A Cowboy Under Her Tree

“Unless that’s what you’re hoping for,” he goaded.

“No,” she assured hastily. “That is not on the table.”

He looked at the high-top beneath their empty drinks. “You sure now? This here table looks mighty sturdy—”

“Are you naturally odious or is that an acquired skill?”

He very nearly laughed. As far as he was concerned, Melanie McFarlane was the epitome of high maintenance. She looked expensive. She talked expensive. She smelled expensive.

But she did keep his mind moving.

And God help him, he’d always been taken in by leggy redheads. Not this time, though. The last time he’d lost more than he could bear.

“Maybe I’m a bit of both,” he allowed.

Her lips compressed.

The cocktail waitress appeared next to them, deposited a fresh round from her jam-packed tray and promised to return for the empties as soon as she could.

Melanie met his stare for an uncomfortable minute. Then she lifted her drink and gulped down half. She fiddled with her purse and drew out a slender gold pen, then pulled the fresh white napkin from beneath her drink. “I think your…idea…is overkill. Perhaps if we just put the terms in writing.” She began writing carefully, then lifted her pen, looking at him as she slid the napkin toward him. “Does that make you feel better?”

He looked down at the list as he took a pull on his beer and wished he’d ordered a whiskey, instead. But then again, they’d both already had plenty to drink.

They were still sitting together at the table, after all. That had to be the result of alcohol. There was no other logical explanation.

The first several items on the napkin were straightforward, considering the nature of the agreement. Act as her husband—for the benefit of her family—and teach her everything she needed to know without seeming to teach her.

“Better?” He let out a disbelieving snort. “This is pretty damn crazy.”

She didn’t reply. Just wrapped those long, cool fingers of hers around her glass and sipped. If he wasn’t mistaken, her hand wasn’t entirely steady.

Nerves? Alcohol?

He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the napkin. After six months of their make-believe marriage, she would sign over fifty percent of the property to him.

Free and clear.

He could finally expand the Flying J into the Hopping H’s prime territory. Not all of that territory, as he’d been planning to do for years, but half of it was nothing to sneeze at.

What was six months of his time, after all? He’d already put that, and more, into raising the funds to back his original offer on the H.

The offer that she’d trumped.

Now, he could have half the spread and plow his money back into it to boot.

From the corner of his vision, he watched her lift her drink again. Take a delicate sip. Set the glass carefully down.

She shifted slightly and the top of her red dress—a sort of wrapped thing that clung to her curves—gaped for a moment, giving him a fleeting glimpse of something pale and lacy against flesh that looked taut and full. It had to be his imagination that had him hearing the slide of her legs as she crossed one over the other. The bar was too damn noisy for him to have actually heard anything of the sort.

Imagination could be a pain in the ass.

He peered at her sloped handwriting, so cultured-looking and different than his own chicken scratching, as he reached the bottom of her stipulations.

“No hanky-panky,” he read aloud, glancing up at her.

She looked vaguely bored. But there was a thin line of white around her compressed lips that belied the demeanor. “It seemed prudent to add that point.”

He figured the humor winding around inside him would be sort of misplaced just then. “I think my grandmother used to use that term.” He leaned closer toward her, catching a whiff of her expensive scent. No imagination required there. Other than to wonder where she dotted that evocative perfume.

At the base of her neck? Her wrists? Between her breasts?

He stared into her eyes, making himself think of the Hopping H, and what he stood to gain. She’d said it herself.

This was business.

But seriously. Hanky-panky?

“I’m a rancher, babe,” he said with the cocky wisdom of a ten-year-old poking a sleeping cat with a stick. “We call it by more basic terms.”

Her eyes widened a little.

“Sex,” he said wryly.

The relief that crossed her face was comical. Did she think he was so uncultured that he’d drop something way more basic?

Probably.

