A Cowboy's Promise. Marin ThomasЧитать онлайн книгу.
midstride and her ticker resumed beating. His head turned toward the barn, revealing a strong jaw and a wide mouth, which wasn’t smiling now. After a moment, he swaggered—that’s how most cowboys, who believed they were God’s gift to women, walked—over to the house. He took the porch steps two at a time and instead of ringing the bell he pounded.
“Go upstairs and check on Lily,” she ordered her daughter. “But don’t wake her if she’s napping. And stay in your room until I call for you.”
Rose obeyed, grabbing the box of Cheerios off the kitchen table—her sister’s favorite food—before leaving the kitchen. Amy unconsciously brushed at her bangs. When she caught her reflection in the window, she grimaced. Do you really care what the man thinks of you?
No, she did not. She’d transferred handsome cowboys to her been-there-done-that list several years ago.
When she opened the door, cool blue eyes pinned her. Mesmerized, she gaped, uncaring if the man considered her behavior rude. A split-second fantasy flashed through her mind—she and the cowboy lying in a field of clover beneath a cornflower-colored sky—which slowed her thundering pulse to a sluggish thump thumpity thump.
“Ma’am.”
The deep voice abruptly ended the dream. “May I help you?” she squeaked.
He removed his hat.
She wished he hadn’t.
Strands of dark hair, the color of the dirt after a hard rain, lay every which way across his brow and over the tips of his ears, lending him a shaggy beach-bum appeal. She easily pictured the cowboy in Hawaiian-flowered swim trunks surfing an ocean wave. Then he smiled.
Good Lord. He was a heartbreaker.
Soul-stopper.
Woman-dropper.
His gaze swept her from head to toe, its indifference almost insulting. Amy wasn’t a looker—at least for the past several months she hadn’t been one. Each morning the bathroom mirror reminded her that she had an inch of dark roots showing. But money was tight and she didn’t dare waste a penny on a cut and color. Besides, a trip to the hair salon wouldn’t erase the worry lines that had taken up residence across her forehead the past few months.
“Matt Cartwright.” He offered his hand.
His fingers were marked by thick calluses and a scar bisected his palm—a bad rope burn, she suspected. He shifted, the movement sending shards of afternoon sunlight ricocheting off the silver belt buckle at his waist. According to the inscription—Dodge National Circuit Finals Rodeo—the man was an authentic rodeo cowboy. Figures. Rodeo cowboys were useless. She ought to know—she’d married one.
Steeling herself, she clasped his hand, ignoring the jolt of awareness that spread through her. Holy smokes, her breasts were tingling. When was the last time that had happened?
“I’ve got business with Ben Olson.”
He hadn’t heard? Amy’s attention shifted to the horse trailer. “Ben’s not here.”
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
“Not soon.” That was for sure.
Mr. Cartwright rubbed his chin, dragging his fingers across the emerging five o’clock shadow, the scratchy noise too intimate a sound between them for having just met. “I dialed his cell phone numerous times, but he never answered. Then a few weeks ago the number was no longer in use.”
That’s because Amy hadn’t been able to pay the wireless phone bill and the company had cancelled her service. “Maybe I can help,” she said.
Brow furrowed, he shifted his weight from one boot to the other. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
“Amy Olson. Ben’s wife.” His eyes rounded—evidently he hadn’t been aware that Ben had been married. “Would you like to leave a message for my husband?” she asked, hoping to buy a few weeks before he figured out the truth.
“Actually, I’d like to leave three of my mares with him.”
“Excuse me?”
Dark eyebrows curved inward over his nose—a nose that had been broken at least once according to the bump along its bridge. “Did your husband happen to mention a business agreement he made with me?”
Damn her pie-in-the-sky, dreaming, scheming husband. She pushed the words past her lips. “He did not.”
The cowboy rocked on his boot heels, clearly agitated by the lack of progress in their conversation. “Ben and I met in Pocatello this past December.”
Not surprising. Her husband had chased the rodeo dream since before they’d married. If Ben wasn’t competing, he was in the stands cheering. But he’d never been good enough to win a buckle like this cowboy. A sliver of dread crawled up Amy’s spine. She hoped to heaven that the deal her husband had struck with this man had nothing to do with the beast in the barn. “I’m listening.”
“On the eve of the National Finals Rodeo a group of cowboys organized a poker game and—”
“The short version. I have chores to do.” Not true. Few tasks remained on the farm since her horse-boarding business had gone belly-up. Regardless, she wanted this cowboy gone—yesterday.
“The short version, Mrs. Olson, is that your husband lost to me at poker and I’m here to collect on his debt.”
Blast it, Ben. Her husband had no business playing cards. He couldn’t keep a straight face if his life depended on it. As a matter of fact he couldn’t walk straight, sleep straight, sit straight or talk straight. He’d been the most wishy-washy man she’d ever met. “How much does Ben owe you?”
“Thirty-thousand.”
A high-pitched buzz whistled between her ears. She opened her mouth but only air rushed out.
“Since your husband wasn’t able to procure the funds we struck a bargain.”
“Bargain?” she wheezed.
“Free stud service in lieu of the money he owes me.”
That surely wasn’t going to happen. Besides…“Most serious horse breeders prefer artificial insemination.”
His devilishly wicked grin revealed a perfect set of pearly whites. “Call me old-fashioned, but I believe a lady who’s been properly courted behaves better in the bedroom, er…stall, I mean.”
If she squeezed the doorknob any tighter, she’d bust the hardware. “I’m sorry about the gambling debt, but you can’t leave your horses here.” She attempted to slam the door in his face, but a size-thirteen Roper blocked the way. He held out a piece of paper.
No mistaking Ben’s handwriting. She scanned the contents. The message said exactly what Mr. Cartwright claimed—free stud service for three mares valued at thirty thousand dollars—except her husband was to have delivered Son of Sunshine over a month ago to the Lazy River Ranch outside Tulsa, Oklahoma. “Like I said…can’t help you.” When he made no move to take the note, she stuffed it into his shirt pocket, ignoring the hard wall of flesh that her knuckles nudged.
“Mrs. Olson, I’m not leaving until I speak with Ben.”
The resentment and frustration that had been damned up all these months burst free, sending a flood of anger rushing through her. “I’m afraid you’ll have yourself quite a long wait.”
His eyes narrowed, leaving only a slice of blue visible. “And why’s that?”
“Because Ben’s dead.”
The cowboy’s mouth dropped. “Dead…dead?”
Was there any other kind? “Dead as in buried over yonder.” She pointed to a grassy knoll a hundred yards beyond the barn—the family burial ground. Hard to miss her great-grandparents’ headstone standing ten feet high. She motioned