Saddled and Spurred: A Blacktop Cowboys Novel (3 page)

“Got it.” Harper closed her eyes. “Thanks, Celia. Even if this doesn’t work out, you have no idea how much it means that you’ve gone out of your way to try to help me. Everyone else . . .”
Has made me pay for my mother’s mistakes.

“That’s what friends do, dumb ass. And you’re welcome. Now get crackin’ out to Bran’s place. Let me know next week how it goes.”

“Next week? Why can’t I call you later tonight?”

“Because Tanna’s folks’ ranch is out in the middle of freakin’ nowhere. I don’t know when I’ll have cell service, so it’ll be best if I call you. Later. Good luck.”

“What does luck . . .” And Harper was speaking to the dial tone.

No matter. It’d take a solid thirty minutes to drive out to the Turner place, so she’d better get a move on. She changed into her “lucky” interview outfit—a pin-striped pencil miniskirt, a white silk blouse, a Western-cut bolero jacket embroidered with tiny gold guns, and her black patent stiletto boots, which came up just over her knees.

The Dodge Neon didn’t warm up until ten minutes into the drive. January in Wyoming was always cold, but this year seemed colder than years past.

She shivered. She’d never had a job working outdoors. She’d worked in food service, either as a waitress or as a cocktail waitress, and during her last semester of college she’d scored a part-time job in a Western retail store.

Harper’s thoughts drifted to the summer before her senior year in high school, right after she moved to Wyoming from Montana. She’d befriended Celia Lawson and they’d clicked immediately, which was odd because Harper was a girly girl, Celia a self-professed tomboy. They spent most of their time at Harper’s cramped rental house in town rather than at the Lawson ranch because Harper’s mother didn’t care if they were out all night at the local “field” parties, whereas Celia’s brothers, who had been raising her after their parents had died, had been very strict.

But once in a while they’d crash at Celia’s house. Harper loved that Celia’s older brother, Abe, got up and cooked a big breakfast. She loved time spent outdoors in the sun, staring at the big sky and the endless horizon. She loved the normalcy of their family. Of their life.

Over the course of the summer, when Hank and Abe learned that Harper had never been fishing, they organized a fishing party with all their buddies at the closest lake. It’d been an ideal day. Frolicking in the sun. Splashing in the water. Floating on inner tubes. Surrounded by hot, shirtless cowboys. Good tunes on the radio.

One by one, all the guys—Hank, Abe, Kyle, Eli, Devin, Ike, and Max—tried to show her how to cast a line. Harper was hopeless, constantly snagging the hook in the tree above her, or the grass behind her, or, once, in Devin’s skin. They ribbed her endlessly about how a Montana girl didn’t know how to fly-fish.

Before the journey to the lake, Harper had braced herself for lewd comments and sexual innuendos, because in her past experience, that was what guys did when faced with a woman wearing a bikini. But these men’s actions never veered from gentlemanly conduct, although she’d been aware of the appreciative glances sent her way from time to time. Any teasing had been done in good humor, until Kyle suggested that Bran, the fishing “expert,” take a crack at showing her how to fish.

Harper still remembered Bran’s leisurely perusal as she’d stood before him. Those dark eyes were shadowed beneath his cowboy hat as his gaze started at her toenails. It inched up her bare legs, taking in every curve of her thighs and hips. Flickering across her belly and the long line of her torso, resting briefly on her ample chest, stopping at her mouth. Bran never looked into her eyes. He scowled and chugged half his beer and said, “She surely don’t need to know how to fish. That body of hers is already quite the hook.”

The guys had pelted Bran with empty beer cans for the comment, calling him an asshole, knocking his hat off his head. Celia even slapped his sunburn. But he hadn’t apologized.

Yet Harper knew he’d watched her closely the rest of the night. While they’d roasted marshmallows and made s’mores. While she sprawled on a blanket next to Celia, laughing and studying the stars. While Devin McClain sang cowboy tunes by the bonfire. While Hank and Kyle talked about life in the rodeo arena. While Abe and Max yammered about local politics. But Bran never said a word.

So maybe Celia’s comment about her not being Bran’s type was dead-on. Harper was fully aware that she embodied society’s idea of a dumb blonde. Fluffy hair, big chest, curves from her lips to her calves—plus she would never turn the academic world on its ear with her intellect. From the time she was ten years old, her mother called her “the pretty one.” Competing in local beauty contests reinforced the stereotype of her being attractive packaging and no substance, even when the only reason she entered the pageants was for the prize money.

“Former beauty queen” on a résumé only got her first in line for a job at a T & A sports bar. The lower the cut of her bra, the higher her tips. Truthfully, Harper didn’t know how long she would’ve lasted at that gig. She’d hated dressing in the skimpy uniform the first night. By the end of her two-month mark of jiggling her butt and her boobs for cash, her mother had taken off, forcing Harper to quit both jobs—and community college—to return to Muddy Gap to become Bailey’s legal guardian.

Over the years, after the fishing hole incident, she’d occasionally run into Bran. He’d never said a whole lot. He just studied her from beneath the brim of his Stetson, looking like the rugged, one hundred percent Wyoming cattleman that he was. They’d both danced at Buckeye Joe’s, but never together. They’d both gone out drinking at Cactus Jack’s in Rawlins, but never together.

Harper passed the turnoff to the Lawson place and watched the odometer. As soon as the green and orange fish-shaped mailbox appeared, she turned. Although the road was plowed, it was still slick, so she slowed to a crawl.

The buildings came into view over the next rise. A traditional wooden barn. Alongside it were four metal structures of varying sizes and an old farmhouse that appeared to be abandoned. Off to the left a trailer and two pickups were parked in front of an enormous detached garage.

