Daddy Was A Cowboy (Wranglers & Lace #1) Read online

  Daddy Was a Cowboy

  Jodi O’Donnell

  For working mothers everywhere—although if you are a mother, you’re working!

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the West Texas women who graciously educated this Midwestern sodbuster about ranching: Marva Jean Chisum, Colleen Wheeler, Melanie McGouran and especially Jackye Plummer.

  Wranglers & Lace

  Dear Reader,

  Cowboy. The word calls up quite an image, doesn’t it?

  A black Stetson pulled low over inscrutable eyes. A sturdy shoulder with a saddle slung over it. Long, lean legs in well-worn jeans. And don’t forget those boots that look like they’ve walked a hundred miles or more.

  But these are just the trappings of a cowboy. In researching Daddy Was a Cowboy I went to cattle auctions and feed stores, roundups and rodeos, talked to the men—and women—who ranched in the most hostile conditions Texas can provide: the Panhandle. And I discovered that what makes a real cowboy is his honor and commitment to doing right by the land, animals and people entrusted to his care. He’s a man whose heart is as tender as his hide is tough.

  That is the kind of character I wanted to portray. In fact, I wanted to tell the story of both a hero and heroine who discover within themselves—and in each other—the soul of a true cowboy, regardless of gender or experience.

  Because these are the men and women who won the West and stole our hearts.

  So come one...let’s fall in love with a cowboy. Let’s be someone a cowboy could fall for.

  Jodi O’Donnell

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  Keller Hamilton set his coffee cup on the counter and squinted at the strange sight outside the kitchen window. Across the windswept ranch yard came...a person. That was the strange part. He didn’t know if a man or a woman strode with long legs toward the house. He...she...it was as tall as a man, though a bit on the thin side. As the figure came closer, Kell saw the person was certainly dressed like a man, a cowboy, actually, in well-worn Wrangler jeans and boots scuffed to a dull brown. A swatch of plaid shirt, topped by a blue neckerchief, peeked out from the half-buttoned, sheepskin-lined denim jacket.

  Then there was the hat. A shapeless thing with a flattened brim, it looked like it’d been rained on, sat on, stomped on and generally used and abused. It was also crammed down over its occupant’s ears and forehead, and largely the reason Kell almost settled on the side of the masculine persuasion.

  Yet the ever so slight sway of hips, the set of curved lips beneath the rim of that godawful hat made him suspect, even with evidence to the contrary, that he was looking at a woman. He had to admit he was intrigued.

  Kell picked up his coffee and went to greet his guest.

  He opened the back door as the person clumped up the outside steps to the enclosed porch, and Kell motioned for him, her, or whomever, to enter the mudroom. The person’s chin dropped as Kell guessed that boot soles were being scraped across the hemp rug on the outside step, a gesture of courtesy or habit rather than necessity, since there wasn’t an iota of mud on the frozen ground outside. Then the chin came up, and Kell got a clear view through the window in the storm door of a shapely nose, cheeks and chin, and the fineness of skin without a hint of five o’clock shadow. Definitely female, though that was about all he could discern with her hat hiding her face and shadowing her eyes. When she stepped into the porch, he noted just how tall she was. Darned near on a level with his six-foot-three, her nose parallel to his chin. Her full, wide mouth neither frowned nor smiled.

  She’s nervous, he guessed. And wary. About what?

  “Can I help you?” Kell asked, sounding like the Dallas investment broker he’d so recently been. Even with his Lone Star drawl and the Westernisms that were part of every Texan’s vocabulary, it’d be a while before he lost the inflection that branded him city-raised.

  “I’m lookin’ for the owner of this ranch,” she said with her own distinct twang. Her voice was rough in pitch, and husky, with a Debra Winger hoarseness a man either found grating or sexy as all get-out. Kell guessed he fit into the latter bunch, and felt a little disconcerted. He’d expected the isolation would have its effects on his libido, but he’d only been here ten days. Not exactly long enough to cause automatic attraction to a woman in the latest from Jed Clampett head wear.

