Barbara Dunlop - A Cowboy in Manhattan

After a long search, he tossed the wrench to the ground. “Damn it! Katrina, I can’t let go of this. You’re going to have to help.”

She came to her feet, his wet shirt hanging loosely to midthigh. “What should I do?”

He took what seemed to be a calming breath. “Look in the toolbox. Lift out the top tray and see if you can find a nut-and-bolt set. It’s better if it has some washers.”

“Washers?”

“Wide, round disks of metal.”

“Right.” Trying not to shiver from the wet and wind, she opened the lid to the toolbox. The stormy day was complicated by the fact that the sun was now sinking behind the hills.

“Can you see anything?” he asked.

“Not really.” She reached in to feel her way around instead.

“Don’t!” Reed shouted, and she immediately stilled.

His voice moderated. “Some of the things in there are sharp. You could cut yourself.”

“I can’t see,” she apologized.

“It’s okay. Close the lid.” He waited while she closed it and flipped the catches. “Now, can you pick up the box and move it over here?”

Katrina stood, bent down and gripped the handle of the metal toolbox with both hands. Then she pulled up with all her might. Nothing happened. She screwed up her determination and tried again.

It lifted a couple of inches off the ground, and she moved it forward before dropping it down.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Reed warned.

“I’m good,” she gasped. She lifted again, swinging it closer. Then again. And again.

“You’re doing fine,” he told her.

“This is pathetic.”

“For a cowboy, yeah,” he agreed. “For a ballerina, we make allowances.”

“Thank goodness I’m going back to New York City.”

There was a breath of silence before he spoke. “Thank goodness.”

“I’m almost-” Her feet slipped out from under her, and she landed in an undignified heap on the muddy ground, brown water spraying around her. “There,” she finished, seriously regretting her decision to come along on this trip. Exactly why did she think she needed to be alone with Reed?

“You okay?” he asked.

“Define okay.”

“Are you injured?”

“No. Bruised, yes.”

Reed stretched out his arm, his fingertips almost made it to the handle of the toolbox. Katrina gave it a hard shove, sliding the box, and he grasped the handle in his fist, lifting it and moving it to where he could search for a bolt.

“I can’t believe you carried that thing all the way up the hill,” she told him.

“I have size, muscle mass and testosterone on my side.”

“You’re incredibly useful.”

“And you’re incredibly pretty.” He glanced at her. “Well, not right now.”

She clenched her jaw. “I hate being pretty.”

“What’s to hate? You bat those beautiful blue eyes and the world falls at your feet.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“That’s not how I see it. That’s the way it is.”

“You think the world gives me a free ride.”

His opinion didn’t surprise her. She’d known all along that was how he felt, that she was some decorative plaything. He was as bad as Quentin. Though she supposed she should credit Reed with trying to keep his distance. At least he didn’t think it was his right to sleep with her.

“I think your world is a completely different place than mine,” he said.

“Do you think yours is better?” She honestly wanted to know.

“I think it’s harder,” he admitted, still searching through the toolbox. “I don’t think everyone can make it out here, and I think-”

“You think it’s easy becoming a professional dancer?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it.”

“I was about to say, I think people stay cleaner in your world.” He seemed to find what he was looking for, pulling an object out of the box and squinting at it in the dusk.

“I work hard,” she told him defensively.

“You should work at getting rid of that chip on your shoulder.” He returned to the repair.

“I do not have-”

“Admit it, Katrina. You think you’re better than the rest of us.”

“I-”

“You live in the bright lights of a big city. You dress in designer clothes. You hobnob with the rich and famous. You eat in the best restaurants. And every few years, you come back to Colorado to go slumming.” He reefed hard on the wrench.

“That’s not fair.”

“And for some reason, this time, you’ve decided I should be part of your down-home experience.”

Katrina’s jaw dropped open. Reed thought she was slumming it by kissing him? Was he crazy?

“Thanks, but no thanks, Katrina.” He rose, collecting some of the scattered tools. “I’ll keep my self-respect, and you can run back to those champagne-swilling dandies at your snooty cocktail parties.”

Katrina lurched to her feet. “Wow,” was all she managed. She stared at his slick, half-naked body, powerful and magnificent in the waning light. “Did you ever get that wrong.”

He bent to fiddle with something on the pump contraption, and the piston came to life with a rhythmic, sloshing sound.

Apparently satisfied, he closed a sheet-metal cover and fastened it. He gathered up the remaining tools, shoving some of them back into his tool belt, putting others in the box and securing the lid.

He stood and looked around at the dark surroundings. “We have to get back.”

He waited for her to stand and start moving, then he took the lead, making his way along the ridge, heading toward the steep trail that led to where they’d parked the truck. Thankfully, he took it slower this time, and Katrina didn’t have to struggle quite so hard to keep up.

But when they came to the top of the trail, Reed stopped abruptly. The top of the bank had sloughed away, and the trail had turned to a rivulet of mud and water, coursing down in the direction of the road.

“I don’t think so,” said Reed, holding out his arm as a block between her and the edge of the bluff.

“What do we do now?” she asked, peering into the gloom of the aspen grove, listening to the whoosh of the water below them.

He set the toolbox down, well back from the edge, and he stripped off the leather tool belt, plunking it on top. “I’m not dragging you through the bush in the dark, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, wondering if it was a lie. Just how difficult would it be to make their way back through the thick woods?

“There’s a line shack about a mile that way.” He gestured with his head in the opposite direction of the well. “We’ll wait it out there.”

