A Husband In Wyoming

“This should do it.”

He placed the hat on her head, then turned her around to face the mirror above the dresser. “There you go. Looks good—you’re already a bona fide cowgirl.”

Jess gazed at their reflection, feeling the warmth of his body behind hers, the weight of his palms, his breath stirring her hair. Awareness dawned inside her.

“Thanks,” she said, appalled at the quavery sound of her voice.

“Uh … you’re welcome.” Dylan sounded a little stunned, as well. He cleared his throat and stepped away.

This new Dylan Marshall—the grown-up version—was comfortable, satisfied … solid. His sexy grin, the confident and flirtatious attitude, the broad shoulders and narrow hips all combined into one seriously hot package.

But she would fly back to New York on Sunday, giving her only four days to get what she needed for the article.

But she was tempted to want more. Very tempted.

A Husband in Wyoming

Lynnette Kent

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LYNNETTE KENT lives on a farm in southeastern North Carolina with her six horses and six dogs. When she isn’t busy riding, driving or feeding animals, she loves to tend her gardens and read and write books.

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

June

Here comes trouble.

Standing outside the barn, Dylan Marshall watched as dust billowed up behind the vehicle approaching in the distance. He swallowed against the dread squeezing his throat. If he could have avoided this encounter by any reasonable means, he would have. The next four days were going to be absolute hell.

At last the Jeep came into full view, its dark blue paint now mottled with dirt. Going too fast, the car barreled up the last hill and hurtled along the road toward the ranch house, where it screeched to a stop with a spray of gravel.

Dylan shook his head. Somebody needs to slow down.

His boots felt as if they had lead in them, but he managed to move his feet and descend the hill toward the house. After a long day driving cattle, all he wanted was a shower. Dirt had settled in the bends of his elbows and the creases of his jeans, the cuffs of his gloves and at the base of his throat. He could taste it on his tongue.

He also wanted some dinner and a chance to sit down on a chair instead of a saddle. But most of all, he wanted to get clean.

He did not want to meet the press.

The door on the Jeep opened and a pair of high-heeled boots hit the ground. Standing up, the driver saw him coming, shut the car door and walked forward. Like two gunfighters, they moved slowly, warily toward each other, hands at their sides as if poised to draw a pistol and fire.

Dylan stopped with about ten feet between them. “Jess Granger?”

She was tall and slim, with long, shapely legs showcased by skinny jeans and those fashionable boots. Shiny brown hair whipped around her head, blown by the never-ending Wyoming wind.

Pulling the long strands out of the way, she nodded. “From Renown Magazine. You’re Dylan Marshall?”

Her face could make Da Vinci weep—big eyes, the cheekbones of a goddess and a wide red mouth that stirred a man’s blood to the boil.

He tipped his hat and then closed the distance between them, removing his gloves so he could shake her hand. “Welcome to the Circle M Ranch.” A warm, slender palm returned his grasp. Dylan let go slowly, smiling in pure appreciation of her beauty.

Spreading her arms wide, she took a deep breath and blew it out. “There’s a lot of space out here. Such a big sky.”

“Are you a New York native?”

“I’ve lived there for half my life, so it feels like it. I’ve done my share of traveling, but this is my first time in Wyoming. I’m ready for a Western adventure.”

“We’ll do our best.” A drop of sweat rolled down the nape of his neck. “Let me get your luggage.” Stuffing his gloves into a back pocket, he crossed to the car and opened the rear hatch.

She whirled to follow him. “That’s okay. I can—”

He pulled out her two bags before she could finish. “Got it. Come into the house.” Leading the way onto the porch, he set down the big red suitcase and opened the screen door, nodding her through. “Be our guest.”

He was determined to be polite. The only way to survive this interview was to keep control of the conversation, making sure Jess Granger learned only what he wanted her to. Reporters could be ruthless, but his job for the next four days was to give this New York journalist a peek at his life and his sculpture without actually revealing anything important. The gallery where he’d be showing his work had insisted on a big publicity push. Their bottom line: no article, no exhibit. After the way he’d sabotaged his career two years ago, Dylan knew he was lucky to get this chance for a significant show. If he wanted his work to be seen, he had to cooperate with the gallery—and with Jess Granger.

