Killer Cowboy Charm

“Hi, there.” She walked toward him, her hand outstretched. “I’m Meg Delancy, from ‘Meg and Mel in the Morning’.”

He’d intended to be suave. He’d intended to be slightly nonchalant, as if he met TV celebrities every day and he couldn’t get very excited about this one. But her smile blinded him. He hadn’t been prepared for that smile to go right through him and make him weak in the knees.

Despite her ridiculous outfit, despite her plan to turn the noble Circle W into a media circus, despite his resentment of her intrusion into his peaceful way of life, he was dazzled. “I’m…uh…Clint…uh…Walker.”

“Now there’s a name right out of television Westerns. Wasn’t Clint Walker the star of Cheyenne?”

“My dad loved the show.” He shook her incredibly soft hand and cursed himself for acting like a teenager with a crush.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Walker. I must say I expected jeans and a Stetson. You’d be right at home on Madison Avenue.”

“Well, I don’t…my foreman, Tucker Benson, he’s the cowboy around here. I’m a business-school major.” That last part was true. Unfortunately his shiny new degree had been no good when it had come to pulling the ranch out of the red.

“Not everyone’s cut out to be a cowboy, Mr. Walker.”

“You can call me Clint.” The words were out before he knew it. Sheesh. And he’d promised himself not to be overly friendly, just polite. Mr. Walker would have suited that plan perfectly.

“I’ll do that.” She hit him with The Smile again before gesturing to the small, wiry guy who climbed from the driver’s side of the van. “This is my cameraman, Jamie Cranston. Jamie, this is Clint Walker, our host.”

“Good to meet you.” Jamie’s handshake was firm. Then he glanced up at the sky. “We still have some daylight left, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get footage of the ranch. Do you have a bunkhouse?”

“Yes. Behind the main house, over by the corrals.” Clint thought about the usual condition of the bunkhouse. “But the place isn’t very—”

“I’m not interested in a Hollywood bunkhouse,” Jamie said. “I want a real one. If you have a spare bed down there, I’d like to hang out with your ranch hands.”

Clint hadn’t figured on this at all. He’d made up both spare rooms in the main house, planning that she’d take one and her cameraman the other. If the cameraman slept in the bunkhouse, then he and Meg Delancy would be in the big house…alone.

“It’s the best way to get local color,” Jamie said.

Clint could hardly object on the grounds that he wanted Jamie around to chaperone. “Sure, I guess that would be okay.” Jed and Denny would be only too happy to have the cameraman there. They both planned on entering the competition, so hanging out with Jamie would seem like a good way to gain an advantage.

“Great,” Jamie said. “Meg, if you want to grab your suitcase and laptop, I’ll just drive the live truck around to the bunkhouse and unload my camera.”

“What live truck?” Clint glanced around, expecting God-knows-what to materialize.

“That’s what we call the van with all the communications gear in it,” Meg said.

“Oh. Right.” Clint acted as if he’d known that all along.

“We don’t have a whole lot of time here,” Jamie said, “so I want to make use of every minute.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Meg headed to the back of the van, where Jamie had already opened the doors.

Clint glanced inside and saw enough electronic equipment to choke a stable of horses. He supposed they’d need all that to beam stuff to New York, or whatever the plan was.

Meg pulled out a rolling suitcase the size of a hay bale and plunked it to the ground. Then she hooked the strap of a computer case over her shoulder. “I’m all set, Jamie. Take off.”

“Thanks, Meg. See you two later.”

Full-blown panic set in. Clint hadn’t pictured being stuck alone with Meg, especially not five minutes after she’d arrived. “Dinner’s at the main house at six,” he called after Jamie. But that left two incredibly long hours. What in hell’s name could he do with this big-city woman for two hours?

“I’ll be back at six.” With that, Jamie hopped in the van and drove around behind the house.

Clint watched the van until it was out of sight.

“Well, Clint. Here we are.”

Her voice tickled his eardrums in a most unsettling way. A sexual way. This was not good, not good at all. He was supposed to think of her as the enemy. Instead he was more fascinated by the minute.

He glanced down at her. “I guess we should…go on in.”

“I really appreciate you putting me up. I’m sure it’s an imposition.”

