The Cowboy And The Ceo

The Cowboy and the CEO

Christine Wenger

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the bull riders who chase their dream

and to the bullfighters who protect them in the arena.

Please be careful!

A heartfelt thanks to Silhouette editors

Leslie Wainger, Susan Litman Gail

Chasan and Paula Eykelhof,

who made this writer’s dream come true.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

“I can’t spare the time to fly to Wyoming,” Susan Collins said to her administrative assistant, Bev Irwin. Susan held up the clipboard that was packed with papers. “Many of these orders require my personal attention.”

“It’s nothing that we can’t take care of.” Bev shook her head. “You haven’t had any kind of vacation in ages. This would be a good compromise. You can fly to the Gold Buckle Ranch, enjoy their new spa and do a little business.”

Susan didn’t even look at the pamphlet Bev shoved in her hand, and began to pace. “Look, Bev, I appreciate your concern, but I have a business to run. I’ll send one of our salespeople to the Gold Buckle to handle whatever Emily Dixon needs in sportswear for the campers. I’ll only charge her half of our cost, or I’ll donate whatever she wants. Anything for the kids.”

“Mrs. Dixon didn’t ask for any donations. All she asked for was you,” Bev insisted. “She’s heard of the fund-raising you’ve done for physically challenged children, and wants to see what you can do for her program.”

That was flattering, but she didn’t raise the money for any accolades. She did it in memory of her sister, Elaine. The money went for research, for any special equipment the kids might need, for tutors and books while they were in the hospital, and for fun. All children needed to have fun. She could help a little with the fund-raising, but she didn’t have time for more.

Susan sighed. Surely whatever the owner of the Gold Buckle Ranch wanted could be done by phone, fax and e-mail. She flipped through the papers on her clipboard and paced. Where was the order for uniforms from that high school marching band?

Bev handed Susan another colorful pamphlet. “You’re exhausted and you know it. You need a change of scenery, Susan. You need to relax. Besides, Emily Dixon seems like the nicest lady. You’d love her.”

“How on earth did she hear about me out in Wyoming?” Susan asked, stopping her pacing long enough to lean against her desk.

Bev smiled. “Mrs. Dixon also liked the fact that your company is called Winners Wear. And she loved our motto—For Those Who Try Their Best. She said that’s the very philosophy of the Gold Buckle Ranch. They try to reinforce the same goal to each of their campers—to do their personal best in spite of their handicap. Isn’t that terrific?”

Susan nodded. Clearly, Emily Dixon got it.

Bev slid an unopened brochure across Susan’s desk and began to unfold it. “You should see all the programs they have for children with different disabilities—Wheelchair Rodeo, the Gold Buckle Gang, Cowboy Quest for emotionally troubled kids who are facing legal troubles…”

Susan barely listened to the litany of programs. She didn’t want to turn Mrs. Dixon down, but she had plenty of competent salespeople who could handle this project.

As she looked at her to do list on the clipboard, the page began to blur. Her eyes were tired, scratchy, and she was having a hard time focusing. She didn’t panic. Small things. Easily correctible with a squirt of eye drops and another cup of high-octane coffee.

Bev continued to push. “Why can’t you just let your very talented staff do their thing and take a break?”

Because Winners Wear was her company, and she had to be involved in every detail, that’s why.

But maybe Bev was right.

Bev snapped her fingers. “Uh-oh. None of the other salespeople are free to go to Wyoming. They’ll be at the big trade show in Orlando that week.”

The twitch under Susan’s eye returned. “I forgot about the trade show.”

“Susan…” Bev took a deep breath and held up the brochure. “Emily wants you to experience the essence of the ranch so you can develop a meaningful logo. She also wants cowboy-style shirts and jeans to give to the campers for each program. Then she’d like all kinds of other gear to stock a little camp store. She thinks it’ll be a good fund-raiser and that the parents, caregivers and all their donors would want to buy that kind of merchandise.”

Susan rubbed her forehead, feeling the start of a headache. She liked the fact that Emily Dixon chose her company, and really liked the fact that Emily was so dedicated to helping children.

