“Okay. Now I’m Ready.” Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Copyright

“Okay. Now I’m Ready.”

Chancy squinched her eyes.

Well, now, what man could take advantage of such a brave young woman? Cliff eased down beside her and kissed her very gently.

He admired her body with his eyes and hands. And he allowed her to explore him while not at all sure he’d survive such a venture.

She was so curious. “I’ve always wondered how it worked,” she told him with great attention. Having been raised the way she was, she hadn’t been influenced by rejection. She’d only been told to wait for the right man. For her, that was Cliff.

He gasped. “Let me.”

Well, for a woman her age, she didn’t have a clue as to what exactly Cliff wanted. “Let you? What?”

He struggled to say the whole sentence. “Let me make love to you.”

Her eyes got a little serious and she said, “Okay.” Then she paused. “What do I do?”

Dear Reader,

A sexy fire fighter, a crazy cat and a dynamite, heroine—that’s what you’ll find in Lucy and the Loner, Elizabeth Bevarly’s wonderful MAN OF THE MONTH. It’s the next in her installment of THE FAMILY McCORMICK series, and it’s also a MAN OF THE MONTH book you’ll never forget—warm, humorous and very sexy!

A story from Lass Small is always a delight, and Chancy’s Cowboy is Lass at her most marvelous. Don’t miss out as Chancy decides to take some lessons in love from a handsome hunk of a cowboy!

Eileen Wilks’s latest, The Wrong Wife, is chock-full with. the sizzling tension and compelling reading that you’ve come to expect from this rising Desire star. And so many of you know and love Barbara McCauley that she needs no introduction, but this month’s The Nanny and the Reluctant Rancher is sure to both please her current fans...and win her new readers!

Suzannah Davis is another new author that we’re excited about, and Dr. Holt and the Texan may just be her best book to date! And the month is completed with a delightful romp from Susan Carroll, Parker and the Gypsy.

There’s something for everyone. So come and relish the romantic variety you’ve come to expect from Silhouette Desire!

Lucia Macro

And the Editors at Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Lass Small

Chancy’s Cowboy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LASS SMALL

finds living on this planet at this time a fascinating experience. People are amazing. She thinks that to be a teller of tales of people, places and things is absolutely marvelous.

To all readers

One

People are strange. And among those strange humans, there are Texans. While there are other people who live on a variety of lands, Texans are probably the most peculiar when it comes to being partial. No matter what happens to their crops or the grasses, no matter how hot or dry or freezing or wet or cold the weather is, Texans know they live on the edge of heaven.

That can cause other people to squint their eyes at the Texas land and study it. It could well be that it is the land that makes the Texans just a little bit odd.

Out in West Texas, north and a little west of Uvalde, it was one of the ranch crew who explained the circumstances at the Bar-Q-Drop. That was the branding iron’s result. A bar with a Q and a drop of something.

Some said the drop was the miracle of the springs they’d found on that land. Others said it was the blood spilled in the land fights. Another said it was the grief of the Native Americans who’d been pushed out of their lands.

The crew head’s name was originally Bill, but with one thing or another, he became so stoved up that he could hardly walk and they called him Creep.

Over all those early years, Creep had been pitched off uncomfortably tied horses and bulls too many times. He could hardly walk, but he could talk. Creep had been around for a long time. So, it was Creep who explained anything from the past.

In this instance, it was about the budding woman who actually owned the place.

Creep said that there’s nothing like a female who doesn’t understand what she can safely do. Nor could she realize there were just things she couldn’t do. He said that any of God’s creatures ought to know its limits... right?

Well, there are occasionally people who haven’t any idea as to the dangerous edge past what they can logically do. There was just such a female at the place out in West Texas, a nuisance child who had turned into a very irritating young woman.

A clue to her would be her name. It was Chancy Freedman. Yep. That’s the truth!

It was her daddy that had named her Chancy. At birth, mind you. And he’d been right from the start! How had he known? Why did he allow her to try anything she wanted to tackle? Anybody watching knew her curiosity was too wide.

It was her daddy, Mel Freedman, that was at the bottom of it all. He just watched her. He’d have to yell at her on occasion. And she’d always try just a little more—until he hollered like a stuck bull.

Mel’s wife was Chancy’s mother. She’d been named Elinor and had such big eyes. They were like a cow’s when it was chewing its cud. Her expression was sweet and tolerantly contented. Elinor was infer ested in the kid...enough.

