CHAPTER 12
Frankie
Really?
MacLaine crests the trail and rides into the clearing on his gorgeous red roan. But he’s also got another saddled horse in tow. Smaller. Gentler. A mare.
I walk out the cabin door. My arms fly up at my sides in exasperation. What’s this man’s problem? Why won’t he just leave me the hell alone?
“Go away!”
He dismounts and opens a saddle bag. The rancher pulls out what looks like a large, rolled-up map. He walks right up to me, and I get the barest whiff of his cologne.
I was right. That’s his sweater and he wears Bulgari—just a hint, nothing overpowering. He must know that when it comes to women’s reactions to men’s fragrances, less is always more.
Every woman I know would rather lean in and inhale than run away coughing. Myself included.
So, I’m right. MacLaine isn’t dull and he’s not dumb. Not anywhere near. And he has some pretty refined taste for a Nevada rancher.
“Let’s sit a minute.” He lowers himself to one of the large logs situated in front of the cabin.
It’s obvious that there used to be a fire ring here, and the logs were brought in for seating.
But it’s probably been many decades since anyone’s enjoyed a nice night around the campfire on this mountaintop.
I cross my arms over my chest and walk over to him, looking down at the crown of his cowboy hat. I don’t appreciate how he never requests that I do something—he just makes statements and expects compliance. I don’t like that in a man.
Pussy starts hollering from inside the cabin.
“Just a sec,” I tell MacLaine. I go inside, then bring Pussy out.
I see surprise and disapproval written all over his face. Judgement. At least there’s something in his expression. It must take a lot of energy to maintain that poker face of his.
“Never seen a cat on a leash?” I ask, sitting on a stump next to him.
“First time for everything,” he says. He spreads out the map on a thin layer of pine needles and taps the tip of a stick against the map.
“We’re here,” he mutters. “On top of Washoe Ridge.”
His body appears mellow and relaxed, but his poker face has returned. I stare at his profile under the shadow of his hat brim.
His face is chiseled and masculine, with a sexy, wide mouth and maybe even the hint of a dimple. If he’s aware that I’m studying him, he doesn’t let on.
He uses the stick to make a big circle on the map. “This whole thing, one thousand square miles of land, is Yosemite Ranch. Owned and operated by the MacLaine family since Lee surrendered to Grant in Appomattox.”
“Thanks for the history lesson, but you must be talking about Yosemite National Park.” I gesture around us. “This is not that.”
He looks up at me, one eyebrow arched. I thought I’d gotten used to his violet eyes, but in this light, they’re dark and glistening, bottomless, and I can’t stop staring. I bite down on my lower lip and try to snap out of it.
“Correct,” he says after a minute, his voice flat. “Yosemite Ranch and Yosemite National Park are two different things.”
“And?”
“The park is bigger.”
“Okay?”
“The park is beautiful, but so is the ranch. We don’t have huge waterfalls, but we have grazing lands, low desert, high desert, lakes, two rivers, countless streams, natural hot springs, and three mountain ranges. We’re on one of them.”
“An idyllic vacation spot,” I say. “I picked wisely.”
“No, ma’am. You did not.” He sets his jaw. “This is dangerous country. If you can avoid the bear, mountain lions, and the feral pigs, you’ll most likely get stung or bitten by the creepy crawlies that provide the foundation for our ecosystem.”
“Feral what now?”
“You know, wild boar.”
I did not know, and I’m not even sure if I should believe him.
I shuffle my feet and stare down at the ground to make sure nothing’s slithering my way—just to err on the side of caution.
“I’m not afraid of creepy crawlies,” I lie.
“In my experience, it’s the two-legged creatures that you need to watch out for. ”
His expression is blank. I see him shake his head ever so slightly, as if he can barely tolerate me. I decide it’s pretty fun to fuck with my surly-but-hot rancher friend.
Then I remind myself that he’s not my friend.
“Also, there’s the weather,” he says, looking directly into my eyes. “Sudden blizzards and ice storms in the spring. Flash floods in the summer. Near-zero humidity in the fall that can dry out your body within a day, killing you. Here on Washoe Ridge, no one can hear you scream.”
