A Real Cowboy

Two

J.R. was a grown man and, as such, did not stomp and pout when he didn’t get his way. Instead, he grumbled. Loudly.

“This is my house, by God,” he grumbled as he went up the back stairs.

“That it is,” Hoss agreed behind him.

Hoss was always quick to agree when the facts were incontrovertible. “I’m the boss around here,” J.R. added, more to himself than to his best friend.

“Most days,” Hoss said with a snort.

J.R. shot the man a dirty look over his shoulder. “Every day,” he said with more force than he needed. He was overreacting, but damn if that woman hadn’t tripped every single alarm bell in his head.

They reached the second floor. Hoss’s room was at the far end, Minnie’s was in the middle across from two guest rooms that never saw a guest and J.R.’s was at the other.

“She don’t look dangerous.” Hoss scratched at his throat in his lazy way, which J.R. knew was entirely deceptive.

“Shows what you know,” J.R. replied. He knew exactly how dangerous innocent-looking people—women—from Hollywood could be. “She’s not to be trusted.”

Damn, but he hated when Hoss gave him that look—the look that said he was being a first-class jerk. Rather than stand here in his chaps and argue the finer points of women, J.R. turned and walked—not stomped—down to his room.

He needed a hot shower in the worst way. His face was still half-frozen from riding out to check on the cattle and buffalo. He shut his bedroom door firmly—not slamming it—and began to strip off the layers. First went the long coat, then the chaps, then the jeans and sweater, followed by the two layers of long underwear and T-shirts. Despite being bundled up like a baby, he was still cold.

And that woman—the one sitting in his chair, in front of his fire—had shown up here in nothing but a skirt. And tights. And those boots, the ones that went almost up to her knees. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself as he cranked his shower on high. What was she thinking, wearing next to nothing when the wind chill was somewhere around minus forty degrees below? She wasn’t thinking, that’s what. Hollywood types were notoriously myopic, and there was no doubt in J.R.’s mind that she was a Hollywood type.

The hot water rushed over him. J.R. bowed his head and let the water hit his shoulders. Against his will, his mind turned back to those boots, those tights. Those legs. Yeah, that woman clearly underestimated the force of winter in Montana. Probably thought that little coat was enough to keep her warm.

The moment he caught himself wondering what was under that coat, J.R. slammed on the brakes. He was not some green kid, distracted by a pretty face and a great body. No matter how blue her lips had been, that didn’t make up for the fact that she’d come looking for James Robert Bradley. She wanted that name—the name J.R. had buried deep in Big Sky country eleven years ago. She wasn’t here for him.

No one was ever here for him.

Except Minnie and Hoss, he reminded himself. They were his friends, his family and his crew all rolled into one. They knew who he really was, and that was good enough for him.

Warm and clean, he flipped off the water and rubbed down with the towel. He was going to fire Bernie. Hell, he should have fired the man years ago, but Bernie was his one thin link to his old life. He got J.R. some nice voice-over work and had, up until now, kept J.R.’s whereabouts to himself.

What had that woman dangled in front of Bernie’s greedy little eyes to make him give her directions to the ranch? She had to be good at what she did. Not good enough to dress warmly, but J.R. knew that he could expect the full-court press from her for whatever she wanted James Robert Bradley to do.

He slid into a clean pair of jeans, making sure to put all the dirty things in the hamper. If he didn’t, he’d have to listen to Minnie go on and on about men this and men that. It was easier to pick up after himself. Plus—not that he’d tell Minnie this—he preferred things neat. Clean.

Simple.

J.R. went to grab a shirt and paused. His hand was on his favorite flannel, the one he’d worn so much the collar was fraying. Minnie kept threatening to make a rag of it, but so far, she’d done no such thing.

Maybe he should put on something a little nicer. A little less tattered. He could clean up well, after all. Maybe he should …

Was he serious? Was he actually standing in his closet, debating what to wear because some uninvited, unwanted female had barged into his house? Was he hard up or what?

His brain, ever resourceful, rushed in to remind him it had been two years and seven months since his last failed attempt at a relationship. Pretty much the textbook definition of hard up.

Didn’t matter. She wasn’t welcome here. And after he humored Minnie at dinner, he’d make sure she left his property and never, ever came back. He grabbed his favorite shirt. Frays be damned.

