A Cowboy's Woman (11 page)

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Authors: Cathy Gillen Thacker

BOOK: A Cowboy's Woman
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“I FORGOT TO ASK,” Greta said, as she got out of her car and he got out of his pickup, and the two of them stood in front of the ranch house they were now calling home. “How did the rest of your shopping expedition go earlier today? How was the horse you looked at, and were you able to find any furniture?”
“The horses were great. I bought two mares. They're going to be delivered first thing day after tomorrow.” Which left him only one day to get the stables in shape. “The bed is about to be delivered this evening—”
“The bed?” Greta interrupted plaintively, not looking at all happy about that. “As in one bed?”
“Don't go off half-cocked on me.” Shane unloaded the box containing the pressure cleaner from the bed of his pickup truck. He lifted it down and carried it over to the porch, then returned to get what he'd need to assemble it later that evening. “It's a king-size.”
“I would have preferred twin beds, one for each of us,” Greta said stiffly, as Shane hopped up onto the bed,
strode over to the cargo box located behind the passenger compartment. “Or better yet, two big beds—one for your room, one for the master,” she continued as he knelt in front of it, unlocked it, and lifted out his toolbox.
“That might've been possible if the place weren't such a filthy mess inside,” Shane said, escorting her up the steps to the front door. He dropped his grip on her long enough to unlock the door. His eyes still on her face, he pushed the door open, pocketed his keys, and led the way inside. “But we're going to have a hard enough time as it is cleaning up the big front bedroom before the bed arrives.” He stopped so abruptly she crashed into him, her soft breasts ramming against his back. “What in the—did you do all this?” He swung around to face her.
Greta flushed, obviously embarrassed at the reaction her actions had provoked. “I called the same professional cleaning company that helped me with the dance hall.”
“It still needs new wallpaper and paint, but—” Shane shook his head in awe as he walked in. “The windows are actually sparkling.” He couldn't help but grin as he shook his head and marveled openly. “And the floors—who would have thought they could gleam like that?” He turned to her, pleased beyond words that she'd thought to do that for them. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” Greta waved his concern away. “Consider us even. After all, you footed the bill for our wedding. You're letting me stay here for the next few weeks until we call a halt to our hasty marriage and get things sorted.” Greta sighed. “Hopefully, by then the club will be such a success that I'll have the time and cash flow to find a place of my own so I don't have to move back in with my folks—which was nothing more than a stopgap
measure, anyway. I never would have done it if I hadn't had so much to do to try and get the club up and running.”
“I'm with you there.” Shane sighed in heartfelt commiseration. He grabbed her wrist and tugged her along from room to room with him. “I know what it's like to be moving back to your old stomping ground and trying to set up a business all at once,” he said compassionately as they toured the entire downstairs. “Not to mention the fact that you and I are too old to be living at home with our folks. It was bad enough for me just crashing with my brothers for a few days.”
He took her hand and led her into the kitchen, which, though still hopelessly outdated, had been cleaned from top to bottom. Ditto the upstairs bedrooms and two bathrooms.
When they had come to the end of the impromptu inspection of their surroundings, Shane wrapped his arm around her shoulders companionably, loving the way she felt against him, all soft and warm and womanly. “Thanks.” He touched her face with the callused roughness of his hand, cupping her chin in his palm, scoring his thumb across the softness of her lower lip, wishing all the while he could kiss her again. And this time
not
have to stop. His voice dropped another intimate notch as he told her. “You don't know how I was dreading coming back here tonight and having to muck out the house.” He swallowed hard around the sudden lump in his throat. “This means a lot. I'm not used to having anyone anticipate my needs.”
Greta tensed. He was taking this so personally. It made her feel even more guilty. All she'd done was pick up the phone and dial. Not because she'd thought of it on her own, but because her parents had sort of guilted
her into it. But Greta bet Bonnie Sue would have thought to do this and so much more.
The rumble of a truck sounded in the drive leading up to the house. Shane looked out the window, then gave her shoulders another squeeze. “There's our bed now,” Shane said. “I'll go down and let them in.”