Once Chancy’s mama calmly watched as Chancy was walking along the top of a picket fence. The kid was not yet even four years old! You know what a picket fence is? Yeah. And not quite four, Chancy was allowed to walk along the top of one?

Her mama said it was good for her sense of balance.

I have to admit Chancy did okay on that fence, and at that age! She never once fell off or ruptured her stomach or gouged her eye on them pickets, but none of us breathed until the stock man Bill just went over and lifted her right off the damned fence.

That was back before Bill was called Creep. He could still move about, back then.

It was Bill who directed the men, the dogs and the horses. The cats did everything their own way. Since Bill was in charge, he was the one that cut off the tops of the picket fence. He hadn’t even asked for permission. He was deadly serious and positive as he sawed the top of the picket fence flat. Nobody said nothing.

But when Bill was finished, the boss, Mel, asked real curious, “Why’d you do that?”

Bill said in a rough way, “Because.”

That was a Texas reply. It replied something but didn’t explain, and any half-brained jackass knew exactly why it had been done and he was not to push.

But Mel wasn’t that intimidated. He observed the fence while the squint-eyed, ready Bill watched Mel’s face. And Mel finally turned to Bill and nodded as he said, “Good job.”

When Chancy was little, the only one who actually watched out for her was Bill. Especially after her mother passed away. Elinor had just...quit living.

Four-year-old Chancy questioned putting her mother in that box. She asked Bill, of course, because her daddy was vacant minded. So it was Bill who said her mama was dead. The box was like an envelope and in it she’d be sent to God.

And then they put the box in the ground! Little Chancy was appalled. The whole crew had to do a lot of explaining. She pointed at the mound and questioned in distress.

Chancy would select a crew member, point to the new mound under the trees out there, and she would ask The Question. Whoever was pinned down would stumble around in his reply. They got together with Bill and were taught approximately what they should say. It was brief. And having said what they’d been taught, they waited—enough.

For a while, Chancy buried her dolls. The cats and dogs would not tolerate being buried. It was a terrible time for the crew. They did try to help the four-year-old to understand.

It was the minister who finally came out to the ranch. He told the child Chancy of life and death and made it simple and understandable. And—acceptable.

For Mel there was no such comfort. It was slow, but Chancy’s daddy gradually lost all interest in anything around him. That included Chancy. Mel’s mind was on beyond His grief was deep.

It was Creep that considered it all.

We saw a dog like that once. The lonely dog had been attached to a cow that went dry and was butchered for the meat. The dog never understood. He never did. And there was no minister to soothe and explain to the dog.

The crew made a rug from the hide and the dog lay on it sadly. He grieved himself to death.

That’s about what happened to Chancy’s daddy. After his wife died, Mel just wasn’t alert. He seemed not to be in touch with the world, or to care about anything. He was alive until Chancy was eighteen. Guess he thought that, by then, she knew everything she needed to know, and he just—quit living. He was a lot like that dog. ’Course he was human, but grief is with us all.

Creep sighed as his thoughts went on. Makes a man wonder why somebody like her mother could do that to a man. Pull him into her thataway so he can’t think of another woman. Just her. Makes a man think on women and wonder what it’d be like to care that much. I look at women around here and wonder why a man would think that way.

But then I’m past the itch.

So it was obvious that raising Chancy had been left up to the ranch hands. From age four, she’d been under their directions. They could stop her just because there were more of them directing just one female. They were stronger and they could be very sure she should not do whatever it was she was trying to do that was past her strength.

It’s probably because her mother died so young that Chancy never really understood that she wasn’t male. There was no woman around to influence her.

She never wore a dress. Her hair was cut so it didn’t blow in her face.

She could be very firm. Once she was out with Bill and his horse stepped into a hole. The horse went down and threw Bill bad. You should have seen Chancy take over!

She told Bill’s horse, “Stand there, or I’ll shoot you!”

Of course the horse understood her tone rather than—Well, he probably understood the threatening tone of her words, and he did stand still.

In the hospital, when Bill was back from being put together and in bed in a room, he looked like he might not make it. But he finally came out of the coma they’d had him in, deliberate. Right away, he asked Chancy with some foggy interest, “What would you’ve done if he’d bolted and you did shoot him?”