“Here’s the deal.” He set the napkin squarely in the center of the table, his palm covering her neat little list. “You can list your terms like this all you want. We can sign it. We can flippin’ notarize it. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m not pretending to be anything. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

A swallow worked down her throat, drawing his eyes to the hollow at the base of it. Just below that seductive indentation, a single sparkling diamond seemed to almost float at the center of a nearly invisible chain. “Evidently, I misjudged the level of your interest in the Hopping H.” She pinched her fingertips around the edge of the napkin. “I don’t suppose I can prevail upon your holiday spirit to keep this discussion between the two of us?”

He kept his hand on the paper, preventing her from pulling it free. “People ’round here would tell you I don’t have any holiday spirit.”

She looked insulted. “I don’t indulge in gossip, Mr. Chilton.”

“What do you indulge in, Miz McFarlane?” Below the sparkling diamond, there was another sweep of smooth, ivory skin, leading down to that wrapped dress.

She shifted in her seat, affording him another woefully brief glimpse of lace. “Quite obviously, wasting our time.” She tugged at the napkin again.

“I didn’t say you were wasting your time.”

She let out a faint sigh. “Then what are you saying?”

“I told you. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this for real.”

She leaned forward, the edges of her fine white teeth meeting in a smile that seemed remarkably close to a clench. “I am not looking for a real husband,” she assured under her breath.

He leaned closer, too, mostly to see how quick she’d back away.

Only they ended up nose to nose, because the infernal woman didn’t retreat.

“I’m not looking for a real wife, either,” he murmured. Her skin was just as fine this close as his imagination suspected. And her lashes were long. Not the clumped-up, mucked-up kind of long that came out of some tube. He didn’t kid himself that she went without cosmetics. Life with Nola had shown him just how effective that particular art could be. But he’d bet his favorite saddle that those lashes of Melanie’s didn’t have any need for artifice.

And those lashes suddenly flickered, dropping down to shield her dark eyes. “People are staring. Just give me the napkin and I’ll go.”

“Sugar, if you give up this easy, you might as well pack it in and move back to Boston.” His fingers covered hers, stilling her tug on the napkin.

“I told you. I’m not from Boston and I’m not giving up.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“Knowing enough not to beat a dead horse,” she returned.

“Why don’t you just sell me the H now, and cut your losses? Go back and run one of those towering hotels your family’s famous for?”

“Why don’t you just take a flying leap? Did you not just hear what I said? A McFarlane doesn’t quit.”

He smiled faintly. “Right. So if you don’t want to fail, it’s like I said. We get hitched for real. Then we’ll have something to talk about.”

“A person might think your virtue were at stake.” Her voice was low and the smile on her lips didn’t extend to her eyes.

His fingers itched to wrap around another beer. At least that was an easier explanation than thinking that his fingers itched to wrap around something much more warm and animated.

With hair the color of mahogany set on fire.

He curled the itchy fingers into a fist. “I gave up on virtue years ago. But I want to make damn sure you can’t finagle your way out of giving me my cut when our little association ends.”

“Aren’t you two looking cozy?” The deep voice interrupted them.

Melanie’s head whipped up, but Russ had to give her credit for her quick recovery. “Hello, Grant. Stephanie.” Her smile for the couple was friendly. Warm. “Thank you again for inviting me to your party. It’s a lovely way to kick off the season.”

“We’re glad you could make it,” Steph assured. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a sparkly clip and her green eyes shined almost as much. “You, too, Russ.”

Russ was watching the expression on Grant’s face. Things had smoothed a lot between him and Grant in the past months, but they still hadn’t quite gotten back to being as tight as they’d once been. Grant was Russ’s oldest friend, but since Thunder Canyon had made the leap from being a bump in the road to the flavor of the year for the jet-setting crowd, they’d had more than a few differences.

Grant embraced the progress. He’d found a brand-new niche, managing the Thunder Canyon Resort. He fit in.

Russ didn’t.

But at least Grant hadn’t sold his family’s ranch, Clifton’s Pride, to the redhead, though. Of course, that had meant Russ lost out on the Hopping H when Melanie snapped it out from under his nose, instead.