Her sister, Elaine, would have loved to spend time at a place like the Gold Buckle Ranch.

Susan stood and leafed through the clipboard again, not remembering what she was looking for. “A week is too long.”

Truthfully, she was exhausted. If she had enough energy to stand at the window and look down at the street, she’d see people pushing clothes racks from building to building. Vendors would be hawking goods from tables on the sidewalks, and shoppers looking for bargains would be haggling with them for better deals.

There was no place like New York’s Garment District, and Susan loved the hustle and bustle and the energy of it all.

She’d started Winners Wear seven years ago, after her mother died. She’d bought this century-old building with the money her mother had left her, her entire savings and a huge bank loan. Then she’d hired the best employees she could find, mostly eager young graduates from the city’s fashion and design schools.

It had been a big gamble for her financially, but her sales staff started bringing in contracts—big contracts—immediately.

For most of the past seven years, she’d felt overwhelmed, but it had paid off. She worked hard, but she couldn’t take all the credit. Everyone worked hard.

She hated to admit how tired she was. She couldn’t do her best when she felt like a pile of scrap material.

Maybe she should go to Wyoming.

“Go and breathe some clean mountain air, boss,” Bev said. “You’ll come back nice and refreshed and raring to go. Don’t worry about a thing here. We’ll take care of everything while you’re gone.”

Susan took in a deep breath and let it out. Maybe it would be a good idea—before she ended up in the hospital herself.

No thanks. She’d had enough of hospitals when her sister was alive.

“Okay. I’ll go,” Susan mumbled. “Not for a week, though. I’ll leave this Thursday and return on Saturday. Then I have to get back here and take care of business.”

Clint Scully meandered through the parking lot toward the front doors of the Mountain Springs Airport. Every now and then, he’d slow his pace even more and take a gulp of strong, black coffee from a white take-out cup.

Nothing like a perfect Wyoming day. Not too hot. Not too cold. A warm breeze and a lot of sunshine. A perfect July day to drag out a lawn chair and take a snooze in the sun. He yawned in anticipation of doing just that.

Mrs. D had promised to bake him a blueberry pie if he picked up Susan Collins at the airport. His buddy Jake Dixon had warned him about his mother’s matchmaking tendencies and reminded Clint that she’d sent Jake to pick up Beth Conroy, who became Mrs. Jake Dixon, just last year.

Clint swore under his breath. If Mrs. D had any ideas about matching him up with Susan Collins, she might as well spit in the wind.

Been there. Done that. He liked his freedom too much to commit to anyone.

Once inside the terminal, he checked the monitor and saw that Susan’s plane had landed a few minutes ago, so he headed for baggage claim.

“Anyone here from the Gold Buckle Ranch?”

He looked around to see who was speaking, and his gaze landed on the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. She was tall, slender and buzzing from person-to-person like a bee in a flower bed.

Clint grinned. That had to be Susan Collins.

Her red-brown hair was done up in some kind of fancy braid. Her dark eyelashes fanned out on her cheeks like paintbrushes. She was as pale as an Easter lily—she looked as though she hadn’t seen the warm kiss of the sun in years. She had on some kind of black jeans—designer jeans. A red blouse with a vee-neckline worked for her. The vee wasn’t very plunging—just deep enough to make things interesting. Strappy black sandals with a slight heel made her legs look long and slender.

He stifled a wolf whistle and approached her.

Clint tweaked the brim of his hat. “I’m Clint Scully from the Gold Buckle.” He stared into magnificent purple eyes. They must be colored contact lenses, he decided. No one had eyes like that. “And you must be…?”

“Susan Collins.” She held out her hand, giving him a strong handshake. “Are you here to drive me to the ranch?”

He enjoyed warmth of her touch and the sureness of her handshake. “At your service.”

“Thank you.” She studied her luggage. “Where’s the skycap for these bags?”

“I can get them. There’s only two,” he said, flexing.

“Oh, no. They are terribly heavy, especially that one.” She pointed to the bigger black suitcase. “It’s stuffed with samples and a couple of my catalogs.”