  “I’m the owner of Plum Creek Ranch,” he said, the words feeling strange on his lips—as if he were telling a white lie. But it was God’s truth: he was a rancher now. “Kell Hamilton.” And because it seemed natural with this woman in cowboy clothing, he stuck out his hand. She stepped forward and took it, her work glove warm against his palm. His confusion grew as he realized he liked the feel of her hand in his.

  “Jamey Dunn, sir. Pleased to meet you.” Then she proceeded to churn the life out of his arm like an oil pump-jack run wild. She had a grip like a man’s, he’d give her that. A man with something to prove.

  After retrieving his thoroughly agitated arm, he asked, “Is there something I can do for you, uh, Jamey?” She didn’t look like a Miss Dunn or a Miss Jamey, much less a ma’am, which was the normal form of feminine address around here.

  She hesitated. He got the feeling she was sizing him up and down as he’d done her. After a second she said, “Yes, in fact, there is, sir. I heard you’d taken over operations on this spread and are hiring.” Then, curiously, Jamey Dunn took a step back and struck a pose: weight propped on one hip, shoulders slouched, one long arm dangling at her side, opposite arm bent and thumb hooked in her belt loop. The caption under her could have read “Cowboy.” The stance even had the right amount of loose-jointedness. It was a bid to make her seem even more masculine.

  That’s when Kell really got confused. He’d put out the word two days ago that he needed a cook/housekeeper, right after Uncle Bud’s cook, Harvey Sample, left. Though by his own claim he wasn’t a rancher, Harvey had held the ranch together until Kell got his affairs in order and could move to Plum Creek permanently. Kell had hoped Harvey would stay on, but Harvey guessed Kell would do better starting with another “youngun” like himself.

  From what Kell could tell, Jamey Dunn certainly fit that requirement. And it wasn’t that he would consider only a man for the job. But why would she deliberately try to appear more masculine?

  He eyed her dubiously. “Yes, I’m hiring,” he finally allowed.

  “Then I’m here to apply for the job,” she said in her husky voice.

  “I see.” Kell chewed the side of his lip and decided to be honest. “Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical, Jamey. You’re just about opposite of...”

  His voice trailed off as he saw how his words made her expressive mouth stiffen in discouragement. Yet she set her jaw and said, “I’ve driven across three states to get here, Mr. Hamilton. I’d appreciate the opportunity to come in and talk to you, if I could, sir.”

  Despite his misgivings, he couldn’t have ignored the desperation in her tone. Besides, who knew? Jamey Dunn just might be the man—woman, that is—for the job.

  He nodded and held the door open for her.

  She’d brought a bit of the cold day with her and a faint scent that was all her own. As before, his physical response was involuntary, a distinct awareness of her femaleness. It died quickly, though, when she passed and he got a close-up of that hat. It really had outlived its usefulness, even in a
culture where well-broken-in headgear was worth its weight in gold.

  Kell spied his new black Stetson hat hanging on a peg near the door. He knew it made him look like a weekend wrangler. He wasn’t, at least not completely, but it’d be a while—and a lot of hard work—before he’d break in both the Stetson and his new occupation as rancher.

  He wondered just what kind of life Jamey Dunn had led that put the age on that hat.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Kell asked as he led the way to his office at the end of the hall.

  “Thanks, no, I’m nur...not much of a coffee drinker.” She fired a quick look at him. “Sir.”

  Kell caught her stutter and chalked it up to the nervousness he’d sensed in her earlier. And the wariness. They were both beginning to make him uneasy because he wondered what she had to be nervous and wary about.

  This sir stuff had to stop at the very least. “Call me Kell,” he advised, gesturing her into a chair.

  Her eyes darting about her, she took a seat. She looked about as comfortable as a cat up a tree.

  He gave a glance of his own around and saw this office, for the first time, from a woman’s point of view. The house was rather rustic and could have used a good dusting and vacuuming. However mean a kidney stew Harvey made, he’d never won awards for his cleaning. Kell decided he wouldn’t mind a woman’s touch and attention to detail.

