Showdown

  Ironically, even this smattering of research had been enough to convince him that there was, in fact, serious money to be made in the obscure, Western sport of quarter horse racing. If he played his cards right, he might even make a profit on it while he waited for a chance to move in on the oil reserves. But that was by the by. What he wanted—what he was determined to get—was some sort of ownership in the property. And today was the day he was going to make it happen.

  He decided to approach the ranch via Los Olivos and Solvang, deliberately avoiding the Buellton road. That way he could save the pleasure of inspecting his newest acquisition for the drive home. Pulling over just outside Highwood’s gates, he took one last glance at his notes, reminding himself of the Cameron family history and the names of all the key players.

  “Wyatt McDonald,” he murmured, putting the car back into drive and continuing up the mile-long track to the cluster of adobe houses and ancient outbuildings that made up the Cameron ranch. “Not Willy. Wyatt. Like Wyatt Earp.”

  He parked directly in front of the big house, making sure his pristine convertible was as far away as possible from the filthy-looking tractors and trucks scattered around the yard, and brushed the dust from his suit pants as he walked up to the front door. There was no bell, just a heavy old brass knocker, which he rapped firmly three times.

  “No one’s in there,” came a voice from behind him.

  He spun around to face a smiling, mousy-haired girl of about twenty. She was wearing overalls and both her hands and face were smeared with sticky black streaks of what looked like tar. Obviously some sort of laborer’s daughter.

  “Are you looking for Bobby or Wyatt?”

  “Either. Well, both actually,” he said curtly. “I’m Todd Cranborn. I have an appointment with Bobby at twelve.”

  “Tara McDonald,” said the girl, wiping her greasy hand on her overalls and offering it to him.

  Damn. A McDonald daughter. Cursing himself for being so quick to leap to conclusions, he turned on the charm in an instant, smiling as he shook her hand and trying not to wince at her dirty fingernails.

  “My dad’s in the office, over there.” She pointed to a red-roofed adobe-style hut. Todd wondered whether it was original, guessed it must be. Those old houses were worth a fortune these days. “And Bobby’s still out on the drive, I think.”

  “The drive?”

  “Yeah, you know,” said the girl. “They’re bringing in a couple stray cattle from the hills up yonder.”

  A cattle drive? And did she just say “yonder”? Jeez, these people really were living in some kind of time warp. He half expected the theme song from Rawhide to start blaring out through the trees.

  “Well then,” he said. “I guess I’d better go see your father. You wanna let him know I’m here?”

  “Sure,” said the girl, who was already striding off toward the office. “Follow me.”

  Meanwhile, up in the hills, Milly was holding on to the front of her saddle for dear life, holding her breath as her horse slipped and skidded on loose stones and briars beneath her, struggling desperately to scrabble to the top of a lethally steep incline. She had always considered herself a fearless, confident rider. But she had never done anything like this before, and she had to admit she was scared shitless.

  They were up in the overgrown wilderness that bordered the north side of the property: “they” being Milly, Bobby, and six other hands, including Dylan, although he was on the other side of the ridge. A few stray cattle had been cunning enough to evade capture during the big drives of the last few weeks, and Bobby thought it would be a good initiation to ranch life for Milly to come along and help round them up.

  She might have made a slightly better fist of it if she’d gotten a wink of sleep last night. As it was she’d lain awake for hours after supper, a combination of jet lag and annoyance at all the witty put-downs she could have used on Summer if only she’d thought of them sooner, keeping her from getting the rest she so badly needed.

  At about two, wide-eyed and desperate, she staggered out into the hallway to retrieve some melatonin from her handbag and collided head-on in the darkness with Bobby.

  “Jesus!” she said, jumping out of her skin. “You scared me. What are you doing up?”

  “Sorry,” he said. He noticed that she was barefoot and wearing an old Snoopy nightshirt. And as if that didn’t accentuate her childishness enough, she actually appeared to be carrying a mangled old teddy bear in her left hand too.

  Catching him looking, she blushed.