“No problem,” Clint said, lifting up the suitcases. Damn, they were heavy. What else had she brought from New York, the Statue of Liberty?

He managed a smile instead of a groan.

“No problem, darlin’. No problem t’all.” He laid on the Texas accent. Ladies from the East usually loved his drawl.

“My name is Susan,” she snapped. “And they wheel.”

Mmm…Seemed like she wasn’t the Texas-drawl type.

“Right this way, Susan. My truck’s out front.”

He wheeled her luggage and tried to keep up with her pace. She was walking fast, like she was late for a meeting or something.

“I’d like to get a massage after that dreadful flight,” she said. “I’m really looking forward to the spa.”

The words came out in a rush. She walked fast. She talked fast.

“The spa hasn’t been inspected yet. Should be soon, though.”

“Inspected?” she asked.

“A father of one of our campers donated the hot tub to the ranch. He said that it’d be good relaxation for the caretakers of the children. Mr. D had it installed on the deck of the Caretaker Hotel by the baseball diamond.”

She raised a perfect eyebrow. “A hot tub? But what about the spa? Massages? Facials? Wraps?”

He shook his head and looked confused. “Mrs. D is the only one who calls it a spa. Everyone else calls it a hot tub. I think there’s a communication problem somewhere.”

Susan closed her eyes. “I came all this way for a hot tub by a baseball diamond?” She sighed. “Wait until I tell Bev.”

Clint told Susan to wait at the curb and went to get his truck. By the time he returned, three cowboys were talking to Susan—hitting on her, really. Bronc riders, he assumed, probably on their way to Cheyenne for the Frontier Days festivities. Bronc riders thought they were hot stuff.

“Toss those suitcases in the back, boys,” Clint said, interrupting their conversation. They did so, and then went back to ogling Susan.

“Thanks for your help.” He shook their hands, in an effort to send them on their way. “Goodbye now.”

One of the cowboys pointed at him. “Hey, aren’t you…?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, always flattered by the recognition. “Yeah, I am.”

Clint opened the door for Susan to get in.

“Just who do they think you are?” she asked.

“Just myself.” He grinned. “They’ve probably seen me around—either fighting bulls or hauling my stock to rodeos.”

“I see.”

She gave a big sigh and checked her watch. She got into the truck, and so did he. He aimed the pickup toward the mountains.

“Mr. Scully, how long will it take to get to the ranch? I’d like to meet with Emily tonight and show her my samples.”

“I don’t think that’ll be possible. Emily will be busy with the kids. Then after dinner, it’s popcorn and movie night. We’re showing one of the Harry Potter movies. You won’t want to miss that.”

“I didn’t think that the program had started yet.”

“This is Thursday. Right?”

Susan nodded.

“Our Wheelchair Rodeo program ends on Saturday morning, and the Gold Buckle Gang will be arriving on Saturday afternoon. It’s a program for—”

“Kids who use crutches or braces,” she said softly, pinching the area above her nose as if she were getting a headache.

“How did you know that?”

“I read it in the flyer,” she said. “On the plane.”

He wasn’t sure if she was really interested in the Gold Buckle Gang program or if she was getting a headache. He narrowed his eyes as he watched her.

“Make sure you don’t miss the big game on Sunday night. We use a beach ball and the batter uses a big plastic bat. We have shortened bases and the cowboys do some clowning around and get the kids laughing and—”

“Sounds like fun,” she said. “But I’ll probably be gone by then.”

She sounded remote, disinterested. He wondered why. “It is fun, but it also serves a purpose. The kids develop balance and maybe exercise different muscles, or maybe rely a little less on their crutches. Or maybe they just get to laugh a little more than usual.” Clint grinned. “Wait until you see the horseshoe toss, and the relay races and some of the other events we have at the end of the program that make up the Gold Buckle Rodeo. We give out gold and silver buckles for the winners.”

“Buckles?”

“It’s a western thing. Rodeo winners have always received belt buckles—like this beauty.” He gripped the big gold buckle he sported and tapped it. “National Championship Bullfighting—2006.” He was proud of that, and he’d won the competition four times in a row. The competition was getting tougher and tougher every year, but he still had the moves.