“Yeah. Looks like you’re doing plenty of celebrating.” Grant’s sharp blue eyes took in the collection of empty glasses and bottles on the table that the busy cocktail waitresses hadn’t yet cleared away. “Why don’t I set you both up with rooms tonight? We’re almost at capacity, but there are a few cabins left.”

“Worried about keeping the roads safe?” Russ drawled.

Grant smiled faintly. “Something like that. Cab service isn’t exactly running swiftly tonight.”

Russ eyed Melanie. “One room will do, won’t it, darlin’?” No time like the present to start the townsfolk thinking that there was some hanky-panky going on between him and the Easterner.

He wasn’t so far gone that he could turn down a piece of the Hopping H. Business was business. She’d said so, herself.

Melanie swallowed again and slowly gave up her tug-of-war on the napkin. Her gaze—wide, brown, deep—focused on him. Her lips—soft, full, pink—parted softly. “One room is fine,” she finally agreed, sounding oddly shy.

And just that quickly, Russ’s damned imagination sidled into action again. His declaration had been pragmatic. His imagination was not.

Steph was doing a fair to middling job of hiding her shock. On the other hand, Grant didn’t look all that shocked. Just knowing.

After all. He and Russ did go a long way back.

“I’ve already alerted the desk,” his old friend said smoothly, proving one of the reasons why he was good at what he did. He anticipated things before they actually occurred. “You can pick up your key whenever you’re ready.”

Russ didn’t look at Grant. He ran his fingertips deliberately over the back of Melanie’s slender hand. Felt the tremble she couldn’t hide. “Appreciate that.”

“We’d better say good night to the Stevensons,” Steph murmured to Grant. “Looks like they’re getting ready to head out.”

“Right.” Grant covered the hand she tucked beneath his arm as if they’d been doing that all of their lives. “Catch you later.” His lips twitched. “Enjoy yourselves, now.”

“We plan to.” Russ watched the color rise in Melanie’s cheeks. “Supposed to snow sometime tonight, and the rooms here have outdoor hot tubs.”

“You know what they’re thinking,” Melanie said under her breath once Grant and Steph moved off to intercept the departing couple.

“Exactly what you’re wanting them to think,” he returned. He lifted the beer bottle. Found it empty. Eyed her empty cocktail. “Want another round?”

“I think I’ve had plenty.”

“Then we should hit the room. That is, if we’ve got a deal. A real deal.”

She seemed to steel herself a little as she rose to her feet. She swept a shaking hand down the side of her dress and turned toward the door. “Bring the napkin.”

“What for?” He caught her elbow in his hand, keeping her from sailing ahead of him as she looked prepared to do.

Her gaze swept down him from head to toe. The color in her cheeks bloomed even brighter. “Consider it a prenuptial agreement.”

Chapter Three

Melanie simply had to shut off her brain as they went through the process of obtaining the offered room key and getting to their room, which was actually one of the cabins looking out over Thunder Canyon, rather than a single room in the lodge itself.

It felt as if she and the hunk of granite towering over her were the focus of every pair of eyes they passed, first at the registration desk, then the coat check where Russ almost mockingly tucked her into her calf-length fur. Nor was her ego healthy enough to believe that she would be the subject of any particular gossip. After six months, she was still a newcomer in Thunder Canyon.

A curiosity.

An oddity.

Russ, however, was as much a part of the town as the foundation on which the charmingly Old West buildings were built. And it seemed very clear to her that he was definitely the focus of those curious looks.

They had to leave the main lodge to get to the cabin and the moment they stepped outside, Melanie felt the slap of cold, crisp air in her face.

It was both heady and sobering at the same time.

But she couldn’t back down.

Which is why she soon found herself standing in the center of the small two-room cabin, facing a man who didn’t like her, much less approve of her.

An electric hurricane-style lamp was already lit and it cast an intimate glow around the cabin. The interior looked rustic without being rustic and despite the haze clouding her sensibilities, her McFarlane brain still managed to take in the amenities of the cabin.

Pure luxury.

Similar to what she hoped to offer her guests.

