Charlotte's Cowboy Page 10

  Standing in the front hall, Charlotte cravenly agreed. Let Tim break the news of his visitor to his father. Matthew wasn’t likely to erupt in front of his son, and by the time he reached the house, he might have his temper under control. A half smile played across her mouth. It would be interesting to see if Matthew succumbed to what he referred to as cutting one’s nose off to spite his face. It was not in his best interest to alienate Charlotte right now.

  She looked around. Even furnished, the house had that stale air of abandonment peculiar to vacant houses. Ahead a staircase climbed to the upper regions of the house. To the left of the stairs, a hallway led to the back of the house. On either side of the entry, partially closed doors beckoned. Charlotte peeked into the room on her right. It was a beige living room, stiff and formal. In the room across the hall, the drapes were closed, but low-riding, western rays seeped through the thin fabric providing enough light to see the room was furnished with cast-offs and cluttered with knickknacks. Charlotte stepped inside. Faded pillows and hand-knit afghans were stacked and neatly folded. Glass doors on the fireplace were closed, the fireplace swept, the log holder empty. A television screen stared blankly. The room was spotlessly clean and void of life.

  Charlotte slowly swiveled. A large black piano graced one corner of the room, a collection of framed photographs on the closed lid. A likeness of Chick Gannen drew her. He held a younger version of Tim—Matthew at about four years of age, she guessed. They appeared to be at a picnic. Helen was in the picture with her first husband, his arm draped over Helen’s shoulders. Matthew had inherited his father’s build, the wide shoulders, strong thighs and long legs. Charlotte studied the kind eyes and laughing mouth of the man in the photo. There was strength in his face, and he radiated the same sense of self-assurance that characterized Matthew. Matthew wore that same look of pride and pleasure when he looked at Tim. Whatever else she thought about Matthew, he was a good father. She set down the picture, her gaze moving on. The photo of a baby in his mother’s arms was obviously Tim and Matthew’s wife. What had he called her? Lara. Charlotte studied the picture, seeing now how Lara and Paula only superficially resembled each other. Lara, with her cloud of hair so blond it was almost white, glowed with an inner radiance and feminine beauty. Paula would look hard and coarse beside Lara. Charlotte felt a stab of pity for Matthew’s sister-in-law.

  Reaching for a wedding portrait of Matthew and Lara, Charlotte marveled at how young they looked. How beautiful. The look on Matthew’s face as he gazed at his young bride was a mixture of happiness, possessiveness, satisfaction and anticipation. Matthew was looking forward to the joys of his marital bed. Unexpected sharp envy pierced Charlotte’s insides, and she set the picture down with a thump. An inlaid wood frame held another photograph of Matthew’s deceased wife. Even in jeans and faded plaid shirt, Lara was gorgeous. Her engaging wide smile and white perfect teeth belonged in a toothpaste advertisement. She sat her horse with a born-in-the-saddle ease Charlotte envied. Lara must have been the perfect wife for Matthew. No wonder he’d loved her too much to ever replace her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Charlotte whirled, thrusting the photograph behind her. “I came with Tim.” She read the look on his face. He was furious. “It wasn’t my idea. Your mother insisted.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Penny. And before you ask, I managed just fine.” She edged toward the piano. “I’m a quick learner.”

  “Not so quick. Or you wouldn’t be here with Tim. I suppose he’s convinced you ride like Annie Oakley.”

  “Naturally.” Charlotte groped her way to the piano, returning the photograph to its former position before Matthew realized what she’d been doing. She eased her fingers away. The heavy picture crashed down on the piano.

  Matthew pushed her out of the way and looked at the photograph. “Snooping?”

  There was no point in denying the obvious. “She was very beautiful.”

  “Where’s Tim?”

  “He went to the barn looking for you.” Matthew clearly didn’t want to talk of his wife, but Charlotte couldn’t contain her curiosity. “How long was she ill?”

  “She was shot to death.” The clipped words reverberated around the room.

  “Shot! Oh, Matthew, how terrible.” Charlotte picked up the photograph and carefully settled it in its former resting place. Questions whirled in her head. Voicing any of them would be inexcusably rude.

