In A Cowboy's Embrace. Charlotte Maclay

share. Last night it was pretty obvious tuna sandwiches and soup weren’t going to hack it for a man who expended thousands of calories rounding up little doggies all day. And she didn’t think her typical salad greens and cottage cheese would cut it, either.

      She grinned at the thought. Wouldn’t her modeling friends and fashion designer colleagues get a kick out of seeing her now, in jeans and sharkskin boots, bouncing in a pickup along nothing wider than a rutted trail en route to round up a bunch of cows destined to be turned into hand-tooled leather jackets?

      DUST AND DIRT rose fifty feet straight up toward a cloudless sky before dissipating in a slight breeze. The noise was astounding—bawling cows, squealing calves and cowboys shouting X-rated obscenities children shouldn’t hear. The air reeked of smoke and burning leather.

      “Mommy, look what they’re doing!” Melissa made a dash for the pen where they were branding the new calves.

      Tasha snared her daughter by the back of her jacket. “Oh, no you don’t, young lady. Don’t you go running off on your own. Those cows will trample you if you’re not careful. You are to stay right next to me like we’re glued together.”

      “But, Mommy!” Melissa whined.

      Stevie had already raced ahead and was climbing the wooden fence surrounding the pen. “Stevie!” Tasha shrieked, envisioning the boy toppling over and falling beneath the hooves of the agitated animals.

      Ella slipped little Jason into a sling across her middle and cuddled her baby next to her. “Stevie will be fine. He knows to stay out of the pen.”

      Tasha lacked her sister’s confidence. The entire scene was as chaotic as the New York theater district right after the Broadway shows released their audiences, spilling them out onto the streets and sidewalks all at once. No one seemed to be in charge of the choreography. Cowboys on horseback darted through the milling herd, ropes twirling over their heads. Clutches of cows and their calves danced back and forth trying to avoid capture and separation. Swirling dust softened the edges of the scene, making it all look surreal. Or nightmarish.

      Tasha would sooner make her way through Times Square on New Year’s Eve than journey into that chaos.

      But Melissa, like an eager puppy on a leash, tugged her forward.

      As they approached the fence, Tasha noticed one of the cowboys miss with his lariat, the rope falling harmlessly to the ground. Another cowboy twisted around in his saddle so quickly he nearly unseated himself.

      “Watch what you’re doing, Shane!” Cliff yelled.

      “Ri…ght, boss.” The boy’s voice cracked.

      “Looks like the hands have noticed your arrival,” Ella said, amused.

      “Next time I’ll wear a sack over my head.”

      “Sis, with your perfect size six figure, it’s going to take more than a sack to get these men to ignore you.”

      Tasha knew she drew the attention of men like pigeons to peanuts. It was both blessing and curse. She needed her looks because of her job, but at heart she was shy and wished—just once—that a man would admire her for something more than an accident of birth.

      At least the swearing appeared to have subsided, she thought with relief.

      Cliff reined his mount around, exiting the branding pen. He was no better than Shane had been. When Tasha had shown up wearing skintight jeans and a rhinestone-studded denim jacket, he’d almost dropped his teeth along with his lasso. Her langorous walk was sweet, hot sex on the hoof and capable of blowing holes in a man’s good sense with every sway of her curvy hips.

      He rode to where she and her sister were standing. “Morning, Ella.” He tipped his hat to Tasha. She ought to be wearing a hat, too. But then he wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing her white-gold hair held back from her face with a couple of fancy combs and hanging loose down her back. “You two getting reacquainted?”

      “It’s wonderful to have my sister here,” Ella said, tipping her head back so she could see from beneath her straw hat. “Thanks for looking after her.”

      “I thought she was supposed to be looking after me.”

      “Oh, I’m sure she’ll do a good job of that, too.”

      Cliff wasn’t quite sure what to make of Ella’s quiet, self-satisfied laugh or the gleam in her eyes. Maybe it was just a trick of the sunlight glancing off her glasses.

      Straddling the fence, Stevie said, “Can I help you cut out the calves, Dad?”

      “Sure you can. I’ve got Star Song all saddled for you.”

      “You’re going to let him ride into that mess?” Tasha asked, her expression stunned, even a little frightened if Cliff read her right.

      He shrugged. “Sure. Someday he’ll own part of the Double S.”

      “But he’s only five years old.”

      “Going on six,” the boy corrected, clambering down from the fence.

      “I’m almost seven,” Melissa said. “Can I help, too?”

      “You certainly may not!” Tasha admonished her.

      Reaching down, Cliff gripped his son’s forearm and hefted him to the back of his horse. “You’ll have to wait till you learn how to ride, Melissa. Stevie’s been riding since before he could walk.”

      Melissa’s angelic face soured into a pout. “Girls can do all the stuff boys can.”

      “Sure they can,” Cliff agreed. Except Melissa and her mom weren’t likely to stay around long enough for either of them to become good riders. And that reminded Cliff he didn’t want Stevie to get too attached to either of them. Sometimes he caught the boy in the master bedroom studying his mother’s picture, his expression heart-wrenchingly sad. Cliff didn’t want his son to go through another emotional loss like that. Nor did he want to face the bleak sense of abandonment again that had dogged his own life since he and his twin brother were deserted by their biological mother. They’d been about four at the time and he still had a vague recollection of his mother crying.

      He circled his horse, coming up beside Tasha, who quickly stepped away from him, placing Melissa safely behind her.

      For the moment, Tasha was his housekeeper, and because of his need for child care Cliff had no choice but to treat her as such. Until she decided to move on or he made other arrangements. “I’ve got to work the four-to-twelve shift tonight. I’ll plan to take my dinner break about seven, if that’s okay with you.” Maybe if he gave her some warning, she’d come up with something more than tuna sandwiches for supper.

      “That’s fine, but—” She glanced around as if she’d landed on an alien planet. “You mean to tell me you’re going to work all day punching cattle, or whatever you call it, then work another eight hours tonight?”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He thumbed his hat back on his head and added a big dose of drawl to his Western accent. “Can’t leave the good folks of Reed County unprotected from rustlers and other varmints just so’s I can stay home with a pretty little lady.”

      She looked up at him slack-jawed.

      “My daddy’s a deputy sheriff,” Stevie explained. “He catches bad guys.”

      “You got that straight, bucko.” Though for the past year a band of rustlers had been operating in the area and neither he nor Sheriff Colman had been able to get a decent lead on them.

      “All right. I’ll have dinner ready about seven.”

      “Steak and potatoes would be good,” he suggested in the hope of avoiding another batch of tea sandwiches. “And when you’ve got a minute, Sylvia washed a bunch of my uniform shirts before she left for her daughter’s place but didn’t have time to iron them. Could you take care of that for me? They’re in the laundry room.”

      That