A Cowboy Under the Mistletoe (4 page)

Ally ignored the scent of fine Texas barbecue and kept out a container of yogurt, and a crisp green apple, for herself. “And lose thousands of dollars and the potential of a quick and easy sale? No.” She rummaged through the drawer for a spoon and filled a glass with tap water. “The look of this place has got to be updated before it officially hits the MLS listings. Marcy gave me a list of contractors to call. Hopefully, one of them will be able to help me out.”

Hank added barbecue sauce and a package of freshly baked wheat rolls to the spread on the kitchen table. He shut
the fridge door and swung around to face her. Amiably, he offered, “I could help you out if you'd agree to delay the sale for a short while.”

Beware unexpected gifts in handsome packages.
“And do what?” Ally challenged, ripping off the foil top to her yogurt.

He lounged against the counter, arms folded in front of him. “Give me a chance to pitch my plan to turn this ranch into a money-making operation.”

Ally swallowed a spoonful of creamy vanilla yogurt and held up one hand to stop him. There was no way she was ever going to be as impractical and starry-eyed about the land as her parents had been. “I've heard enough plans,” she stated simply.

Hank's dark brows lifted. Ignoring his skeptical look, she stirred her yogurt and pushed on. “That was all my father ever did—was come up with one scheme after another. None of which, mind you, was ever implemented… at least not effectively.” Hence, the Mesquite Ridge Ranch had become a giant money pit rather than a paying investment.

Hank turned and reached for two plates. “There's a difference. I grew up on a ranch. I come from a family of ranchers. I know I could make this work—to the point I'd be able to pay all the taxes and operating expenses in the meantime—and eventually buy the ranch from you outright. All you need to do is just give me a chance.”

Ally couldn't deny it was what her parents would have wanted—for her to sell Mesquite Ridge to someone who loved the land as much as they did. That is, if they could not get her to keep it herself. Which she didn't want to do. She watched as Hank set the table for two.

“Fine,” she snapped, irked by his presumption. “If you think you have all the answers and can turn this place
around?” She set her yogurt aside and sauntered up to him. “Then show me the numbers on paper. 'Cause I'm not interested in any pipe dreams or half-formed plans. Only the cold, hard facts.”

Hank's gaze scanned Ally's face and body, lingering thoughtfully, before returning ever so deliberately to her eyes.

“How long do I have?” he drawled finally, in a way that left her feeling she had somehow come up short yet again.

“Until I officially put the property on the market,” Ally answered, mocking his take-charge demeanor. “December 24.”

“Fair enough.” Hank's broad shoulders relaxed. He stepped back, smiling as if he'd already won her over with his brilliance and the deal was done. “In the meantime, you're more than welcome to join me for supper. As you can see, there's plenty.”

There was indeed.

Unfortunately, sitting down with him like this would add yet another layer of intimacy to a situation that was becoming far too familiar, too fast. Ally stiffened her spine. She had come back here, against her will, to end this unhappy saga of her life. No way was she getting sucked back in again, with small town kindness or friendly overtures from handsome men with designs on her family's property.

“No, thanks,” she said politely.

“Sure?” His genial expression didn't falter.

Ally chose the one avenue she knew would turn him off—a hit on his legendarily fine character. Ignoring the flutter of her pulse, she stepped away from him and stated in a coolly indifferent tone, “Supplying me with dinner will not give you an edge over any other prospective buyer.”

As she expected, he remained where he was. The room was suddenly still enough to hear a pin drop.

His irises darkened to the color of midnight. He stepped closer. “Is that so?” His voice was silky-soft, contemplative. And somehow dangerous in a deeply sensual way.

Ally could see she had insulted him—just as she had intended—and created a real rift between them, simply by making the allegation. Refusing to back down, she folded her arms in front of her. “Yes.”

“Then how about this?” Hank demanded.

