It Takes a Cowboy

“Don’t you own the ranch?”

“Since my grandparents died and left it to me, yes.”

“Then you’re responsible.”

Growing even more uncomfortable, he murmured, “The ranch gets along just fine without me, for the most part.”

“Hmm.”

He wasn’t sure what that sound meant, but he didn’t really want to ask just then. “How’s Jeffrey’s suspension going?” he asked instead.

“I haven’t let it become a vacation. He’s worked harder on his studies during the past few days than he has in the whole six months he’s lived with me.”

“I’m sure it’s been an educational experience for him in many ways.”

“I hope so.”

So much for that conversation. “He’s still happy with his cat?”

“They’re practically joined at the hip.”

“Jeffrey’s following through taking care of her so far?”

“Yes, he’s almost hovering over her. I still expect the novelty to wear off some, but so far it’s working out very well.”

They made casual conversation along those lines during the remainder of the drive, but were never quite as comfortable together as Scott would have liked. Blair seemed to have erected a barrier of some sort between them. He felt almost as if he might encounter an invisible force field if he should try to reach out to touch her.

What was going on? Did this have something to do with the rodeo this morning? When he and Blair had last parted, it had been with a kiss. She sure wasn’t encouraging him to kiss her now.

He hoped to change that before the evening ended.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BLAIR DIDN’T KNOW what she’d expected from Scott’s ranch house, but it wasn’t the large, sprawling, buff brick, two-story structure he parked in front of. It looked like a comfortable, upper-class family home, she thought as he opened her door for her. Yet she knew no family lived in it, nor did Scott seem in any hurry to change that.

“Hey, Scott. The crew got that new fence finished this afternoon,” someone hollered from behind them.

Both Scott and Blair turned in response to the voice. A tall, gangly-limbed man with a weathered face and a beer belly ambled toward them, his features illuminated by numerous security lights. A big, somewhat dopey-looking yellow dog loped along at his heels. Scott slipped a hand beneath Blair’s arm. “Here’s someone you should meet,” he said. “Blair Townsend, this is my foreman, Jake Gordon.”

“Nice to meet you, Miz Townsend,” the older man drawled. “Want I should take you aside and warn you about the scoundrel you’re dining with this evening?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary, Mr. Gordon. I doubt there’s much you can tell me that I haven’t already figured out for myself.”

“Got yourself a smart one here, boy,” the foreman said to Scott, his mouth crooking into a grin. “That’s a right refreshing change.”

“Okay, you can drop the Gary Cooper routine now,” Scott answered dryly, looking up from the dog, who was eagerly trying to climb him to lick his face. “Blair’s sharp enough to know an old fake when she meets one.”

The foreman chuckled and winked at Blair.

“This is Cooper,” Scott said, rising and holding the dog down with a hand on his massive head to keep him from jumping on him. “You heard me tell Jeffrey about him.”

Blair nodded and tentatively patted the friendly dog. “Is he named after Gary Cooper?”

“Of course. I was hoping the name would give him some dignity. It didn’t work.”

Grinning, the foreman moved on, whistling for the dog to follow him, then calling over his shoulder that it had been a pleasure to meet Blair.

“I like him,” Blair murmured as Scott escorted her up the front steps.