His resolve set, he shoved his feet into his house moccasins and threw his door open.

And almost walked right into Minnie Red Horse.

“What?” he asked, so startled by the small woman that he actually jumped back.

He didn’t jump far enough, though. Minnie reached up and poked him in the chest. “You listen to me, young man. You will be nice and polite tonight.”

Immediately, he went on the defensive. “Oh, it’s my fault she doesn’t know it’s winter out here?”

“I am ashamed to think that you left her out there in the wind, J.R. I thought that you knew better than to treat a guest like that.”

He felt the hackles on the back of his neck go up. Minnie had already busted out the big, shame-based guns. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t work—he hated to disappoint Minnie in any way. But, he was a reformed actor. Lying used to be his entire life. So he slapped on a stern look and glared at Minnie. “She’s not a guest. She’s a trespasser, Minnie. And if I recall correctly, you’re the one who shot at the last trespasser.”

That had been the nail in the coffin of his last failed relationship. He’d been trying to decide if he loved Donna or not when he’d invited her to spend the night at the ranch. Things had been going fine until he took her up to his room. There, she’d taken one look at James Robert Bradley’s Oscar, his photos, his life—and everything had changed. All she had talked about was how he was really famous, and why on earth hadn’t he told her, and this was so amazing, that she was here with him. Except she hadn’t been. She’d thought she was with James Robert. In the space of a minute, she’d forgotten that J.R. had even existed.

He’d broken up with her a few weeks later, and then, like clockwork, a few weeks after that, a man with an expensive camera had come snooping around. J.R. had been in the barn with Hoss when they’d heard the crunch of tires. J.R. had wanted to go out and confront the stranger, but Hoss had held him back. Rifle in hand, Minnie had been the one to claim that she’d never heard of anyone named Bradley, and if she saw that man again, she’d shoot him. Then she’d put a few bullets a few feet from the man, and that had been the end of that.

“That man was a parasite,” Minnie said. “This is different. She’s not like that.”

“How would you know? She’s here for James Robert. She wants something, Minnie. She’ll ruin everything we’ve got, everything I’ve worked so hard for.”

Minnie rolled her eyes. “Stop being so dramatic. Call it woman’s intuition, or my Indian senses, my maternal instincts—whatever floats your boat. That woman is not a threat to you or any of us.” She jabbed a finger back into J.R.’s chest. “And I expect you to be a gentleman. Do I make myself clear?”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Minnie. You’re not my—” Before the immature retort was all the way out, J.R. bit it back. Not soon enough, though.

A pained shadow crossed over Minnie’s face, which made J.R. feel like the biggest jerk in the world. The fact was, Minnie had offered to adopt him a few years after they’d settled into the ranch. Oh, not the legal, court-based adoption—J.R. was a grown man—but she’d asked him if he wanted to be adopted into her family through the Lakota tribe. The fact was, she’d always been more of a mother to him than his own flesh-and-blood mother had ever been. The Red Horse family was his family. That was all there was to it.

J.R. had said no. He’d claimed he wasn’t comfortable being a white man in an American Indian tribe, which was true. He knew that if word got out that James Robert Bradley had been adopted into a Lakota tribe, the storm of gossip would hurt everyone, not just him. And he couldn’t hurt Minnie or Hoss.

Any more than he had. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “It’s just …”

Minnie patted his arm. “It’s okay. You’re a little … spooked.”

“Yeah.” Not that he’d want Hoss to know that, but Minnie and all of her womanly, Indian-y intuition already understood, so denying it was pointless. The woman downstairs had spooked him.

“Despite that, I expect both of my boys to be nice and polite.” Her gaze flicked down over his frayed collar. “Respectable, even.”

That was how fights with Minnie went. J.R. was the boss, but she was the mother. Forgiveness was quick and easy, not the dance of death it had been with Norma Bradley.

“I’m not taking the part. Whatever she wants, I’m not doing it.”

“Did I say anything about that? No, I did not. All I said was that you were going to be a gentleman to our guest.”

“Not my guest.”

“Our visitor, then.” Minnie looked like she wanted to poke him again, but she didn’t. “Do it for me, J.R. Do you know how long it’s been since we had a visitor out here? Months, that’s how long. I want to talk to someone besides you two knuckleheads, and if it’s a woman who’s got the latest gossip? All the better.”

