Must Love Cowboys (11 page)

“You really ought to have that looked at,” I advised. “Might be a torn rotator cuff.”

“Maybe.” He stood there, staring at me for a long moment. “Feels more like a pulled muscle.”

If I'd ever known how to tell the difference, that knowledge escaped me. I cleared my throat. “You could take some ibuprofen.”

He nodded. “That's the plan—unless you wouldn't mind working on it some more.” His piercing gaze sought mine from beneath a raised brow. “Or do you think Dean would object?”

There was no mistaking the challenge in his tone—a challenge a more confident woman would've met with a serene smile and a witty rejoinder. Completely inexperienced in banter between the sexes, I had no idea how to respond. As always, Wyatt had managed to get under my skin, sending my heart skittering into overdrive and tying my tongue in knots. “I-I don't know what you mean.”

He took a step closer, reminding me of the way Dean had pinned me against the car. Lifting a hand, he brushed my neck with his knuckles, triggering a swarm of goose bumps. “I mean, anyone who would do that to a woman might not like it if she put her hands on another man.”

Ah, yes. The infamous hickey. Dean and I had agreed not to get too involved, but should I tell Wyatt that or let him believe ours was a more serious attachment? Did it matter? In desperation, I glanced at the clock.

Five fifteen
. The other men probably wouldn't be back for at least another half hour. “I can spare you twenty minutes.”

A tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth, making me wonder which of us had won that round. “I'll take it.”

This time I was watching as he stripped off his shirt—or rather, he was watching me. I'd seen Dean completely naked, and I'd seen Wyatt in his underwear. The sight of him peeling back his shirt to reveal his bare chest shouldn't have affected me.

But it did. My mouth went dry and the pulse pounding in my chest moved farther down to center on my clitoris. I doubted he had any motive beyond relief for a sore shoulder—certainly nothing sexual—but having recently gotten a tiny taste of what could happen between a man and a woman, my body had other ideas.

Fortunately, if I didn't tell him, Wyatt would never know—and somehow, I couldn't imagine myself ever putting those feelings into words. Not with him, anyway.

Not with anyone, come to think of it.

With a look that said he knew exactly what I was thinking—and feeling—he took a seat much the same as he had the day before.

I stared at his bare back. “I don't suppose you found any liniment, did you?”

“Horse liniment, you mean?” he asked. “No. That stuff smells terrible.”

Somehow, I doubted the smell was the only drawback. “It might help, though.”

He shook his head. “Stings too much. The olive oil was fine.”

A man in pain shouldn't be critical of horse liniment. Once again, I wondered if he was toying with me—faking the pain simply to gain attention.

Despite knowing there was one other man on the ranch interested in spending time in my bed, the same argument I'd used before won out.

Twenty minutes.
Surely I could handle anything for that long.

But with my hands on his skin rapidly turning a therapeutic massage into a more erotic one, I didn't think twenty minutes was anywhere near enough. Dry-mouthed no longer, I was practically drooling with the need to lick the side of his neck before sinking my teeth into it.

My latent vampire instincts must be surfacing.

Yeah, right.
The thought of him recoiling in pain and glaring at me as though I'd lost my mind was quite enough to stop me.

“Oh, yeah,” he groaned. “Right there.”

His muscles knotted beneath my fingers. He wasn't faking.

Doggone it.

“Doesn't that hurt?”

“Some,” he replied. “It's a good kind of pain, though.”

“Like a bite on the neck, you mean?”

I blinked. Who said that? Certainly not me. I never said such things. I rarely even thought them—until now—nor could I explain my reasoning for comparing a pulled muscle to being bitten.

“Maybe.” Turning his head, he peered up at me from the corner of his eye, a sly smile curving his lips. “Why don't you give it a try?”

My fantasy came alive as I parted my lips and swept my tongue over his skin. Salty with dried sweat and fragrant with oil, his skin covered enticingly firm muscles. Even in the act of pressing my teeth into his flesh, I couldn't believe I was actually doing it.

In one swift move, he pivoted in his chair, snaked a hand behind my neck, and pulled me into his lap. With a kiss as forceful as it was abrupt, he instantly melted me into a compliant mass of mushy muscles and jangling nerve endings.