“No, not at all.” He reached for her suitcase and lifted it so it would clear the steps. The thing felt as if she’d packed it full of anvils, but he would have expected her to come loaded to the gills with fancy clothes. In fact, she was exactly as he’d pictured her. And instead of being repulsed, he was wildly attracted. It defied logic, but there was the truth of it.

“I’ll show you to your room.” As he trudged up the steps with her bulging suitcase, he pictured her sleeping in that room, then pictured how close her room was to his. Damned if that didn’t get him extremely excited.

2

THE LANDSCAPE DIDN’T provide much inspiration for Meg as she followed Clint into the house, but the view in the foreground was outstanding. She could look at buns like that all day. And those eyes of his—were they really that blue, or was it his tan that made them seem that way?

The tan had her speculating about his claim that he was only a business major and didn’t mess with ranch work. Unless he had tennis courts hidden away somewhere, she’d bet money he did some manual labor around this place. And he moved like a guy who was used to physical activity.

She’d known her share of desk jockeys, and Clint didn’t strike her as the desk-jockey type. He struck her as the yummy type, though. Interesting that he’d deny knowing anything about the very occupation she’d come out here to showcase. Very interesting.

“Here’s your room.” He carried her suitcase into an antiquey sort of place, with a brass bedstead, an old pine dresser and a braided rug on the wooden floor. Shoot, there was even a rocker in the corner. Homespun City.

She spied a door on the far wall. Laying her laptop on the bed, she gestured toward the door. “I imagine that’s the bathroom.”

“No, that’s the closet. The bathroom’s across the hall.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t walked across the hall to a bathroom since she’d lived at home with her family in Brooklyn. “Good thing I brought a bathrobe, huh?”

“Listen, if you’d be more comfortable, I could move you into my room.”

The opening was too obvious to resist. “With you still in it?”

To her surprise, he turned red and cleared his throat. “I meant I’d give you my room and I’d take this one. Mine has an attached bathroom.”

How adorable. He was blushing. This gig might turn out to be more fun than she’d thought back when she and Jamie had first headed down the dusty road to Nowheresville. At least the natives were extremely cute and un-spoiled.

Now that she thought about it, the ultra-sophisticated types she’d met in New York didn’t appeal to her all that much. This guy definitely did. Nothing could come of a fling with him, if she dared chance one, but he was the first man to flip her switches in some time. Then again, she’d been too busy for switch-flipping. And she was too busy now. But this attraction reminded her that she missed sex…a lot.

“I wouldn’t dream of putting you out of your room,” she said. “This room will be just fine.” Or sort of fine. She noticed there was no phone in it, and more important, no television.

“I’d be happy to give you my room. I should have thought of that. Let me take five minutes to change the sheets and move out some of my stuff.”

He really was sweet, and she didn’t want to be a problem child, but this back and forth across the hall business didn’t excite her. “Does your room have a TV?”

“No. The only TV is in the living room, and I need to warn you, the reception isn’t very reliable in Sonoita. Depends on how the wind’s blowing.”

She stared at him, unable to imagine unreliable TV reception. She’d begun to accept the lack of shopping options, but she needed TV reception, or life as she knew it would cease to exist.

Then she had a brainstorm. “So I bet you have a DVD player, for when the reception is bad.”

“Uh, no. I have an old VCR, but it’s cranky. I don’t use it much.”

“So how do you amuse yourself at night?”

“I go to bed.”

She tried not to laugh. She really tried hard, but the laugh popped out of her, anyway. God, he was adorable.

Apparently he figured out how his answer must have hit her, because he got even redder. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“That’s too bad. The conversation was getting really interesting.” She took pity on his discomfort and decided to ease up on him. After all, she made her living trading loaded remarks, but he didn’t.

The morning talk show was supposed to be spicy. That’s how viewers liked it. Throwing out saucy comments had become a habit, but here was a country guy, business degree notwithstanding, who wasn’t used to banter. She didn’t want to scare him off, because he just might be the temporary answer to her sexual frustration.

“I shouldn’t tease you,” she said. “As I said before, I appreciate your willingness to put up with me for a few days. This room will be fine. Thank you for allowing me to stay in it.”