J.R. sighed. Minnie had a huge weak spot for gossip. She subscribed to all the tabloids, read TMZ every day and probably knew more about the goings-on in the entertainment industry than he did. “One meal. Humor me. And don’t worry, I wasn’t going to ask her to stay, despite the fact that it’s late and the winds are terrible.”

He ignored the unveiled attempt at guilt. She was right. He owed her, and if that meant pretending they were having a girls-night-in for dinner, well, he’d suck it up. “That’s good.”

“I got her a room at Lloyd’s.” With that semidefiant statement, Minnie turned on her heel and headed back to her kitchen domain. “Dinner’s in fifteen,” she called back, loud enough that Hoss could hear her in his room.

Great, just great, J.R. thought as he hung his favorite shirt back up and pulled the green flannel Minnie had gotten him for Christmas off the hanger. Somehow, he knew that forty miles wasn’t enough space between him and the woman from Hollywood.

A few minutes later, he headed down to the kitchen. Minnie was checking on something in the oven. “Tell her dinner’s ready,” she said without looking at him.

She was punishing him, pure and simple. Bad enough that he deserved it, but still.

J.R. headed down to his chair at the far end of the room. All he could see of the stranger was her golden hair peeking out from above the chair’s back. The color was the kind of blond that spoke of sun-swept days at the beach, but he’d put money on it being fake.

Aw, hell. She was asleep. Slouched way down in the chair, Minnie’s buffalo robe falling off her shoulders—her mouth open enough to make her look completely kissable. J.R. swallowed that observation back, but it wasn’t easy. Her now-bootless legs were stretched out before her, and the patterned tights seemed to go on forever. Lord. Despite a second attempt at swallowing, his mouth had gone bone-dry. “Miss?”

She didn’t move. Her head was resting on one hand; the other hand was wrapped around her waist. Minnie was right. The woman didn’t look like she was capable of destroying his life.

Looks weren’t everything, he reminded himself. He couldn’t let his guard down. That thought, however, didn’t stop him from sitting on his heels in front of her. Her hair had been slicked back into some fancy twist, but now parts of it had come loose, falling around her face in a way that was messy and beautiful at the same time. Some parts of him hadn’t gotten the message, it seemed, because he wanted to do nothing more than brush that hair away from her face.

He didn’t. Instead, he gave her shoulder a gentle shake before he jerked his hand back. As if a sleeping woman could bite him. “Miss, wake up.”

She jolted, her eyelids fluttering open. J.R. braced himself for the reaction when she realized he was close enough to trap. Would she immediately launch into her pitch or go for cloying flattery?

When her eyes focused on him, a small smile curved the corners of her mouth. Here it comes, J.R. thought.

“It’s you,” she breathed. The warm glow in her eyes didn’t seem connected to the fire behind him, and the soft adoration in her voice should have grated on his every nerve. But it didn’t.

“Yup. It’s me.” Which felt weirdly personal, because he knew she wasn’t here for him, but for the man he used to be.

Then time froze—absolutely froze—as he watched her stretch out a hand and trace the tips of her fingers down his cheek and over his ten-day-old beard. The touch was way more than weirdly personal—it was downright, damnably erotic. The sudden shift of blood from his brain to other parts made him almost dizzy. Hell, yeah, she’d look this good waking up in his bed, and if he had her there, he would be damn sure it wouldn’t stop with a little pat on the cheek.

What the hell was he thinking?

That was the problem. He wasn’t.

He must have pulled back without realizing it, because she dropped her hand and blinked a whole bunch more. “Oh. Oh,” she said, and he could see the consciousness dawning. “Um …”

Desperate to put a little more space between him and this woman who had spooked him in more ways than one, J.R. stood up and back. “Dinner’s ready,” he added, because that was the safest thing to say. Also, the most honest.

The woman dropped her eyes, warmth racing across her cheeks. Did she feel the same confusion he did? Don’t flatter yourself, he thought. Of course she was confused. He’d woken her up from a dead sleep. She had a good excuse to feel a little lost right now.

He didn’t.