The slam of a door brought me at least partially to my senses. Leaping to my feet, I staggered toward the shelter of the nearest major appliance, which happened to be the fridge—an appropriate choice, considering how hot I was. Opening the door, I stood facing the shelves, hoping whoever had just walked into the bunkhouse would suspect me of nothing beyond getting out spinach for the salad. An even more desirable side effect would be for the icy air to fade my blush and force the blood back into my brain where it was so desperately needed.

I stared blankly at the contents of the fridge. I hadn't been on the Circle Bar K for three full days, and I'd already been kissed by three cowboys.

Clearly, I should have headed west long ago.

I had just taken the ingredients for the salad from the fridge when Nick blew into the kitchen like a raging tornado. “Wow, Tina! Dinner smells great!”

Apparently the scent of roasting pork was far more remarkable than Wyatt sitting at the kitchen table without a shirt. On the other hand, the chances of me ever getting used to such a sight was about as likely as my feet touching the Martian landscape.

“Hopefully it'll taste as good as it smells.” I dumped the vegetables on the cutting board, then ran a quick eye over Nick's dusty, disheveled form. “What happened to you?”

“My horse spooked out from under me.” His eyes lit up as he snatched a handful of cookies from the platter.

With the apple pie debacle still fresh in my mind, I'd hidden the bulk of the goodies, only leaving out the number I considered expendable—an amount already significantly diminished from having been within Wyatt's reach.

“Oh, yum.” After scarfing down one of each flavor in rapid succession, he added, “Landed on my ass and rolled down the hill a ways.”

With Wyatt's kiss still sizzling on my lips, I wasn't about to offer my massage therapy services to anyone—especially a man with a sore behind.

I stole a peek at Wyatt. Drat the man, he wasn't even trying to conceal the evidence, but sat idly chewing on a cookie as though he hadn't just sent the woman responsible for the bite on his neck into oblivion by annihilating her with a kiss.

Clearing my throat, I aimed my gaze resolutely toward Nick. “I take it you survived the fall.”

“Of course, I did,” Nick said. “That was nothing. I've been hurt lots worse. One time I—”

I put up a silencing hand. “Please. Spare me the gory details.”

“Hey, at least I haven't asked you to rub my butt.” Grinning, he darted a glance at Wyatt. “I see you've been working on his shoulder.” His grin shifted from merely wicked to diabolical. “Just like he told us you would.”

“Is that right?” I drawled. “I didn't realize I was so predictable—or that easily manipulated.” I aimed what I hoped was a stern glare at Wyatt.

Wyatt spoke up. Finally. “All I did was ask. You could've said no.”

Although this was true, and I said so, saying no to Wyatt was becoming increasingly difficult.

“Yeah.” Nick snickered. “You didn't have to bite him.”

Oh, great.
Now I had a reputation for biting
and
getting hickeys. “Actually, he asked me to do that too.”

Wyatt stood and slung his shirt over his shoulder. “Yet another time you could've said no.”

His arched brow made me long to slap him, and I was about to do just that when a tiny grin twitched the corner of his mouth. He was teasing me, of course. But why? First impressions being what they were, I'd gotten the idea that teasing wasn't in his nature.

I reminded myself that this was the sort of thing an unmarried woman could expect when she began hanging out with a bunch of equally unattached cowboys. I should simply take it in stride and laugh it off.

But I wasn't used to being teased by men. The grandfatherly type, perhaps, but certainly not eligible bachelors. The snappy rejoinder I should have made simply wouldn't materialize. I directed a pleading glance at Nick.

A quick nod of comprehension followed his puzzled frown. “Um…if we want dinner, we'd best not be pestering the cook.”

“Right.” Momentarily emboldened, I flapped a hand at both of them. “Go. Now.”

“Sure you don't need any help?” Despite Wyatt's innocent tone, I could see mischief lurking behind his eyes.

“You can set the table and pour the tea if you like. Otherwise, if I need help, I'll ask for it.”

As I picked up a knife and began chopping cherry tomatoes and olives for the salad, I could almost feel Wyatt's eyes on me. The hair on the back of my neck prickled in anticipation of an attack from behind.

The attack never came. Moments later I heard the clatter of plates mixed with the murmur of male voices.