Before she could do more than draw a quick, startled breath, he had pulled her into his arms. One hand pressed against her spine, aligning the softness of her body to the hardness of his. His other hand threaded through the hair at the back of her neck and tilted her face up. Slowly, he lowered his head toward hers. “And this?” he dared softly, a wicked grin curling the corners of his delectably firm and sensual lips.

As his breath warmed her face, she drew in the scent of wintergreen, and beneath that something masculine… brisk…like the chill winter rain falling outside. His mouth dipped lower still, until it hovered just above hers. “Will this give me an edge?” he taunted.

More like a demerit.

Refusing to let him know how much the near caress was affecting her, Ally smiled at him cynically and narrowed her gaze. “Go ahead and kiss me,” she challenged sweetly. “It won't matter, either way.”

“Good to know,” Hank murmured, lowering his head all the more, until the only way to get any closer was to kiss her. “Because if I wanted to seduce you into selling the ranch to me,” he informed her softly and patiently, “I'd do this.” His lips brushed hers. Tentatively, then wantonly, as a thrill unlike anything Ally had ever felt swept through her.

“Not just once,” he promised, kissing her hotly, “but again and again and again.”

Hank kissed her with the steady determination of a marine, and the finesse of a cowboy who knew how to make happen anything he wanted. He was at once masculine and tender, persuasive and tempting. Seducing her in a way that left no room for denial. Ally caught her breath as her hands moved involuntarily to his shoulders and she tilted her head beneath his….

Hank hadn't figured he'd be putting the moves on Ally Garrett, now or ever. It wasn't that he wasn't physically attracted to her—he was. But he knew the two of them were all wrong for each other. And always would be. Yet the coolly provoking way she stared into his eyes, combined with the way she was testing him, made him want to haul her into his arms, and challenge her right back. And damned if instead of getting angry and slapping him across the face—and putting an end to this ludicrousness—she was pressing her body against his and kissing him.

As if she meant it.

As if she hadn't been kissed in a good long while.

As if she needed to feel close to someone again.

And wasn't that the kicker? Hank thought, as his lingering kisses continued to knock her for a loop.

They shouldn't be doing this, and yet he couldn't seem to summon up the urge to put an end to it, either. Not without indulging for a few minutes more….

 

W
HO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT
a totally ill-advised makeout session with a self-serving cowboy could make her feel so good? Ally wondered as Hank wrapped arms around her. He gathered her so close she could feel the hard, hot muscles of his chest pressing against her breasts, and his heart slamming against his ribs.

He opened his mouth, exploring every inch of hers with his tongue, encouraging her to do the same to him.

Whoever would have thought she and the land-loving Hank McCabe would have anything in common? Especially when she intended to go right back to the city, as soon as her task was done….

When he finally came to his senses and released her, he looked as stunned by the passion that had flared up between them as she was.

Hank stepped abruptly. “Fortunately for you—” Hank's jaw tightened with the implacableness she expected from a McCabe “—the only way I'm interested in securing this property is by triumphing over the other bidders, fair and square.”

Of course he was thinking about the ranch!

Mesquite Ridge was probably the
only
thing he'd been thinking about during the last five minutes.

Whereas she, Ally noted sadly, had foolishly romanticized Hank McCabe's pass to the nth degree. Damn her foolish heart! “Well, that's good, because ‘fair and square' is the only way you'll get it!” she retorted, relying on her inherent cynicism for self-preservation. Legs trembling, she swept up her dinner and her soft leather shoulder bag. She cast him one long, scathing glance before storming past him. “Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some calls to make.”

And some incredibly hot, passionate kisses to forget.

An hour and a half later, Hank was in the mudroom, checking on Duchess, when he heard Ally come back into the kitchen. The sound of cabinets opening and closing followed.

Curious, he stood and ambled in to join her. Ally did not look as if things were going her way. “Need something?”

She rocked back on the heels of her red cowgirl boots. With her honey-blond hair in disarray, she looked prettier than ever. “Coffee. And I can't even find the coffeemaker.”

