A Real Cowboy. Sarah M. Anderson
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Shoo!”
Thalia grinned in spite of herself at the mental image that filled out that conversation. The thought of Minnie, who was on the petite side of things and probably in her late forties, scolding James Robert Bradley was nothing short of hilarious.
She was safe, for now. Minnie was going to feed her and make sure she was warm. Thalia settled back into the comfy chair, her eyelids drooping as she watched the flames dance before her. She needed to figure out how to convince Bradley to listen to her without him throwing her out of the house. She needed a plan.
But first, she needed to rest. Just a little bit.
Two
J.R. was a grown man and, as such, did not stomp and pout when he didn’t get his way. Instead, he grumbled. Loudly.
“This is my house, by God,” he grumbled as he went up the back stairs.
“That it is,” Hoss agreed behind him.
Hoss was always quick to agree when the facts were incontrovertible. “I’m the boss around here,” J.R. added, more to himself than to his best friend.
“Most days,” Hoss said with a snort.
J.R. shot the man a dirty look over his shoulder. “Every day,” he said with more force than he needed. He was overreacting, but damn if that woman hadn’t tripped every single alarm bell in his head.
They reached the second floor. Hoss’s room was at the far end, Minnie’s was in the middle across from two guest rooms that never saw a guest and J.R.’s was at the other.
“She don’t look dangerous.” Hoss scratched at his throat in his lazy way, which J.R. knew was entirely deceptive.
“Shows what you know,” J.R. replied. He knew exactly how dangerous innocent-looking people—women—from Hollywood could be. “She’s not to be trusted.”
Damn, but he hated when Hoss gave him that look—the look that said he was being a first-class jerk. Rather than stand here in his chaps and argue the finer points of women, J.R. turned and walked—not stomped—down to his room.
He needed a hot shower in the worst way. His face was still half-frozen from riding out to check on the cattle and buffalo. He shut his bedroom door firmly—not slamming it—and began to strip off the layers. First went the long coat, then the chaps, then the jeans and sweater, followed by the two layers of long underwear and T-shirts. Despite being bundled up like a baby, he was still cold.
And that woman—the one sitting in his chair, in front of his fire—had shown up here in nothing but a skirt. And tights. And those boots, the ones that went almost up to her knees. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself as he cranked his shower on high. What was she thinking, wearing next to nothing when the wind chill was somewhere around minus forty degrees below? She wasn’t thinking, that’s what. Hollywood types were notoriously myopic, and there was no doubt in J.R.’s mind that she was a Hollywood type.
The hot water rushed over him. J.R. bowed his head and let the water hit his shoulders. Against his will, his mind turned back to those boots, those tights. Those legs. Yeah, that woman clearly underestimated the force of winter in Montana. Probably thought that little coat was enough to keep her warm.
The moment he caught himself wondering what was under that coat, J.R. slammed on the brakes. He was not some green kid, distracted by a pretty face and a great body. No matter how blue her lips had been, that didn’t make up for the fact that she’d come looking for James Robert Bradley. She wanted that name—the name J.R. had buried deep in Big Sky country eleven years ago. She wasn’t here for him.
No one was ever here for him.
Except Minnie and Hoss, he reminded himself. They were his friends, his family and his crew all rolled into one. They knew who he really was, and that was good enough for him.
Warm and clean, he flipped off the water and rubbed down with the towel. He was going to fire Bernie. Hell, he should have fired the man years ago, but Bernie was his one thin link to his old life. He got J.R. some nice voice-over work and had, up until now, kept J.R.’s whereabouts to himself.
What had that woman dangled in front of Bernie’s greedy little eyes to make him give her directions to the ranch? She had to be good at what she did. Not good enough to dress warmly, but J.R. knew that he could expect the full-court press from her for whatever she wanted James Robert Bradley to do.
He slid into a clean pair of jeans, making sure to put all the dirty things in the hamper. If he didn’t, he’d have to listen to Minnie go on and on about men this and men that. It was easier to pick up after himself. Plus—not that he’d tell Minnie this—he preferred things neat. Clean.
Simple.
J.R. went to grab a shirt and paused. His hand was on his favorite flannel, the one he’d worn so much the collar was fraying. Minnie kept threatening to make a rag of it, but so far, she’d done no such thing.
Maybe he should put on something a little nicer. A little less tattered. He could clean up well, after all. Maybe he should …
Was he serious? Was he actually standing in his closet, debating what to wear because some uninvited, unwanted female had barged into his house? Was he hard up or what?
His brain, ever resourceful, rushed in to remind him it had been two years and seven months since his last failed attempt at a relationship. Pretty much the textbook definition of hard up.
Didn’t matter. She wasn’t welcome here. And after he humored Minnie at dinner, he’d make sure she left his property and never, ever came back. He grabbed his favorite shirt. Frays be damned.
His resolve set, he shoved his feet into his house moccasins and threw his door open.
And almost walked right into Minnie Red Horse.
“What?” he asked, so startled by the small woman that he actually jumped back.
He didn’t jump far enough, though. Minnie reached up and poked him in the chest. “You listen to me, young man. You will be nice and polite tonight.”
Immediately, he went on the defensive. “Oh, it’s my fault she doesn’t know it’s winter out here?”
“I am ashamed to think that you left her out there in the wind, J.R. I thought that you knew better than to treat a guest like that.”
He felt the hackles on the back of his neck go up. Minnie had already busted out the big, shame-based guns. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t work—he hated to disappoint Minnie in any way. But, he was a reformed actor. Lying used to be his entire life. So he slapped on a stern look and glared at Minnie. “She’s not a guest. She’s a trespasser, Minnie. And if I recall correctly, you’re the one who shot at the last trespasser.”
That had been the nail in the coffin of his last failed relationship. He’d been trying to decide if he loved Donna or not when he’d invited her to spend the night at the ranch. Things had been going fine until he took her up to his room. There, she’d taken one look at James Robert Bradley’s Oscar, his photos, his life—and everything had changed. All she had talked about was how he was really famous, and why on earth hadn’t he told her, and this was so amazing, that she was here with him. Except she hadn’t been. She’d thought she was with James Robert. In the space of a minute, she’d forgotten that J.R. had even existed.
He’d broken up with her a few weeks later, and then, like clockwork, a few weeks after that, a man with an expensive camera had come snooping around. J.R. had been in the barn with Hoss when they’d heard the crunch of tires. J.R. had wanted to go out and confront the stranger, but Hoss had held him back. Rifle in hand, Minnie had been the one to claim that she’d never heard of anyone named Bradley, and if she saw that man again, she’d shoot him. Then she’d put a few bullets a few feet from the man, and that had been the end of that.
“That man was a parasite,”