Her heart beat faster. This was a real working ranch. This was way out of the realm of her job experience. Out of her comfort zone. What if she couldn’t do it?

She parked behind the older pickup and gazed across the yard to the metal structures and the enclosed pens. Did Bran have chickens as well as cattle? Would taking care of those critters be part of her chores?

Only one way to find out.

Harper climbed out of the car and scaled the steps of the deck attached to the front of the trailer. Standing on the mud-covered mat, she gathered her courage and knocked.

The door didn’t immediately open. Just as she was about to knock louder, the handle turned and the door swung inward.

The stunned expression on Bran Turner’s face might’ve been comical if it hadn’t filled Harper with dread.

His mouth tightened. His dismissive gaze swept over her as if she’d coated herself in skunk oil. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.
You’re
my new hired hand?”

B
ran glared at Harper Masterson, wondering if he’d become the butt of some joke. He said as much to her, steeling himself against the tears he imagined would fill her eyes.

But her golden brown eyes narrowed. A bit haughtily, in fact. “Celia didn’t tell you I was coming?”

“Celia told me she’d found me a hired hand. She didn’t say a damn thing about it bein’
you
.”

Harper’s chin shot up. “You don’t have to sound so disappointed.”

“I am.”
Shit. Not the right thing to say.
“Look, I don’t know what Celia told you about this job—”

“She didn’t tell me anything except to drive out here and talk to you. So here I am.” She pierced him with another lofty look. “Are you conducting the job interview on the porch?”

He scowled, biting back, “Ain’t gonna be a job interview.” Instead, he stepped away from the doorframe and said, “Might as well come in instead of standing out there freezin’.”

“Thank you.” Harper wiped the soles of her dominatrix boots and peeled off her pink leopard-print gloves. When she pushed the cowl of her wool coat back, her golden hair stuck up in a million directions, making her seem approachable, not like a goddamn beauty queen.

A beauty queen. As his hired hand.

She smoothed her hands over her head, taming the wild strands. Then she jammed them in the front pockets of her fancy velvet suit jacket, with its gold embroidery, and ignored his pointed stare.

Jesus, she was stunning. A wide face composed of such sharp angles and strong lines shouldn’t look so startlingly feminine, but it worked perfectly on her. Add in a generous mouth with a tiny beauty mark above the curve of her full lips and those brandy-colored eyes, and Bran was nearly struck stupid by her magnificence.

He gestured to the couch. “Have a seat. Coffee?”

“Yes. Please. Black.”

Bran poured two cups, handed one to her, and parked himself in the easy chair across from her. They both took a sip. He waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he said, “Why would you even be interested in this job? Don’t seem like your kind of thing.”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on the dark liquid in her mug.

“Harper?”

Finally she glanced up. “With all due respect, Mr. Turner, you don’t know anything about me. So how would you know if this was my kind of thing?”

Damn. She did have a little fire. “I’ll give you that. And that answers the last part of my question, but not the first. Why do you wanna work as a hired hand?”

“Honestly? Because I’m out of options.” Harper set her mug on the table and rubbed her hands across her skirt. Her tight skirt that’d inched halfway up her thighs the instant she’d primly perched on the edge of his lumpy sofa.

Good Lord. The woman had worn a miniskirt, a silky shirt, and hooker boots to apply for a job . . . as a ranch hand. Didn’t she realize that most days she’d be covered in cow shit, mud, and hay?

Probably not. This would be the shortest “interview” in history. Pity, really. He’d almost like to see what outfit she’d wear to the branding. Images of her rockin’ a red thong, topped with metallic chaps and a teeny bra with strategically placed silver stars and blue fringe popped into his head.

“I went to work this morning at Tan Your Hide and Alice informed me she’s shutting it down.”

“Is that your only job?”

“No, I also work part-time at Get Nailed, which is part of Bernice’s Beauty Barn, but that hardly pays the grocery bill. So when Celia called me and heard my tale of woe, she lined this up.” She locked her troubled gaze on his. “Believe me, I had no clue she hadn’t told you that I was the one applying for the job.”

“Have you ever worked on a ranch?”

She shook her head. “That’s why I was suspicious when Celia suggested it. She knows I’m not a ranch kid.”

Silence.

They both said, “Look,” at the same time.

Bran smiled. “Ladies first.”

“I may not have cleaned barns or spread hay, but I have been working since I was twelve years old. I’ve babysat, served fast food, cleaned motel rooms, waitressed, sold clothes in a retail store. I have a great work ethic. I’m not afraid to try new things, nor am I set in my ways on how ranch work should be done, as I suspect other hired hands with experience might be. So if you’re wanting a reliable worker you can train to do things the way you want them done, that would be me.”

“Nice pitch,” he murmured.

Harper blushed.

Oh, hell, no. Not a blusher. The pretty pink tinge on her cheekbones made him wonder if her whole body flushed that color.

“I don’t want permanent employment,” she said, forcing his thoughts away from the image of her rosy naked body rolling around in his flannel sheets.

“Why’s that?”

Harper gave him a sardonic look. “No offense, but I can’t wait to get out of Muddy Gap.”

“Remind me again how you ended up in our part of Wyoming?”

“My mother hooked up with some trucker from here when we lived in Montana, so she followed him, once again believing it was true love, which once again lasted, oh, about four months before she kicked him to the curb.”

Bran was tempted to chuckle, but he didn’t think Harper saw the humor in the retelling even now, so he kept quiet.

“Moving again was the dead last thing I needed, since I’d just started my final year of high school. But Mom never cared what any of us wanted. However, she couldn’t force the issue because I’d won a couple of pageant titles that required me to live in the area for the duration of the reigning year.”