A Wife in Wyoming (7 page)

Nothing at all
, Caroline told herself.
But it would be so awfully easy to fall in love!

* * *

W
HEN
C
AROLINE
SHOWED
UP
at eight on Saturday morning with paint cans and brushes, the Marshall brothers were ready for her with ladders and drop cloths spread over the floors. Ford took the bigger bedroom, for which she'd chosen a sunny yellow. Garrett and Dylan worked in the other bedroom, and Caroline was painting the hall bathroom. Ford figured he could keep himself in line with his brothers nearby and a paint roller in his hand.

Caroline brought a radio into the house, tuned it to a country station and began singing along. She had a nice voice, clear and on pitch, and she knew the words to almost every song, sometimes even singing harmony with the lead. Dylan could hold his own in the vocal department, and they made quite a pair, singing back and forth along the hallway.

She popped into his room just as Ford finished rolling the first wall. “That looks terrific! Much better than faded blue. Will we have to do two coats?”

He cleared his throat. “I think the yellow is covering pretty well.” She was so damn cute in her cuffed shorts and white T-shirt, already liberally marked with the tan color she was using in the bathroom. She'd tied a lime-green bandanna over her hair, and that had tan streaks on it, too. “Did you get any paint on the walls?”

“I did, thank you very much.” She stuck her tongue out at him, but her eyes laughed. “I'm an enthusiastic painter. Really into my work.”

“So I see.” He was tempted to stand there staring at her, enjoying her pleasure in just being alive. Most of the people he worked with in San Francisco would consider a weekend painting walls a complete waste of time. They'd hire someone to do it and spend the day at the beach, or visiting vineyards in Sonoma County.

But Caroline was perfectly happy wearing herself out for the kids she cared about. That kind of commitment and exuberance was contagious. If teenagers could change, her joyful spirit would make it happen.

“This room is a lot bigger than the others,” she said, as he started rolling the next wall. “I'll take the brush and do the cutting in, so you won't have to spend the whole weekend in here.”

“You don't have to—” His protest fell on deaf ears. In the next moment Caroline had bent over to paint the edge of the wall next to the baseboard. Her shorts got even shorter, revealing creamy thighs and tightly shaping that sweet little rear end. Ford stood motionless, dry-mouthed and breathless at the sight. The combination of spirit, intelligence and sheer physical appeal all bundled into the package of Caroline Donnelly seemed likely to destroy him.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Wyatt said from the doorway.

Knowing he'd been caught staring at Caroline, Ford felt a flood of heat over his face and throat. “What's up?”

Wyatt extended a hand holding Ford's cell phone. “This thing's been going off every few minutes for the last hour. Somebody named Price wants to talk to you.”

Aware of Caroline's questioning gaze, Ford set the roller down in the paint tray and wiped his hands with a rag. “Sorry. You should've just turned it off.”

“I did. He started calling on the house phone.”

“Terrific.” The weight of the stress at the office dropped onto his shoulders. “Guess I'd better take this outside.” Calling up the office number, he made his way through the cabin to sit on the porch steps.

When he reached him, Andrew Price, the senior partner, spent ten minutes reaming Ford out about being gone and another fifteen explaining what a pain in the butt his clients had been all week without Ford there to buffer the rest of the firm. Most of the rhetoric rolled on by, though words describing him as “irresponsible” and “unreliable” tended to get stuck inside his brain. He promised to spend some phone time with his clients at the beginning of the week and to shorten his vacation if at all possible. He asked a diplomatic question about an upcoming yacht race and was rewarded with a fairly civilized goodbye.

Letting the phone fall into the grass at the foot of the steps, he propped his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands.

Return to the real world. With a vengeance.

“Sounded pretty brutal.” Leaning his weight on the stair rail, Wyatt came down the steps beside him.

Ford rubbed a hand over his face. “Could've been worse.”

“How's that?”

“Could've been you.” They shared a grin, recalling a few of Wyatt's more spectacular tirades when they were younger. “Not a big deal.”

“You get this treatment a lot?”

“No.” He stood up and stretched. “I usually manage to keep my stick out of the fire.”

Wyatt looked him square in the eye. “You don't have to babysit us, you know. We'll be okay.”

“I want to stay.” His heart lifted as he said the words. And then sank when he thought about the inevitable departure for San Francisco. “I'll smooth some feathers, make some promises. They can survive without me for a few weeks.”