But he didn’t want his emotional guts dissected in a fancy magazine for strangers to read. His three brothers deserved their privacy, as did the kids staying with them for the summer. Fortunately, Dylan considered himself an expert in the art of shooting the bull. Try as she might, he’d make sure Ms. Granger discovered only the most harmless details.

He set her bags by the hallway door while she sashayed inside and circled the living room. “Nice,” she said, with a surprised expression. “Quite upscale for a bachelor pad.”

“We try to stay civilized.”

“So I notice.” She homed in on the one sculpture in the room, a bear figure he’d made while still in high school. “Is this yours?”

And so it started. “Yep. An early piece.”

“It’s...clever. Obviously talented.” Her words echoed the art critics he remembered from his time in that world—conceited and condescending. “But not at all similar to the work you were doing when you came out of college.”

Hands in his front pockets, Dylan tried to stay relaxed. “I took a different direction for a while there, exploring new materials, new techniques. I tried to give people what they appreciated. What they wanted to see.”

Jess Granger nodded, setting the bear in its place. “You certainly did that. For five years, you were the darling of the international art scene, the name everybody talked about. You had sculptures in the major art fairs and showed up at all the right parties.

“Then—” she turned around and snapped her fingers “—you disappeared. Just gone, without an explanation or a goodbye. There hasn’t been a hint of news about you in more than two years. My editor was surprised to hear that you have a new show opening, and downright shocked that Trevor Galleries would sponsor this article.”

Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, the reporter stared at him. “They sent me to get the story, Dylan. They want to read all about this comeback of yours. What does it mean, personally and artistically? What are your plans? Will you be returning to New York, or Miami? Or working in Europe? And, the most important detail... Why in the world did you drop out in the first place?”

Dylan cleared his throat. “You dive right in, don’t you?” he asked. “Would you like something to drink or eat, first? A chance to get settled?”

“No. Thanks,” she said, after a beat. “You had scholarships to European art schools. Blue ribbons at juried shows around the country. The critics all raved. You were a sensation before your twenty-fifth birthday. Why would you give that up?”

“Inspiration comes and goes,” he said. “You can’t always predict where it’ll lead.”

Jess Granger shook her head. “Artists don’t just abandon their careers. What have you been doing in the two years since?”

“Working.”

“On what?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s a ranch—there’s a lot to do. In fact,” he added, “I won’t be able to sit around talking for four days. We’ve got a full schedule here in the summer, from sunup to sundown. Not including studio time.”

“I’m not here to disrupt your life.” Her hands went up in a gesture of surrender. “This article is supposed to provide positive press for you and your show. I intend to convey how you blend your art with your lifestyle.”

“Sure. ‘A Day on the Ranch’ is all you want.”

“I can’t force you to confess.” She actually pouted at him, making the most of that beautiful mouth.

Dylan only grinned at her. “With your looks, I suspect you can persuade a man to confide all his most dastardly secrets.”

Her face eased into a sassy smile. “I promise not to reveal where you hid the bodies, anyway.”

“I don’t worry about that.” Flirting was much more fun than dueling over the truth. “This is the Wild, Wild West, after all. It’s the superhero tights in my dresser drawer I’m concerned about. We artists are a weird bunch, you know.”

Jess Granger laughed out loud. “What a story angle!”

He enjoyed the sound of that laugh. “Anything to draw readers, right?”

“I do try to stay on the right side of the truth.” Her sudden frown said he’d hit a sore spot. “So you’ll have to show me the tights before I commit to print.”

Dylan chuckled. “Once you’re in my bedroom,” he promised, “we’ll see about that.”

* * *

JESS WINKED AT HIM. “An interesting prospect.” Maybe flirting was the way to get Dylan Marshall loosened up and talking. Otherwise, he’d stonewalled her so far.