That seemed like an only slightly more palatable option.

“It’ll be pitch-dark by the time we get there.” She was already having a hard time picking her way across the uneven meadow. And she was cold and wet and miserable.

“Yes, it will. So, up you go.” He scooped her into his arms.

“Hey!”

“You’d rather walk?”

“Yes!”

“No, you wouldn’t. I’ve got leather boots and long pants, and I’ve been hiking these hills my entire life.” He adjusted her in his arms.

“You can’t carry me a whole mile.”

“I could carry you twenty miles without breaking a sweat. And even if I couldn’t, I’m not letting you risk your ankle.”

“This is ridiculous,” she huffed.

“Welcome to my world, Katrina. It can be cold, wet, dirty and unforgiving.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck in surrender. “This is exactly why I went off to boarding school.”

“You were right to do that.” His tone was gruff. “And you’re right to stay away. Colorado’s a bad place for you.”

Katrina didn’t disagree. But for the first time in her life, it didn’t feel like an insult.

Inside the line shack, Reed set Katrina on her feet, instructing her to hold still while he located a box of matches to light the two oil lamps that would be sitting on the small kitchen table. He knew where everything was in the compact, single-room shack, and he didn’t want her walking into the furniture.

“Will somebody come looking for us?” her voice wafted across the cool room to him.

“What do you mean?”

“When we don’t come back, will they come looking?”

Reed couldn’t help but smile to himself. He struck a match, lifted the glass chamber and lit the lamp’s wick. The idea that Caleb would mount a rescue operation because Reed was a few hours late was laughable.

“I’m old enough to stay out after dark,” he told Katrina. He quickly moved the match to the second lamp and lit it, as well. Warm yellow light filled the small room, highlighting a compact kitchen, two worn armchairs, a bed in one corner, along with the scarred wooden table and four battered kitchen chairs.

“Won’t they worry?” she pressed.

“Not for a day or so.”

“But we could be hurt.”

“We’re not hurt.”

“They don’t know that.”

He took in her bedraggled appearance and tried not to feel guilty, reminding himself that she was the one who’d insisted on coming along. “They’ll know that odds are we’re stuck.”

“But-”

“This kind of thing happens all the time.” Next, Reed went to the small woodstove between the armchairs. There was a cardboard box nearby with old newspapers, dry kindling and split firewood. He opened the glass-fronted stove door.

“Not to me, it doesn’t,” Katrina huffed to his back.

He heard her make her way farther into the shack. “We’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

He crumpled the paper. “So stop worrying.”

“I’m not worried.”

He laid down a few pieces of kindling. “I can tell.”

“I’m not worried. Cold, maybe.”

“It’ll warm up soon.”

“And hungry.”

“You? Hungry? Who’d have guessed.”

“I eat,” she protested.

“About enough to keep a bird alive.” Not that she was skinny. She had a killer compact figure, smooth curves, tight muscle tone. He set a few pieces of firewood on top of the kindling.

“I guess I’m an easy keeper.”

He grinned at her horse reference, striking a match then tossing it into the stove, watching the paper catch and light before closing the door. “Well, I’m definitely not. I’ll see what I can find us to eat.”

“There’s food here?”

“I hope so.” It was going to be a long night if he couldn’t find a can of stew or a jar of peanut butter.

“What can I do?”

It was on the tip of Reed’s tongue to make a joke about how little she could do out here, but before he could speak, he caught a glimpse of her delicate features. Her soaking, stringy hair, those wet, bedraggled clothes, and he didn’t have the heart to tease her.

“Check the bureau beside the bed. Sometimes the cowboys leave dry clothes in it.”

In reaction to his words, she shook water droplets from her fingertips, and took a long look down at her soaking clothes.

Reed could stand to stay wet if he had to, but he’d much rather dry off and warm up.

She headed for the far corner of the shack while he moved one of the lamps to the small countertop and checked the kitchen cupboard. He found a box of pancake mix and a bottle of maple syrup. Not exactly gourmet, but it would keep them from going hungry.

“Not much here,” Katrina called to report.

He turned, squinting into the darkened end of the room.

She came toward him, into the lamplight, holding something in each hand. “Tops or bottoms?” She unfurled a pair of gray sweatpants and a large, white T-shirt.

He couldn’t help being reminded of his offer to share his pajamas. He nodded to the sweatpants. “Looks like those might be a bit large for you.”

“Unless I want a blanket.” She tossed them his way, and he snagged them out of midair.

She shook out the T-shirt. “Can I trust you to turn your back while I change?”

“Absolutely,” he vowed. “My mama raised me to be a gentleman.”

“My auntie raised me to be a bohemian artist.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Her blue eyes danced as she obviously fought a smile. “It means I probably won’t turn my back while you change.”

Reed fought the temptation to tease her in return. But that was a dangerous road to go down. Instead, he forced himself to turn away, concentrating on finding a bowl in the sparsely equipped cupboard. It was already going to be a very long night. “Change your clothes, Katrina.”

While he whipped up the batter and heated a pan on the two-burner propane stove, she rustled her way into the dry T-shirt.

“Your turn,” she told him, moving up beside him at the counter. “That smells good.”

He handed her the spatula. “You know how to cook pancakes?”

She took it. “Haven’t a clue.”

He glanced down at her, his chest contracting at the sight. Her hair was raked smoothly back. Her face was shiny clean. And the boxy T-shirt accentuated her slim frame, showing off her shapely legs.