She jerked a little when Russ dropped the cabin key on the long pine table surrounded by four chairs in the dining area. Seeming oblivious to her, he shrugged out of his shearling coat and tossed it onto the leather couch that was draped with a red-and-black-plaid woolen throw. There were also two comfortable-looking armchairs and an enormous ottoman that doubled as a coffee table. He brushed past her, entering the small, efficient kitchen area. “Take off your coat.”

Evidently, his helping her into it had been for the benefit of the people watching them. She set her purse on the table and slid off the mink that her father had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday and draped it carefully over one of the ladder-back chairs.

She tried to see through the open doorway that led to the bedroom, but it was too dark.

She heard him rummaging in a cupboard and was surprised when he returned to the table without another drink from what she expected would be a well-stocked bar.

Instead, he had a ballpoint pen in his hand. He yanked out a chair, sat down, and tossed the somewhat crumpled napkin on the table in front of him. He clicked the end of the pen and added his own scrawl beneath hers.

When he finished, his dark gaze was brooding as he slid the napkin across the smooth wooden surface toward her. “You gonna stand there all night, or sit yourself down?”

“Stand.” She picked up the napkin and read his additions, under which he’d confidently signed his name. Russ J. Chilton.

“It’s not short for Russell?”

He just watched her.

What did it matter what his name was? She tossed the ink-riddled napkin back to him. His first term had been that their marriage be performed legally. He’d already made that point perfectly clear. The second was the description of acreage he wanted when it came to getting his division of the Hopping H. But the last condition?

She gave him a look. “I need you to teach me what I need to know, not agree to do everything you tell me to do.”

“Where the Hopping H is concerned,” he pointed out the rest of his statement with a shrug. “Someone’s gotta be the boss.”

“And I suppose where you’re concerned that’ll never be a woman.” She managed not to roll her eyes.

“It won’t be a woman who doesn’t know the front end of a horse from the back.”

Then she did roll her eyes. “And women are accused of exaggeration. Believe me, Mr. Chilton, I know which end is which, and currently, you’re acting like the hind end.”

He shrugged again, obviously unfazed. “You can do all the bossing you want when it comes to your guest enterprise.” His lips twisted at that, telling her yet again what he thought of that particular endeavor. “But when it comes to ranch operations, I call the shots. Or there’s no deal. You can go find yourself some other sucker.”

“I’m not looking for any kind of sucker. Just someone who’ll give me a fair deal and exercise some discretion at the same time.”

“And you think that you’ll get that from me.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Won’t I?”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

She unfolded her arms and closed her hands over the back of the mink-draped chair. It seemed to help the way the room tended to spin around her head. She really shouldn’t have had that last martini. “We don’t have to like one another to acknowledge certain facts. And one is that you’re scupu…scrupulously fair. Everyone in town says so.”

He made a soft grunt. “Too damn fair. What’s your family got to do with all of this?” He shoved his hand through his hair, leaving it even more rumpled.

Probably what he looked like when he woke in the morning.

She swallowed, trying to banish the thought. “Hmm?”

“You said only your family had to believe we were married. Why?”

Her fingers sank farther into the fur. “They need to believe I’m competent in all areas of the guest ranch. Being married is a side note to them. Why would you trust getting your share out of a marriage—an uncostumated…consummated marriage—more than you’d trust a contract?”

His gaze seemed to drop to her lips. “Does it matter?”

Touché. She leaned over the table and slid the pen from between his fingers. Before she could talk herself out of it, she signed her name with a flourish, right beneath his.

Then she tossed the pen on the table and straightened. The bravado had a price, though, and it was called head rush. She gripped the back of the chair again, waiting until her vision cleared and the room stopped swaying. “I’ll make arrangements, then, for this legal marriage.”

“No. I’ll do it.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t you trust me?”

He unfolded himself from the chair and smiled humorlessly as he very deliberately picked up the napkin, folded it in half and tucked it in his back pocket. “I shouldn’t have trusted the last woman I married. Why would you be any different?”