Trying not to notice how nicely the crisp white shirt and gold tapestry vest cloaked the soft swell of her breasts, Hank admitted, “It bit the dust a while back.” Briefly, he let his gaze drop to the fancy belt encircling her slender waist, and the jeans molding her hips and long, luscious legs. Just that quickly, he wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her again.

Knowing that would be a very unwise idea, if he wanted to keep them out of bed, he pointed to the metal pot on the back of the stove instead. “I've been using that.”

Ally blinked in surprise. “You're kidding.”

So she had forgotten how to rough it, Hank concluded. He quirked a brow. “It works fine.”

Clearly unconvinced, she sighed.

“I'll make you some,” he offered.

Ally lifted her hands in quick protest. “No—I've got it.” She brushed past him in a drift of orange blossom perfume, and checked the freezer. “If I could only find the coffee.”

“It's in the brown canister next to the stove.”

“Okay. Thanks.” All business now, Ally reached for the pot and peered inside. Frowning, because it still contained the remnants of the morning brew, she carried it to the sink, rinsed it thoroughly, then filled it with two pints of cold water. She swung back to him, a self-conscious blush pinkening her high, sculpted cheeks. “Where do I put the coffee?”

“In the bottom of the pot.”

Before he could explain further, a quietly grumbling Ally had opened the canister and dumped six tablespoons of ground coffee into the water. She snapped on the lid, put the pot back on the stove, then turned the burner to high.

Aware she still looked frustrated and upset, after a string of phone calls in the other room, Hank asked, “Any luck finding someone to paint the interior for you?”

Ally paced back and forth. “None whatsoever! And I called all ten names on the list. No one will take on a job this big so close to Christmas. In fact, almost all the crews are taking time off from now till after New Year's.” She whirled. “Can you believe it?”

“Bummer.” He pinned her with a taunting gaze. “Or should I say bah, humbug?”

The corners of her lips slanted downward and she narrowed her green eyes. “You're a laugh a minute, you know that, McCabe?”

Hank shrugged, glad to have her full attention once again. “I like to think so.”

Ally huffed dramatically. “So it's on to plan B.”

Curious, he moved closer. “Which is?”

The fragrance of brewing “cowboy coffee” filled the kitchen.

“Stage the house to the best of my ability, without changing the way the walls look, and put a painting allowance into the contract, for anyone interested in purchasing the property.”

Hank eyed the faded chuck wagon wallpaper in the kitchen. It was as bad as the horse-and-hound motif in the rest of the downstairs. Luckily, the rooms upstairs had just been painted many, many moons ago. “You really think that will work?” he asked.

“I'll make it work.” Ally flounced back to the stove. Noting that the dark liquid had come to a rolling boil, she grabbed an oven mitt and removed the pot from the flame.

“You may want to—”

Ally cut him off with a withering look and plucked a mug from the cupboard. Lips set stubbornly, she told him, “I think I know how to pour a cup of coffee.”

“I'm sure you do.” That wasn't the point. But if she insisted on doing things her own way…

Ally filled the mug, then topped it off liberally with milk from the fridge. She lifted it to her mouth.

He watched her take a sip, pause, then walk back to the sink, where it took everything she had, he supposed, for her to swallow instead of spit.

Hank carried the pot to the sink and set it down on a folded towel. Now that she was listening, he said, “The secret to making it this way is to let it steep for a good four minutes or so after boiling.”

“Really,” Ally echoed dryly, dumping the contents of her mug down the drain.

He met her gaze. “Really.”

She set her cup down with a thud and pivoted toward him. “And how would you know that?”

“Experience.” Hank studied her right back. “I made campfire coffee over an open flame all the time when I was in the service. Not too many espresso makers where I was.”

“What did you do in the marines?” she asked curiously.

“Flew choppers involved in rescue missions.”

“That sounds…dangerous.”