But he'd just had a demonstration—as if he needed one—of why he couldn't linger in Wyoming playing cowboy. Despite what he'd said, there had been references to “replacements” and “applications.” He was valuable to the firm just as long as he made them money. If he stopped producing, they would cut him loose.

And he couldn't afford to let that happen. The ranch and his brothers needed the support.

So he wouldn't allow himself to get tied down here. Not with the ranch work, much as he enjoyed it. Not with a bunch of teenagers trying to be ranch hands, though that would leave Garrett and Dylan in the lurch.

And especially not with Caroline Donnelly. She didn't deserve the only kind of attention he could offer—the “slam, bam, thank you, ma'am” variety he'd shared with women in the past. As if that were even possible in Bisons Creek, where everybody kept tabs on everybody else's life. A woman's reputation still mattered in this town.

No, Caroline deserved to be loved and cherished every day of her life. The man who offered her forever would be fortunate, indeed.

That man just wouldn't be, couldn't be, him.

* * *

B
Y
S
UNDAY
EVENING
, the Circle M was as ready for an adolescent invasion as it would ever be. The manager's cottage was painted, its beds made, its kitchen spick-and-span. Over in the bunkhouse, a big bulletin board now hung on the wall, a place for Caroline to post the charts and lists she'd been producing all week at work.

“Kitchen duty,” she told Dylan, who had helped her mount the board. “I don't want to have to remind them to go to the kitchen—I expect them to look at the chart and show up.”

“You do realize these are teenagers? At that age, I was being reminded to do something every time I turned around.”

“We're still reminding you to do your chores.” Across the room, Garrett was installing blinds on the windows. “Some things never change.”

“Obviously, we should have had some of Caroline's charts to work with.”

Caroline nodded. “Obviously. Part of the point of this camp is to give them strategies for managing their lives. Schedules, charts, planning...a lot of them don't get this kind of structure at home.”

Dylan chuckled. “A week with Ford will deliver the message. He's Mr. Organization, for sure.”

“He'll set a great example,” she said, forcing her tone to remain enthusiastic. Since the phone call from his boss yesterday, Ford had been harder to talk to. She hadn't been able to get a single smile out of him for the rest of the day. And today she'd barely seen him—he always seemed to be working somewhere else. “All four of you will make excellent role models.”

“Which means you'd better behave, Dylan.” Garrett adjusted the finished blind and gathered his tools. “You're nearest to their age, so the kids will be watching you pretty close.”

“I'm ten years older, for God's sake.” He noticed Garrett's frown and rolled his eyes. “Sorry. For Pete's sake. We're not exactly peers.”

“I'm just saying they'll relate to you better than the over-thirty crowd.”

“Thanks for the pressure. I'll try to restrain my hedonistic tendencies.” He stalked to the door. “See you at supper, Caroline.” The door slammed behind him.

She looked over at Garrett. “You're a little hard on him, aren't you?”

The minister lifted his shoulders with a deep breath. “Yeah. But he's unpredictable—that artistic side of him can cause trouble. I was just trying to avoid problems.”

“I understand.” Stepping back, she surveyed the completed bulletin board. “I guess I've got as much paper on this thing as it will hold. I hope they like the poster.” She'd put up a colorful rodeo flier featuring a cowboy riding a bucking bronc, waving his hat with one hand while he held on with the other. “I want them to know right away they'll be having fun.”

Garrett came over and put an arm around her shoulders. “It looks great. You've done a terrific job in a short time. The first Circle M summer camp will be a major success.” He squeezed her up against his side. “Congratulations.”

The outside door opened with its distinctive squeak. “Dinner's read—”

Caroline glanced over to see Ford standing on the threshold. As she watched, his face changed from relaxed to rigid.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just came to say that the food is ready. When you are.” He turned away before she could take a breath to speak.

“Great.” Garrett dropped his hand to her shoulder blade. “I'm hungry. I'll bet Caroline is, too. Shall we go?”

“S-sure.” But Ford hadn't waited. When Caroline reached the doorway, his long strides had already taken him halfway to the house. Garrett closed the bunkhouse door behind them, and they trailed Ford in to dinner.

Which was torture. Dylan avoided talking with Garrett, and that was bad enough, but Ford didn't have a word to say to anyone. Caroline had hoped to go over the details for the kids' arrival at the ranch tomorrow, but only Garrett was cooperating. Suddenly, his expectation of success struck her as wishful thinking.

But she wouldn't allow this project to fail. Pushing aside her plate with her beef stew barely touched, she propped her crossed arms on the table.