Were they talking about me? Dean might have wanted to keep our kisses hush-hush, but Wyatt and Nick had made no such promises. And where was Dean, anyway? He should have been there to protect me from Wyatt.

Nothing serious…
Did that mean no staking of claims? No territorial disputes? No protection of property? Clearly, there were pros and cons to both types of relationships.

Did I really want protection from Wyatt? He unnerved me more than any man ever had—and that kiss had done things to me I didn't even want to think about—but I couldn't imagine him ever deliberately hurting me.

My grip slackened, causing the knife to slip from my fingers. Whether he would hurt me wasn't what concerned me. Trust and surrender were the issues at stake. I wasn't ready for either of those things—especially not with Wyatt. I might have trusted Dean, but I didn't intend to give myself to him, body and soul. Somehow I knew Wyatt wouldn't be content with anything less than my all.

Nope. Not ready for that.

Not now, and possibly not ever.

A shiver crept up my spine, tightening the skin on my back. My hands trembled to the point I didn't dare pick up the knife.

Nick was right. It really didn't pay to pester the cook.

* * *

Although I managed to get my roiling emotions under control enough to finish preparing the salad without losing a finger, my focus remained inward for quite some time. The guys raved over the meal, and I'm certain I accepted their praise graciously enough, but I said very little until Mr. Kincaid brought me out of my reverie.

“Any news about Calvin?” he asked.

I nodded, grateful for a neutral topic to divert my troublesome thoughts. “Angela called. She said Calvin was talking some, although he wasn't making much sense, and she got him to eat a little bit.”

“Do they think he'll come out of it?”

“She said the doctors were optimistic.” I left it at that, not wanting to dilute any hope the men might have.

“Sounds great,” Joe said. “What about you? Did you find out anything?”

“I sure hope so,” Dean declared. “I was about to go blind reading those letters.”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” I replied. “Although I'm not positive it will help.” I gave them a brief account of what I'd discovered, ending with Duane's attempt to see Calvin. “He said he was a friend of the family, but I can't help thinking he's Jeannine's grandson. From the description the nurses gave Angela, he was about the right age. What really has me bugged is how he knew Calvin was in the hospital.”

“Seems kinda fishy,” Bull said as he shoveled in a forkful of pulled pork.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Nobody besides us even knew he was sick.”

Bull swallowed and leaned forward with the air of a master detective about to reveal the solution to the greatest mystery of our time. “Except whoever it was who put him in the hospital to begin with.”

I stared at him, puzzled. “What? You mean the ambulance crew?”

“No.” With a dramatic lift of his brow, he glanced at each of us in turn. “I mean whoever it was who tried to kill him.”

Silence reigned for the space of three heartbeats.

“Yeah, right,” Sonny snorted. “Who would want to kill Calvin?”

“And why?” Mr. Kincaid added. “He's been living on this ranch for years, never harmed a soul, and didn't have any enemies—at least none that we know of. Why now?”

“Why, indeed?” Now that Bull had the floor, he obviously intended to milk his moment for as long as possible. He shot a suspicious glare at me. “Maybe
she
had something to do with it.”

“Oh, come off it,” Dean snapped. “She's no murderer.”

I sat back in my chair, letting the full weight of the implication sink in. Wyatt had said something about the timing of Calvin's illness being peculiar. Perhaps he was right, but in a different way. “I certainly didn't kill Calvin, nor did I have any reason to. But what if someone knew I was coming to see him and followed me here? Someone who wanted him dead but didn't know where to find him?”

“That makes some sense,” Dean said. “But who knew where you were going?”

“As far as I know, only my parents,” I replied. “That doesn't mean someone else couldn't have found out. Someone who expected me to come here and was simply biding their time.”

Wyatt cleared his throat. “We're letting our imaginations run away with us. Calvin wasn't shot or stabbed. He had a heart attack.”

“Wouldn't be the first time a murder was made to look like a death from natural causes,” Bull insisted.

“But what about motive?” Wyatt asked. “Why would anyone want him dead?”

“No clue.” Dean let out a long sigh. “Guess that means we need to keep reading those damned letters, huh?”

I nodded, but my mind had already gone sprinting off in a new direction. What were the motives for murder? Money, love, hate, revenge… Who would hate Calvin enough, or blame him enough, to want him dead? Some other soldier he'd known in Vietnam? The family of a comrade who'd died as a result of something Calvin had done?

