The Truth About Plain Jane

He chuckled to himself as he neared the tardy female. Her taste in clothes left a lot to be desired. Neon green, orange and yellow flowers danced invitingly before him as she wrestled with something in the back seat of her car. The sight would have been enticing if it hadn’t been for the blinding colors.

“Howdy, ma’am.”

She jumped at his greeting and smacked her head on the door frame, causing him to wince. Rubbing a head of short, mousy brown curls, she backed out of the car with care and turned. One corner of his mouth went up in a half-smile as her bespectacled gaze moved from his boots up to his face.

But his smile froze before it reached the other side of his mouth when his gaze collided with hers. Behind huge owlish glasses were eyes as green as summer grass, surrounded by long dark lashes. Trey’s mouth went dry. He didn’t know how long he stood staring into the emerald depths of her wide eyes. A thud at his dust-covered boot brought him back to his senses, and he looked down to see an overstuffed nylon bag at his feet.

“Let me—” he said, bending down to retrieve the tote.

“I can—” she said at the same time, whacking her head into his.

The blow brought him back to normal. He breathed in a sigh of relief that he’d broken contact with her hypnotic gaze. The scent of a summer garden drifted toward him. Intoxicating. Still bent over, he took a step back and was brought to a halt by the open car door. Grabbing the bag, he straightened, shaking his head to clear it from an unaccustomed buzzing sound, and glanced up at her.

She shoved the bridge of her glasses up with delicate fingers that trembled. “I—I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay,” he said, making sure he didn’t look directly into her eyes. Sidestepping around her, he reached inside the car for two suitcases that were propped on the seat. “You must be M. Chastain,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled the luggage out of the car and set it at his feet.

“My, uh, trunk lock is broken.” Her tone was apologetic, and she quickly moved out of his way when he swung around to face her.

He simply nodded, avoiding a direct hit from her eyes, and then gestured with another nod in the direction of the cabins. Stuffing the tote they’d knocked heads over under his arm, he picked up her other suitcases and led the way. “You’re in number four.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

He slid a look at her as she caught up with him, baffled by his reaction to her. It was hard to tell what was under her colorful outfit. Her flowered skirt hung loosely almost to her ankles, and even those were hidden by neon orange socks. The green top she wore was baggy, without even a suggestion of womanly curves beneath. Which was fine with him.

Stepping up onto the tiny cabin porch, Trey set down one suitcase to reach for the door. “What’s the M for?” he asked.

“Um… Margaret.”

He opened the door and stepped aside to let her pass into the room. “Friends call you Margie?”

Her throaty chuckle sent shockwaves through him as she stepped past him. He attempted to swallow and found he couldn’t.

“No, just Margaret,” she answered. “Or Meg. Sometimes.”

He managed to clear the thickness from his throat. Still unable to think of a reply, he placed the suitcases inside the door and watched her. Something about the way she moved held his attention.

“It’s a very nice cabin,” she said from across the room.

Determined to be the kind of cowboy people expected to find on a Texas ranch, Trey touched the brim of his hat and grinned. “Glad you like it, ma’am,” he said with an exaggerated drawl. “You might want to jingle your spurs a little. They’ll be servin’ supper at the chuckwagon any time.”

One perfectly arched eyebrow raised in a dark point over one eye. “I guess I wouldn’t want to miss that, would I?”

Avoiding her eyes, but with his attention still on her face, Trey noticed her flawless complexion. It didn’t go with her mousy hair color at all. Or those fascinating eyes. And her mouth—full lips curved in a slight smile. The thought passed through his mind that it would be mighty nice to have a taste of those lips.

He shook his head at the crazy notion, even as his pulse quickened. Get a grip, Brannigan. Taking a backward step out the cabin door, he pulled off his hat, twisting it in his hands. “Well, I’ll be leavin’ you to…uh…if you need anything…”

“Yes?” she asked in a breathy voice that sped up his heart rate a little more.

“You just ask one of the hands,” he finished in a rush, jamming his hat back on his head. Turning, he made for the steps on feet that didn’t want to cooperate, and headed across the yard in the direction of the barn.

What the hell was wrong with him? Trey Brannigan tongue-tied? The idea was dumber than a day-old calf. Even his brothers, Dev and Chace, had never been able to render him speechless. Hell, what he needed was a stiff drink. And he’d have one, just as soon as he checked on the status of the stock. He needed to clear his mind and straighten it out again. Women didn’t get to him—hadn’t in all his thirty-one years. Except once, and that mistake wouldn’t happen again. He’d be damned if he knew what had gotten into him now.