And she certainly had no objection to trading banter with such a gorgeous specimen. He’d always been handsome, thanks to those long-lashed, dark chocolate eyes and a sensitive mouth framed by a square jaw and determined chin. Three years ago, though, he’d seemed too young to take seriously, wearing designer suits and an edgy haircut, dating top models and rich socialites. Observing from a distance, she’d considered him a brat. Talented, but spoiled.

Today, Jess had to admit that his exile had caused a huge change in Dylan Marshall, on the outside at least. There was a maturity in his face she found immensely appealing. With his narrow hips, long legs encased in snug jeans and broad shoulders under a blue-checked shirt, he could certainly lay claim to the legendary cowboy assets. He even wore a white hat, to finish off the hero image.

But her assignment was to get behind that image and discover the truth. Judging from his evasions so far, an aggressive approach did not bode well for the interview. She would have to handle him carefully, or she wouldn’t get the details her editor demanded.

Before she could renew her offensive, a husky blonde dog padded into the room from the rear of the house followed by a big man with light brown hair and dark eyes like Dylan’s.

“Welcome to the Circle M,” the man said in a bass voice. “I’m Wyatt.” He wore jeans and boots but had a back brace fitted over his chambray work shirt. “Make yourself at home.”

Jess shook his hand, noticing calluses indicative of physical labor. “That seems pretty easy to do. I appreciate your hospitality.”

“No trouble.” He glanced at the canine standing beside him wagging her tail. “This is Honey. She runs the place.”

“She’s beautiful. Can I pet her?”

“She’ll be insulted if you don’t.”

Bending over, Jess carefully stroked the tawny head. “Nice to meet you, Honey. You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” She didn’t have much contact with animals, so she was never quite sure what to do with them. But Honey’s brown eyes seemed friendly. Her tail wagged and she licked at Jess’s wrist with her long red tongue.

“Wyatt’s on restricted duty,” Dylan explained as she straightened up. “He took a fall and broke a couple of bones in his spine. We’re attempting to fill the gap he’s left, but that’s about as easy as trying to drive a truck with the engine missing.”

“An exaggeration,” Wyatt said, giving her a slow smile. “I understand you’re from New York. Have you traveled much in the Western states, Jess?”

“I’ve visited Colorado and New Mexico for interviews, and I’ve skiied in the Rockies. But I’ve never had the chance to experience authentic ranch life.”

“You’re in the right place,” Dylan said. “We’re about as authentic as it gets when it comes to cowboys.” He paused. “Well, unless you consider that Ford’s a lawyer and Garrett’s a preacher. They’re a little out of the ordinary. Wyatt’s the genuine article, though. A rancher through and through.” He obviously admired his brothers and wasn’t afraid to say so.

Footsteps sounded on the porch outside. “Hey, Dylan, get your butt out here. You’re supposed to be—” Another cowboy in a white hat stomped into the house, but stopped short when he caught sight of Jess. “Oh...sorry. I didn’t realize we had company.”

“This is Jess Granger,” Dylan said. “The reporter I mentioned would be here. Jess, meet my forgetful brother Garrett.”

Garrett Marshall took off his hat and smiled as they shook hands. “I wasn’t expecting you to arrive today. There’s been a lot going on.” As handsome as his brothers, he shared the same strong face and athletic build, but his eyes were blue, and his build was somewhere in between Wyatt’s and Dylan’s. He wore his light brown hair in a conservative cut and the uniform that ranch life apparently called for: jeans, boots and shirt. “I guess this means you won’t be supervising the dinner detail,” he told his younger brother.

“We’ve got seven teenagers staying on the ranch,” Dylan explained when Jess glanced at him in question. “A sort of summer camp for some of the troubled kids in the area. My sister-in-law-to-be talked us into helping her out. So there’s a bigger crowd than usual on the premises.”