And fulfilling in a way that countered the loss he had suffered…

But not wanting to talk about Jo-anne, or the years he'd struggled with residual grief and guilt over his fiancée's death, he filled a cup with icy tap water and finished his tutorial. “Once the coffee has steeped, you add three or four tablespoons of cold water to the pot.”

Ally wrinked her nose in confusion and disbelief. “To cool it off?”

He shook his head as he demonstrated the technique. “This settles the grounds to the bottom. And voilà!
Now
it's ready to drink.”

She sniffed and tossed her head. “I can't imagine those two things make that much of a difference.”

On impulse, Hank reached out to tuck a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Oh, ye of little faith.”

Her eyes flashed. “You're beginning to sound all Christmasy again,” she accused.

He lifted his shoulders affably. “Sorry.”

“No, you're not.”

She was right—he wasn't. He liked teasing her, liked seeing the color pour into her cheeks, and the fire of temper glimmer in her dark green eyes. He poured her a fresh mug, got the milk out again. “Give this a try.”

She made a face, but eventually took both from him. With a great deal of attitude, she lightened her coffee, took a sip. Paused to savor the taste on her tongue. Astounded, she met his eyes. “That
is
better,” she announced in surprise.

At last, he had done something right. Hank lifted a hand. “What'd I tell you?”

Ally beamed. “I could kiss you for this!” She flushed again, as common sense reigned. “But I won't,” she rushed to assure him.

Hank nodded, aware that he was already hard, had been since she'd walked into the room. “Best you not,” he agreed.

Ally's cell phone let out a soft chime. She withdrew it from her pocket, looked at the screen. Immediately sobering, she informed him, “I have to take this.” She put it to her ear and walked away.

But not far enough that he couldn't hear some of what she was saying.

“…Calm down, Porter. It's not like we didn't know this was going to happen. We have no choice. Stay busy. You're usually big on Christmas! Go see the boat parade on Clear Lake, or
The Nutcracker
or Handel's
Messiah…
I promise I'll call you if I hear anything at all. Yes! Okay. Bye.”

She walked back in to retrieve her coffee.

“Everything okay?”

For a moment, Hank thought Ally wouldn't answer.

Her slender shoulders slumped dispiritedly. “All the middle managers from my firm were ordered to take the next two weeks off, so that the executives in the firm that took us over can decide who goes and who stays.” She met his eyes and admitted almost too casually. “The general idea is to keep the same number of clients and financial analysts and advisors while cutting costs…and that means a
number of the higher salary employees—like myself—are going to be laid off.”

“I'm guessing Porter is a middle manager, too.”

Ally grimaced. “He started the same time I did, right out of college. We've worked our way up together. He's going to be absolutely devastated if he is let go.”

As would Ally, Hank thought.

He studied her crestfallen expression. “Do you think you're going to make the cut?”

She shrugged. Her expression became emotionally charged. “If life were fair,” she stated, “I would. But…” she swallowed, her expression suddenly remote “…you and I both know it's not.”

“Hence, the immediate sale of the property,” Hank guessed.

Ally shrugged again. “It needs to be done, in any case. Right now I've got the time to get the property listed. After December 26, I may not.”

“Because you'll either be very busy with the reorg at work…” He refreshed both their coffees.

“Or pounding the pavement, looking for another job.” She added a little more milk to hers. “Obviously, Porter and I both hope it's the former, not the latter.”

Hank felt an unexpected twinge of jealousy. Realizing he was more interested in Ally than he'd thought, he stepped closer and asked, “Are you dating Porter?”

She looked surprised, then bemused by the question. “Uh…no. We're just friends.”

Hank was relieved to hear that. Yet…he still had to ask. “Are you romantically involved with anyone?”

She rolled her eyes as if the mere notion was ridiculous. “I don't have time for that. But what about you?” she asked curiously. “Has there been anyone since that girl you were engaged to when you graduated from college?”