  “Before you reach any idiotic conclusions, let me assure you I didn’t shoot her,” he said with clipped sarcasm. “It was a drive-by gang shooting, in California. Lara happened to be standing on the wrong street corner at the wrong time.”

  “I didn’t think you killed her,” Charlotte gasped. “I know we have our differences, and you’re arrogant, conceited and a major pain in the neck, but I’d never believe you were a murderer.” She waved in the direction of the photographs. “It’s obvious you loved your wife very much.”

  He gave her a long look, as if weighing up whether or not to believe her. Finally the muscles in his jaw eased. “Considering all the cause you’ve given me, I suppose the fact I haven’t murdered you yet speaks well for my character.”

  “Now, Matthew,” she chided him. “Let’s not forget the little discussion we had earlier.”

  “I’m not likely to, cream puff.”

  “I believe calling me cream puff was one of the things I objected to.”

  “I believe it was. I also believe I said I’d give you my answer this evening. In the meantime—” he moved forward a couple of steps, penning Charlotte against the piano, his hands resting on the instrument on either side of her “—crossing into dangerous territory before any treaties are signed might have been pretty foolish, don’t you think, cream puff?”

  The edge of the piano lid bit into her spine. “You can’t scare me, Matthew.”

  “Can’t I?” he challenged softly

  “No. I may not look tough, but I am. You, on the other hand, only look tough.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, cream puff. I’m tough all the way through.”

  Tough he might be; overconfident and arrogant he definitely was. He was also standing much too close to her. “It’s easier to chop down the biggest evergreen tree than to eradicate the smallest dandelion.” If her knees were knocking, she had no intention of letting him know it.

  “It’s a funny thing—” he moved his hands to loosely grip her shoulders “—but I’ve always had a hankering to try dandelion wine.”

  The heat of his hands flowed easily through the thin sleeves of her lacy blouse. A faint sunbeam caressed his weathered cheeks and accentuated the faint patch of stubble showing bluish against his tanned skin. His eyes were half-closed, long, dark lashes concealing his thoughts. He looked rough, tough and dangerously masculine. The kind of man she most disliked, Charlotte reminded herself. Hard-edged, iron-willed and absolutely devoted to having his own way, even if it meant trampling over everyone in his path. “Matthew, your attempts to bully me are ridiculous and won’t work.”

  “What’s ridiculous is this hat. I don’t think the sun is what you need protection from right now.” He fumbled with the pins, and her straw hat sailed across the room.

  Charlotte spared less than half a second worrying about the fate of the wooden cherries trimming the hat. “I suppose that’s your less-than-subtle way of saying I need protection from you.” She ignored the hair tumbling down her back. “I won’t be intimidated into signing the water rights over to you, Matthew, so you may as well save your energy for baby-sitting your cows.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “How could I possibly think I could intimidate a woman who likes to live as dangerously as you? This isn’t about water or cows. It’s about you, cream puff, and the mixed signals you send. Talking tough and looking soft. Wearing frilly feminine dresses and thin lacy blouses—” he brushed his knuckles down the buttoned front placket of her blouse “—that show nothing and promise everything. No coarse,
androgynous jeans for you—” he lightly outlined her body with his hands “—just fancy trousers that draw a man’s eye to your cute little bottom, or hip-swaying skirts that scent the air with tantalizing messages.”

  Charlotte swallowed hard. The kind of man who attracted her was gentle and kind and thoughtful. A man as different from Matthew as the Rocky Mountains differed from the Eastern plains. Blue eyes had always been her favorite. Eyes the color of flax or larkspur. Not eyes the color of mud. Only mud was a one-dimensional brown. Matthew’s eyes were golden brown with fascinating brown flecks. Eyes that mocked her silence as he slowly pulled her against his body. Let him kiss her. His kisses meant nothing. It was mere chance his mouth had already learned how to please her.

  Eventually Matthew lifted his head. “I think, cream puff,” he drawled, his fingers weaving slowly through her hair, his thumbs drawing lazy circles beneath her ears, “you’d better run on back to Charlie’s place before I decide you don’t present the slightest impediment to my getting anything—” his eyes glinted wickedly at her “—I want.”