“I have something to say.” She spoke loudly, determined to get everyone's attention.

Three pairs of eyes focused on her face, but Caroline waited until even Ford lifted his gaze to meet hers.

“I know that the decision to host these kids was not unanimous.” She met the eyes of each of the four men in turn. “But I understand that the Marshall brothers stick together and give their best when they take on a project. So that's what I'm expecting now.”

Dylan stirred in his chair. Ford didn't move.

“Despite disagreements or personal issues, we have to put ourselves out to show these kids a good time and, more important, to draw from them the cooperation and responsibility that will benefit them as adults. We're committed, at this point. We must be able to count on each other till the end of the summer. Can we do that?”

Dylan, to his credit, answered right away. “We can.”

“One hundred percent,” Garrett said.

Wyatt nodded. “Of course.”

She drew a breath and narrowed her gaze on Ford.

“Whatever it takes,” he said, at last. “I'll be here.” His neutral tone challenged her to demand more enthusiasm.

Caroline wouldn't give him the satisfaction. “Great. I'll help with dinner cleanup and then we can all get a good night's sleep. The kids will arrive at nine tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Five

A white passenger van rolled into the drive in front of the house at exactly nine o'clock on Monday morning. Ford watched from the barn door as Caroline hopped down on the driver's side, ready for a day on the job in jeans, a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and a white hat. She definitely took the prize for cutest cowgirl he'd ever met.

Not that he should be noticing. After flipping over and punching his pillow about a hundred times last night, he had decided that seeing Garrett with his arm around Caroline had been a good thing. Now he knew the truth, so they could get on with their romance, and he would just smother this inconvenient attraction. He had enough to take care of without getting tangled up in even the simplest relationships.

Meanwhile, trouble in the form of seven surly teenagers began to emerge from the van. They all looked pretty much the same—baggy pants and T-shirts on the boys, tight jeans and form-fitting shirts on the three girls. Each kid had a backpack slung over a shoulder and a phone in one hand.

Ford sighed and tugged his hat a little lower. It was going to be a long, hard summer.

By the time he reached them, Garrett and Dylan had joined the group. They were attempting to make conversation, but the single-syllable replies from the kids dammed the flow.

As he arrived, Caroline gave him a big smile. “Good morning!” Then she turned back to the teenagers. “Guys, this is Ford Marshall. He'll be working with us, too. He's taken a few weeks off from his job as a lawyer in San Francisco to be here while his brother Wyatt recovers.”

Ford nodded, the boys shuffled their feet and the girls tugged at their hair and clothes. Greetings concluded.

To the kids, Caroline said, “We can't have four Mr. Marshalls at the dinner table. So I'm thinking you guys can use Mr. Wyatt, Mr. Ford, Mr. Garrett and Mr. Dylan. Sound okay?”

Dylan rolled his eyes, but beyond a couple of shrugs, the teenagers didn't respond.

Caroline persevered. “And now you can introduce yourselves. Justino, why don't you start?”

Standing at the end of the line, the tallest boy sighed. “You just did. My name's Justino.” He used the Spanish pronunciation. “Justino Peña.”

After a stretch of silence, Justino elbowed the guy next to him. “Come on, man. Don't be stupid.”

“Marcos,” the next one said in a loud, irritated voice. “Oxendine.” Shaggy black hair hid his eyes, while his bulky build predicted a lack of endurance.

“Thomas Gray Cloud.” The name came quickly from a shorter kid with the ruddy complexion that announced his Native American heritage. “Call me Thomas. Not Tommy.”

“Will do,” Garrett assured him.

Beside Thomas stood a boy so thin, Ford wondered if he got fed at home. Sharp cheekbones and a high forehead made him look more like a poet than a cowboy. “Nathan Bradley,” he said in low tones. “Nate is fine.”

Dylan cleared his throat. “Glad to meet you guys.” He smiled at the girls. “Ladies?”

The three of them giggled, of course. “Lizzie Hanson,” the blonde said, twirling a strand of hair.

The redhead had freckles and a friendly grin. “I'm Becky Rush,” she drawled. “Pleased to meet y'all.”

Big, dark eyes and shiny, straight, black hair spoke to the last girl's Spanish pedigree. “Lena Smith. Why won't my phone work?”

Garrett laughed. “Our signal isn't great out here. You might have to settle for email instead of texting. Or use the house phones.”

“You didn't say we'd be cut off from the whole world,” Lena complained to Caroline. “I'm not living without my phone all summer.”