  “Mr. Ted,” she said sheepishly. “I know it’s silly, but he’s always slept with me, since I was little.”

  Lucky Mr. Ted, thought Bobby, swallowing hard. God, she was adorable. Adorable and about as ready for an adult sexual relationship as a sixth grader.

  “That’s sweet,” he said.

  Milly’s heart sank. Why, why had she bought the stupid bear with her in the first place? She didn’t want to be “sweet.” She wanted to be sexy and sophisticated and irresistible. No wonder he treated her like a kid if she still behaved like one.

  “Couldn’t you sleep either?” Thrusting the toy behind her back, she made her best attempt at a sultry pout.

  “No.” His voice was hoarse with desire, which thankfully she misinterpreted as a sore throat. “Jet lag, I guess.”

  “Me too,” she sighed. “I came out to get these.” She waved her pill bottle at him and hoped she wasn’t staring too obviously at his bare chest, although she had a horrible feeling she might be. His “pajamas” consisted only of a pair of white boxer shorts. When he leaned back against the wall of the corridor, it was like looking at a living Calvin Klein advert.

  In fact it wasn’t jet lag keeping him awake. It was the temptation and frustration of knowing Milly was sleeping down the hall, alone. Haunted by his fantasies, he’d gotten up to try to walk things out of his system, only to find himself faced with the reality of her warm, sleepy, half-clothed body not two feet away from him. Fuck, he wanted her so bad he could scream.

  It would be so easy to make a move, too. Too easy. She might be too inexperienced to see his desire, but there was no mistaking hers. Sometimes, like tonight, her longing for him was so strong, he could practically smell it. He knew that the second he pulled her into his arms, she’d reciprocate.

  But it wasn’t right. Not with Milly.

  There were plenty of other girls he could get his rocks off with. With her it would be like taking candy from a baby, literally. He couldn’t do it.

  “Right, well,” he said, clearing his throat nervously. “I’ll, er . . . I’ll let you get back to bed. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Crushed with disappointment, Milly slipped back into her room and climbed miserably beneath the covers. He hadn’t even given her a good night kiss on the cheek. Surely that would have been normal good manners, wouldn’t it? The way he’d scuttled off like a frightened spider, it was as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.

  What was wrong with her?

  Okay, so she wasn’t Heidi Klum. But was she really so utterly invisible, so sexless as to warrant being ignored by a man who, by his own admission, had slept with more girls in one summer in Newmarket than P. Diddy got through in a year?

  Too tired to cry, she gave herself up to the melatonin pills and at last drifted off into a deep, deep sleep at about three. But at six she’d been rudely awakened by Bobby hammering sergeant major-like on her door, and half an hour later found herself on horseback, heading for the hills. Still in an exhausted, melatonin-induced fog she could barely speak, let alone ride.

  “It’s pretty simple,” Dylan explained to her as they set off. “Basically we ride up to the hills, make a big circle, and surround the cattle. Then, when we’ve got ’em all nice and close, we pen them in.”

  What he’d failed to mention was that these so-called hills were more like sheer cliff faces, covered in loose shingle on which even the most experienced horse would strug
gle to get a grip. They were also overgrown with briars and brambles, impenetrably thick and head high in places, that had already cut her arms and face to ribbons as she strove desperately to stay in the saddle. And as for surrounding the cattle, that was about as easy as trying to hold on to a slippery bar of soap in high seas. No sooner did she come within a hundred yards of a cow than it turned, doubled back, and bolted, darting around the treacherous terrain with no more difficulty than if it had been ambling along the racetrack at Newmarket.

  After four hours, their little team of wranglers had not even located half the missing animals, let alone corralled them, and Milly thought she must have lost half of her body weight in sweat through a combination of exertion and abject, outright terror.

  “Come on up!” yelled Bobby, from his vantage point some sixty feet above her on the top of the ridge. Though they were on the same team of wranglers, riding within yards of each other, he’d barely exchanged two words with her all morning. And when he had, they’d been barked commands rather than anything more personal. It was hard not to feel dispirited. “Try to move a little over to your left. Ground’s firmer there.”

