Date with a Cowboy: Iron Cowboy / In the Arms of the Rancher / At the Texan's Pleasure. Diana Palmer
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dash. The VW had been wrecked, so she got it very cheaply. Probably it would fall apart if she tried to drive it as far as San Antonio. But she never left the Jacobsville area, and it was dependable transportation.
It started on the first go, making that lovely race car sound that made her think of luxury racers as she gunned the engine. If she closed her eyes and did that, sometimes it sounded just like a Formula 1 challenge car.
“In my dreams,” she laughed to herself. She wouldn’t earn enough in her lifetime to make six months of payments on one of those fancy sports cars. But it was just as well. The little black VW suited her very well.
She pulled out of her driveway onto the dirt road that led out to the state highway. It had been recently scraped and a little new gravel had been laid down, but it was still slippery in the rain. She gritted her teeth as she felt the car slide around in the wet mud. At least it was flat land, and even if she did go into a ditch, it wouldn’t be a deep one. All the same, she didn’t look forward to walking for help in that molasses-thick mud. She remembered a long walk in similar red mud, overseas, with the sound of guns echoing. She drew her mind back to the present. Dwelling on the past solved nothing.
By downshifting, not hitting the brakes and going slowly, she managed to get to the paved highway. But she was going to be late getting to the ogre’s house … She grimaced. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She’d just have to tell him the truth and hope he was understanding about it.
“I specifically said ten o’clock,” he shot at her when he opened the front door.
He was wearing jeans and a chambray shirt and working boots—you could tell by the misshapen contours of them that many soakings had caused—and a ratty black Stetson pulled low over his forehead. Even in working garb, he managed to look elegant. He looked like a cowboy, but they could have used him as a model for one made of metal. An iron cowboy.
She had to fight a laugh at the comparison.
“And you’re dripping wet all over,” he muttered, glaring at her clothes. “What the hell did you do, swim through mud holes on your way here?”
“I stepped in a mud puddle on the way to my car,” she began, clutching a plastic bag that held his books.
He looked past her. “I don’t know what the hell that thing is, but I wouldn’t dignify it by calling it a car.”
Her eyes began to glitter. “Here,” she said, thrusting the books at him.
“And your manners could use some work,” he added bitingly.
“‘Cast not your pearls before swine!’” she quoted angrily.
Both eyebrows went up under the hat. “If that raincoat is any indication of your finances, you’d be lucky to be able to toss a cultured pearl at a pig. Which I am not one of,” he added firmly.
“My boss said she’d call you …”
“She did.” He took a folded check out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Next time I order books, I’ll expect you at the stated time. I’m too busy to sit in the house waiting for people to show up.”
“The road I live on is six inches thick in wet mud,” she began.
“You could have phoned on the way and told me that,” he retorted.
“With what, smoke signals?” she asked sourly. “I don’t have a cell phone.”
“Why am I not surprised?” he asked with pure sarcasm.
“And my finances are none of your business!”
He glanced down. “If they were, I’d quit. No accountant is going to work for a woman who can’t afford two matching socks.”
“I have another pair just like this one at home!”
He frowned. He leaned closer. “What in the world is that?” he asked, indicating her left sleeve.
She looked down. “Aahhhhhh!” she screamed, jumping from one leg to the other. “Get it off, get it off! Aaaahhhh!”
The large man in the house came out onto the porch, frowning. When he followed his employer’s pointed finger, he spotted the source of the uproar. “Oh,” he said.
He walked forward, caught Sara’s arm with a big hand, picked up the yellow hornet on her sleeve, slammed it to the porch and stepped on it with a shoe the size of a shoebox.
“It’s just a hornet,” Mr. Danzetta said gently.
Sara stared down at the smashed insect and drew in a deep breath. “It’s a yellow hornet. I got stung by one of them once, on my neck. It swelled up and I had to be taken to the emergency room. I’ve been scared of them ever since.” She smiled up at him. “Thank you.” Odd, she thought, how familiar he looked. But she was almost certain she’d never seen him before. Her condition made it difficult for her to remember the past.
The ogre glared at his employee, who was smiling at Sara and watching her with something like recognition. He noted the glare, cleared his throat and went back into the house.
“Don’t start flirting with the hired help,” he told her firmly after the front door had closed behind Tony.
“I said thank you! How can you call that flirting?” she asked, aghast.
“I’ll call the store when I need a new supply of books,” he replied, ignoring her question.
She read quickly herself, but he had eight books there. But he might not be reading them, she thought wickedly. He might be using them for other purposes: as doorstops, maybe.
“You brought the books. I gave you a check. Was there something else?” he asked with a cold smile. “If you’re lonely and need companionship, there are services that advertise on television late at night,” he added helpfully.
She drew herself up to her full height. “If I were lonely, this is the last place in the world that I’d look for relief!” she informed him.
“Then why are you still here?”
She wouldn’t kick him, she wouldn’t kick him …
“And don’t spin out going down my driveway,” he called after her. “That’s new gravel!”
She hoped he was watching her the whole way. She dislodged enough gravel to cover a flower bed on her way down the driveway.
It was a long, wet weekend. She knew that nobody around Jacobs County would be complaining about the rain. It was a dry, unusually hot spring. She read in the market bulletins online that ranchers were going to pay high prices for corn. Floods in the Midwest and Great Plains were killing the corn there, and drought was getting it in the South and Southwest. Considering the vast amounts of the grain that were being used as biofuel, and the correspondingly higher prices it was commanding, it looked as if some small ranchers and farmers might go broke because they couldn’t afford to feed it to their cattle. Not to mention the expense of running farm machinery, which mostly burned gasoline.
She was glad she wasn’t a farmer or rancher. She did feel sorry for the handful of small ranchers around town. One day, she thought, there would be no more family agriculture in the country. Everything would be owned by international corporations, using patented seed and genetically enhanced produce. It was a good thing that some small farmers were holding on to genetically pure seeds, raising organic crops. One day, the agricultural community might be grateful, if there was ever a wholesale dying out of the genetically modified plants.
“Well, you’re deep in thought, aren’t you?” Dee teased as she walked in the door the following Wednesday, just before noon.
Sara blinked, startled by her boss’s appearance. “Sorry,” she said, laughing. “I was thinking about corn.”
Dee stared at her. “OOOOOkay,” she drawled.
“No, I’m not going mad,” Sara