Caroline took the declaration in stride. “You'll be busy,” she promised. “You won't have time to miss texting.”

From the muttering, it was clear the kids didn't believe her. A revolt seemed imminent.

Ford stepped forward. “Let's get organized—bring in your bags, set up your bunks and then we'll have a chance before lunch to tour the barn. Phones work better up the hill.”

“Right. Come get your stuff.” Caroline headed to the rear of the van. “Each person carries their own.”

“Seriously?” Lena propped her hands on her hips. “With all these guys around?”

Lizzie dropped her bag after twenty steps. “I can't carry this all the way up the hill.” She looked over her shoulder, fluttering her mascara-coated lashes. “Can't somebody help me?”

Dylan smothered a laugh, while Ford bit down on a smile. Caroline flashed both of them a warning glance. “No, I told you to bring only what you'd be able to carry. Take it in stages—you'll get there.”

Groaning, Lizzie picked up her duffel and staggered on. Becky followed, blowing her red bangs off her forehead. Lena brought up the rear. “This is stupid.”

Ford figured that was a phrase he would be hearing a lot of in the next couple of months.

The guys trooped into the bunkhouse and through to the bedroom, where there was an immediate traffic jam at the door.

“The beds aren't made!”

“We're not maids,” someone else said.

“I'll sleep on the bare mattress.”

“No, you won't.” Garrett stood behind them. “You guys can all learn to make your own bed, so when you're living large as a single guy you'll know what to do. Just choose a bunk, and we'll get it done.”

Marcos turned in his tracks, brushed past Garrett and stomped toward the outer door. “I'm outta here. Not spending my summer cleaning house.”

Ford blocked his way through the door. “Chicken?”

The boy glared at him. “'Scuse me?”

From the bedroom, somebody made clucking noises. Ford nodded. “Sounds to me like you're afraid you won't measure up.”

“I'm not afraid of anything. I got better things to do than make beds.”

“You can sleep on the couch, not worry about making a bed. Now what's your excuse?”

“I don't need no excuse. I don't have to be here.”

“Caroline thinks you do.”

Her name softened the kid up a bit. He stared at the floor.

Pressing his advantage, Ford said, “She made a big effort to work this out for you. Put me and my brothers to a lot of trouble.”

A misstep—Marcos's head came up in defiance. “That's
your
problem.”

“The lady believes you're worth it. I'm expecting you to prove her right.”

The boy muttered a curse. “This is stupid.” But he turned and went to the sofa, dumping his bag and backpack on the floor at one end. “I'm sleeping here.”

Garrett walked by. “Fine. The other guys have picked their beds and gotten the crash course on setting up.” He pointed to the clock on the wall. “We'll meet you all outside in ten minutes.” With a hand motion, he sent Ford outside ahead of him.

“That was risky,” he said when they'd shut the door behind them. “You pushed him pretty hard.”

“I thought the point was for them to be responsible for themselves.”

“Your management style is a little...um...stern.”

“Oh, and Wyatt's wasn't? I remember making beds when I was eight years old.” Ford shrugged. “But hey, if you want me to stay out of it, just say so. I can get more work done—”

“No.” Caroline spoke from behind him. “Of course you're part of the effort here. What happened?”

Garrett explained, and she nodded. “Yes, Marcos will push as hard as he can at the boundaries. He's probably the riskiest kid we've got here—I've seen him talking to known gang members.”

Ford hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “You've saddled us with a gang member? Gee, thanks.”

“I don't think he's committed, but teetering on the edge. I want to bring him back from that edge. So if you can manage to respect him while holding the line, that's all I could ask.”

He met Garrett's troubled gaze. “And you think...?”

“
Chicken
was dangerous. If you can limit the insults, we'll be okay.”

“I'll do my best,” Ford said, knowing that it wouldn't be enough. The situation, which had just seemed troublesome beforehand, now appeared downright combustible to him.

Caroline's optimism, though, remained undaunted. “It was a great idea to give them the agenda for the morning. Now they know what they have to look forward to and the time frame for what we'll be doing. Keeping them busy is the key.”

“Did they bring clothes to ride in? Boots?” He shook his head. “Those baggy pants and sneakers aren't safe on horseback. Just because we have signed releases, there's still a risk—”

“I know, I know.” She held up a hand. “I made sure they brought regular jeans and boots.”

“And can we confiscate the cell phones?” He glanced toward the girls' cabin, where the three of them stood on the porch communing with their electronics. “Otherwise they won't hear most of what's said or see what's being done.”

