Lois Dyer – Luke's Proposal (страница 3)

The sole waitress was washing glasses. Luke caught her eye and waggled his empty bottle. She smiled and nodded before drying her hands on the white towel tied around her waist.

He watched her grab a full bottle, leave the bar and sashay across the room toward him. She was younger than the bartender, her lush body poured into skintight jeans and an off-the-shoulder white knit blouse. A curly mass of reddish-brown hair brushed her shoulders and tangled in long silver earrings.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked in a breathy, inviting voice as she set the bottle on the table in front of him.

“No, thanks. How much do I owe you?” She named a figure, not bothering to conceal her interest as he shoved a hand in his jeans pocket, the faded denim pulling tight. He counted out bills and some change, and she cupped her palm to take them. “You’re sure I can’t get you something else, cowboy?”

“Sorry, honey. Not tonight.”

She pouted before smiling. “Maybe some other time.”

“Maybe,” he acceded with a slow grin.

Placated, she returned to the bar and the stack of dirty glasses.

Luke pulled a silver pocketwatch from his jeans and thumbed open the case, squinting to read the numerals in the dim light. Nine-fifteen. He decided to finish his beer and head back to his solitary bed in the hotel six blocks away. He lifted the bottle to his lips, just as the door to the street opened and a woman stepped inside.

She paused just over the threshold, her thick fall of black hair brushing against her shoulders as she turned her head, searching the room.

There was something familiar about her, but Luke couldn’t place her. A slim black dress wrapped her from throat to midcalf, slender ankles and feet tucked into strappy, black leather shoes. A black leather bag the size of a small briefcase was slung over one shoulder. Everything about her said she belonged uptown in the cocktail lounge of Billings’s best hotel and not within the rough walls of the Bull ’n Bash. She turned her head, and the dim light from a lantern directly above the door gleamed on her glossy hair.

Luke frowned, his inability to identify her nagging at him.

Look in this direction, he urged silently, wanting to get a clear view of her face.

Then she looked at him, her eyes widening with recognition. He stiffened, slowly lowering the nearly full bottle to the tabletop.

The last time he’d seen Rachel Kerrigan walking down Main Street in Wolf Creek was nearly five years ago, but he’d know those gold eyes anywhere. The usual frustrating mix of lust and slow anger filled him. She faltered in midstride before continuing to weave her way through the tables toward him.

She was only a few steps away before he accepted that it was him she’d been searching the bar to find. She halted on the far side of the table. “Luke McCloud.” It was less a question than a statement.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Luke let the silence stretch, purposely letting his gaze rake slowly from the top of her dark hair to her feet and back. Her skin was fair, with a sprinkling of tiny freckles across her cheekbones and the bridge of a small, straight nose. She had a soft, full mouth and a square little chin. Conservative pearl-and-gold earrings glinted in her lobes. Slim fingers gripped the leather strap of her purse, the nails neatly manicured.

He’d heard the gossip that the Kerrigans were in financial trouble. It was public knowledge that ninety-year-old Marcus Kerrigan, confined to a nursing home for his final two years of life after suffering a debilitating stroke, had passed away three weeks ago. Rumor had it Marcus had left a will that split his ranch conglomerate equally between his surviving son, his widowed daughter-in-law and his three grandchildren. For generations the property had passed unbroken from father to eldest son and Luke figured the old man’s will must have enraged Harlan Kerrigan.

None of which explained why Harlan Kerrigan’s niece needed to talk to him, a McCloud. He’d never made a secret of his contempt for the Kerrigans. And despite the unforgettable kiss they’d once shared, he considered her off-limits.

“You need to talk to me,” he repeated. “About what?”

“A business proposition. May I sit down?”

She didn’t blink under his stare. Luke considered her for a moment, then he lowered his feet to the floor and leaned forward to pull the chair away from the table. She accepted his silent invitation and sat, her back ramrod-straight, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap, her expression one of resolution.

Luke crossed one ankle over his opposite knee and eyed her, waiting.