  * * *

  Hours later Charlotte was still fuming. She wasn’t sure if she was angrier at Matthew and his sarcastic amusement or at herself for retreating from the battlefield with all the haste and grace of a young pup running from his first encounter with a skunk. “Calling Matthew Thorneton a skunk is an insult to the animal. Don’t you agree?” The rat in her lap opened one eye, stretched languorously and then curled back into a ball.

  The smile on Charlotte’s face disappeared as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. The cream-colored cotton sweater hugged her curves more closely than she’d remembered. Darn Matthew Thorneton. She was not going to permit his salacious comments to influence how she dressed. The way he talked a person would think she ran around half-naked. Lifting Snowball to her shoulder, Charlotte hiked up her long skirt of faded aqua-flowered sateen and reached for her nail polish. Riding boots took a terrible toll on painted toenails, and she had every intention of wearing her highest, flimsiest sandals this evening. Yes, and she’d sway her hips so widely she’d barely make it through any doorways. With luck she’d swing her hips so high, she’d bop Matthew Thorneton right between those diabolical brown eyes of his.

  OK, those sexy brown eyes. Wiggling one set of wet toes, Charlotte propped up her other foot and dipped the small brush into the bright coral polish. She admitted it. On some juvenile level Matthew sent shimmers and tingles down her spine. On the other hand, so did exquisite old lace-trimmed linens and her grandmother’s fudge, but she didn’t lose her head over them. She dabbed paint on her last toenail. Nor was she going to lose her head over Matthew Thorneton.

  “Hard at work, I see.”

  The brush jerked across her toe, leaving a trail of coral on her skin. Tim had run downstairs leaving her bedroom door open. “Now see what you made me do.” Grabbing a tissue, she dabbed at the smear and concentrated on finishing the nail. Matthew’s silent presence made her nervous, and she fumbled with the cap to the polish, barely averting disaster as the bottle threatened to tip from the dressing table. Lowering her skirt, she flapped the fabric above her toes to hasten the drying process.

  “You made it safely back,” Matthew said.

  “Naturally.” If he wanted to pretend their last conversation had never taken place, it was fine with her. “Penny delivered me here, just like taking a taxi.”

  “After your ride, did you give her a bath?” He filled the doorway, a folded towel in his hands.

  Charlotte stood up and walked across the room. Hanging onto the bedpost, her back to him, she slipped her shoes on. “One of the employees was in the barn when we got back, and he and Tim showed me how to rub Penny down. You should have told me it wasn’t called giving her a bath,” she said with an injured air.

  “If you didn’t give Penny a bath, what do you suppose happened to all the hot water?”

  Charlotte knew very well what had happened. Just before he’d come in, she’d drained the hot water tank. A cold shower was just what Matthew needed. She gave him a limpid glance over her shoulder. “I guess I used it all. I’m sorry.” He didn’t appear impressed with her apology. “You were wrong about riding Penny faster to work out the kinks in my muscles. If anything, my muscles were sorer today than yesterday. Soaking in the tub was definitely necessary. The water kept getting cold so I kept warming it up. I had no idea I’d used so much. After my bath I rinsed out a few—” she paused delicately “—unmentionables.” Which she’d deliberately left hanging on the shower rod. Men were supposed to find dripping lingerie very irritating.

  “Then these must be yours.” Matthew shook out the towel and held up a pair of bikini panties and a brassiere. Hooking the brassiere on his finger, he swung it gently to and fro. “Somehow I suspected they might be. I couldn’t quite see Mom in orange lace.” Holding the bit of fabric up higher, he inspected it carefully. “No matter how little of it there is.”

  Charlotte set a new speed record crossing the room. She held out her hand. “The color is peach and I’ll take those.”

  Matthew moved the garments just out of her reach. “Finders, keep—” He broke off.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He was staring quizzically at her chest. “You appear to have three lumps as opposed to the usual feminine two.”

  “Oh, that.” Brilliant conversation designed to distract him. At least she managed to retrieve her underwear.

  “The lump in the middle is moving.” His questioning gaze rose to her face.