It was an odd question and not clear to anybody else, but Chancy replied instantly, “He’d have limped.”

All the crew loved her. Try as she did all her life, at eighteen she still was not even a part of the crew. She was not only incapable, she was female.

Interesting. Her daddy had seen to it that she did as her fair-haired, white-skinned momma had done. She wore sun block, a brimmed hat, long sleeves and thin leather gloves. She’d done that faithfully because way down under her skin, she was basically female. And she remembered her mother doing it. So Chancy kept that part as being like her mother. But she still felt that she was a part of a whole. In that place, the whole just happened to be male.

As Chancy had grown older, she didn’t get much taller after she’d adjusted to that twelve-year-old spurt of growth. All the crew fell in love with her, but she just went on treating them like family. She never saw a one of them as a man. Each was a good friend and helpful. They were almost kin.

And she tried her durndest to be like the crew. Tobacco chewing failed with her. She gagged. For once the observing males had been serious. They didn’t laugh. It was only when she wasn’t there that they exclaimed and shook their heads and laughed.

Her biggest trial was learning to whistle. Shrill whistling. She could whistle ordinary, but the guys could all do that ear-piercing one when they were herding cattle. They didn’t even. have to use fingers in their mouths. Try as she did, she could only bring out a little bladder-sounding squeak.

She could whistle a tune good enough, but she couldn’t whistle a loud sound worth a darn, and she was cursed with a female holler.

When she was about sixteen, one of the guys was rolled under his horse and ended up in the hospital. Tim had been squashed. Really pitiful. And Chancy visited Tim in the clean, white room at the hospital.

She’d been as concerned for him as for one of the wolf-ripped dogs. She held Tim’s hand. He was out cold and didn’t know it, but his, uh, maleness rose under the sheet.

The others of the crew watched her, their eyes amused and compassionate with the problem. That way, and out cold. Men are vulnerable.

If she noticed the problem, at all, she never seemed to.

While he was still in the hospital, it was a trying time for Tim. Beside being squashed, he had broken ribs. So he was helpless to move as she came into his hospital room.

That she was there was bad enough for Tim, but she’d put her hand on his forehead to see if he had a fever.

He’d raise his one good knee. The crowding rest of his visitors, from the place, watched and bit at their laughs. But they were sympathetic. They understood.

Chancy never caught on at all.

And she was puzzled when Tim left them and moved to another ranch. But sometime later, she went to Tim’s wedding to a charming girl who giggled.

It was not the first time that Chancy had heard giggling but it was something she’d never really understood. She asked Creep, “Why did the bride giggle?”

Chancy was interesting but she was a nuisance.

Chancy was eighteen when her daddy died. He was just through. Apparently he figured Chancy was old enough and he was free to find Elinor, his lost love.

Chancy didn’t even cry because her daddy had been so withdrawn for so long that she hadn’t really known him well. She’d forgotten how he’d once been. It was too long ago.

It was the minister who explained love to her. Why her daddy had gone to be with her mother. Their love had been special.

Chancy was thoughtful about love. It was crippling, obviously. And she decided she’d never get entrapped in such a serious mess.

So it was about two years after Chancy’s daddy had been planted next to her almost forgotten momma, and Chancy had no inkling what would come of being in charge of the place.

Chancy could only remember a woman who sat on a cane chair that had a high back and woven armrests. Her mother had watched what Chancy did and smiled.

That was about all she remembered of her mother. She didn’t recall anything about walking on the picket fence.

So Chancy was then twenty years old. She’d taken her first two years of college by TV lessons. She was registered by mail and bought the books the same way. She sent in her computer assignments on time.

Chancy worked hard and she did well, but she wouldn’t go on campus. The older men had been determined that she should mix with other females who were her age. But she was stubborn. And she owned the ranch. She was their boss if she ever got around to realizing it. They weren’t about to mention it to her.

With the times changing and becoming more complicated, it was obvious to the crew that they needed another man. One who could organize and direct them as they ought to be handled. They needed a man who knew computers and how to run the place more efficiently.

Chancy was no leader.

The assembled crew told her seriously that they needed somebody who knew how to direct them. along. Silent as her dad had been, he’d at least nodded or shaken his head. He’d been a mute sounding board...when it was serious enough and they’d had his attention.