Rachel had thought long and hard before approaching Luke McCloud. She knew asking for his help was a long shot, but she was desperate and he was her last hope. Determined though she was, she’d almost turned around and walked out of the tavern when she’d looked across the room and seen him. Stiffening her resolve, she’d forced her feet to carry her across the bar.

But the closer she drew, the more nervous she became.

She’d forgotten how big he was—over six feet tall and heavily muscled, his body honed daily by strenuous ranch work. He sat alone, his long, jeans-clad legs stretched out, ankles crossed, feet resting on the seat of an empty chair. His boots were scuffed and scarred, the black leather showing the unmistakable wear marks of spur straps and metal. His white cotton shirt was fastened up the front with pearl snaps, the long sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows, the tails tucked into the waistband of faded Levi’s. His gaze was remote, and she’d seen no flicker of expression cross his face as he’d watched her walk toward him.

His features gave no hint as to what he was thinking, but Rachel doubted his thoughts were friendly ones. She’d planned this conversation with painstaking detail and tried to anticipate every possible reaction from anger, curses or having him walk out of the bar.

No matter what he did, she was determined to follow him and keep talking until he listened. “I have a business proposition,” she repeated, “and I hope you’ll hear me out before refusing.”

He raised an eyebrow, his skepticism obvious, before he nodded.

“I’m sure you’ve heard my grandfather left a will that was…” She paused, searching for the right word before deciding to opt for frankness. “Let’s just say it might be called unusual.”

“I heard,” he acknowledged. His deep drawl sent shivers of nerves up her spine.

“It’s no secret Granddad split the ranch and left specific portions to each of us, nor that the inheritance taxes assessed after his death are staggering. Mother and I can’t pay our share of the tax owed and we’re on the verge of bankruptcy.” He barely reacted to her blunt words; she would have missed the faint narrowing of his eyes if she hadn’t been intent on watching him.

“All of you? Or only you and your mother?”

“Only me and my mother. And maybe Zach.” Before he could ask why her uncle Harlan and his son Lonnie weren’t affected, Rachel continued. “Our only asset capable of paying the tax debt on the land is a three-year-old stud colt out of Misty Morning by Ransom’s Regret.” The brief flare of interest in his face was quickly erased, but it was enough encouragement for Rachel to continue. “I want to hire you to train him. And to race him.” She stopped speaking, holding her breath for his answer, nerves sending her pulse pounding.

“No.”

She wasn’t surprised. She’d expected a flat refusal, at first. But he hadn’t heard the terms. “We don’t have cash to pay your fees. But we have the deed to the north section of the ranch.”

For a long moment he only looked at her. “You’re offering me the deed to the original McCloud homestead instead of cash?”

“Yes.”

Chapter Two

“Our families have fought over ownership of the homestead for more than eighty years. Now you’re volunteering to sign over 2500 acres of prime land to a McCloud?” Skepticism tinged his deep voice.

“Yes.”

He studied her, his gaze fastened on hers as he lifted the bottle and drank, the muscles of his throat moving rhythmically. Rachel refused to look away, despite the instant, vivid memory of that sensual, hard mouth on hers. If she was to have any hope of convincing him to agree to a business relationship, she couldn’t let him know he still made her knees weak. She’d never been able to forget the kiss they’d shared when she was seventeen. She’d avoided him ever since. She’d been kissed by other men since. Why hadn’t she forgotten the taste and feel of his mouth on hers?

He lowered the bottle. “I can’t believe your uncle knows you’re doing this.”

“He doesn’t,” Rachel said flatly. “And though he’s bound to find out sooner or later, I’d prefer to delay that moment as long as possible.”

“If he doesn’t know, how can he sign off on the deed?”

“My mother will sign. She has control of the property.”

Luke’s eyes narrowed over her, his expression sharpening. “Your grandfather left the McCloud homestead to his dead son’s widow and not to Harlan?”

“Yes.” Rachel refused to elaborate further.

“Your mother moved away from the ranch years ago. I thought she and Marcus were estranged.”