  Yeah, right, thought Milly bitterly. Like I can move anywhere! She only hoped her pony, as Bobby ludicrously insisted on calling the great lug of a quarter horse he’d given her, had a better idea of what he was doing than she did and that some instinct of self-preservation would get him to the top of the hill without falling over backward and tumbling hundreds of feet to what she imagined would be certain death for both of them.

  Finally, she arrived at the top of the hill, exhausted, and trotted over to join him.

  “Okay?” he asked brusquely.

  Okay? She felt like screaming. No, I’m not fucking okay. Just look at me, for God’s sake. I feel like I’ve been through the bloody Somme and back.

  What she actually said was, “Fine, thanks. But you might have warned me. That slope is a death trap. Someone could kill themselves doing that.”

  “People have,” he said nonchalantly.

  “What, died?” said Milly, horrified.

  “Sure,” he said airily. “Not experienced riders like you, though. I wouldn’t bring you up here if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

  She supposed it was a compliment, but it was hardly very reassuring, especially as she’d almost lost her footing more than once this morning.

  “The more you can work with your horse, really feel him and control him in this sort of terrain,” said Bobby, “the better you’ll be on the track, believe me. It’s all part of the process.”

  Milly groaned. She already knew he was big on the whole “holistic training” vibe. The very first time he’d watched her ride at Newells, he’d talked about the importance of all-around proficiency, a total understanding of each horse’s dynamics. Ever eager to please him, she’d paid lip service to the idea. But privately she struggled to see how taking a working horse mountaineering or chasing some bloody stubborn cow around the countryside was going to make her a better jockey, quarter horse or otherwise.

  Hopefully her days would soon involve more race training and less corralling. This whole cowgirl thing looked a lot easier on Bonanza, that was for sure.

  Bobby looked at his watch. “I have to get back down to the ranch in a minute,” he said. “I have a meeting. But I want you to stay up here and make your way over to that holding pen over there. You see it? Above those cedars?”

  She nodded weakly.

  “Dylan should be there in about twenty minutes, once he’s got those two heifers from the other side. He can show you where to go from there. In the meantime, if you come across any more cattle, just keep north of ’em, okay? Don’t let any get past you.”

  And how, exactly, do you propose I stop them? thought Milly, as he thundered off down the hill. All the cows she’d seen so far had paid her about as much attention as a dead leaf blown across their path.

  Happily, a few minutes later Dylan came cantering over the ridge to her rescue. “Where’s Bobby?” he asked, his irrepressible cheerfulness lifting Milly’s spirits a little despite herself. “He hasn’t abandoned you already, has he?”

  “’Fraid so,” she panted, pulling her pony up beside him. “He had a meeting, apparently.”

  Looking at her, Dylan couldn’t help but grin. Her hair was all over the place, a tangled mess escaping in every possible direction from its pink elastic band. She had scratches all over her arms and face, giant rings of sweat pooled beneath the arms of her T-shirt, and she was also glowing with sunburn across her nose and the top of her forehead. The tips of her ears were as red as raspberries.

  “Told you you should have worn a hat,” he teased her. “You do realize your nose could get a job as a stoplight?”

  “Bog off,” she said, embarrassed but giggling, hastily covering the offending protuberance with her hand. Bobby had offered her a cowboy hat this morning, but she’d refused it because she thought it looked dorky, and she wanted to be as sexy as possible whenever he was around. So much for that plan.

  “What happened?” asked Dylan. “Did ya get in a fight with a thornbush?”

  “Something like that.” She smiled ruefully, reluctantly uncovering her nose. “I had no idea it would be so hard. It was all I could do to keep my saddle! Bobby kept telling me not to let any cows get past me, but it’s hopeless. I’ve been scrambling up and down hills like an idiot all morning. I may as well have stayed in bed.”

