Lucky in Love Page 8

“You sound as if you might know something about that.”

  “Some people around here still call my dad—who’s in his fifties, by the way—Buck’s Boy. Part of the reason Dad took up working as a rodeo stock supplier was he knew he’d never live up to my granddaddy’s rodeo fame. And to hear Buck tell it, he took up rodeoing because he didn’t have my great-granddaddy’s knack for gentling horses. And none of us have Virgil’s skill at politics...

  “I suppose it’s inevitable, when your family roots go deep in a place, that folks are going to make comparisons. Some people choose to leave, to start someplace fresh on their own, where they can be judged by their own standards.

  “But if you’re one of those who decides to stay, the trick is to figure out your own individual role in the scheme of things. And just try to do your best in that arena.”

  “So, what’s your particular talent?” Jude realized she was genuinely curious as to what made this seemingly laconic man tick. “Your role in the O’Neill arena?”

  “You know, I’ve pondered on that a lot myself lately.” Lucky rubbed his jaw. “I’ve got a knack with horses, but nothing like my great-granddaddy’s reputation. And I sure don’t like traveling, so there’s no way I’d be happy being a rodeo stock man. And I figure, with my habit of speaking my mind straight out, I’d last about ten minutes in politics. And, although I’ll do a little bronc busting from time to time to see if I can pick up some quick operating funds for the ranch, I’m probably a worse rodeo rider than my dad.”

  “I think you’re being overly modest there,” Jude argued. “Since your buckle says you’re a champion.”

  Although the conversation had turned almost serious, Lucky grinned at that. “You noticed.”

  “It’s part of my job to notice everything about you,” she reminded him.

  “That’s some kind of job you’ve got, looking at half-dressed men all day.”

  “There happens to be a great deal more to Hunk of the Month than just beefcake.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet all those subscribers read it for the articles,” he drawled wickedly.

  Not wanting to get drawn into an argument when she still didn’t have his name on the dotted line of a contract, Jude refused to rise to the accusation. “I believe we were discussing your work,” she reminded him. “And what you do best.”

  “Well, now, not that I’d be one to brag about myself or anything, but I’ve been told that pleasuring pretty women is one of my better talents.”

  “You are, without a doubt, the most amazingly arrogant man I’ve ever met.”

  The maddening grin didn’t fade from his face. “It’s only arrogance if it’s not true. And it’s only braggin’ if you haven’t done it. If you want, I’d be more than happy to demonstrate—”

  “I told you, my interest in you is purely professional.” She folded her arms.

  “Yeah, I know...you’re just interested in my body.”

  There was no way she was going to touch that line. “You truly are impossible.”

  “So some people say,” he agreed on a soft, rumbling chuckle. “I don’t suppose a smart city girl would be willing to take a little advice?”

  She didn’t answer. But her shrug was a go-ahead gesture.

  “When you’re trying to get a man to do something he really doesn’t want to do, you’ll have a lot better luck if you work him like you would your best cutting horse.”

  “I’ve never owned a cutting horse.”

  “Well, if you had, you’d have figured out that it’s always best to take it slow, take it easy. And, most importantly, don’t rush him.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Why don’t you do that?”

  This time his mild tone didn’t fool her for a second. It was a warning, pure and simple. One that, if she wanted to come out the winner in this ongoing test of wills, she’d be wise to heed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THEY PASSED THROUGH Cremation Creek on the way to the Double Ought, confirming Lucky’s allegation that Jude wouldn’t find anyplace to stay in the town—not that two structures could actually qualify as a full-fledged town, she thought. The movie theater was a grand two-and-a-half-story frame structure with old-fashioned round lightbulbs surrounding a marquee announcing an upcoming three-day Clint Eastwood festival.

  “The Gilded Lily?” Jude murmured as she read the name painted in gleaming gold across the arched facade of the theater.