  But he was at a loss as to how to put this woman at ease. Wasn’t there some unstated rule about taking your hat off indoors? Or was that just men? Or just men’s hats?

  Kell asked, “A glass of water, maybe?”

  “Water’d be fine,” Jamey said, not calling him sir but not calling him Kell, either, as if she were humoring him.

  Well, he needed humoring right now, because this whole situation was plain old weird. Something strange was going on with Jamey Dunn.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, and gave the hat a pointed glance. “Make yourself at home. Please.”

  He returned to the kitchen and filled a glass with cold water. He suspected inviting her in for an interview was a mistake. Even if the woman had the skills needed for the position, she didn’t seem to have the demeanor.

  Well, maybe Jamey Dunn struck a different kind of relationship with the men she worked with. A just-one-of-the-boys camaraderie, as Harvey had.

  But despite hat, boots and so on, Kell couldn’t quite picture Jamey Dunn as one of the boys.

  He rounded the corner to the office doorway and stopped dead, for Jamey had apparently heeded his unspoken suggestion and had shed her hat and gloves. He watched as she seemed to hesitate, then stood to shrug out of her coat, as well. Her back to the door, she put a hand to her spine and arched it, stretching the kinks out of the most curvaceous torso Kell had ever seen.

  One of the boys, she was not.

  A long red braid that must have been tucked inside her jacket hung down her back. Faded denim hugged her hips and thighs, and he comprehended just how long her legs were. Basically, they went halfway into tomorrow. She turned, and he got an unobstructed side view. Jamey Dunn was stacked.

  His reaction was purely a gut one, as it had been seeing her walk, catching her scent. For propriety’s sake, Kell battled it like before. However, he was very glad his male instincts were in full working order.

  He caught her gaze. Her eyes were gray-green under auburn brows. Wisps of hair framed her face, which was dusted by a sprinkling of freckles. Now that he had the whole picture, Kell could see that Jamey Dunn was really very pretty. And not more than twenty years old.

  Was that why she’d hidden her real appearance? Because he could see how she might consider her age a drawback in getting a cooking and housekeeping job on a ranch. There were a lot of experienced people out there looking for steady work.

  Then he noticed that she was blushing. She seemed even younger, even more inexperienced. And alone. She’d come across three states to get here, she’d said.

  Instead of responding with his glands this time, Kell felt an even deeper, more powerful tug on his insides, though he wasn’t quite sure yet what it was.

  Under his scrutiny, Jamey had hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms over her chest, trying still to hide her womanly attributes, and no wonder, the way he was staring at her. Kell checked his wandering gaze and pinned it firmly on her own with strict orders to stay put.

  “Here’s that water.” He came into the room and handed the glass to her before settling into his chair behind the desk. She followed his lead and sat, too. Her gaze diligently avoided his, probably so she wouldn’t have to deal with another instance of catching him eyeing her like a fox would a plump hen.

  He did allow himself one last observation: she had the longest lashes.

  “Well, where do you want to start?” he asked. “With your experience and qualifications?”

  “Actually, I’d like to know a bit about the operation, if you don’t mind.”

  He didn’t, but he wondered at her interest in how the ranch was run, which had little to do with her job. “We’re a large outfit, as far as spreads in the Panhandle go,” Kell said. “Fifty sections. Near as I can tell so far, we’re running about twenty-five to thirty head per section. Mostly Brangus, some Hereford, and the odd Brahman or longhorn. I won’t know for sure what the count is till we do an inventory, which is going to take some time. The cows got pretty rangy over the past year, and a lot of fences are down.”

  “I’d heard the operation had gone downhill and the new owner was intending to try and make a go of it.”

  “My uncle left some capital for that,” Kell asserted in Bud’s defense. “And I’ve committed my own money to bringing this place up to spec as soon as possible. I’m making an all-out effort to get the repairs done on the outbuildings and fences right away. I’ve got a grand total of one source of live water on the place, so we’ve got to get the windmills in working order, which is essential, especially this time of year.”

