Still, Bandit was Jack’s horse, and Jack thought the collection process was completely undignified. Maybe so, but Jack couldn’t argue with the income it would generate. Being in charge of this new operation meant Clay had an important job at the ranch he loved so dearly, but it also allowed him to give something back to the only real family he’d ever had.
Orphaned at three, he’d been shuffled through a series of foster homes until turning eighteen. Then he’d come to work at the Last Chance, where Sarah and her husband, Jonathan, had treated him more like one of their sons than a hired hand. But he’d formed the strongest bond with Emmett Sterling, ranch foreman and the closest thing to a father Clay had ever had. Emmett had recognized that Clay had a brain, and encouraged him to save for college.
Working while he attended school had meant taking six years to complete a four-year program, but now he was back. Jonathan Chance’s death from a truck rollover almost two years ago had shocked Clay and made him even more determined to use his education to benefit the family.
Bandit slowly lifted his head as if he’d recovered enough to dismount from the dummy.
“Guess we’re about done here,” Nick said. “I’ll take him back to his stall and then get Cookie Dough.”
“Thanks.” Clay hoisted the canister to his shoulder and left the shed. On his way to the tractor barn and the incubator he’d set up there, he had to pass by the horse barn, and he glanced around uneasily.
Emmett’s daughter, Emily, had arrived late last night so she could help celebrate her dad’s sixtieth birthday tomorrow. Her white BMW convertible—sporting a California vanity plate that read SURFS UP—sat in the circular drive, top down and tan leather upholstery exposed to the sun. Well, that fit the impression Clay had of her—spoiled and irresponsible.
He’d met her at her father’s fiftieth birthday, soon after he’d come to work at the ranch; but Clay hadn’t seen her since. She might have visited while he was away at college, though she’d made it obvious ranch life didn’t suit her.
Emmett had sent her large chunks of his paycheck every month when she was a minor, so the guy was always broke. After she came of age, everyone expected Emmett to have more money. He didn’t, and eventually it had come out that he was still writing sizable checks to his daughter.
Although Clay would never say so to Emmett, he—along with most everyone at the ranch—resented the hell out of the ungrateful little leech. When he’d first met Emily, he’d done what any normal eighteen-year-old guy would do when confronted with a gorgeous blonde. He’d flirted with her.
She’d said in no uncertain terms that cowboys weren’t her style. The rejection had stung, but her disdain for cowboys in general had to be even more hurtful to her father. Clay had vowed to forget her hot little body and continue about his business.
Unfortunately the image of her Daisy Dukes and low-cut blouses had stuck with him, no matter how often he’d tried to erase the memory. He could still close his eyes and see her prancing around like she was in some beauty pageant. With any luck she’d packed on some pounds in the past ten years and wouldn’t look like that anymore. With any luck, he wouldn’t have direct contact with her at all.
So much for luck. Here she came, long blond hair swinging as she walked out of the horse barn with Emmett.
Clay swallowed. Sure enough, she’d put on a few pounds—in all the right places. Her black scoop-necked T-shirt had some designer name across the front and, to Clay’s way of thinking, the designer should’ve paid Emily for the display space.
Her Daisy Dukes had been replaced by cuffed white shorts that showed off a spectacular tan. She’d propped oversize sunglasses on her head and now she pulled them down over her eyes as she glanced in his direction.
Clay had no trouble picturing her wearing a bikini and sipping an umbrella drink while she lounged by the pool in her hometown of Santa Barbara. He imagined her smoothing coconut-scented suntan oil over every inch of that gorgeous …
Whoa. He’d better shut down that video right quick. No way was he lusting after Emily Sterling. That was a mistake on so many levels. For one thing, he didn’t even like her, and he prided himself on only getting involved with likable women.
Emmett looked at him and nodded in approval. “Looks like you got ’er done.”
“We did.” Clay dredged up a polite smile as he drew closer. “I’m glad your daughter arrived okay.” He made out the letters on the front of her shirt. BEBE, with an accent mark over the last E. Probably French for babe. Appropriate.
“She showed up about eleven last night,” Emmett said. “I never thought I’d be grateful for cell phones, but I sure am when she’s on the road. Emily, do you remember Clay Whitaker?”
“She probably doesn’t.” Clay adjusted the collection tube, that was getting heavier by the second. “That was a long time ago. Anyway, nice to see you again, Emily. If you’ll excuse me, I need to—”
“Do what?” She motioned to the metal tube balanced on his shoulder and grinned. “That thing looks like a rocket launcher.”
“Um, it’s not. Listen, I really have to—”
“At least tell me what it is, then.”
“Semen collector,” Emmett said helpfully.
“Really?” Emily took off her sunglasses and peered at the tube. “So did you collect some semen just now?”
“Yes, and I need to get it into the incubator.”
“And then what?”
“Oh, it’s a whole process,” Emmett said. “Clay studied how to do it when he was in college, and now the Last Chance can ship frozen semen all over the country. All over the world, if we want.”
“Flying semen.” A ripple in her voice and a glitter in her green eyes suggested she was trying not to laugh. “What a concept. That canister is pretty big. Is there that much of it?”
Dear God. Clay couldn’t have come up with a worse topic of conversation if he’d tried all day. “Not really. There’s insulation material, and…and …”
“The AV,” Emmett said.
“What’s an AV?”
Of course she’d ask.
“It’s an artificial va—” Emmett stopped and coughed, as if he’d finally realized this really wasn’t a fit subject to be discussing with his daughter, who hadn’t been raised on a ranch and wouldn’t be used to a matter-of-fact discussion of female anatomy.
Clay stepped into the breach. “Artificial vacuum,” he said. “It’s an artificial vacuum.”
“Huh.” Emily’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I understand. Something’s either a vacuum or it’s not.”
Emmett put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s complicated. And very technical. Anyway, we need to let Clay get on with his job.”
“Right.” Emily flashed her even, white teeth and winked at him before replacing her sunglasses. “I don’t want spoiled semen on my conscience. See you later, Clay.”
“You bet, Emily.” He headed off, cursing under his breath and trying to ignore his gut response to that smile. If he didn’t know better, he’d classify that wink as flirting; but that couldn’t be right. She’d told him once that she was a city girl who had no intention of getting mixed up with a shit-kicking cowboy, and he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. The perception that she’d flirted with him just now was only wishful thinking on his part.
Stupid