The Maverick's Summer Sweetheart. Stacy Connelly
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“I want to experience everything I can. To find out what life in Rust Creek Falls is all about.”
At that, Hank gave a slight snort. “This is not what Rust Creek Falls is all about.”
He waved a hand, and in an instant she could feel his palm against hers once more. The work-roughened skin, the slight rise of hardened calluses, the strong fingers. Such a contrast to the sensual, almost seductive stroke of his thumb across the back of her hand when they’d shaken hands earlier, and the memory alone had gooseflesh racing up her arm. “This is a hotel.”
“A hotel in Rust Creek Falls,” she pointed out.
“Where all the city folks stay when they’re wanting a ‘real Western experience.’” With a nod toward the artfully crafted rock waterfall pouring into the crystal clear pool, he added, “But there isn’t much real or even Western about this place. Other than its location.”
Of course the hotel would be for tourists—city folks, as Hank had so plainly pointed out—like her. But even if he was right, the hotel was simply a place to stay. And besides... “Janie told me she’s lived here her whole life, and you don’t exactly strike me as ‘city folk.’”
She lowered her voice to mimic Hank’s deep drawl, drawing an instant giggle from Janie. He shot his daughter a mock scowl before reaching over and tousling her damp blond hair. The simple father-daughter exchange grabbed hold of a decades-old longing in Gemma’s heart.
“This is a vacation for us, too,” he said finally. “A chance to get away from real life in Rust Creek Falls for a week. But then we’ll head back home and everything will be back to the way it was before.”
As Hank glanced over at her and their gazes caught, a very different kind of longing took over. Was there some message Gemma should read into that statement? Something along the lines of what happens at Maverick Manor...
Not that Gemma was in any shape to even think of dating, something her heart and her brain were in complete agreement about. Her body, though, had other ideas. Despite his views on “city folk,” she was way too attracted to Hank Harlow. More than his rugged good looks, she was drawn to his deep drawl, subtle humor and slightly old-fashioned manners.
And while Hank was right that the setting might not have been authentically Western, the swift rush of attraction racing through her certainly fell under the heading of wild.
After taking a swallow of raspberry-flavored iced tea to soothe her suddenly dry throat, Gemma did her best to direct her thoughts back to where they belonged. “I picked up some brochures in the lobby about the horseback-riding tours around town. Is there a certain stable you go to when you want to ride?”
Janie giggled again, and Gemma noticed the quick look the girl exchanged with her father. “Um, yeah, the stables at our ranch.”
“Ranch?” No wonder Hank didn’t think much about imitation waterfalls and guided trail rides set up through a concierge. She turned to him. “So, you’re a real cowboy?”
“As opposed to the fake kind?” he asked.
“As opposed to... Oh, I don’t know.” The truth was, she knew pathetically little about any kind of cowboy—real or fake. But she certainly knew plenty about men who weren’t who they pretended to be.
“He’s not a cowboy. He’s a rancher,” Janie corrected, the voice of authority. “This is his first vacation in, like, forever. The Bar H is a cattle ranch, and my dad runs the whole place.”
Gemma noticed a slight smile on Hank’s lips as he listened to his daughter go on. The same smile had been on his face when he’d praised Janie’s singing. Clearly he was indulging the girl and didn’t want to correct her exaggerations. Dozens of horses? Hundreds of cattle? Ten thousand acres? Janie must have meant one thousand, though Gemma found even that number hard to imagine.
Still, it was sweet the way he was humoring the young girl, and one thing that wasn’t overstated was Janie’s pride and love for her father. The refrain that had haunted Gemma’s childhood whispered through her mind once more as she contemplated the love Hank clearly held in return for his daughter.
What if...?
Shifting in his chair, Hank said, “All right, Janie, enough. Gemma doesn’t want to hear about all that.” Beneath that rancher’s tan, a hint of embarrassed color was darkening his cheekbones.
“But Gemma said she wanted to go horseback riding and—Hey, Dad, you should take her!”
Now it was Gemma’s turn to feel uncomfortable. “Oh, Janie, that’s sweet of you to offer, but your dad’s here on vacation. With you.”
“I know, but I’m signed up for all kinds of stuff through the hotel this week. My dad’s not. He’ll be all alone.”
Gemma glanced over at Hank, expecting another half grin at his daughter’s somewhat-dramatic statement. Only he wasn’t smiling, and Gemma realized the truth in his daughter’s words. The slight reticence she sensed about him was more than the rancher’s simply being the strong, silent type. This was a man who’d been hurt in the past.
Was it the divorce? His ex-wife’s remarriage? Was he still in love with her?
Gemma’s heart cramped a little at the thought, even though the feeling—any feeling for this man—was preposterous. They didn’t even know each other and had barely exchanged more than a few words. And though he hadn’t come straight out and said so, he’d made his views on city folks crystal clear. But if Gemma wanted to truly experience Rust Creek Falls, having a local as a guide would help. And if he happened to be a gorgeous cowboy with eyes as blue as Montana’s Big Sky, well, that certainly wouldn’t hurt!
“I’m sure Gemma can find a trail guide who can take her riding,” Hank told his daughter.
“But, Dad!”
Gemma was glad for Janie’s instant objection as it kept her from making one of her own. She didn’t want some hired tour guide. She wanted...
Oh, no. Not going there, Gem!
“You have to take her. You’re the best!” Janie was saying.
Hank opened his mouth, but Gemma beat him to the punch. “I did come all the way to Montana for my very first horseback ride. Seems only right that I should have the chance to learn from the best.”
As Gemma held Hank’s gaze, that same small shiver of awareness raced down her spine. She didn’t know what was happening between the two of them, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that for a city girl from Manhattan and a Montana cowboy—sorry, make that Montana rancher—she and Hank Harlow had more in common than anyone might think.
* * *
“Is that what you’re wearing to dinner tonight?” Janie asked as Hank stepped out of his side of the suite. The room was decorated with the same upscale Western decor as the rest of the hotel—all warm shades of rust and brown, hardwood floors, rough-hewn furniture and even a river-rock fireplace in the shared living space between the two bedrooms.
His daughter was seated on the couch, parked in front of the oversize television, remote in hand. But she flicked the television show off as she pushed to her feet and eyed him with a frown.
Hank glanced down, trying to see what had his little girl making that face. His long-sleeved checkered shirt was buttoned properly, his brown leather belt was pulled through all the loops and his dark denim jeans were zipped.
“What else would I wear?” he asked his daughter. He could dress in the dark, pulling clothes from his closet while completely blind, and end up with an outfit exactly like the one he had on.
Short-sleeved button-down shirts for summer, long sleeves for spring and fall, and a few sweaters thrown in for winter, along with his leather duster. Add in his most comfortable boots and his favorite