  “Virgil thought if he named it that, Lillie Langtry’d be more likely to come. I’d have no way of knowing, but I’ll wager there are various versions of that name all over the west. This was lonely country, and there weren’t a lot of eligible women, so it probably wasn’t surprising that she’d inspire a lot of male fantasies.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Jude recalled the land they’d driven through on the way to the town and suspected that while many would still call it lonely, in a way she’d found it oddly peaceful.

  He pulled into the huge parking lot across the street from The Gilded Lily, cutting the engine in front of the Feed and Fuel. The store had obviously expanded over the decades, ending up part gray stone, part log cabin and part aluminum siding. An oversize American flag flying outside the door proudly proclaimed that this was also the home of the Cremation Creek United States Post Office.

  While Lucky pumped fuel into the tank of the dually pickup, Jude took the opportunity to run inside the store to use the bathroom, which she was more than a little relieved to discover was spotless and smelled like a pine forest.

  The inside of the general store was like nothing she’d ever seen. It was unbelievably small—only about a quarter of the size of the compact urban markets she was accustomed to—yet crammed to the rafters with so many items it reminded her of the inside of a Fabergé egg. But not from Sotheby.

  Perhaps a merger of Guns and Ammo and Wal-Mart, she decided, cringing as she noticed the stuffed animals lining the tops of the food shelves laden down with every junk food known to man. The animals bore no resemblance to the fluffy blue and white bunny she’d bought for Dillon when he’d been born, but were the type that had once been alive and now seemed to stare down at her with their wide, unblinking, yellow marble eyes.

  On the far wall, next to a rack of plastic animal calls—which, according to the hand-painted sign, were guaranteed to draw wild beasts as varied as elk and varmints—she could see a padlocked display case with guns and knives for sale. Several of the guns were replicas of Old West sidearms of the types Jesse James or Billy the Kid or Wyatt Earp might have favored.

  In front of the case, near the counter, was the most amazing item in the store. The chain-saw art.

  The featured piece was tall—towering above her head—and depicted, exactly as Lucky had described, a bear holding a fish. The work, while crudely primitive, was strangely powerful. As was the amazingly exorbitant price, which also backed up Lucky’s assertion that the artist, Clint McLaury, was extremely popular.

  It crossed Jude’s mind that she should question Lucky about McLaury, and if he was even reasonably attractive, perhaps she could use him in a future issue of the magazine. Not as a featured centerfold—although it might be an unfair stereotype, artistic hunks did not sell magazines—but as one of the “Real Guys We Love to Look At” filler pieces. A hunk with a chain saw would undoubtedly appeal to that same audience that had made the blue-collar issues such a success.

  She bought a Hershey’s bar and a Coke from a thirty-something woman with long auburn corkscrew curls and a lush Sports Illustrated cover girl body Jude suspected Lucky would definitely appreciate. That thought brought up another: Cremation Creek was obviously a small community, which meant that Lucky undoubtedly knew the woman.

  Had he ever dated her? Danced cheek to cheek at the local saloon, perhaps, while the jukebox twanged out a country-and-western
tune about fickle women and faithless cowboys? Had they made out in the balcony of that movie theater that had been built in hopes of luring Lillie Langtry to Cremation Creek? Had he slept with her?

  When she felt a twinge of something that felt too much like jealousy, Jude shook it off before she could think about it too deeply. She remembered to smile and thank the woman who told her, with a perky smile and obvious curiosity, to have a nice day. Jude noticed she put her money into an old-fashioned cigar box that apparently served as a cash register.

  “Well?” Lucky asked as she rejoined the two men. His eyes were literally dancing with anticipation as he waited to hear her reaction.

  “I never realized they made so many kinds of cheese puffs,” she said as he gave her another boost up onto the high seat. “And the natives seem friendly.”

  “Dixie’s always been a sweetheart. We had ourselves a lot of fun back in high school.” His easy words caused the green-eyed monster living inside her to stir again. “And Lila’s just as nice.”

  “Lila?”

  “Her twin sister.”

  There were two of them? Terrific. Jude slouched down in the seat, unwrapped the candy bar and assured herself that she didn’t care who Lucky O’Neill had slept with.

