Cowboy for Keeps. Cathy McDavid
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a group lunch together. Then a happy-hour gathering after work. Their next happy hour had included just the two of them. It had ended with a kiss that left her thinking of nothing else for days.
By the end of her two-week project, she’d been completely smitten and convinced he had all the potential to be the one.
During that same period of time, Richard had also made his interest in her known. Dallas liked him, but kept him at arm’s length, her attention focused entirely on Conner. After her stint at Triad was over, however, he’d stopped calling her so much, then not at all. He cited work and spending weekends at the office as the reason, and apologized. Dallas had believed him. She’d heard the employees talking about a potential large contract and that Conner would be in charge.
After two weeks without a single peep from him, she gave up hope. Richard’s call and invitation to a movie wasn’t entirely unexpected, and she’d accepted. The rest, as the saying went, was history.
She’d be lying if she didn’t admit Richard was a rebound romance. And that she’d occasionally wondered what might have been if Conner hadn’t become buried in work.
Well, they were both unattached now.
Dallas instantly dismissed the notion. She couldn’t think about seeing anyone right now, and not for a while. She and Richard had only recently split. And then there was the matter of—
“Is this close enough?” Conner asked, interrupting her train of thought.
“Perfect.”
He’d pulled the truck alongside the larger of the three connecting pastures, not far from a gate. About a hundred yards off, four mustangs had raised their heads to stare at them. Not completely used to humans, they were content to stay put and watch. That would change as soon as Conner removed the bucket of grain he’d brought along.
Dallas hopped out of the truck, grabbing and then discarding her sweater. It was early October, and, typical for southern Arizona, the seasons were only now starting to change from summer to fall. The mildly nippy early-morning air had warmed as the sun rose. By afternoon, they would be running the air-conditioning in their vehicles.
Standing with the door open, Dallas rifled through her equipment bag, grabbing her digital camera and two lenses, one a zoom on the slim chance the horses proved able to resist the lure of a treat. Depending on the shot, she occasionally used a 35mm camera. A good photographer always allowed for choices.
She met up with Conner at the gate.
“Wait here,” he instructed. “These ponies are fresh off the Navajo Reservation and pretty unpredictable. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Dallas started to tell him she wasn’t a novice where horses were concerned and could handle herself, then reconsidered. Things were different now, and she’d be wise to practice caution. So she did as instructed and waited beside the gate, readying her camera.
Conner shook the bucket. That got the attention of the horses, and they meandered toward him. Dallas raised her camera and studied the scene through the viewfinder.
These mostly untamed horses were perfect for the book, in looks and disposition. Despite their shaggy coats, long manes and tails, and compact muscled bodies, they were extraordinary, and they knew it.
Not just any horse, they carried the blood of their Spanish ancestors, brought over on ships crossing the Atlantic Ocean nearly five hundred years ago. It showed in the proud, regal way they held their heads, the intelligence reflecting in their eyes and the graceful movements of their bodies.
Dallas was transfixed—by the horses and also by Conner.
He might possess two MBAs and be as smart as a rocket scientist, but he belonged to this land every bit as much as these mustangs. How many systems analysts handled a rope as if it was an extension of their arm? Had an uncanny ability to predict a horse’s next move? Wore their jeans, Western shirt and cowboy hat with the comfort and ease of a suit?
Conner did.
Except Dallas liked him infinitely better in jeans.
She snapped several pictures of him while he waited for the mustangs to approach, certain he had no idea he was the focal point of all her shots.
A mild breeze tousled the lock of unruly blond hair that swept across his tanned forehead. His hazel eyes narrowed with interest as he studied the approaching horses. A shade shy of six feet, he had the build of an athlete despite spending the last six years in an office, and he carried himself with confidence, completely ignorant of his effect on the opposite sex.
For every hundred or so pictures Dallas took, she might use one for the book. To that end, she snapped away.
“I want to get a few shots of the baby.” Without waiting for Conner to reply, she climbed the fence and straddled the top rail, careful to maintain her balance.
The filly, no more than six months old, cooperated nicely, turning her sweet face toward the camera. When Dallas went to climb down the fence, the material of her slacks caught on a piece of wire. She momentarily wobbled and let out a startled yelp.
“Don’t move!” In a flash, Conner was at her side, assisting her down.
The horses fidgeted, not entirely happy with this new intruder on their side of the fence.
When both of Dallas’s feet were firmly planted on the ground, she looked up and went instantly still. Conner’s nearness, not to mention his strong hands resting protectively on her waist, brought a rush of heat to her cheeks.
“Th-thanks. I’m all right.”
“You sure?”
No, she wasn’t. Sure or all right.
“I’m fine. Really,” she insisted, silently scolding herself. She wasn’t some silly buckle bunny or schoolgirl, and her reaction to Conner was entirely over the top.
He turned from her in that unhurried manner of his. “I was thinking, maybe we could grab a cup of coffee at the Corner Diner when you’re done here. Strictly work,” he clarified, when she didn’t respond. “To go over what you need to do and how we’ll accomplish it.”
“Of course. Strictly work.” She shoved her disappointment aside. Conner was right; they needed to maintain a professional relationship. For many reasons. “Except, if you don’t mind, I’d like something a little more substantial. I wasn’t feeling like eating earlier, and now I’m starving.”
Twenty minutes later, they made their way toward Conner’s truck. The ride to Mustang Village, where the diner was located, didn’t take long. The uniquely designed, equestrian-friendly community had been constructed on land formerly owned by the Powell family.
Where cattle once roamed, commercial buildings, a retail center, apartments, condos and houses sat. The slow flowing river remained, but the lush vegetation growing on its banks had been replaced by a fence and keep-out signs. Horses still carried their riders across the valley—on bridle paths networking the area, not the open range.
Powell Ranch, four generations strong, looked down on Mustang Village from its place on the mountainside, a witness to the wheels of progress.
“You grew up in this area,” Dallas commented as they pulled into the diner’s parking lot. “Does it seem strange to you, seeing all the changes?”
“Sometimes.” He grinned affably. “When I was twelve, Gavin’s dad started letting me go with them on cattle roundups. The corrals were over there.” He pointed to the park a block down the street. “The loading station just beyond them. We’d drive those cows from all over the valley right past this very spot.”
“What a sight that must have been.” She imagined the pictures she’d have taken. Hundreds of cows on the move. “I bet you loved it.”
“Are you kidding? It was dirty and sweaty and backbreaking work.”
“You did love it!”