Clove blinked, thinking that right now a curtain was the only thing she’d feel truly hidden behind.
“You sure are a quiet little thing,” Archer said. “Don’t be scared. We’re all real friendly here.”
Scared! She was a daredevil!
But if she told him that, in her lilting Aussie accent, he would know who she was right off. And he would think she was nuts for coming all the way to Texas without telling him. He would know it was no accident that she was standing outside the rodeo he had told her he was participating in.
“I’m not scared,” she said, trying to disguise her accent. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Ah, she speaks,” Archer said. “I’ve got to run, but if you need anything, just grab someone off the street to help you. This is a friendly town, if you bypass the Cut-n-Gurls.”
“I’ll do that.”
He tipped his hat, and with a flash of long-legged denim glory, he disappeared into the arena building.
Her breath slowly left the cage it was bound in.
No doubt his genes were as sexy as his jeans. He was far hotter than the thong-wearing models she’d last worked with.
Now she just had to get those jeans off of him.
He hadn’t seemed particularly inclined to strip down to the “briefs or nothing” of which he’d boasted. Not even a flash of male attraction had lit his eye. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she murmured, suddenly doubtful about her mission.
He was terribly manly. And she had very little experience with men. Lucy had always been the one who warmed to hearth and home.
Clove took a deep breath. For Lucy’s sake, she had to be brave.
She went into the walkway where Archer had disappeared. He was leaning against a rail, looking at his Appaloosa. Seeing her, he grinned. “Glad you came in. I was just thinking you might need a hotel.”
Her throat gulped of its own accord. “Ah,” she said, “I was wondering…”
“Yes?” he said, smiling down at her.
He was so tall. “Would you care to go to dinner with me?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
The friendly smile slipped from his face. His gaze touched her glasses. Then a forced veneer of friendliness came back to his expression. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
She blinked, knowing her face was bright red.
“Okay. Thanks, anyway.”
Backing away, she saw sympathy in his gaze.
She turned and tried to walk away with as much dignity as possible. He was not remotely interested. How humiliating!
This was not going to be easy. In fact, it likely was impossible.
On the other hand, she was a stuntwoman known for her never-fail nerves. And she hadn’t paid for a roundtrip airline ticket to wind up going back home without a Texas-bred souvenir.
For Lucy’s sake, she would bring out the daredevil residing inside her and let it loose all over that cowboy.
ARCHER JEFFERSON watched the little fraidy-cat walk away with some regret. My goodness, she was a shy one! Traveling by herself required some bravery, though.
If he had a rule—and usually he didn’t—it was that most women were to be avoided. He’d learned from watching his brothers fall that women came in exciting, colorful packages; some fun to open, some not. But a shy woman didn’t hold much threat to his well-being. And that one, with her oversize specs and timid little voice couldn’t put fear into a flea.
Scratching his head, he thought about her dinner invitation. Much as he might have enjoyed showing a newcomer the town, he had to get his horse ready for the show. Honky-Tonk was a tricky Appaloosa. She thought she knew things she didn’t, and they’d had more than one disagreement between them about who was boss.
“You’re just a bit sassy,” he said to Tonk. “You think you’re entitled to your own opinions. But we both know better, don’t we?”
She pinned an ear back and gave him a sidelong stare.
“Females and opinions go together like butter and bread,” he continued.
And it often seemed as if his Appaloosa had her fair share of womanly arts, conniving and one-upping being some of them. He knew quite well that females had a spectrum of tricks up their dainty sleeves. He’d watched seven brothers before him fall prey to the wedding-ring chase.
The last brother who’d fallen was Calhoun. He’d settled at the ranch, the first married brother to do so. Calhoun had brought his wife’s family—two children, Minnie and Kenny, and a grandfather, Barley—with him.
And Calhoun’s success had generated some brotherly angst around the ranch. Calhoun had the kids, the father-in-law, the occasional roadshow participation as a rodeo clown—for which his wife, Olivia, adored him—but Calhoun had also became a hit with his paintings. Though he’d started out painting nudes, he had switched to family portraits and had a waiting list of people who wanted him to commit their children to canvas.
He was that good.
Unfortunately, Crockett, the family’s first and best artist, had taken umbrage at this. Crockett felt Calhoun had one-upped him in the creative department. Archer frowned as he worked his way through the mud in Tonk’s hoof. Usually, the brothers were happy for each other. But ever since the youngest brother, Last, had brought a new baby to the ranch, along with the baby’s unmarried mother, Valentine, no one had been happy.
Or maybe the trouble had started when Mason left. Oldest brother, and patriarch of the Jefferson clan, he’d taken his wandering feet onto the road. He’d said he wanted to find out what had happened to their father, Maverick. But the brothers knew that was a lie; Mason had been nearly knocked to his knees when Mimi Cannady, their next-door neighbor, married another man and had a baby.
But that had been more than a year ago. Mimi and Brian were divorced now, a friendly divorce. And Mason had returned and was now very fond of one-year-old, Nanette.
Archer sighed. Maybe all the craziness around Malfunction Junction was just the result of twelve brothers growing up together with no female touch to soften them.
Last was never going to settle down with Valentine, though he seemed to be receiving better marks for his daddy skills.
Mason was never going to get his head straight about Mimi. All the brothers except Mason knew Mimi was putting her ranch up for sale in order to move into town.
Bandera never shut up about poetry. He wrote it, he sang it, he reviewed it and recited it, and if he didn’t shut his face, Archer was going to smother him in his sleep.
Crockett needed to just shut his yap and paint. There was room for two artists in the family tree.
“I’m the only brother who keeps my pipe shut,” Archer told Tonk. “My insanity is on the down-low. I write