  * * *

  JUDE HADN’T REALLY given any thought to the O’Neill ranch house. If asked, she supposed she would have expected something rustic, created of hand-hewn logs, perhaps. Something the Cartwright boys would have felt at home in.

  That being the case, the white clapboard two-story house with forest green shutters and a wide, screened-in porch that seemed to run around all four sides, came as a distinct surprise. Although, with occasional trips to Chicago, she’d only ever flown over the Midwest, she suspected Lucky’s house would have fit in just fine at the edge of an Iowa cornfield.

  “It’s lovely,” she murmured, gazing out beyond the house to the acres of grass and gold hay. “Homey.”

  If she’d gone into advertising instead of publishing, this was just the kind of house she’d want to use for a soup commercial. Or a Hallmark home-for-the-holidays special.

  “It’s a money pit,” Lucky said. “Every time we turn around something’s gotta be fixed or replaced. But you’re right about one thing. Seventy-five years of O’Neills living here have definitely made it a home.”

  “Got yourself some good pastureland, too,” Zach noted.

  “We had a lot of early summer showers, so the grass is staying green longer. And for the most part the grasshoppers have left us alone this summer. Unlike last year when they just about wiped us out.”

  “I remember when I was a kid, about sixteen or seventeen, we were hit with them real bad,” Zach said. “Damn things nearly put us out of the ranching business.”

  “Surely you’re not serious,” Jude said, looking back out at what looked like an endless sea of green. Certainly mere insects couldn’t do so much damage?

  “You grew up on a ranch?” Lucky asked at the same time.

  Zach answered Jude’s question first. “Didn’t you ever read Little House on the Prairie when you were a girl?”

  “I don’t think so.” She decided not to mention that her father, on the rare occasion that he’d tolerated fiction, had insisted upon the classics by such authors as Dickens or Jonathan Swift.

  “Well, if you had, you’d know those gluttonous devils can wipe out a year’s worth of grain in an afternoon. It is not,” he said dryly, “a pretty sight.” He turned toward Lucky. “My family’s got a place in the Snowy Range area.”

  “Nice country,” Lucky said as he pulled up in front of the house. “I knew a Kayla Newman who was from that part of the country, I don’t suppose—”

  “Kayla’s my little sister,” Zach said. “My folks died in a car accident up around Jackson Hole a couple winters ago, so now she’s running the ranch with her husband, who used to be a foreman on a place up in Montana. They have two kids and a third on the way.”

  “I remember Kayla bein’ a real pretty gal. And smart as a whip.” Lucky said. “And wasn’t she also a pretty good barrel racer?”

  “State champ three years running,” Zach said with obvious brotherly pride.

  Lucky gave a nod of approval. “It’s good you were able to keep the place in the family. Lots of folks around here have been losing their ranches to developers or big conglomerates.”

  “I would have come home from New York before I’d have let that happen.”

  Zach’s quiet, yet determined tone made Jude realize yet again that he was obviously not exactly what—or who—he appeared to be at first glance.

  Lucky nodded again and Jude took his grunt for grudging approval. She wondered if perhaps, since they obviously had so much in common, Zach might be able to succeed where she’d failed in convincing Lucky to cooperate.

  “Don’t even think it,” the photographer murmured into her ear as Lucky went to retrieve the trunks from the back of the truck.

  “Think what?” she asked with feigned innocence.

  “I saw that look flash in your scheming silver eyes. That let’s-make-a-deal look you get when you’re plotting something out. I’ve liked working with you, Jude. A lot. You’re sharp as barbwire, efficient as all get out, you’re great to look at and you smell real good, too.

  “But I’m not real convinced this is the best thing for O’Neill to do.”

  “Isn’t that for him to decide?”

  “Of course. But I could tell by the gleam in your eyes that you were thinking of enlisting me in your campaign to get the guy to pose. And even if I didn’t have my personal doubts about the wisdom of this idea, nothing I could say would change his mind.”