She smoothed her hair back, but several of the locks refused to stay. “I had some boots,” she said. All the softness was gone from her voice now, and she sounded more like the woman who had barged into his life.

“Right here.” He picked up her boots from where Minnie had propped them by the fire and handed them to her.

She made sure not to touch him when she took them. And he should not have been disappointed by that. “Is there … I need to wash up …”

Women in general—and this woman in particular—should not look quite so innocent when they blushed. “Sure.” He pointed to the bathroom that was behind her.

She turned, but then stopped. “Should I leave this here?” She motioned to the robe.

The way she said this made it clear that she wasn’t sure she trusted it. “Minnie’s buffalo robe? Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Oh. A buffalo robe.” Some of her blush disappeared as she paled. What did she think it was? Maybe she was one of those strident vegetarians. Instead of launching into an animal-rights lecture, she put on a weak smile and said, “Okay, thanks,” before she went to the bathroom.

Well, if that didn’t beat all. Where was the full-court press? Where were the obnoxious compliments designed to sway his ego? Nowhere. All he got was someone who, for a sleepy second, looked happy to see him.

Dinner was a huge mistake. He debated hiding in his room until the woman—whose name he still did not know—left. Then he caught Minnie giving him a wallop of a glare from the other side of the room as she tapped a wooden spoon on the counter. Right, right. He’d promised to be nice and polite, which probably didn’t include hiding.

So he set the table instead. Hoss finally clumped down the stairs, just as J.R. was finishing. For a man who wasn’t afraid of putting in a hard day’s work on the range, Hoss had the unique ability to never be present when a small household chore needed to be done. “Well?”

Minnie flashed her wooden spoon like it was a weapon. “She’s staying for dinner, and you will behave or else.”

“When am I not a perfect angel?” Hoss gave her his best puppy eyes, but it didn’t work. “Can I at least sit by her?”

“No.” J.R. didn’t mean to sound so possessive; it burst out of him.

Minnie shot him a funny look. “No, I’m going to sit by her. You two are going to sit in your normal spots and keep your hands, feet and all other objects to yourself. Clear?”

Hoss met J.R.’s gaze and lifted one eyebrow, as if to say, game on. Jeez, if Hoss was acting this much the cad now, how much of a pain would he become when he saw her all warmed up? “Yes, ma’am.”

Then a noise at the other end of the room drew their attention. The woman was standing by the chair now, her hair fixed, her boots on and her coat off. Whoa. The gray wool dress she had on was cut close, revealing a knockout figure that went with her knockout legs. Either she was stunning—hell, she was stunning—or she’d had a good plastic surgeon. One never could be sure when it came to Hollywood types.

Then her gaze locked on to his, and he swore he felt the same dizzy charge that he’d felt when she’d touched him, only this time, there was a clear thirty feet of space between them.

She’s not here for you, J.R. practically shouted at himself. She’s here for James Robert.

Damn shame she wasn’t there for him, though.

“Whoa,” Hoss muttered next to him, and Minnie promptly smacked his butt with the spoon. “Ow!”

“Feeling better?” Minnie pushed past J.R. and went to greet her visitor.

“Much, thanks.” The woman gave Minnie a friendly smile. “Where should I put my coat?”

“Lay it on the chair. I’ll make the introductions.” Minnie took her by the arm and led her to where J.R. and Hoss were gaping like horny seventh graders. “This is Hoss Red Horse, and J. R. Bradley.”

J.R. rolled his eyes—obviously the woman knew who he was. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here.

“Boys,” Minnie went on, giving them both the warning stink eye, “this is Thalia Thorne.”

Hoss stuck out his hand. “A pleasure, Ms. Thorne.” Miracle of miracles, that was all he said.

“Nice to meet you … Hoss.” She looked from him to Minnie. “Are you two related?”

Hoss’s polite grin dialed right over into trouble. “Yeah, but she don’t like people to know I’m her son. Makes her feel old or something.”

Minnie hit him with the spoon again, which caused Thalia to stifle a giggle. Her eyes still laughed, though.

Not that J.R. was staring or anything.

Then those eyes—a clear, deep blue—shifted to him, and she held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, J.R.”

He couldn’t do anything but stare at her. She wasn’t going to insist on calling him James Robert? Just like that?

