Cowboy Lessons

“Hey,” Scott yelled, taking a step toward the rail, obviously not completely blind without his glasses.

“Forget it,” Amanda advised, clutching his arm, only to immediately drop her hand. He had surprisingly large muscles. “If there’s anything left, we’ll pick it up later.”

“What’ll I use for clothes?”

“Why do you need clothes? You’re not staying, are you?”

He looked up at her sharply, his glasses like a crooked hanger. “I told your father when I called last night that I’d be staying.”

He’d called? And her father hadn’t mentioned it?

Suddenly, the reason why her father had departed for parts unknown made sense. Typical Dad. Coward.

“He didn’t tell me.”

Scott’s eyes slid over her. Amanda suddenly felt ridiculous, and self-conscious, even though the blue-and-white-checkered flannel gown couldn’t be called revealing. Most of her lower legs were covered by her rubber boots, the kind with a wide red ring around the top, and they were mud-spattered and stained. She’d hardly noticed how beat-up they were. At least not before he took to staring at them.

“I’m going to kill him,” she grumbled.

“Who?”

“My father.”

“As long as it’s not me.”

“Tempting, but no.”

SCOTT TOLD HIMSELF to be encouraged by that. She didn’t want him dead, unlike her father. He looked past her to the house, wondering where the old coot had gotten to, but the moment his gaze rested on Amanda, his thoughts jammed like the keys of an old-fashioned typewriter. She looked even more adorable than he remembered.

You’re losin’ it, buddy, if you find a woman in black rubber boots sexy.

Odd thing, though: he did. “Hey, thanks for agreeing to do this. I’m really excited.”

“Yeah, well, wait until your first day is over before getting too worked up.”

Hmm. She was still sore over the loss of the ranch. Well, he supposed he couldn’t blame her. “Well, I’d still like to thank you, anyway.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said by way of acceptance.

Well, the apology thing didn’t work.

She turned away without a backward glance, saying, “Follow me.”

He did, stepping in behind her. The back of her was even more charming than the front. He wasn’t usually a body-parts man. That he left to beer-swilling football fanatics. But he found himself liking Amanda Johnson’s parts. Rounded bottom, shapely legs, at least what he could see above the boots. Nice smell, too, even this early in the morning. It wafted back to him on the early morning breeze. Natural. Earthy and yet wholly feminine in a way that most of the women he’d dated had never been.

The house she led him toward was a one-story rectangle with a wide wraparound porch, old-fashioned windows with real wood frames and five creaking steps that led to the front door. To the left of the house was a large brown barn with big brown double doors. To the right was another barn—brown, too—this one a single-story affair that had doors off the back that opened into individual pens. Horse pens. And he would bet there were four more matching doors and pens on the other side. A horse barn—though it looked ancient and not at all like the fancy affairs one could see off of I-280 when he drove around Silicon Valley.

“I feel like I’m on the set of Bonanza.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to my home, Little Scott.”

“Hey, you watched Bonanza, too?”

“Yeah.”

Her answer sounded more like “What of it?” and Scott tried not to feel wounded. “Where’s your dad?”

“Away, apparently.” And the way she said that didn’t invite more small talk.

She held a heavy oak door open and stepped aside. She smelled even nicer close up. Better than him, probably, after his trek through cow poop.

The inside of the home was cozy. Surprisingly high ceilings. What looked to be bedrooms to his right, kitchen and family room to his left. She paused just inside the door and—holy moley—bent over to tug off her boots. Slowly, like a stripper. Not that he’d seen many strippers wearing rubber boots…or any strippers, period. But he imagined one would take off rubber boots slowly like she did, exposing one inch of flesh at a time.

Unbelievable. Who would have thought the sight of her slipping off latex boots would be sexy? But darned if it wasn’t.

She glanced up just then—saw that he was staring at her legs—and straightened abruptly.

A voice inside his head said, uh-oh.

“I’ll go find you a clean shirt.”

Scott was not a stupid man. He realized ogling a woman who would be responsible for his safekeeping in the coming week was likely not a wise thing to do. She looked as if she was fighting to hold on to her temper.

“Thanks.”

She pressed her lips together before she turned on her now bare—and might he add, adorable—feet to head back toward the bedrooms. She had nice ankles, he realized. Petite yet sturdy.

Sturdy?

What was she, a cow? And yet like a herd animal himself, he suddenly found himself following her. A bull. He was Ferdinand the Bull.

She turned. Their bodies connected. She jerked back, her hand splaying on his chest. “What are you doing?”

“Following you.”

“Don’t do that. I’ll bring you the shirt.”

“Where will I change? After all, I wouldn’t want you going all mushy on me when you catch sight of my hard body.”

Did she blush? Did she actually blush? Incredible.

“You want to get the shirt, fine. My father’s room is at the end of the hall. I’m going to get dressed.”

She would get dressed…

Her arms lifting her nightgown, her breasts revealed. Skin so smooth it looked like wedding satin exposed to his flesh….

“Mr. Beringer?”