Must Love Cowboys (12 page)

I didn't know much about Nick's viewing habits, but he did strike me as the adventurous type. A suggestion like Bull's could easily have had his imagination working overtime, just as it had done with mine.

“There was absolutely no evidence of foul play,” Wyatt said firmly. “We all knew he had a bad heart. It was just a matter of time before it caught up with him.”

“Yeah, but his sister might've known that too, you know,” Nick countered. He peered at the envelope in his hand. “We've only made it to the mid-nineties in these letters. They might've been in contact with each other more recently.”

He had a point. “You guys keep reading while I run a search.” The name Caruthers had an “old money” ring to it. A woman who married someone like that would have undoubtedly been in the news at some point. If nothing else, their marriage records would pop up.

They did.

“Bingo! Jeannine D. Anderson and Franklin W. Caruthers were married on September 26, 1995, in Houston, Texas.” I clicked the back link and scrolled down the page. “Lots of newspaper stories listed. We're talking stinking rich. Maybe not along the lines of the Rockefellers or the Vanderbilts, but plenty well-off.” I opened another file and scanned it quickly. “Apparently Jeannine didn't settle down to live a quiet life in the country. She's done a lot of charity work, most of it involving support services for single mothers, which, given her history, isn't too surprising.”

Farther down, I found a mention of her husband and brother-in-law. “Looks like Franklin is some sort of oil tycoon, and his brother, Harold, owns a pharmaceutical company called Larosa Biotech.”

“Ooh,” Nick exclaimed. “Plenty of money for a hit man—and access to all kinds of drugs.”

I couldn't help chuckling. “You're definitely wasted on a ranch, Nick. You should run for sheriff or join the police force or something.”

“Don't encourage him,” Sonny advised. “He's hard enough to live with as it is.”

Nick's unabashed grin was even more cocky than usual. “I'd probably make detective in a year.”

“Sure you would,” Dean drawled. “Solving all sorts of imaginary crimes.”

Wyatt aimed a withering glance at Nick and Dean before nodding at me. “Don't stop there, Tina. Keep going.”

I gaped at him for a long moment as my subconscious mind put a sexual spin on his terse directive. The mere thought of him saying those same words in a more intimate setting made me feel like I'd swallowed an entire bag of cotton balls.

His piercing gaze somehow erased everyone else from the room, triggering a fantasy so real I could almost feel it. Wyatt lay naked on my bed, kissing me the way he had earlier that afternoon—a kiss I had somehow managed to avoid thinking about during dinner, although how I'd done it was a mystery.

No. That was a lie. I'd been thinking about it. Constantly. I'd only pretended to forget it.

My hands were on his stiff cock, feeling its heat and girth. His own lubricating fluid flowed from the head, allowing my palms to glide easily along the length of his shaft. He was telling me to keep going until—

A hand passed in front of my face. “Earth to Tina.”

I blinked. Hard. “Sorry, Nick. I was…thinking.”

“Thinking, hell,” Dean remarked. “You looked like you'd seen a damned ghost.”

“It was nothing. I'm just…tired.” I tried to shake it off, but the dregs of the fantasy lingered, slowing my thought processes to the flow rate of frozen molasses. I turned back toward the computer, focusing on the screen, placing my fingers on the keyboard—fingers that a moment before had been caressing Wyatt's rock-hard penis. And he was telling me not to stop…

“Okay,” Dean said. “Maybe we should call it a night. These letters aren't going anywhere.”

“Yeah. Might be best.” I started to close the laptop when another entry caught my eye.

Franklin Walter Caruthers's obituary.

Suddenly, I wasn't the slightest bit sleepy. Opening the file, I scanned the entry while Sonny went over to Calvin's room to tell the others what I'd discovered.

“Thank God,” Bull exclaimed when they joined us. “I found out all sorts of things about you and your folks, but not a damn thing about Calvin's family.”

I couldn't help cringing a bit. Having Bull privy to my childhood escapades was unsettling to say the least. Fortunately, none were particularly embarrassing—at least, none that I could recall.

Putting those thoughts aside, I reported the news. “Jeannine's husband must've been a good bit older than she was. He died in 2001 at the age of seventy-seven. Says here he's survived by Jeannine, two daughters from a previous marriage, and several grandchildren. No telling how much of his money Jeannine wound up inheriting.”

“With that kind of fortune involved, they probably would've had some sort of prenuptial agreement.” As always, Wyatt was the voice of reason.

“Yeah, but he still could've left her a bundle, couldn't he?” Nick asked, obviously still hanging on to the hit man idea.

“Maybe.” Without any clues beyond Calvin's vague references to his sister liking “the finer things,” we had few insights into her character—although a woman who'd made a name for herself aiding the plight of unwed mothers probably wasn't the type to hire hit men. “Let's see what else we've got here.”