I know the biology lesson and horror movie tagline is meant to scare me, but he’s delivering the message in that mellow, humorless voice of his, accented by a flat expression, which I find oddly mesmerizing. I could listen to him try to scare me all damned day.
I detect something carnal below his smooth surface. I get the feeling he’s a tightly wound rubber band that’s about to snap—but in a good way. “You sound just like a used car salesman, trying to sell me a clunker.”
“I don’t need to sell you anything,” he says. “The truth is the truth, and it can’t be bought or sold. Show me the deed.”
“Why? So, you can take it from me and claim I never had it in the first place?”
My logic surprises him a bit, but he doesn’t answer my question.
“You can’t scare me,” I tell him. He really has no idea who he’s speaking to.
I’m a girl who grew up in a roadhouse with a bartender father who ran a motorcycle club. I’m a Vegas stripper. My last boyfriend was a Russian mobster. Not much terrifies me.
Except the Russian mobster.
“And what’s with the other horse?” I ask. “Is that for me? First a trailer full of supplies and now you’re giving me a pony?”
“It’s to help you while we get this sorted out. It’s too far to walk for help.”
“No one can hear me scream and all that, right? But I don’t need your help, MacLaine, and I didn’t ask for it. And I sure as hell didn’t ask for a horse!”
“It’s for your safety.”
“You’re not listening to me.”
“Her name’s Bella. She’s surefooted and slow, and she’ll keep an eye out for you if you ride her down the mountain. You’ll need to walk her to the creek for water and take her to the mountain meadow just east of here to graze. Have you been around horses at all? Can you do that?”
“I absolutely could do all that, but I won’t, because I’m not keeping the damn horse.”
He looks away and stares at his scuffed cowboy boots.
“This is painful for you, isn’t it, MacLaine? Talking, I mean. You don’t like to use a lot of words.”
He shrugs and glances at me again. “Words are just sounds people make to fill empty space. I don’t put a lot of stock in them. Can’t get a word in around my family, anyway.”
This surprises me. I would have thought his family would be like him—painfully reserved. “Are there a lot of MacLaines?”
“More every fucking day, seems like.”
I don’t know what he means by that, but I suspect there’s a story there.
He might not like to talk, but for some reason, I feel chatty. Maybe because he’s the only human being I’ve spoken to in four days. Pussy’s always good company, no doubt about it, but unless it’s dinner time or she detects something snuffling around in the dark, she’s pretty quiet.
“So, you’re a rancher,” I say.
I detect the beginnings of a smile on his face. But he puts an end to it. “Among other things. There’s a family business, too.” He scratches the back of his neck. “And I served in the military.”
“Oh, really?” I’m not at all surprised. The dude’s built like a tank. “My dad served, too. First Gulf War. Marines.”
“Hoorah,” he mumbles. Then, he studies me the way he did yesterday, his eyes scanning my hair, shoulders, and my face. His attention stays on my lips a little too long for my comfort again, too. But when his striking eyes lock on mine, his gaze is way too intense.
I stand, putting some room between us. “You were a Marine too?”
“Navy. A SEAL.”
“No shit?” I sit back down, snuggling Pussy in my lap, really curious now.
I’ve never met a Navy SEAL, not that I know of, anyway. I’ve met my share of military men at Lynx. It was a rite of passage for soldiers and sailors to drop in at the strip club when they came through Vegas.
“A real SEAL? The real deal?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t say a word.
But his eyes are talking a mile a minute. I squirm on the tree stump. I’ve been ogled by hundreds of men during my time at Lynx. Maybe thousands.
This isn’t ogling. It’s something else. His gaze slices through my rock-solid boundaries and goes where it wants to. It’s like he’s looking right through me.
And whatever that force is he’s projecting out my way, I’m sending it right back at him. Whatever this energy bouncing between us is, it’s fiery. Electric.
I can barely breathe, even though I’m surrounded by nothing but fresh air.