Wild at Heart. Vicki Lewis Thompson
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FROM A PLATFORM twenty feet in the air, Naomi Perkins focused her binoculars on a pair of fuzzy heads sticking out of a gigantic nest across the clearing. Those baby eagles sure had the cuteness factor going on. If they lived to adulthood, they’d grow into majestic birds of prey, but at this stage they were achingly vulnerable.
Blake Scranton, the university professor who’d hired her to study the nestlings, was an infirm old guy who was writing a paper on Jackson Hole bald-eagle nesting behavior. He expected her firsthand observations to be the centerpiece of his paper, which would bring more attention to the eagle population in the area and should also give a boost to ecotourism.
Lowering her binoculars, she crouched down to check the battery reading of the webcam mounted on the observation-platform railing. Still plenty of juice. As she glanced up, a movement caught her eye. A rider had appeared at the edge of the clearing.
In the week she’d spent monitoring this nest on the far boundary of the Last Chance Ranch, she’d seen plenty of four-legged animals, but none of the two-legged variety until now. Standing, she trained her binoculars on the rider and adjusted the focus. Then she sucked in a breath of pure feminine appreciation. A superhot cowboy was headed in her direction.
She didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t one of the Chance brothers or any of their longtime ranch hands. Her eight-by-eight platform, tucked firmly into the branches of a tall pine, allowed her to watch him unobserved.
If he looked up, he might notice the platform even though it was semicamouflaged. But he was too far away to see her. Her tan shirt and khaki shorts would blend into the shadows.
Still, she’d be less visible if she sat down. Easing slowly to the deck, she propped her elbows on the two-foot railing designed to keep her from falling off. Then she refocused her binoculars and began a top-to-bottom inventory.
He wore his hair, which was mostly covered by his hat, on the longish side. From here it looked dark but not quite black. She liked the retro effect of collar-length hair, which hinted at the possibility that the guy was a little less civilized than your average male.
The brim of his hat blocked her view of his eyes. She decided to think of them as brown, because she had a preference for dark-haired men with brown eyes. He had a strong jaw and a mouth bracketed by smile lines. So maybe he had a sense of humor.
Moving on, she took note of broad shoulders that gave him a solid, commanding presence. He sat tall in the saddle but without any tension, as if he took a relaxed approach to life.
Thanking the German makers of her binoculars for their precision, she gazed at the steady rise and fall of his powerful chest. He’d left a couple of snaps undone in deference to the heat, and that was enough to reveal a soft swirl of dark chest hair. Vaguely she realized she’d crossed the line from observing to ogling, but no one would ever have to know.
Next she focused on his slim hips and the easy way his denim-clad thighs gripped the Western saddle. While she was in the vicinity, she checked out his package. She had to own that impulse. If she ever caught some guy giving her such a thorough inspection, she’d be insulted.
But she didn’t intend to get caught, or even be seen. After a solid week of camping, she was far too bedraggled to chat with a guy, especially a guy who looked like this one. He was the sort of cowboy she’d want to meet at the Spirits and Spurs when she looked smokin’ hot in a tight pair of jeans, a low-cut blouse and her red dancing boots.
He could be a visitor out for a trail ride, but if he was a ranch hand, he might come into town for a beer on Saturday nights. She’d ask around—subtly, of course. He’d be well worth the effort of climbing out of this tree and sprucing up a bit.
She was due for some fun of the male variety, come to think of it. She’d been celibate since…Had it really been almost a year since Arnold? And that hadn’t been a particularly exciting relationship, now that she had some distance and could look at it objectively.
She had a bad tendency to set her sights too low, which was how she’d ended up in bed with Arnold, a fellow researcher in a Florida wildlife program. If she should by some twist of fate end up in bed with this cowboy, she could never say her sights were set too low. He was breathtaking.
He was also getting too close for her to continue ogling. She regretfully lowered her binoculars and eased back from the edge of the platform. If she scooted up against the tree trunk, he’d never know she was there.
Emmett Sterling, the ranch foreman, and Jack, the oldest of the Chance brothers, had built the platform for her. They’d also mentioned her presence to the cowhands so they’d be aware in case they rode out this way. But even if the rider had noticed the structure, he’d have no idea whether it was currently occupied.
She could be doing any number of things. She might be hiking back to town for supplies or taking a nap in the dome tent she’d pitched down near the stream that ran along the Last Chance’s northern boundary. Leaning against the tree, she listened to the steady clop-clop of hooves approaching.
She needed to sneeze. Of course. People always needed to sneeze when they were trying to hide. She pressed her finger against the base of her nose.
Finally the urge to sneeze went away, but she felt a tickle in her throat. Clop, clop, clop, clop. The horse and rider sounded as if they were only a few yards from her tree. She needed to cough. She really did. Maybe if she was extremely careful and exceptionally quiet, she could pick up her energy drink and take a sip.
Usually while she was up here, the songbirds chirped merrily in the branches around her and the breeze made a nice sighing sound. That kind of ambient noise would be welcome so she could take a drink of her favorite bright green beverage without danger of detection. But the air was completely still and even the birds seemed to have taken an intermission.
The horse snorted. They were very close. If only the horse would snort again, she could coordinate her swallow with that. She raised the bottle to her mouth but was greeted by absolute silence.
That means he’s stopped right under your tree, idiot. Adrenaline pumped through her as she held her breath and fought the urge to cough.
“Anybody up there?”
His unexpected question made her jump. She lost her grip on the bottle, which rolled to the edge of the platform and toppled off.
The horse spooked and the man cursed. So did Naomi. So much for going unnoticed.
The horse settled down, but the man continued to swear. “What is this damned sticky crap, anyway?”
Filled with foreboding, she crawled to the edge of the platform and peered down. Her gorgeous cowboy had taken a direct hit from her energy drink. He yanked off his hat, causing green liquid that had been caught in the brim to run down the front of his shirt. “Oh, God. I’ve been slimed!”
“Sorry.”
He glanced up at her. “You must be Naomi Perkins.”
“I am.” Even from twenty feet away, or more like ten or twelve since he was still on his horse, she could see that he was royally pissed. “And you are?”
“Luke Griffin.”
“Sorry about dousing you, Luke.”
“I’ll wash, and my clothes will wash, but the hat…And it’s my best hat, too.”
“I’ll have it cleaned for you.” She wondered why he’d worn his best hat out on the trail. Usually cowboys saved their best for special occasions.
Blowing out a breath, he surveyed the damage. “That’s okay. Maybe Sarah can work some magic on it.”
“Sarah Chance?”
“Right. The boss lady.”
So he was a ranch hand. “She might be able to clean it.” Naomi, who’d grown up in this area, had great respect for Sarah, widow of Jonathan and co-owner of the ranch along with her three sons.