It wasn't until I reminded myself that Calvin had been a cook rather than a foot soldier that I realized how unlikely such a scenario would be. Fatal mistakes and bad judgment during combat weren't unheard of, but I doubted anyone had died simply from eating the food he'd prepared.

But there were a number of deaths in his past. His wife and children, along with his niece. From what I'd gathered from the letters, the accident had been just that: an accident. His wife's family would've been very upset, but they certainly couldn't have blamed Calvin for her death.

Jeannine was a different story. She and Calvin were already estranged before the accident, and after all the losses she'd suffered—her daughter, her grandson, and ultimately, her husband—her hatred could've festered for years before finally coming to a head.

My own possible involvement, I discounted. No one beyond Grandpa's lawyer and our immediate family knew what was written in that will, let alone known when I would carry out Grandpa's wishes. No one except Calvin, and I'd gotten the distinct impression he hadn't told anyone on the ranch about my upcoming visit. Hence Wyatt's belligerent attitude when I first arrived.

Wyatt…
His voice of reason had effectively shot down Bull's murder theory. That and the fact that Calvin wasn't dead.

Which only made it
attempted
murder.

By giving a man alone in his own bed a heart attack? And if so, how? By stealing his nitroglycerine tablets? Maybe. That empty bottle could be explained a dozen different ways—including the fact that the cap was on it. As dark as the glass was, it might be hard to tell it was empty at a glance. He might not have realized he'd taken the last one until it was too late.

My thoughts returned to the present, only to discover that while I'd been sitting there staring at my plate, the conversation had gone on without me, ultimately arriving at the same conclusion. Until Calvin could tell us what happened that night, we couldn't prove anything, sinister or otherwise.

Which meant that Dean, Wyatt, and I—and anyone else we could recruit—would be reading through more letters that evening.

Oh, joy…

* * *

I now had four cowboys in my bedroom. Sonny, Nick, Wyatt, and Dean were scattered about the room—Sonny and Nick having brought in more chairs while the others resumed their positions from the night before. Bull, Joe, and Dusty were in Calvin's room reading the letters sent by my grandfather. If I'd had to guess, I would have said there had never been a time when every ranch hand on the Circle Bar K was engaged in reading a letter of any kind, let alone some that were forty years old.

Mr. Kincaid had opted out of the search, using his increasingly poor eyesight as an excuse, although I could see his inability to join in fretted him a bit. Grandpa had reacted to infirmity in much the same way—although in Grandpa's case, I would have used the word “angered” rather than “fretted.” No doubt there were plenty of former soldiers who slid gracefully into old age, but most probably went there entirely against their will.

The guys had all had a pretty tiring day—Nick's tumble and Wyatt's sore shoulder thankfully being the worst of it—and their exhaustion was evident after an hour or so of squinting at Calvin's handwriting. Judging from all the yawns and bleary eyes, I doubted Dean would be awake enough for more than a quick kiss or two after the others had gone.

I was about to call it a night when a line of text practically jumped off the page and bit me.

“Holy cow! Listen to this:
Jeannine went and married another rich bastard. This time she snagged a Caruthers from Houston. Never ceases to amaze me how she manages to find them, let alone get them to marry her.
A rich guy from Houston… How many Jeannine Caruthers could there possibly be in Houston?”

“At a guess, not very many,” Wyatt said.

“Rich dude, huh?” Dean said. “Wonder if she stayed married to that one.”

“Only one way to find out.” Swiveling my chair around to face the desk, I logged on to my computer. “Although if she married into a rich family, she might have forgiven Calvin for his involvement in her daughter's death—at least enough to not want him dead.”

Wyatt frowned. “I thought we'd already ruled out Bull's attempted murder theory.”

I'd forgotten I'd kept my own thoughts about possible motives to myself. “Maybe. It's an interesting theory, though. Jeannine lost more than a daughter as a result of that accident. She might've been the type to hold a grudge.”

Nick's eyes lit up. “And if she married a rich guy, she could afford to hire a hit man.”

“You've been watching too many cop shows,” Sonny scoffed. “Working on a ranch must be real boring for you to come up with that idea.”