Stunned by the cowboy’s sudden departure, Meg Chastain moved to the doorway and watched him cross the expanse of well-tended grass between the guest cabins and the ranch’s outbuildings. Forcing herself to close the door on the view, she leaned back against it and took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be as easy as she had thought. Merciful heaven! The man moved like his joints were greased with saddle oil, his hips rotating with each step. She’d never get the image out of her mind.

Forcing herself to move, she pushed away from the door and crossed the room, making mental notes of the amenities and ambiance of the cool blue-and-green room. But even in the air-conditioned cabin, an unaccustomed warmth mixed with the heat from her long drive. Fanning herself with one hand, she wondered if she would she ever be cool again. Sweat had glued a curl of hair to her forehead and trickled between her breasts. She blew at the curl but it remained stuck. A quick swipe with the back of her hand moved it away, only to have it dip back down and stick again. Exasperated, she reached for her mop of curls and grabbed a handful, pulling off the wig. Her hair tumbled past her shoulders, damp from the sweat caused by the heat she’d endured during her two and a half day drive.

Men sweat, women perspire, she imagined her Aunt Dee telling her. Meg smiled at the thought. She’d been listening to her aunt’s sage advice and quaint sayings for most of her twenty-seven years, and they still never failed to make her smile.

“Sorry, Aunt Dee,” she muttered under her breath. “You try driving in this Texas heat in a car with no air-conditioning.” If the change in arrangements hadn’t been made at the last minute, she would’ve flown. She was almost two hours late, but at least she’d made it to the Triple B Dude Ranch.

After tossing the glasses she wore only for effect onto the bed, she located the shower and availed herself of its soothing spray. The water did wonders for her aching muscles. But the image of the cowboy popped into her mind again. Those scuffed cowboy boots and worn blue jeans, hugging a pair of muscled thighs, had taken her breath away. The memory of faded chambray draping a pair of broad, solid shoulders still made her catch her breath, while his strong, rugged features and bright blue eyes had almost rendered her speechless.

Her groan filled the small confines of the shower. She knew better than to dwell for even a moment on the fine specimen of pure cowboy maleness that had greeted her on her arrival.

When she finally felt human again, she finished up and dressed. Slipping the wig and glasses on, she checked her reflection in the mirror, smiling at the image staring back at her. No one would pay the least bit of attention to a mousy woman with little knowledge of ranches. Any questions she would ask would seem perfectly normal.

“Now to find Mr. Buford Brannigan.” Stepping out into the lengthening shadows of the evening, Meg squared her shoulders and started walking in the direction of the sprawling two-story ranch home.

“You’d better hustle on over for some grub,” a slow Texas drawl interrupted her thoughts.

Meg’s stomach fluttered at the sound of the deep, smooth baritone, and she turned to see her cowboy walking toward her. Her cowboy? She shook her head and silently scolded herself. Considering her reaction, it might be wiser to ask someone else about Buford Brannigan. She’d be smart to keep her distance from this particular cowboy. She wasn’t here to get involved with a ranch hand. She was here to do a job.

She noticed a group of people gathered around what appeared to be a covered wagon, and the delicious aroma of barbecue caused her stomach to rumble.

Before she could take a step in that direction, the cowboy approached her, stopping a few feet in front of her. “Hungry, Miss Chastain?”

Was he for real? This was supposed to be a working dude ranch. But could this good-looking hunk, his dark hair curling beneath his gray cowboy hat, be nothing more than a transplant from back east? It wouldn’t be the first time dude ranch guests had been fooled.

“The food smells wonderful,” she answered.

He looked over his shoulder, then turned back to her. “Looks like there’s still a few places to sit.”

“Are you joining us?” she asked, praying he wasn’t. He was a distraction she didn’t need right now.

“Maybe later. I—” He looked down at a little girl of about eight who had appeared at his elbow and was tugging at his shirtsleeve. “Howdy,” he said, giving her his attention.

She looked up at him with deep brown eyes that widened. “Are you a real cowboy?”

“Yep.”

“Do you ride a horse all day?”

He grinned at her. “Not all day. There’s lots of work to do on a ranch besides ridin’ horses.”

“Like what?”

“Makin’ sure the stock’s taken care of.”