“That’s quite a project.” She didn’t expect to be impressed with their efforts. In her experience, damaged kids couldn’t be changed with a few weeks of attention, no matter how well-intentioned. “Sounds like a lot to fit in around ranch work and getting ready for an art show. When do you sleep?”

“Whenever he sits down,” Wyatt said.

“Or stops moving,” Garrett added.

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Thanks, guys. Just label me lazy in front of a reporter for a national magazine. No problem.”

“We’ll keep it off the record,” she promised him. “What do the kids get to do while they’re here?”

“Come observe for yourself,” Garrett said. “They’re not quite finished for the afternoon.”

A distraction might ease Dylan’s resistance. “Can I take pictures?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Let me get my camera.”

“And a hat. That creamy New York complexion will burn in the Wyoming sunshine,” Dylan said as he placed her bags in a cool, shadowed room off the hallway in the back of the house. “I hope you’ll be comfortable in here.”

The room had been furnished with rustic simplicity, soothing and peaceful, and the connecting bathroom was clean and bright. “I’m sure I will.” She pulled her camera out of her shoulder bag. “But I didn’t consider bringing a hat.”

He nodded. “I figured you probably hadn’t. Wait here just a second.” The thud of boot heels retreated down the hall and then returned. Dylan appeared in the doorway with a white Western-style hat in his hands. “This should do it.” Standing in front of her, he placed the hat on her head. Then he spun her around to face the mirror above the dresser. “There you go. Looks great—you’re already a bona fide cowgirl.”

Jess gazed at their reflection, feeling the warmth of his body behind hers, the weight of his palms, his breath stirring her hair. Awareness dawned inside her. She had to think about taking a breath.

“It’s a new approach,” she said, and was appalled at the quavery sound of her voice. “Thanks.”

“Uh...you’re welcome.” Dylan sounded a little stunned, as well. He cleared his throat and stepped away. “You might want your hair in a ponytail—it’s always windy on the ranch. I’ll wait for you outside.” In an instant, he was gone.

Releasing a big breath, Jess took off the hat and went to her suitcase for a brush and an elastic band. She took extra moments to thoroughly smooth and braid her hair, recovering her equilibrium in the process.

This new Dylan Marshall—the grown-up version—wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d come prepared for a sulky, reclusive artist, someone hiding away from the world he’d once conquered.

The rumor at the time was, of course, that a love affair gone wrong had sent young Dylan into exile. No woman ever claimed to be the cause of his disappearance, though, and the attention of the art scene quickly shifted to a new talent.

The man she’d just met didn’t appear to be pining away. He seemed comfortable, satisfied...solid. His sexy grin, the confident and flirtatious attitude, the broad shoulders and narrow hips—all combined into one seriously hot package. And there was chemistry between them. Those moments in front of the mirror had affected them both.

But she was flying back to New York on Sunday, giving her only four days to get what she needed for the article. With his three brothers as well as seven teenagers on the premises, there wouldn’t an opportunity for her to get beyond a professional acquaintance with Dylan Marshall. Which was too bad, because she was tempted to want more. Very tempted.

But even if she had been staying longer, she’d reached the point in her life where a simple fling just wasn’t enough. A few days...weeks...even months of good times and good sex didn’t compensate for the emotional quagmire she went through when the relationship ended.

And it always ended.

Besides, her life was in New York. Her apartment and her job, her favorite coffee shop and the laundry that folded her shirts just right—all were in New York. Fun and games with the world’s handsomest cowboy wasn’t enough to make her give up her laundry service.

So she would keep her dealings with Dylan Marshall strictly business, and she’d leave with a well-written article and no regrets.

Above all, no regrets.

* * *

DYLAN FOUND HIMSELF out on the front porch without realizing quite how he got there. His brain had switched off, and all he could do was feel. Those seconds with Jess Granger’s slender shoulders under his palms, her scent surrounding him and her eyes gazing through the mirror into his, had been...well, cataclysmic. He’d walked away a little disoriented.