“You’re welcome.” He edged toward the door. “Go ahead and get settled in. I’ll…go take care of some things.”

“I hate to be a royal pain, but I would love some coffee. I have a caffeine habit that won’t quit, and my gauge is on the low side.”

He looked relieved to have something he could provide. “I’ll make some coffee, then.”

“Great. You, uh, wouldn’t have a way to make espresso, by any chance?”

“No. Just plain coffee.”

“That’s fine. Great. Plain coffee is great.”

“Want me to bring it to you?”

“No, no. I’ll come and get it.” God, he must really think she was a princess. Maybe she was and hadn’t realized it. She’d never been in this kind of environment before, so she wasn’t sure how Annie Oakley would have handled things.

“I have a better idea. I’ll take it out to the porch.”

“Sounds good.” She vaguely remembered walking across a porch but she’d been concentrating on his tush at the time. As for sitting on a porch, she was a virgin. It sounded as boring as staring at a blank TV screen, but she had to take his presence into consideration. That, of course, was assuming he’d join her in this porch-sitting experience.

“Then I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He started down the hall and paused to glance back at her. “Do you take cream?”

“Nonfat milk.” Somehow she just knew he wouldn’t have it. “Uh, all I have is half-and-half.”

“Then I can drink it black.” She’d already blown her eating program with a fast-food hamburger for lunch. Most people didn’t appreciate how a TV personality had to monitor weight gain. Mona had a height advantage and was thin as a strip of linguini, besides. Being a short person, Meg showed any weight gain immediately. She couldn’t afford to look tubby compared to Mona.

“Then black it is.” Clint disappeared down the hall.

Once he was gone, Meg unzipped her suitcase and thought about her host as she started hanging up her clothes. This might be her chance to have a fling away from the hotbed of gossip that was New York City. When she’d dreamed of a career in television, she’d envisioned dating as part of it. She hadn’t realized how her visibility might hamper her social life, and sexual frustration was becoming a constant companion.

This guy might be the perfect solution, if he had any interest in her at all. But she’d have to find out more about him and assure herself that he could be discreet. Then again, he might have a girlfriend. A man who looked like Clint would likely have a girlfriend. Damn.

Sighing, she contemplated her wrinkled clothes. What she wouldn’t give for valet service. Or even a cleaners within five miles who could do a fast press job on these duds. But she knew enough not to ask about cleaners. If TV reception was dicey, a one-hour cleaning service would be out of the question. She hoped Clint owned an iron and ironing board.

It sure was quiet around here. She hadn’t noticed the silence so much while she’d been with Clint, because he’d claimed a fair amount of her attention. Now that he was out of the room, the stillness was spooky. Some little bird was tweeting outside the window, and she could faintly hear the sound of Clint making coffee in the kitchen, but other than that, nothing. No cars, no sirens, no machinery clanking away.

She looked around to see if the room had so much as a radio. No radio. But when she opened a dresser drawer to put her underwear away, the scent of cedar drifted up. Now that was nice. Cedar-lined drawers. She’d thought about doing that once in her apartment, but she wasn’t the Susie Homemaker type, so the thought had died quickly.

After hanging up as many clothes as she expected to need for this leg of the trip, she pulled out her cosmetics bag and walked over to explore the bathroom. The place was basic, but adequate. And sparkling clean. She wondered if Clint had a cleaning lady or if he was responsible for the condition of everything. In any event, someone had made an effort on her behalf, and she appreciated that.

She’d brought along a lighted makeup mirror, in case she’d need it. Pulling the chain that turned on the light beside the sink, she concluded that she’d need it. And as usual in old bathrooms, there was precious little counter space, although the counter was kind of pretty—tile in a bright flowered pattern that looked as though it had come from Mexico. She could handle this situation, so long as the hot water worked.

Automatic reflex made her glance in the mirror. Not surprisingly, her nose was shiny and her lipstick nearly gone. She reached for her cosmetics bag, another automatic reaction. Meg Delancy, television personality, always had to look good. But as she zipped open the bag, the aroma of coffee drifted down the hall.