  The tiny claws running up her skin served notice it was too late to lie. “I’m, uh, baby-sitting.” Snowball peered over the picot edging of her sweater neckline.

  “Baby-sitting.” Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “With a rat?”

  “He’s kind of growing on me,” Charlotte said airily. The small animal climbed out from her sweater, crawled under her loose-hanging hair and curled into a ball.

  Matthew reached for Snowball’s low-hanging tail and slid it through his fingers. “If you want to play games with me, cream puff, fine.” The back of his hand grazed Charlotte’s chest. “Just leave my son out of them.”

  “What’s Tim got to do—?” The answer stopped her cold. Tossing her lingerie on the bed, she moved to sit at the dressing table. When she could trust herself to speak she said, “I know you dislike me. That’s OK, because I don’t like you much, either. But I wouldn’t accuse you of deliberately harming a child anymore than I’d accuse you of murdering your wife.” Her hand shook as she picked up an earring. “Just because you were prepared to cheat me on the matter of those water rights doesn’t mean I’d use Tim to get back at you.”

  “If I’m wrong, I apologize.”

  “If? You don’t believe me?”

  “All I know is, one minute I see you quaking in your boots at the very thought of that rat, and the next minute, Snowball is free-ranging over your body.”

  “You saw what you wanted to see.” She inserted a large gold hoop in one earlobe. “You were so busy hoping I’d barricade myself in my room, thoroughly terrorized by Snowball and your tales of him jumping from clocks and climbing into beds, it never occurred to you a girl—” she scornfully underlined the word “—might like rats. As it happens, I had a pet rat when I was younger.” Nudging Snowball out of her way, she inserted the other earring. “I think white rats are cute and cuddly.”

  “Next you’ll tell me snakes are adorable,” Matthew said dryly.

  Charlotte didn’t have to fake a shudder. “Snakes. Ugh.” Matthew was eyeing her oddly. She hoped she hadn’t lost too much ground. It would never do to have Matthew suspect she was enacting a charade. Not when a significant part of her extremely brilliant plan to teach him a lesson depended on Matthew believing her the greenest of all greenhorns. She intended to out-dude every dude who ever confused a horse with a cow. What her plan, or Matthew’s arrogance for that matter, had to do with her ultimate decision about the ranch she refused to delve too dee
ply into. Meanwhile, she set about repairing any damage. “I admit I wasn’t too excited about rats at first. Grandad believed every child should have a pet to learn responsibility, but Aunt Faye is allergic to cats.” No need for Matthew to know she’d rescued the rat from another child who, tiring of his pet, intended to gas it. Charlotte embroidered her tale. “Dogs jump on you and get your clothes dirty, and I couldn’t abide cleaning goldfish bowls.” She shivered dramatically, her earrings banging against the sides of her neck. “I considered a hamster, but a friend had one and it bit. Birds are so messy.” She shuddered again for emphasis. “So I got a rat.” Her earlobe was violently tugged. “Ouch!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Snowball is caught in my earring.” Capturing the rat’s head, she tried to push him back through the large gold hoop. The harder she pushed, the more the animal resisted. He shook his head, his every movement causing the earring wire to tug painfully on her earlobe. “Quit fighting me, you pestilent rodent.”

  “Stand up and let me get him.” Moving to her side, Matthew brushed her hair behind her ear and took hold of Snowball. “Hold still, both of you.”

  “What are you guys doing?”

  “Your father is torturing me.” Charlotte winced as the rat squealed. “And enjoying it entirely too much.”

  Matthew laughed. “Your little friend has gotten himself into a most ridiculous predicament.”

  “Gosh,” Tim said. “How’d he do that? Careful, Dad. Don’t hurt him.”

  “Sure. Rip my ear off, but don’t hurt Snowball.”

  “Pay no attention to her, Tim. A little bit of pain and women go crazy. There.” Matthew handed the liberated animal to his son. “That should teach him to keep his nose out of other people’s earrings.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Charlotte said, stroking the rat’s back with her finger. “Is he all right?”

  “He’ll live. Go put him up, Tim, so he can recover from his trauma.”

  “His trauma,” Charlotte echoed indignantly as Tim left the room. “What about my trauma? Not to mention my ear.”