Women didn’t usually befuddle him like this, even beautiful ones. Ever since he’d discovered the difference between boys and girls, he’d made a point of getting to know as many of the opposite sex as possible—as friends, as lovers, as human beings. He considered women to be a separate species and thoroughly enjoyed all their unique, feminine attributes.

Somehow, he would have to maintain his usual detachment when it came to Jess Granger. He had to keep their relationship under control, avoid letting her get too close. She was, after all, a journalist. She’d come specifically to delve into his life and, more important, to reveal to the public as many of his secrets as she could discover.

Because of the person she expected him to be. The person he’d once been.

At eighteen, he’d left home determined to “make it big.” He’d had talent but he’d also gotten lucky and done some sculpting that the “right” people thought they understood. They’d invited him to their playgrounds and he’d gone along because he was young and stupid and flattered by the attention. To a kid from tiny Bisons Creek, Wyoming, attending art parties in Paris, France, appeared to be the pinnacle of success.

He knew better now. His life in that world had come to a screeching halt one chilly afternoon during a conversation that lasted maybe five minutes. Later, standing in a Paris sculpture garden, he’d surveyed his own work and felt completely detached from its purpose, its meaning, its origin.

All he’d wanted at that moment was to go home. To be with his brothers, inside the family the four of them had built together. After years away, he’d craved the life he’d once worked so hard to escape.

He’d been on a plane less than twelve hours later. And once he got to Wyoming, he hadn’t left in more than two years. He certainly hadn’t courted the attention of anyone in the art world. But then Patricia Trevor called him, having seen a piece he’d donated to a Denver hospital charity auction. She suggested a gallery exhibit of his recent projects, and he was vain enough to say yes. He wanted exposure for his ideas as much as ever. If he didn’t have something to say, he wouldn’t spend time or effort on the process.

But he didn’t expect his former fans to understand or appreciate this current approach. Jess Granger’s article supposedly launching the show would probably bring down a hailstorm of derision on his head. That was the way the art world worked—you gave them what they wanted or they cut you off at the knees. In spite of her beauty—or maybe precisely because she was so beautiful—he expected the same treatment from her.

The screen door to the house opened and the lady herself stepped onto the porch, a high-tech camera hanging around her neck. “There you are.” She squinted against the sun. “It is bright out here. Thanks for the hat.”

“You’re welcome.” A compliment on how she looked in the hat came to mind, but he ignored the impulse. “Let’s go watch the kids.”

Walking side by side up the hill, Dylan found himself searching for something to say. “We took them to a rodeo and most of them decided they wanted to compete.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Not so far.” They crested the hill and approached the group of kids gathered on the other side of the barn. “They’re still at the learning stage.” In the natural way of things, he would have put a hand on her shoulder to bring her closer to the action.

“Come watch,” he said, keeping his hands at his sides and feeling as awkward as he probably sounded. “You can meet everybody. They’re practicing on the bucking barrel.”

The bucking barrel was a fifty-gallon drum suspended sideways by metal springs from four sturdy posts. With a rider sitting on the barrel, the contraption tended to bounce around, mimicking the motion of a bucking horse or bull. Ropes could be attached at various points, allowing spectators to increase the range of motion and the unpredictability of the ride.

“That’s Thomas Gray Cloud.” Dylan pointed to the boy currently riding the barrel. His dirty T-shirt testified to a fall or two already.

“All he holds on to is that one rope?” Jess shook her head. “I can’t imagine. At least he wears a helmet.”

“Ford, the legal eagle, made sure of that. But the secret is balance. You try to stay flexible and move with the animal, keeping your butt in place and using your arms and legs independently.”

She looked over at him, her golden gaze intent on his. “Is this the voice of experience?”

He nodded. “I rode saddle broncs. The horses wear a special saddle—with stirrups—and you hold on to a rope attached to the horse’s halter. It’s slower than bareback riding, but style counts a lot more.”

Her attention shifted to Thomas. “I think you’re all crazy.”

As they reached the group around the barrel, Thomas lost his balance and fell off to the side. He pounded a fist on the ground, but rolled over and got to his feet right away.