To heck with repairing her makeup. She needed coffee, and Clint probably didn’t mind if her makeup was perfect or not. Men hardly ever noticed those things unless the problem was dramatic, like raccoon eyes. She also suspected that perfect makeup might be another signal that she was, in fact, a princess. She’d rather he didn’t think of her that way.

Realistically, she shouldn’t care how he perceived her. But she’d always cared about stuff like that, even when the person in question wasn’t a six-foot hunk of delicious manhood. Given that Clint fit that description, she had even more reason to want his good opinion. From the looks of things, Clint might be the only entertainment the place had to offer.

Back in the living room she took a minute to glance around. The TV was only a nineteen-inch. She’d bet that both the TV and the VCR had been sitting in that same spot when Clinton was elected.

Besides that, the TV was in a far corner of the room and none of the furniture faced in that direction. Instead, the worn leather sofa and chairs had a great view of an enormous stone fireplace. You could put a pretzel-vendor’s cart inside it.

The scent of wood smoke lingered in the air, and ashes under the grate told her Clint had used the fireplace recently, maybe last night. Horse-related books and magazines lay on the well-used pine coffee table.

Meg felt as if she’d landed on Mars. If Clint indeed had a girlfriend, then she’d be left with the games on her laptop. She couldn’t imagine an evening spent looking at a fire and/or reading about horses, probably with no sound except the popping of the wood. She’d go nuts.

Or maybe she was just cranky from lack of caffeine. The remedy for that was waiting for her out on the porch, so she opened the front door and stepped outside.

Clint had been sitting on one of the rustic wooden chairs but he got up when she appeared, his coffee mug in one hand. “Everything all right?”

“Fine.” The air was cooler than it had been before, but a hot cup of coffee should keep her from getting chilled. “The coffee smells great.” She walked over to the chair that was obviously meant for her, sat down and reached for the mug he’d set on a table between them.

Warm, fragrant vapor rose up as she lifted it to her lips. She took a sip. It was without doubt the strongest coffee she’d ever tasted in her life, and she’d had some mean espressos over the years. She tried not to choke.

“I make it strong,” he said.

“Yes, you do.” She swallowed and wondered if it would devour her stomach lining in five seconds flat. One thing was for sure, it would satisfy her caffeine craving.

“Sure you don’t want some of that half-and-half?”

“Oh, heck, why not? You only live once, right?” If she drank the whole mug of coffee without something to cut the motor-oil consistency, her days could be numbered.

“Be right back.” Clint left his mug on the small wooden table between their chairs and went inside.

After he left she peered into his cup to see if he’d diluted the coffee with half-and-half. He hadn’t. He must have a cast-iron stomach.

It was also a nice flat stomach. As a veteran guy-watcher, Meg paid attention to those things. From what she could see, everything about Clint Walker was premium-grade.

He returned with the carton of half-and-half and handed it to her. “I apologize if the coffee’s too strong. When you asked about espresso I figured I was safe to make it my normal way.”

“It’s a good, hefty brew, that’s for sure.” She poured a serious dollop of half-and-half into her mug, nearly causing it to overflow. “How many cups do you drink in a day?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe eight or ten.” He settled back in his chair.

“Eight or ten? I’m amazed you’re not jitterbugging across the porch!” Maybe he was so hopped up on caffeine that he didn’t notice how boring his life was. Yet he seemed steady as a rock, no tremors.

He shrugged. “I’m one of those people who’s not real susceptible to caffeine. And when you’ve grown up drinking chuckwagon…see, my dad drank strong coffee, too.”

“Your dad was a rancher?”

“The best.”

“But you didn’t follow in his footsteps?” She’d slipped into interview mode, another habit she couldn’t seem to break.

He looked away. “Pretty hard to do. Those days are disappearing.”

She knew an evasive answer when she heard one. On the show, people reacted that way when they were hiding something. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I made it out here before the cowboys are all gone.”

“Right.”

Interesting how much emotion could be packed into one word. She was used to reading inflections, gauging reactions. He didn’t like this contest, but why not? If he was the business major he claimed to be, then he should appreciate good old-fashioned marketing techniques.

She decided to hit the problem head-on. “You wish we weren’t doing this.”