  “I know how you feel,” said Dylan, quietly admiring the way her breasts rose and fell beneath her T-shirt when she got all het up. “If it makes you feel any better, we’ve been getting nowhere on the other side either, and I’ve been doin’ this a whole lot longer than you. Some days it’s easy, some days it’s hard. That’s ranching.”

  Milly sighed. “Bobby says this will all help me when I start racing, that it’s all good experience. But I don’t see how it can be.”

  “Well.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t know about that. But Bobby knows his stuff when it comes to horses.”

  “Oh, I know he does,” said Milly earnestly. “That’s why I’m here. He’s amazing.”

  There was no mistaking the awe and adoration in her voice—Dylan had heard the same reaction from countless other girls. Bobby might not have noticed how pretty his protégée was, but the kid was obviously seriously smitten with him.

  “I wouldn’t sweat it if I were you,” he said kindly. “This meeting of Bobby’s is with an investor from LA. With any luck you’ll be training quarter horses in a few weeks and your career as a cowgirl’ll be over. I wish I could be so lucky.”

  Milly raised an eyebrow. “I thought you loved ranching? Bobby’s always told me you’re amazing at it, that it’s your whole life.”

  “It is my whole life,” said Dylan with a shrug. “But that’s not the same as lovin’ it.”

  “What would you like to do?” asked Milly.

  “I’d like to paint,” he said wistfully. “But it’s not going to happen.”

  “You never know,” she said. “Only a few weeks ago I thought I’d never race or even ride again. But now here I am.”

  “Here you are.” He smiled.

  She was a sweetheart, this one. Even bruised and battered after her dreadful morning, there was a sort of disheveled charm about her that he could easily see himself falling for. But there wouldn’t be any point. It was Bobby she wanted, not him.

  It was always the same with girls. Next to Bobby, he didn’t exist.

  Wyatt intercepted Bobby as soon as he arrived in the yard.

  “Where’s the guy?” Bobby asked, dismounting and peeling off his leather chaps.

  “He’s in the office,” said Wyatt, putting a restraining hand on his arm. “But listen, Bobby. Be careful. There’s something about this fella I don’t trust.”

  “Like what?” Pulling off his hat, Bobby ran his fingers quickly through his sweat-drenched hair.

  “I don’t know.” Wyatt frowned. “It’s hard to d
escribe. He’s just . . . slick.”

  “I can handle slick,” said Bobby dismissively.

  “Maybe so,” said Wyatt patiently. “But take your time, all right? Get to know the guy a little bit before you commit to anything. You do have a tendency to get carried away sometimes.”

  “Says who?” Bobby bristled. “My father? Look.” He made an effort to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I appreciate the concern. But I’m not a kid anymore, Wyatt. I can handle this guy. I know what I want.”

  Wyatt nodded respectfully and stepped back, letting him pass. There was no point pushing it any further. The irony was that Bobby was far more like Hank than he realized: bullheaded as hell. Hank had never been one to take advice and Highwood had suffered as a result. Bobby was the same but with an added element of youthful bravado that made him potentially even more uncontrollable.

  Wyatt prayed that his sixth sense about Todd Cranborn was wrong. But watching Bobby stride confidently into the office, he had the same, sinking feeling of watching a lamb gamboling off to the slaughterhouse.

  “Bobby?” Todd got to his feet, smiling and extending his hand in greeting as Bobby walked in. He’d forgotten quite how model handsome the boy was, not to mention tall. A lesser man might have felt intimidated by the glaring size discrepancy between them, but Todd had no such qualms. “How are you?” he said affably. “We met a few years ago in Florida, if you remember.”

  Bobby gave him the most perfunctory of handshakes and sat down on the desk, without bothering to invite his guest to have a seat.

  “I don’t, I’m afraid,” he said tactlessly. “But I understand from my ranch manager that you were once in some sort of negotiations with my father?”

  Cocky little shit, thought Todd. But his smile didn’t waver. “That’s right. Well, ‘in negotiations’ might be overstating it. I’m in property development, as you know. I always had an interest in your father’s land, but it was pretty clear he was never going to sell to me, or anyone else for that matter.”