He smiled at Susan. “Maybe we’ll get you to play a little beach ball–baseball with the kids.”

But he doubted she would. Miss New York City seemed to be even more distant.

“No. I can’t,” she said abruptly. “I didn’t know that a program would be starting and the kids would be here. For some reason, I thought I’d be here in between programs.” She took a deep breath and looked out the window. “Like I said, I’ll be leaving on Saturday. I have to get back home.”

She was getting downright frosty, but he still pushed. “Well, you’ll be staying at least a couple days. You’ll enjoy the ranch and the kids. The kids are the best.”

She didn’t answer, then sighed. “I’m suddenly very tired, Mr. Scully. It was a long flight.”

Just before she turned her head to look out the side window, he could swear he saw moisture in her eyes. Now he felt bad.

“Susan, did I upset you somehow?”

“Oh, no. No. You didn’t. Like I said, I’m just tired.”

That was just an excuse. Something was wrong. She seemed really tense when he talked about the kids. Something was going on.

Clint concentrated on the road ahead, knowing that he’d somehow put a damper on Susan Collins’s arrival in Wyoming.

He usually stayed far away from women like her—rich, successful, city women who had plenty of money but no heart. Women who were just like his former fiancée, Mary Alice Bonner. Hell, Susan looked like she could teach Mary Alice a few things.

But for some reason, he wanted to—needed to—see Susan Collins smile. He wanted to get her to relax, to get rid of the burden weighing her down.

And if anyone could do that, it was Clint Scully.

Chapter Two

Susan didn’t want to get involved with the kids. She was afraid it would hurt too much.

She was just supposed to help design a logo and a line of merchandise for the ranch, and that was all she intended to do.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care. Quite the opposite. She hadn’t been thinking clearly when she’d agreed to come here—she wasn’t sure she could bear facing a group of children whose pain so reminded her of her beloved sister’s.

To this day, she could remember the smells and sounds of the hospital where she visited Elaine, who’d died way too young.

As soon as Emily was available, she’d meet with her to discuss what Winners Wear could offer. Then she’d take her scheduled flight out of Mountain Springs on Saturday morning. Bev had bought her an open-ended airline ticket, thinking that she’d decide to stay and relax and enjoy the spa.

She’d be leaving in two days.

With that decided, she glanced at Clint to see if he was still alive. He walked slow. He talked slow. He even drove slow.

Anyone could see that on this wide-open road without a car or a cop in sight, he could go at least seventy.

She checked her watch. “Clint, how far away is the Gold Buckle?”

“A couple of hours.”

“Oh.”

He could easily cut that time in half if he’d just step on it. Then again, she doubted that the huge, rusty pickup could go much over the forty miles an hour at which he was currently cruising.

She stole another quick glance at Clint. She had to admit he was handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy way. He had a lazy, sexy smile with a little dimple at the corner of his mouth.

Clint Scully was intriguing.

Maybe it was because he was the first actual cowboy she’d ever met. Certainly, it wasn’t because his jeans hugged his strong thighs, or because his legs were so long that he could barely fold them beneath the dash. Or the fact that he smelled like fresh air and warm cotton.

Her cheeks heated, and she rolled down the window a little more. She reached up and swept the hair that had escaped her French braid off the back of her neck, trying to catch some much-needed air.

She stole another glance at Clint and saw the laugh lines around his eyes. His hands were tanned and strong. She studied the sharp crease of his long-sleeved, blue-checkered shirt. His light brown hair stuck out from under his white cowboy hat and brushed the back of his shirt collar. Her eyes strayed farther south.

He sure did fill out those jeans.

“Something wrong?” he asked, glancing over at her and grinning.

“Um…no. Just admiring your truck.”

That was a lame recovery, but she’d die of embarrassment if he ever guessed that she was checking him out. She decided to change the subject.

“Why did those cowboys at the airport know you?”

“They’ve probably seen me working the rodeo events. I’m a bullfighter. That’s the new politically correct term for a rodeo clown.”

“You mean you toss around a red cape and get the bull to charge you like they do in Spain?”