  “You sound awfully certain of that.” Jude had gotten the same impression, but had been hoping she might be wrong.

  “Honey, I know guys like O’Neill. I grew up with them. Hell, I used to be one. Believe me, it’d be easier to turn a steer back into a bull than make your potential hunk go against his own personal code.”

  As Zach went to help Lucky with the camera equipment, Jude decided that she was really beginning to hate the Code of the West.

  Although she was certain he wouldn’t appreciate the comparison, Buck O’Neill reminded Jude a little bit of Gabby Hayes. He was a short, spry man, lean as a whip and, despite his age, looked as hard as the huge granite boulders they’d passed on the drive from Cheyenne.

  A lifetime working outdoors had weathered his face to the hue of a hazelnut, an iron gray mustache fringed his top lip, and his eyes, as they skimmed over her, were as bright as the sky overhead. She also suspected, from the appraisal in his gaze, that the man was sizing her up and not particularly approving of what he found.

  Tough.

  “Hello, Mr. O’Neill.” She held out her hand and gave him a friendly smile meant to charm. From the way Lucky had spoken of his grandfather, she assumed he respected the older man’s opinion a great deal. Which meant that she’d best get Buck on her side as soon as possible. “My name is Jude Lancaster. I work with your granddaughter in New York and have heard a great deal about you.”

  “From Katie?” he asked.

  “No. Kate and I mostly talk about work when we’re at the office. But your grandson certainly quotes you a great deal.”

  “He does, does he?”

  “He certainly does. Why, he made you out to be a modern-day Mark Twain or Will Rogers. In fact, I was thinking that we should interject some of your pearls of western wisdom into the article.”

  “Article?”

  She’d succeeded in getting his attention. “Kate didn’t explain when you spoke with her?”

  “Said Dillon was fussing,” he grumbled. A guarded look came across his face as he studied her the way he might study a man sitting across the table holding a card hand close to his chest. “Didn’t have any time to get into details. The gal
just wanted me to know that Lucky was bringing company.”

  “I see. Well, I’m managing editor of the magazine we both work for and I was hoping to do a profile on a cowboy. Sort of a day in the life of a rancher.” Her vague description was meant to entice, her warm smile designed to coax compliance. “Our readers do so admire independent western men.”

  “Gotta be independent to survive out here, that’s for sure.” He folded his arms over the front of his black-and-red striped western-cut shirt. “This ladies’ magazine you and Katie work on, don’t I recollect it’s published pretty much all over?”

  “In every state. And we’ve recently gone international. We’re currently in five countries. With plans to expand into the former Soviet Union next year.”

  “Imagine that.” He ran a finger over his mustache. “Russkies reading about life on the range.”

  “I believe it could be our most popular issue.” Since she was leaving out a great many pertinent facts, Jude was extremely grateful for an opportunity to tell the unvarnished truth. “After all, the myth of the Wild West is popular all over the world.”

  Buck cut another look toward Lucky, who’d been rudely rolling his eyes during most of Jude’s sketchy explanation. “So, the little lady’s gonna be writing about you instead of recipes and housekeeping hints, huh?” His question told Jude that Kate hadn’t exactly filled her grandfather in about the editorial content of the magazine. Which wasn’t all that surprising. She certainly didn’t feel moved to correct the elderly man’s misconception.

  “We’re still in the negotiation stage. I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

  “Why the Sam Hill not?” Buck looked at his grandson as if suspecting he’d been fed locoweed on the plane. “It’d be good publicity for the Double Ought. And should make those bankers sit up and take notice. Damn easterners,” he muttered darkly. Then, as if realizing his mistake, he turned back to Jude. “No offense meant, ma’am.”

  Her smile didn’t waver. “None taken, Mr. O’Neill.”

  Buck turned to Zach. “Damned if you ain’t the spittin’ image of an old friend of mine who used to be on the board of the Cattleman’s Association, back in our younger years. Name of Jed Newman.”