards were in a box in the back of his closet. Oscar had brought him nothing but heartache, today included. He hefted it off the mantle, feeling the cold metal. He’d been terrified the night he’d won, hoping and praying someone else—anyone else—would win, but knowing that the race was his to lose. And when they called his name, the terror had spiked right on over to panic. If he hadn’t figured it out before that moment, he knew then that he’d lost any semblance of control he’d had over his life. People had always expected things of him—his mother, his agent, film people—but he’d known when he’d won that the life he’d barely managed to keep a grip on was going to be wrenched from his control. And he’d been right. He’d stopped being a person and become nothing but a commodity.