Hank shook his head.

Ally walked over to test the wallpaper. She found it rigidly adhered to the wall in some places, practically falling off in others. She deposited a strip of paper in the trash, then knelt to examine the linoleum floor. The speckled yellow-green-and-brown surface was clean, but very dated and extremely ugly. “What happened to the two of you, anyway?” She ran her palm thoughtfully over the worn surface.

Hank lounged against the counter. “Jo-anne was killed in a terrorist attack overseas.”

Ally stood to face him again. “I'm sorry,” she said, genuinely contrite. “I didn't know.” She paused and wet her lips. “Is that why…?”

Hank guessed where this was going. “I joined the marines? Yeah.”

Another silence fell, more intimate yet. “And since…?” Ally prodded softly, searching his eyes as if wanting to understand him as much as he suddenly wanted to understand her.

“I've dated,” he admitted gruffly. He shrugged and took another long draft of strong coffee. “Nothing…no one's… come close to what I had with Jo-anne.” He turned and rummaged through the fridge, looking for something to eat. He emerged with a handful of green grapes. “What about you?” He offered her some.

Ally took several. “I was engaged a few years ago, before my mother got sick.”

This was news. Hank watched Ally munch on a grape. “What happened?”

“I brought my fiancé home to the ranch. Dexter was a real city boy and I expected him to share my lack of attachment to the place. Instead, he fell in love with Mesquite
Ridge and thought we should both quit our jobs in Houston and settle here permanently.”

Hank polished off the rest of the grapes in his palm. “Your mom and dad must have liked that.”

“Oh, yes.” Ally made a face. “The problem was—” she angled a thumb at her sternum “—I didn't. I'd spent my whole life trying to get away from here and—” She stopped abruptly and whirled around, staring toward the mudroom in concern. “Did you hear that? It sounded like…”

A low, pain-filled moan reverberated.

“That's Duchess!” Without a second's hesitation, Ally hurried toward the sound. “She's obviously in some sort of distress!”

 

Y
OU NEVER WOULD HAVE
known this was a woman who didn't like dogs, Hank thought as Ally knelt in front of the ailing pet. She looked alarmed as she watched Duchess circle around restlessly, paw the heap of blankets, then drop down, only to get up and repeat the procedure. “What's she doing?” Ally asked.

Hank gave Duchess a wide berth and a reassuring look. “She's trying to make a bed,” he said in a soft, soothing voice. “Dams do that for up to twenty-four hours before they deliver.”

Ally moved so close to Hank their shoulders almost touched. “How do you know that?”

He resisted the urge to put his arm around her shoulders. “Kurt came by to examine Duchess while you were out. He confirmed she's within twenty-four to thirty-six hours of delivering her pups.”

The news had Ally looking as if she might faint.

Hank slid a steadying palm beneath her elbow. “Kurt gave me the handout he distributes to the owners of all his patients, as well as a whelping kit and a warming box. I
read through the literature before I went out to take care of my cattle.” Figuring Ally would feel better if she was similarly prepared, Hank walked back to the kitchen, with her right behind him. He found the folder and gave it to her to peruse.

She skimmed through the extensive information, troubleshooting instructions and explicit pictures with brisk efficiency. “We can't handle this!”

It if had been a purely financial matter, Hank bet she would have said otherwise. He cast a glance toward the mudroom, where Duchess was still circling, pawing and preparing. “Sure we can.” Knowing the importance of a positive attitude, he continued confidently, “It's been about fifteen years, but I've done it before. I helped deliver a litter of Labrador retriever puppies on our ranch, when I was a kid.” That had been one of the most exciting and meaningful experiences of his life.

Ally put the pages aside and wrung her hands. “Can't your cousin do this? He is a vet!”

Annoyed by her lack of faith, Hank frowned. “There's no reason for Kurt to do this when I can handle it.”

Ally lifted a brow, unconvinced.