Nothing like a perfect Wyoming day. Not too hot. Not too cold. A warm breeze and a lot of sunshine. A perfect July day to drag out a lawn chair and take a snooze in the sun. He yawned in anticipation of doing just that.
Mrs. D had promised to bake him a blueberry pie if he picked up Susan Collins at the airport. His buddy Jake Dixon had warned him about his mother’s matchmaking tendencies and reminded Clint that she’d sent Jake to pick up Beth Conroy, who became Mrs. Jake Dixon, just last year.
Clint swore under his breath. If Mrs. D had any ideas about matching him up with Susan Collins, she might as well spit in the wind.
Been there. Done that. He liked his freedom too much to commit to anyone.
Once inside the terminal, he checked the monitor and saw that Susan’s plane had landed a few minutes ago, so he headed for baggage claim.
“Anyone here from the Gold Buckle Ranch?”
He looked around to see who was speaking, and his gaze landed on the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. She was tall, slender and buzzing from person-to-person like a bee in a flower bed.
Clint grinned. That had to be Susan Collins.
Her red-brown hair was done up in some kind of fancy braid. Her dark eyelashes fanned out on her cheeks like paintbrushes. She was as pale as an Easter lily—she looked as though she hadn’t seen the warm kiss of the sun in years. She had on some kind of black jeans—designer jeans. A red blouse with a vee-neckline worked for her. The vee wasn’t very plunging—just deep enough to make things interesting. Strappy black sandals with a slight heel made her legs look long and slender.
He stifled a wolf whistle and approached her.
Clint tweaked the brim of his hat. “I’m Clint Scully from the Gold Buckle.” He stared into magnificent purple eyes. They must be colored contact lenses, he decided. No one had eyes like that. “And you must be…?”
“Susan Collins.” She held out her hand, giving him a strong handshake. “Are you here to drive me to the ranch?”
He enjoyed warmth of her touch and the sureness of her handshake. “At your service.”
“Thank you.” She studied her luggage. “Where’s the skycap for these bags?”
“I can get them. There’s only two,” he said, flexing.
“Oh, no. They are terribly heavy, especially that one.” She pointed to the bigger black suitcase. “It’s stuffed with samples and a couple of my catalogs.”
“No problem,” Clint said, lifting up the suitcases. Damn, they were heavy. What else had she brought from New York, the Statue of Liberty?
He managed a smile instead of a groan.
“No problem, darlin’. No problem t’all.” He laid on the Texas accent. Ladies from the East usually loved his drawl.
“My name is Susan,” she snapped. “And they wheel.”
Mmm…Seemed like she wasn’t the Texas-drawl type.
“Right this way, Susan. My truck’s out front.”
He wheeled her luggage and tried to keep up with her pace. She was walking fast, like she was late for a meeting or something.
“I’d like to get a massage after that dreadful flight,” she said. “I’m really looking forward to the spa.”
The words came out in a rush. She walked fast. She talked fast.
“The spa hasn’t been inspected yet. Should be soon, though.”
“Inspected?” she asked.
“A father of one of our campers donated the hot tub to the ranch. He said that it’d be good relaxation for the caretakers of the children. Mr. D had it installed on the deck of the Caretaker Hotel by the baseball diamond.”
She raised a perfect eyebrow. “A hot tub? But what about the spa? Massages? Facials? Wraps?”
He shook his head and looked confused. “Mrs. D is the only one who calls it a spa. Everyone else calls it a hot tub. I think there’s a communication problem somewhere.”
Susan closed her eyes. “I came all this way for a hot tub by a baseball diamond?” She sighed. “Wait until I tell Bev.”
Clint told Susan to wait at the curb and went to get his truck. By the time he returned, three cowboys were talking to Susan—hitting on her, really. Bronc riders, he assumed, probably on their way to Cheyenne for the Frontier Days festivities. Bronc riders thought they were hot stuff.
“Toss those suitcases in the back, boys,” Clint said, interrupting their conversation. They did so, and then went back to ogling Susan.
“Thanks for your help.” He shook their hands, in an effort to send them on their way. “Goodbye now.”
One of the cowboys pointed at him. “Hey, aren’t you…?”
“Yeah,” Clint said, always flattered by the recognition. “Yeah, I am.”
Clint opened the door for Susan to get in.
“Just who do they think you are?” she asked.
“Just myself.” He grinned. “They’ve probably seen me around—either fighting bulls or hauling my stock to rodeos.”
“I see.”
She gave a big sigh and checked her watch. She got into the truck, and so did he. He aimed the pickup toward the mountains.
“Mr. Scully, how long will it take to get to the ranch? I’d like to meet with Emily tonight and show her my samples.”
“I don’t think that’ll be possible. Emily will be busy with the kids. Then after dinner, it’s popcorn and movie night. We’re showing one of the Harry Potter movies. You won’t want to miss that.”
“I didn’t think that the program had started yet.”
“This is Thursday. Right?”
Susan nodded.
“Our Wheelchair Rodeo program ends on Saturday morning, and the Gold Buckle Gang will be arriving on Saturday afternoon. It’s a program for—”
“Kids who use crutches or braces,” she said softly, pinching the area above her nose as if she were getting a headache.
“How did you know that?”
“I read it in the flyer,” she said. “On the plane.”
He wasn’t sure if she was really interested in the Gold Buckle Gang program or if she was getting a headache. He narrowed his eyes as he watched her.
“Make sure you don’t miss the big game on Sunday night. We use a beach ball and the batter uses a big plastic bat. We have shortened bases and the cowboys do some clowning around and get the kids laughing and—”
“Sounds like fun,” she said. “But I’ll probably be gone by then.”
She sounded remote, disinterested. He wondered why. “It is fun, but it also serves a purpose. The kids develop balance and maybe exercise different muscles, or maybe rely a little less on their crutches. Or maybe they just get to laugh a little more than usual.” Clint grinned. “Wait until you see the horseshoe toss, and the relay races and some of the other events we have at the end of the program that make up the Gold Buckle Rodeo. We give out gold and silver buckles for the winners.”
“Buckles?”
“It’s a western thing. Rodeo winners have always received belt buckles—like this beauty.” He gripped the big gold buckle he sported and tapped it. “National Championship Bullfighting—2006.” He was proud of that, and he’d won the competition four times in a row. The competition was getting tougher and tougher every year, but he