  He paused as it occurred to him that he was doing a lot of explaining, above and beyond Jamey’s questions. It was because he knew at some point he’d have to reveal that he was more than just new to Plum Creek Ranch. And for some reason, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to reveal that piece of information.

  “Are you sayin’ you inherited this place?” Jamey asked.

  “Yes. From my uncle, Bud Hamilton. He’d ranched in the Panhandle for fifty years,” Kell said with more than a little pride. “Plum Creek’s never been a gold mine, but it really only started having solvency problems when he got sick. And in the four months since he died.”

  “Then you’ve never ranched before in your life,” she said, hitting the nail on the head. Did it show that much?

  “I spent many a summer working here,” Kell said, noting that he sounded a shade defensive. Damn, if he wasn’t turning hot around the collar. “I learned a lot from Bud. And I’ve got a neighbor who’s agreed to advise me in some of the finer aspects of day-to-day ranching. But I’m betting there’s more to ranching than mending fence and riding cattle. There’s the business side, and ranching is a business. I do have that kind of experience. Managing investments was my career in Dallas.”

  “Ranching isn’t just any business,” Jamey said, blunt as you please. Up to now she’d been pretty subdued, though something told him that wasn’t her normal temperament. “There’s more to it, just as you said. A lot more. It sure isn’t just a job. You don’t stand a chance of makin’ it if that’s how you see it.”

  Young she might be, but Jamey Dunn was not dull-witted. “You’re right,” Kell answered her honestly. “I don’t see Plum Creek as ‘just’ a business. If I did, I wouldn’t be here, because as investments go, this prospect is as risky as they come.”

  She seemed to digest his statement, the inside of her lower lip rubbing up and down over her upper one in a way that was a good deal distracting. “Why’d he leave Plum Creek to you?” she asked after a few moments. She seemed intent, as if a lot rested on h
is answer. “Your uncle, I mean.”

  Again he wondered at the tack her interest had taken. “I like to think it was because he considered me the one person in the family who gave a hoot about it, who might not sell it right off the bat. I aim to honor his faith in me,” he said with a no-brag-just-fact intonation that anyone who knew his uncle would have pegged as Bud Hamilton’s. He almost believed himself.

  At that, her gaze mellowed, gray-green eyes reminding him of the sage that dotted the unforgiving terrain of the Panhandle. Somehow he felt he’d elevated his stature in her eyes, and he liked the sensation.

  Then Jamey nodded. “I can help you do that.”

  “Maybe so.” Kell leaned back in the rickety banker’s chair and laced his fingers over his belt buckle. “Why don’t you tell me about your qualifications.”

  She set her glass on the desk, sat tall, and cleared her throat like a school kid getting ready to recite. “Well, I grew up on my daddy’s ranch in Nevada. It wasn’t as big as Plum Creek, just a two-man outfit, but I was one of those men, ever since I could sit a horse.”

  “Beg pardon?” What had sitting a horse to do with being a cook/housekeeper?

  “I’m sayin’ I can ride better than I can walk. I’ve done just about every kind of job a cowboy could do, worked cattle all my life. I can rope, wrestle, brand and steer ‘em.”

  He stared at her, struck dumb by the incongruity between what was coming out of her mouth and what he’d expected to hear. She was talking about castrating calves when he’d been thinking prize-winning, son-of-a-gun stew.

  His silence seem to fluster her, for she rushed on. “I’m not the least bit squeamish. I’m never sick.” Her gaze flicked away at that, then streaked back again, earnest and intent. “And I’m strong as they come, if I do say so myself. I’m good at line ridin’. I’ve even got my own stock saddle, and I can handle a gun, if the need ever comes up.”

  Kell listened to her catalog of skills with a growing sense of the peculiar. It dawned on him that this woman didn’t want the job he doubted she was right for. She wanted the job he couldn’t imagine she’d be right for. He didn’t think he was out in left field with this conclusion, either; she’d obviously perceived the same problems as he had in her doing the job. Why else would she have tried to camouflage her femininity?