“Confiscate? No.” She grinned. “But I'll get them to leave the phones inside.”

As she headed to the cabin, Ford called, “Good luck with that.”

Garrett frowned at him. “You are such a pessimist.”

“Realist. Teens can't breathe without their phones.”

But a few minutes later, when the kids approached the door to the barn, no phones were in evidence. “How'd she do that?” Ford asked Dylan as they stood watching.

“Probably bribes.”

“Yeah.” The group formed in front of him, and Ford straightened up. Showtime. “I'd like to officially welcome all of you to the Circle M Ranch. A man named MacPherson built this property and left it to the Marshall brothers to take care of. We're glad to have all of you helping us in that effort this summer. We hope you'll have fun as you learn some new skills and discover what ranching is about.”

None of them seemed particularly impressed. “Man, I don't want to be a rancher,” Justino said. “Cows smell.”

“What do you want to do?” Dylan shot back.

“I'm gonna be impressive, man. A rap star, maybe.”

The kids laughed. “Yeah, cool.”

“That's the road, man.”

“Get the big bucks!”

“Good plan,” Ford said, cutting through the comments. “So you can be a rapper who lets other people manage his life and his money...”

“Oh, yeah.”

He continued. “...who lets them steal what he makes and send his career into a tailspin.”

Groans and moans, denial and protests came in his direction.

“Or...you can be smart and understand how business works, where your money is and who's spending it.”

Marcos spread his arms wide and glanced around. “And we're gonna learn that here in the middle of nowhere?” Thomas and Justino agreed. Nate had yet to say a single word.

Ford shrugged. “Music or cattle, the principles are the same—manage expenses, expand your market, grow your bottom line.” He grinned at them and raised his right hand chest high, with the first finger pointed down. His voice took on a singsong tone as he quoted, “It's all about the money, yeah, the wheels, the Benjamins, the bling, ya know it's all about the money, gotta get you some, get you some.”

The kids hooted and shouted as they heard the rhythm and lyrics from a recent, popular rap song. Dylan and Garrett laughed as the teenagers—all except Nate—started singing together, stomping their feet and dancing, using a few of the less savory words that Ford had deliberately left out.

He couldn't help but grin at the way they were enjoying themselves. His gaze went to Caroline, watching from the other side of the impromptu dance party. Her eyes were round, her mouth open in surprise.

As he watched, though, she looked directly at him. She grinned back, and her eyes glowed with something that might be approval. Whatever it was, he enjoyed the feeling.

Way too much for his own peace of mind.

* * *

J
UST
LIKE
THAT
, he'd captured them. Using their language, borrowing from a culture they understood, Ford had declared himself their friend.

And he'd captured
her
—with his grin, with a sense of shared effort and accomplishment. Caroline wanted to kiss him for what he'd just done. But then she wanted to kiss him regardless of what he did or said.

And that was absolutely the last thing she should be thinking about. The kids were what mattered, and, right now, Ford had them wrapped around his thumb. When he went into the barn, they followed, ready to hear more of what he might say. She brought up the rear with Garrett and Dylan.

“Can you believe he did that?” she asked them.

“Oh, sure.” Garrett pushed his hat back on his head. “Ford's an omnivore when it comes to music. You might hear country coming out of his speakers, or classical or blues and jazz. Or rap, evidently.”

Dylan chuckled. “I can picture him in one of his pricey lawyer suits, dancing hip-hop. He probably could get a recording deal, if he wanted one. He was always talented at music, just never had time.”

Still amazed, Caroline caught up with the teenagers where they stood near the tack, examining saddles and pads and bridles. On nearby shelves, each horse had a bucket with his or her name on it and grooming supplies inside—brushes, hoof picks and mane combs among them.

“You'll meet your horses after lunch,” Ford told the kids. “And spend some time getting to know them. We keep a good supply of horse cookies around for making friends.”

“Won't they bite?” Lizzie asked, her voice squeaky. “I heard horses bite.”

“We'll show you the right way to offer treats,” Dylan assured her. “And we've picked out some of the nicest horses in the county for you to ride.”

Glancing around, Caroline noticed the group was a little smaller than it should be—Justino and Lena weren't gathered with the rest. As Ford invited his audience to investigate lariats, branding irons and other tools of the ranching trade, she stepped into the aisle between stalls and walked silently along, glancing into the horse boxes. All of them were empty but ready, with clean straw on the floor and a rack of fresh hay awaiting each lucky occupant.