I went back to the search and found something even more interesting. “Oh, dear. According to
her
obituary, Jeannine died this past January. Sorry, Nick. Doesn't look like she would've hired any hit men.”

“And nobody told Calvin?” Sonny asked.

“They probably would have if they'd known where to find him.” I scratched my head. “Surely they could've found his address. I mean,
I
found it when I did that White Pages search.”

“Yes, but you knew which state to look in,” Wyatt pointed out.

“True. But there are only fifty states. He would've turned up in a determined search—although they would've had to rule out about a bajillion other guys with the same name. Maybe her family is having the same problem we are—either that or they don't care. Wonder who Jeannine's lawyer is…”

I read through the rest of the article, hoping to discover a contact person of some sort, but I didn't find anything other than the name of the funeral home. “Looks like calling the funeral home is our best bet. Somebody had to make her funeral arrangements. If we could contact them—”

“Not much point in that, is there?” Wyatt said.

“What? Oh, yeah. I see what you mean. None of the Caruthers family is related to Calvin in any way—they've probably never even met him—so they wouldn't have a say in any health-care decisions.” Seeing no reason to put a further damper on the evening, I chose not to mention the need for funeral arrangements. “The only person who might is Jeannine's grandson, and God only knows where he is—unless that Duane character really is him.”

“There's something else we haven't considered,” Wyatt began. “Maybe someone did contact Calvin when his sister died. Maybe he just didn't care enough to tell us about it.”

Dean stuffed a letter back into the box beside him on the bed. “Either way, we sure have wasted a lot of time on this.”

“Not really,” Dusty said. “At least we know there isn't anyone to contact. Until he can speak for himself, it looks like Calvin is our responsibility.”

Dusty was right, of course, but I found it hard to believe that a man like Calvin could have lived so much of his life estranged from the few relatives he had. Although from the look of it, he'd found a new family on the Circle Bar K—one that seemed to care a whole lot more about him than his real family did. Small wonder he'd kept in touch with Grandpa.

After they returned the letters to their respective boxes, the guys filed out of my room.

Class dismissed.

I felt the loss almost immediately. My shyness had never allowed me to interact with a group of men on a daily basis, and with no choice now but to do so, I discovered that I actually liked them. Although Dean and Nick were my favorites, Sonny could've been my younger brother, while Joe seemed like a sort of uncle. Bull was an experience unto himself. I still wasn't sure how I felt about Wyatt.

Having two brothers should've made me comfortable with men in general, but I'd been old enough to babysit by the time they were born. I hoped they wouldn't be the ones making the kinds of decisions for me that Dusty and Angela now had to make for Calvin.

Ophelia whined softly and started toward the door. I got up and let her out. She was only gone for a few moments before coming back up onto the porch. She had yet to venture much beyond the stable yard, and in an area undoubtedly crawling with rattlesnakes, the fact that she stayed close by was as comforting to me as it probably was to her.

I took a shower and was about to climb into bed when a tap at the door heralded Dean's return. I probably shouldn't have, but I let him inside and into my arms. Instantly, his lips covered mine with the kind of warm, wet kisses guaranteed to turn any sensible female into a blithering idiot.

Apparently, I wasn't sensible. All I could think about was how different his kisses were from Wyatt's. When Dean had first approached me, my experience was essentially nil. Now I wanted to scream in frustration. There was nothing wrong with Dean or the way he kissed. He simply wasn't Wyatt. Wyatt, whose one earth-shattering kiss had done more to me than all of Dean's combined.

“I really need to oil that hinge,” he whispered against my lips.

“Might be a good idea.”

Then I remembered what Nick had said. He probably wasn't the only one who knew of Wyatt's plans to have me work on his shoulder. But did any of them know about the kiss? I wasn't completely sure Nick did, although he'd obviously spotted the bite on Wyatt's neck. What either of them had said to Dean was anyone's guess.

I opted for a circuitous approach to my original question. “Do the other guys know you're doing this?”

“I haven't said anything, if that's what you mean. Although they probably have their suspicions.”

I waited to see if he would add anything to that, but he didn't, his lips being otherwise occupied with the exploration of my face. “I'm kinda surprised to see you tonight. You all seemed really tired.”

His chuckle vibrated against my chest. “Some things you're never too tired for.”

My body was already responding to the warmth of his touch. Funny how a woman's body could know things she didn't know herself. I liked that. I slid my hand down the center of his chest, but the memory of my fantasy about Wyatt made me hesitant. What was wrong with me? Why could I have a heart-stopping moment simply thinking about Wyatt when it took so much more than that with Dean?

I returned his kiss. He tasted good, smelled good, and the feel of his arms around me was marvelous. I sank into a comfortable, idyllic state. Not urgent or frantic, just…nice.