Twenty minutes later their bed was all set up. While Greta still struggled with her feelings, Shane signed for it and walked the delivery men out. “If you give me the sheets, I'll put them on the bed,” Greta said. All she wanted was a nice hot shower, something to eat. Then she'd tumble into bed and sleep into morning. Surely this one was big enough they could each take half and not touch each other all night long!
Shane made a face as if he were in pain, then glanced at his watch. “Oh, man.”
“Is there a problem?” Greta asked, not sure what he was getting at. Just knowing whatever it was, it was bad news.
Shane rubbed his jaw sheepishly. “You could say that, yeah.”
Chapter Seven
“W
here were you and Shane last night?” Tillie asked early the next morning while Greta supervised the hanging of the new sign above the entrance.
“A little more to the right, I think,” Greta told the painter and the electrician who were working together to do this for her. As they complied, she turned back to her mother. “What do you mean?”
“Your father and I tried to call you all evening and again early this morning out at Shane's ranch, and there was no answer.” Tillie smoothed the edges of her lemon-yellow sweater set.
Greta continued to study the big white sign with the red lettering and the single navy-blue star. For days now she'd been unsure if what she'd chosen was right:
Lone Star Dance Hall,
Greta Wilson, proprietress
Families welcome
Dinner specials served daily
But now as she looked at it she knew it would strike just the right chord with potential customers. The Lone Star Dance Hall was going to be a place where people
could come and bring their entire families, take dance lessons, and just have fun. Dancing—the sheer joy of it—had helped her forget her worries and given her hours of pleasure during her lifetime. And now, she realized with immense satisfaction, she would finally be able to offer the same opportunity to everyone else, young and old, in the area.
Aware Tillie was still waiting impatiently for an explanation of Greta and Shane's whereabouts the night before, Greta told her mother absently, “We were at a motel.”
“Shane didn't buy a bed for you, after all?” Tillie turned as the food service truck stopped in front of the entrance and the uniformed driver jumped down from the cab, clipboard in hand.
“No. He bought one.” Greta smiled and waved the deliveryman over. “He just didn't think to buy any sheets or towels or pillows, and by the time we realized it, it was too late. All the stores in town had already closed for the day, and we were too tired to drive forty-five minutes to the nearest shopping mall and back, so we just said to heck with it and went to a motel.” They'd also—at her insistence—taken a room with two double beds. Shane had slept in his. Greta had slept in hers. It had been a relief not to have to worry about being curled up beside him again. Yet sleeping apart had left her feeling oddly bereft, too, as though she was missing out on the fulfillment of what had once been—and still was—her ultimate fantasy.
Tillie sighed and shook her head. Greta paused long enough to scan the paperwork and verify this was indeed the order she had put in, then directed the truck around to the service entrance.
As she and her mother headed that way, too, Greta
felt her mother's continued disapproval. “Honey, this is no way to start off a marriage,” Tillie continued worriedly, wringing her hands.
Greta agreed. Fortunately, this wasn't a real marriage. And she'd do well to remember that. It was already far too easy to imagine them continuing their marriage indefinitely. Far too easy to imagine herself really becoming his woman, when he hadn't offered to make her that at all.
“Where is Shane?” Tillie persisted as Greta unlocked the service doors and propped them open.
“He's cleaning the stables from top to bottom this morning with the pressure washer he bought yesterday. And then he's going to spend the afternoon getting hay and feed in for the two horses that are being delivered tomorrow.”
As Greta showed the deliveryman where to unload the stack of boxes on his dolly, Tillie persisted doggedly, “How long will all that take?”
Greta shrugged and opened the first box to make sure the contents inside matched the invoice taped to the outside. Doing her best to keep her exasperation with her mother under control, she said, “He said he'll be back late this evening.”
“Then it's a perfect time to get your home life in order.”
Greta stopped counting bags of flour and sugar and gave her mother a look that let Tillie know Greta didn't appreciate the meddling. “Mom, please—”
“I bet you didn't cook for him last night, either, did you?” Tillie persisted, almost beside herself with the scope of her worries.