Leaving Melanie blinking at that, he headed through the cozy living area and into the darkened bedroom beyond. A moment later, a soft light came on and she saw the foot of an enormous lodgepole bed.

One bed.

Naturally.

Russ was out of her line of sight, but a familiar-looking ivory sweater was tossed onto the foot of that bed.

She chewed her lip and looked sideways at the leather couch.

“If you were any sort of gentleman, you’d offer to take the couch,” she said loudly enough for him to hear.

“Being fair doesn’t mean being a gentleman.” He appeared in the doorway and Melanie nearly wilted with relief that beneath his sweater he’d worn a white T-shirt.

A white T-shirt that clung faithfully to every line of his impossibly wide chest.

She barely had time to brace herself for the bed pillow that he tossed across the room to her.

“They keep extra blankets in that hassock thing,” he told her. “Lid lifts up and they’re inside. Get some sleep. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

Then he turned his back on her and closed the door between them.

Melanie squeezed the downy pillow between her hands.

She wasn’t sure if she were envisioning his neck or not.

She turned to the couch and tossed the pillow on it. The ottoman did, indeed, contain storage beneath the heavy leather-topped lid and she pulled out two blankets, which she spread out on the couch.

Eyeing the closed bedroom door, she nibbled her lip as she stepped out of her high heels. She needed the restroom. And not just to clean her face and her teeth. But she’d rather go out into the cold night and hide behind some bush rather than knock on that door.

The door that suddenly opened, as if the man behind it had, once again, been reading her mind. “Bathroom’s free,” he said abruptly.

The T-shirt was gone.

She dragged her eyes away from the dusty brown hair swirling across his chest and arrowing down a ridged abdomen that should have been winter pale, but wasn’t.

The last man she’d occasionally dated in Atlanta had been exactly six-one, worked out two hours a day, ran marathons and religiously waxed his chest. He’d been more beautiful than most women, utterly sophisticated and, amazingly enough, he’d been straight.

But for some ungodly reason, the appeal of Russ’s masculinity soared to a universe far beyond Michael’s. She’d never once contemplated becoming intimate with Michael, any more than she’d considered it with any of the other men who’d escorted her over the years.

That was, until she’d met this irritating man.

Now, she seemed to struggle with those unfamiliar thoughts every time she turned around and she knew if he knew that she’d managed to attain the age of thirty without sleeping with a man, he’d have a field day with the knowledge.

She was five-seven, but she still wished she hadn’t been so quick to remove her shoes as she sailed past Russ and all his appallingly glorious muscle and flesh into the spacious bathroom beyond the king-size bed, because he seemed larger than ever.

She closed the door and leaned back against it, stupidly feeling as if she needed to catch her breath. As if she’d just run some sort of gauntlet.

It was so ridiculous. Melanie didn’t get breathless over men, much less men who figured she wasn’t worth the time of day.

A mirror across from the door reflected her image and she stared hard at herself. Made herself remember just what she was working to accomplish here.

It had nothing to do with personal relationships, and everything to do with business.

That was who she was.

She let out a long breath. Ran her hand through her hair and straightened deliberately from the door. She was merely overreacting to the stress of the situation.

That was all.

Feeling more like herself, she reached for one of the twin robes that were provided by the resort. The shower was separate from the oversize, jetted tub and she turned it on, letting the rushing sound of water continue the job of soothing her jagged nerves. Moving more quickly than her swimming head was comfortable with earned her a stubbed toe and soap in her eyes when she washed her face. There were small complimentary tubes of toothpaste but no toothbrushes, and as she made do with a nubby washcloth and her finger to do the job, she vowed that the Hopping H would not be remiss in that area.

On the other hand, the soaps and lotions provided were about as heavenly as anything that McFarlane House hotels had ever provided. Showered and clean, she tossed aside the towel and folded herself into the smaller of the two thick terry robes. She rinsed out her lingerie and commandeered the robe hangers for them and her dress which she hung on the back of the bathroom door and opened it again, and acting as if she had blinders on, tossed the larger robe in the general direction of the bed as she strode back out to the living area.