“Absolutely not.” He chuckled. “You’ve never seen a rodeo or a bull riding event, have you?”

She shook her head. “Not once.”

He whistled. “I thought everyone in North America had seen one at one time or another.”

“Not everyone.”

He made a sharp right turn onto a bumpy road. Susan gripped the lip of the dash so she wouldn’t fall over onto him. She thought her teeth were going to rattle loose from her head.

“So what does a bullfighter do?” she asked.

“I protect the bull riders.”

“From what?”

“From the bull.”

“Just how do you do that?”

“Various techniques, but mostly I’m fast on my feet.”

Her heart started to pound as she thought of a huge bull charging him or anyone else. “Are you crazy?”

“Mostly.” He shrugged. “But then I think you’re crazy for living in New York City, but to each his—or her—own.” He paused for a bit then added, “Anyone special going to be missing you back in New York?”

Hmm…She didn’t know whether or not she liked the fact that he was asking about her availability. He was nothing like any man she’d ever met, and would be interesting to get to know, but that was all. She had no interest in a casual fling.

“If you’re asking me if I’m married, I’m not. Marriage isn’t for me. I don’t have time for relationships. How about you? Anyone worried that you’re going to kill yourself saving cowboys from bulls?”

“No. Marriage isn’t for me, either. Most women aren’t happy living down on the ranch once they’ve seen what the world has to offer.”

“Sounds like you speak from personal experience.”

There was silence. Then he raised a finger from his grip on the wheel and pointed at the horizon. “Bet you don’t get sunsets like that back home.”

The sun looked like a big red ball stuck between two peaks of lacy black mountains. Slivers of purple and yellow and red shot across the sky, and she wondered how long it had been since she’d taken the time to watch a sunset.

She knew the answer to that—not since she’d gotten too busy building her company.

“We might get sunsets like that,” she said, “but there are too many buildings in the way for me to see it from my office or my apartment. Those who live on a high floor can see it.”

“What a shame,” Clint said, shaking his head. “So what do you do in New York?”

“I make uniforms and sportswear.”

“Uniforms? What kind?”

“Everything from high school band to major league baseball and everything in between.” She hesitated, and then said with pride, “I own my own company. I call it Winners Wear, and our motto is ‘For Those Who Try Their Best.’”

“Nice.” He nodded. “I like it. But running your own company seems like a lot of responsibility.”

“It is. I really shouldn’t have left New York. I have a million things that need tending to.”

She fished around in her purse, pulled out her daily planner, slid out a gold pen and reviewed the list of items she needed to discuss with Mrs. Dixon.

She made notes until the light faded. “Could you turn on the overhead light?” she asked Clint.

“Sorry. It’s broken. Why don’t you sit back and enjoy what’s left of the ride?”

She had no choice, now did she? She put her planner away and stared out the window.

They pulled into the Gold Buckle just after sundown. She couldn’t see much of the grounds in the dusk, only the welcoming indoor lights of several small log cabins strung along a brook that glistened in the moonlight.

“This looks just like a real ranch,” she said.

“It is a real ranch.” Clint slowed down and made a right turn. “Mrs. D said to put you in the Homesteader Cabin and that she’ll try to come by later to give you a proper welcome, along with something to eat. That all right with you?”

“Fine. Maybe we can have our meeting then.”

“I thought you were tired.”

“The sooner I meet with Emily, the sooner we can take care of business.”

Clint pulled up in front of one of the log cabins, the second one from the end. In the glow of the porch light by the cabin door, Susan could see two rocking chairs. Large pine trees loomed behind the structure. If there were snow, it’d look like a Christmas card. She wondered if the guests in the other little cabins were at dinner or snuggled up inside.

Susan felt a little thrill of excitement zip through her when she caught the scent of horses on the breeze. She remembered the riding lessons she’d taken one summer in White Plains—a gift from her father when she was twelve. Her mother had protested, but her father had insisted.

“Susan needs to have some fun, Rochelle,” he’d told her mother in one of his rare moments of strength. “And you know how much she loves horses. I’ll take her on the train, wait for her and ride back with her.”