His blue eyes became unreadable. “I’m happy to help out.”

“Bullshit! You don’t like this cowboy contest one bit, although I’m not sure why. You’re not a cowboy.”

His mouth twitched, as if he might be holding back a grin. “Right.”

“What’s so funny?”

“I’ll bet you don’t get to say bullshit on the air.” The grin began to peek through.

“No, I don’t, but you’re evading the issue.” And damned if that didn’t fascinate the hell out of her.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Why?”

His gaze was assessing. Finally he seemed to come to a decision about her. “George Forester owns the Circle W now. What he wants, he gets.”

Her heart softened. “He bought your family home out from under you, didn’t he?”

“That’s business. My dad couldn’t afford the place anymore.”

“And your dad…he’s…”

“Died five years ago. Mom a couple of years before that.”

“I’m sorry.” So this complicated guy had dealt with his share of sorrow. She was a sucker for a man who’d weathered pain.

“In some ways, it might be better. Their way of life was getting harder to maintain. Dad died shortly after he sold to George. I think losing Mom and then the ranch took the heart out of him.”

Meg cradled her coffee cup, getting all the warmth from it that she could. The lower the sun sank, the colder it became. But the coffee had surely taken care of her caffeine deficit. She was ready to tackle anything or anyone. Like this hottie, for instance. “I can imagine how hard it must be to work for something all your life and then lose it.”

“Yep.” He took a swallow of his coffee. “I’m sure you’ve paid your dues to get where you are.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Looks like you’re in good shape, though.”

She had a choice of turning his comment into something suggestive or taking it the way it was meant. Until she knew whether he had a girlfriend or not, she was safer with option two. “Not as good as it might seem. The woman who’s filling in for me on the show would love to steal my spot.”

“Do you think she can?”

“It depends on how she does while I’m gone.” She was grateful to him for taking her seriously instead of thinking she was paranoid. Maybe a guy who’d lost his family ranch understood that sometimes the worst really did happen. “The thing is…” She paused and considered how candid she wanted to be about the falling ratings and the rumors about lack of chemistry between her and Mel.

When she didn’t continue, Clint said nothing—didn’t ask her what she’d been about to say or prompt her to keep on talking. Instead he sipped his coffee and looked out across the valley.

That was the unique thing about those blue eyes of his, she realized now. They were the eyes of a man used to distance and open spaces. He seemed very comfortable with all that emptiness stretching out in front of him. He was comfortable with silence.

She tried seeing the landscape through his eyes, a view he’d known since he was born. There was a kind of peacefulness to looking out over miles and miles of uninhabited land. She wasn’t used to peacefulness, but a person would be used to it if he grew up that way.

And she could understand wanting to hang onto a place you were used to. Her parents didn’t want to leave their bungalow in Brooklyn, even though she now had extra money and could help them buy a nicer house. So the extra money she was earning had started piling up. That might be a good thing, because she could soon be unemployed.

“Those big mountains across the valley are the Santa Ritas,” Clint said.

She hadn’t asked, but it might be good to know for the broadcast. “How about the mountains in back of the ranch?”

“The Mustangs.”

“Perfect.” She was already composing her intro in her head. I’m talking to you from the historic Circle W Ranch, which is tucked right up against the Mustang Mountains.

She’d better check out the historic part, though. “How old is this place?”

“The ranch itself, or this house?”

“The ranch.”

“My great-grandfather, Clemson Walker, bought the land in nineteen-twenty.”

Definitely historic. “I can see why it’s rough to have it pass out of the family, then.”

“I’m adjusting.”

But not well, she’d bet. “Forgive me if this is too nosey, but wouldn’t it be less painful to get the heck out of here? I would think living on the ranch and knowing it belonged to some rich dude from New York would be a constant heartache.”

At first it seemed as if he wouldn’t answer. Then he sighed. “I’ve told myself that, but if I left, George might let the place fall apart. He’s only interested in subdividing when the land value’s high enough for him.”

“But if he’s going to subdivide eventually, then so what? Aren’t you only delaying the inevitable by staying on?” She’d always been the type who wanted a bandage yanked off fast and bad news delivered immediately. Her motto was to get the agony over with ASAP.