Greta checked off the first box, then moved to the second. Here they went again, with her supercompetitive
parents wanting her to be the very best at absolutely everything she did, and being frustrated and disappointed in her when the realities of her capabilities didn't measure up to their dreams for her. “We haven't had time to get any dishes or groceries. So, no,” Greta said calmly, “I didn't.”
“What about tonight?” Tillie demanded as Greta made a similar count of coffee and tea.
“I guess we'll eat out if he gets back in time to have dinner with me.” Finding all was in order, Greta checked off another box. She looked up at her mother and knew that, like it or not, just as Shane had assured her it would, their plan was working. She and Shane were proving they were all wrong for each other and for marriage... with practically no effort at all. So why didn't she feel better about that? Greta wondered, disappointed, too. She swallowed hard around the sudden lump in her throat, pushed aside the feeling of failure in her heart. “Mom. Relax. I know what I'm doing,” Greta said, telling herself all the while this really was for the best. Even if she couldn't quite make her heart believe it.
I'm proving what a terrible wife I'll make so that no one, least of all me, will be surprised in a few weeks when we call it quits.
 
“WHAT'S THE EMERGENCY?” hours later as he and Greta arrived back at the ranch almost simultaneously and parked down by the stables.
Greta regarded her “husband” incredulously as they vaulted out of their vehicles and came face-to-face. “I was hoping you'd tell me!” She'd been sure from the brief, frantic message she'd received that Shane was hurt, in terrible trouble or worse. Yet here he was, looking
a bit dusty and tired after a long, hard day but all in one ruggedly masculine piece nevertheless.
Shane looked her over from head to toe, too, his gaze lingering briefly on the swell of her breasts, before his gaze returned to her face. Looking every inch as confused and aggravated as she felt, he said, “Wait a minute. Your mother called me on the car phone—”
“And yours called me at the dance hall!” Greta said, just as animated.
Shane shoved his hat back with one poke of his index finger, swore heartily. Spinning around on his heel, he began unloading bales of straw from the back of his truck, and carrying them into the stables, where he dumped them unceremoniously in the first two stalls. “Let me guess. My mom said there was an emergency at the ranch involving me and to get out here right away.”
“How did you know?” Greta asked, amazed. Figuring she might as well help him out, as long as she was there, Greta carried a few bales, too, and set them down where Shane directed.
Shane whipped a Swiss Army knife from his jeans, swiftly cut the ropes, and spread the straw around with a pitchfork. “Because your mother told me there was an emergency involving you,” he said grimly.
“Not only that,” Greta quipped, unable to tear her eyes from the swell of powerful muscles beneath his damp, clinging shirt, “but like complete idiots we fell for it.”
Looking as exasperated with both their mothers as she felt, Shane swore again. They studied each other, then turned their glances to the ranch house. “Dare we—?” Greta asked after a moment.
Shane grimaced. “Given what our two mamas are capable
of, I'm almost afraid to go in,” Shane said. In fact, Greta noted, given the trick that had been played on them, he seemed to have half a mind to just get back in his pickup truck and drive away. That wasn't an option for her. Curiosity alone was killing her. Besides, she had learned a long time ago there was no use putting off the inevitable when it came to Tillie. Waiting to discover anything would just make it worse. “Well, there are no cars around here, no sign of life, so I hardly think it's a surprise party for us,” Greta said. She curled her hand around his bicep and half guided and half pushed Shane toward the ranch house. This predicament they were in was his fault, too. No way was she dealing with any of the fallout from their escapade by herself.
“Thank heavens for small favors,” Shane grumbled as they crossed the yard and mounted the steps leading up to the front porch. No sooner had they stepped inside, than they were assailed by the delicious aroma of home cooking. Greta looked around with mingled feelings of pleasure and surprise. In their absense, a miracle had been wrought. White panel curtains had been hung on all the windows. Two comfy armchairs Greta recognized from her parents' attic had been set up before the fireplace. A table and chairs had been added to the kitchen. A bouquet of flowers and candles sat on the table. Dinner was warming in the oven.