Minnie cleared her throat and shot him a dangerous glare. Right. Acknowledging that she’d spoken to him was probably the nice, polite thing to do. “Likewise, Thalia.” Against his better judgment, he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. Heat flowed between them. Probably because she’d warmed up in front of the fire. Yeah, that was it.

That small, curved smile danced over her nice lips and was then gone. “Dinner smells wonderful, Minnie. I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal.”

There was the flattery, and boy, was it working on Minnie. She blushed and grinned and shooed all of them to the table, saying, “Sit by me, dear, so we can talk.”

Of course, sitting by Minnie also turned out to be sitting by J.R., as Thalia was on the corner between him and Minnie. His thoughts immediately turned to the patterned tights under the table—and their close proximity to his own legs—way more than they should have. Man, he was hard up.

How the hell was he going to make it through dinner?

Three

“So, tell us about yourself,” Minnie said to Thalia as she passed a basket of piping hot corn muffins around the table.

J.R. waited. Everyone waited, including Hoss, which was saying something. Hoss wasn’t seriously trying to make a move on this woman, was he? In front of his own mother? Ugh. This whole thing couldn’t be more awkward, J.R. decided.

“I’m an associate producer.” J.R. couldn’t help but notice she looked at Hoss and Minnie—but not at him. “I work for Bob Levinson at Halcyon Pictures.”

“He’s an ass.” The moment the words left his mouth, Minnie looked like she would smack him upside the head with the spoon—if only their “visitor” wasn’t sitting in between the two of them. “Pardon my language.”

One of those quick, nervous smiles darted over Thalia’s face. But she still didn’t quite meet his eyes. The closest she got was more in the region of his shoulder. What the hell kind of new negotiating tactic was this—ignore the person you were trying to ensnare? “It’s true he has a certain reputation.”

A certain reputation? J.R. had had the intense displeasure of working on two Levinson movies—Colors That Run and The Cherry Trees—and both had been sheer torture tests. On his good days, Levinson had been demeaning and derogatory. On his worst days, he had inspired J.R. to envision creative ways to off the man. He couldn’t imagine Levinson had mellowed with age. His kind never did. They just got more and more caustic, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind them.

And, in Levinson’s case, a growing list of Oscar winners. He was an ass, all right, but because he delivered the box office returns and the shiny little gold men, everyone in Hollywood gave him a free pass. Except J.R., who wasn’t in Hollywood anymore.

And this Thalia—who looked soft and could pull off innocent—worked directly for him. In so many ways, she was not trustworthy.

“Are you famous?” Hoss asked.

J.R. shot Hoss a dirty look, which earned him a grin that bordered on predatory. Did Hoss think he had a shot? Hell, no.

Thalia’s laugh was small but polite. “Only to my mother. Every time one of my movies comes to Norman, Oklahoma, she rounds up a bunch of friends.” Hints of color graced her cheeks, but she showed no other sign of being embarrassed by this. “They sit through the credits and when my name rolls by, they all stand and cheer. And I’m famous for a whole three minutes.”

“So you’re not originally from California?” Minnie’s eyes were bright and her smile was huge. She was having fun, J.R. realized. That made him feel better. Not much, but a little.

“No, I’ve only been there for about ten years.”

“What does an associate producer do?” Hoss was nailing nice and polite right out of the gate, which only made J.R. look worse. When Hoss was rewarded with a nice smile, J.R. had to fight the urge to kick him under the table. Hoss was not her type. True, J.R. didn’t know exactly what her type was, but Hoss was a decent, honest, hardworking fellow, even if he was a bit of a joker. In other words, he was the kind of man that women like Thalia Thorne probably ate for breakfast.

“A little bit of everything. I scout locations, arrange funding and hire talent.” She managed to say that entire line without looking at J.R. The amount of effort she put into not looking at him broadcast that she knew he was here, loud and clear.

“I was in a movie once.” J.R. fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Me and Minnie, we were extra Native Americans in Hell for Leather.” Hoss shook his head in mock sadness. “First, I got killed, then they cut my part. That’s why I gave up Hollywood and stuck to ranching, you know.”

What a load of crap. Mostly true crap—everything except that last line, which J.R. took as a personal attack. He was about to punch Hoss in the arm when Thalia giggled. “Is that so? Fame can be fickle like that.”