There was nothing wrong with nice. Nice was good, although not as shockingly spectacular as my fantasy about Wyatt had been. Would I be disappointed if I were to live out that fantasy with Dean?

Somehow, I doubted I would ever have the courage to find out. I had never reached into a man's jeans to wrap my fingers around his penis, nor had I ever been presented with the opportunity.

As though he'd read my thoughts, Dean skimmed his fingertips over my breasts, teasing my nipples through the flannel of my pajama top. “Think we could lose some of these clothes?” His soft tread proved he'd removed his boots, but other than that, he was still fully dressed.

Nerves made my hands cold and my voice unsteady. “I-I don't think so. I mean, I wish I could be that uninhibited, but I'm not.”

He nodded as though he understood. “The condoms are in my pocket. Let me know if you want to use them.”

“Still not sure that's a good idea.” The mere mention of condoms had my throat so constricted with anxiety, it was a wonder I could make an intelligible sound.

With a quiet chuckle, he pressed his lips to my neck. “Saving yourself for marriage?”

“I wouldn't say that, exactly. I'm just…chicken.”

“Maybe we can fix that.”

“I doubt it,” I said under my breath.

Another knock at the door triggered a sharp inhale that sent me into a coughing fit. Fortunately, Dean had the good sense to pull away and press himself against the wall.

“Hold on,” I said when I recovered enough to speak. Opening the door with yet another loud screech of the hinge, I found myself face-to-face with Wyatt. “D-did you, um, forget something?”

His eyes swept the interior of my room. “Just wondering if you'd seen Dean.”

Dean stood with his back against the wall, vigorously shaking his head.

I bit back a smile. “Not since you all left.”

My, how easy it is to lie.
Folding my arms, I returned his regard with a steady gaze, my hip cocked to shift my weight onto one foot. I had nearly convinced myself that my thoughts were as nonchalant as my pose when my mind drifted, ultimately landing on something it shouldn't have: the image of Wyatt, naked, with my hand wrapped around his stiff penis.

Was he the stuff of dreams or was he real? He might've made me nervous in the extreme, but somehow I suspected he would be the star of every fantasy I would have from that point onward.

I tried, but my thoughts refused to shift and neither did my gaze. His eyes. Those intense, brooding, hazel eyes. The line of his jaw and the twitch of his lips reminded me of his smirk when he left me, still reeling from that incredible kiss.

A kiss that had been so astonishingly real. I hadn't imagined it the way I'd imagined my hand on his cock, stroking it as he begged me not to stop. Would he kiss me again? My heart nearly stopped at the thought of him mentioning the previous incident. Somehow, I couldn't see Dean keeping quiet after hearing something like that. I drew in a breath, wondering how in the world I could get them to switch positions with any degree of diplomacy or tact.

Finally concluding that such a feat simply wasn't possible, I added, “Is there anything wrong? What I mean is, are you worried something might've happened to him?”

Wyatt shook his head. “No. He's a grown man. He can take care of himself.” He paused, sweeping the doorjamb with his gaze. “I'll oil that hinge for you in the morning.”

“That's very kind of you.” Somehow, I managed to keep from stammering, although my chattering teeth probably betrayed me.

He continued to stand there, staring down at me as though intimidation were his ultimate goal. A moment passed before he gave me a curt nod. “Okay, then. Let me know if you need anything.”

Anything?
Was he hoping I would ask him in? Or had that squeaky hinge made enough noise earlier for him to suspect that Dean was hiding behind the door? Not wanting an answer to either of those questions, I began closing the door. “Don't worry. I will. Good night, Wyatt.”

Fortunately, he didn't read too much into my reply. “Good night, Tina. Sleep well.”

I watched him turn to go, wishing I had the guts to call him back.

What a stupid idea.

When the sound of his footsteps faded, I closed the door the rest of the way.

Dean let out a sigh of apparent relief. “Whew. That was close. Good thing I still had my pants on.”

I looked at him with surprise. “I know Wyatt makes me jumpy as all get-out, but are you saying you're afraid of him too?”

“Oh, no way,” Dean insisted. “I just don't want to put you in the middle of another scene.”

A moment passed before I recalled the “scene” to which he was referring. “Oh. Yeah. I see what you mean. That would be…awkward.”

“No shit.” Grinning, he pulled me into his embrace and kissed me again. “See you at breakfast.” He nodded toward the exterior door. “Guess I'd better leave this way and come back in through the bunkhouse. Probably shoulda used that door to begin with. More discreet.”

All I could do was nod.

After he left, I finally went to bed. I didn't fall asleep for quite a while, but when I did drift off, I certainly didn't dream about Dean.

No, my dreams involved a dark, brooding, ex-firefighter cowboy with a sore shoulder, orgasm-inducing kisses, and uncanny timing.

Unfortunately, they were only dreams.