Shane plucked the note off the center of the table and read it out loud: “Just a few things to make you more at home while you settle in. Jackson and Lacey are throwing a small, family welcome home party for Wade and Josie tonight at their place around eight. Greta's parents will be joining us. We hope you'll join us, too. Love, Lilah and Tillie.”
Greta peeked in the cabinets, all of which had been
stocked with hand-me-down dinnerware, glasses and utensils. A set of pots and pans hung on the rack above the stove. The pantry was stocked with the basics. Same with the refrigerator.
“My, they have been busy,” she said, not sure whether to be pleased at their mothers' thoughtfulness or aggravated by the continued interference in their lives. In any case, their mothers' mutual kindness was going to make it even harder to undo this when their time was up. Just being in such a cozy atmosphere with Shane gave rise to all sorts of female fantasies.
She turned back to Shane and studied his stunned expression. She was beginning to wish they had never decided to elope, never mind move in here together. He looked similarly beset with a mixture of aggravation and regrets. “You didn't expect this?”
Shane walked over to the sink, rolled his sleeves up to the elbow and began washing his hands. “Did you?”
“No,” Greta said dryly, joining him at the sink, “but if I'd thought about it, I should have.” Her shoulder nudged his as they reached for the soap at the same time. “My parents are always hovering over me, trying to help me live my life. It's one of the reasons I moved away from Laramie in the first place.”
“Well, this is a first for me,” Shane muttered unhappily, drying his hands. He grabbed a pot holder off the counter, removed the casserole of sour cream and chicken enchiladas warming in the oven and set it in the center of the table. Finding she was famished, too, Greta got out the tossed salad, bottle of ranch dressing and iced tea from the fridge.
“With the exception of this matchmaking business with you, I'm usually the son to whom my folks pay the least attention. Comes with being the baby of the family,
I guess. Given the freedom their lack of scrutiny allowed me, it's not something I can say I minded all that much,” Shane confided mischievously as he pulled up a chair and dished a generous amount of bubbling casserole on both their plates. “I wouldn't have managed to have nearly as many...ah...adventures...growing up, if they'd been paying closer attention.”
“I can't even imagine what that would be like.” Greta sighed wistfully as she dishes up salad for them both. “Being an only child, I've had just the opposite experience. My parents have been overinvolved in my life—physically, intellectually and emotionally—every step of the way.” Greta liberally dosed her salad with dressing and sprinkled some croutons on top. “To the point that their lack of confidence in me, their wanting me to succeed so badly they feel they have to help, has just driven me nuts.”
Shane dug into his enchiladas with gusto while Greta started on her salad. “You think that's what all this is about?” he asked, intrigued.
Greta nodded. She wished her parents would pay more attention to what she was achieving in her business life than what she had failed to achieve in her personal life. “My mother's been on my case about me paying more attention to getting my new business off the ground than playing Martha Stewart to my cowboy husband. And now your mother obviously feels that way, too.”
“Oh, I wouldn't say all this was necessarily directed at you.” Shane reached across the table, took her hand and squeezed it briefly. “My mother blames me for encouraging you to elope with me and depriving you of the big wedding every girl dreams of. And then, to make matters even worse, bringing you home to a house that doesn't even have a lick of furniture, linen or dishes,
and expecting you to somehow set up a home for us. I'm sure she sees that as gross negligence on my part. Of course,” Shane said, sighing unhappily, his gray eyes darkening, “given the way they've always felt about me as the perpetual black sheep, it makes sense that they wouldn't expect me to be able to handle being married to you, either.”
Greta took comfort in the fact that Shane hadn't always lived up to the considerable expectations of his parents, either. It helped to know they understood firsthand what the other was going through. “Isn't that what we want them to think, though?” Greta persisted, wanting to do whatever she could to cheer him up and put a positive spin on their increasingly sticky situation. “That we're completely inept at this—so inept and not ready for it, indeed, that we've got no choice but to end the marriage?”

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