So three of the men went east in Texas to find somebody who knew how to take care of the place. And they were directed to Cliff Robertson.

Clifford Robertson had a degree from A&M, which, in all sports and just competition is Texas University’s mortal enemy. Cliff not only was born and bred on a place like the Bar-Q-Drop, but he knew how to run a place. He understood men.

In the Texas questioning statement, the crew inquired nicely with remarkable subtlety, “A woman who is still budding, owns the place?”

“How old?”

“Twenty.”

Cliff smiled. “She’ll be okay.”

They weren’t sure what that meant. But the man was exactly what they wanted, so they didn’t warn him about Chancy. They didn’t want to discourage him. What little they’d said was enough.

Cliff had green eyes, blond hair and he was a wedge-shaped man. All shoulders, no hips and long legs. He wore boots as a part of him. And he had a good, easy stride.

He knew women. They didn’t boggle him. The crew members took him places to eat so they could watch his reaction as the women watched him. He could handle that real easy.

He didn’t flirt, nor was he distracted. Women were easy for him when he wanted one. He not only understood and could handle women, he knew how to organize a place and make it profitable. He liked animals. He was efficient and he knew what to do.

And he was young enough not to demand half of the proceeds from the place.

If it hadn’t been for Cliff, who was about ten years older than Chancy, she would never have made it to being the breathtaking adult she came to be.

At that time, to the crew, she was a problem. They had to spend too much time being sure she was all right.

Even so, the men looked at Cliff with some sweat in their hair and down their chests and under their arms, and they narrowed their eyes watchfully as he first met Chancy. Men had trouble meeting Chancy. They got a little silly. If Cliff reacted that way. they’d have to find an older man who would be harder for the crew to handle.

Chancy treated Cliff like one of the bunch. No flirting, no wiggling, no licking lips slowly, no rubbing against him.

His eye wrinkles were white as he considered her. The crew expected that. It was a normal, male reaction to her. And since she acted like a normal person, Cliff apparently figured he’d be okay.

However, every single man on the place managed to find a way to warn Cliff. They explained her thinking she was one of them and could do whatever a man could do.

Each man warned Cliff that it was up to him to discourage her pushy conduct.

That caused Cliff to pull his head back and give the first couple of men a startled look.

So each assured Cliff that she would be pushing in to help the men with the herding and cutting and branding and everything else! To remember that she considered herself one of them.

And at separate, found times, each one of them told him in a deadly voice, “Don’t you let her experiment with you.” Their eyes were squinched up and very serious.

They told him that no man who had all his marbles would get within fifty miles of her.

Having seen her, Cliff nodded soberly.

The men went on that if a man was around her, he’d spend all his time rescuing her—from water, blizzards, being lost or risking being trampled by beeves or horses. And they’d add, “Fooled you there, didn’t I.”

And Cliff understood there was a serious problem.

But then Clifford Robertson moved to the spread: He brought his neat little sports car towed behind his truck. He had his clothing packed neatly. He stopped near the house and got out He looked around and breathed. His soul smiled. It was as he’d remembered. It was a perfect place.

The sky was wide and the trees were oaks and hackberry, and pushing in were the relentless mesquites. There was a proliferation of wild, spring flowers and the Texas bluebonnets that filled his soul.

His room was in the house. That had caused Cliff to hesitate. He would rather be around the men. And he wondered who was the chaperone for the nubile female.

The terrifying woman was as he remembered. A slip of a girl who greeted him nicely and didn’t do anything else. Well, she showed him his part of the house and where to put his things.

His unit was downstairs at the front of the house, which was of adobe. The walls were thick and the air inside was cool. There was a separate door to the outside.

His part of the downstairs had been built for her parents. There was a reading room next to the bedroom with a desk, and he had his own bathroom. It was just right.

And he looked at the nubile woman and wondered why she hadn’t taken her parents’ suite for herself? He asked, “Where are the rest of the bedrooms?”

She replied simply, “Upstairs.”

He already knew that the cook and the yardman slept in rooms in the back of the house.

That was all she said. Cliff found a brief surfacing of curiosity in that he wanted to see her room.

Having shown him his section of the house, Chancy took him to the house’s separate barn to introduce him to his horse.

The meeting of those two would be interesting for her to watch. Jasper was a big horse. He was independent, curious, self-directed and willing to share. He was an individual animal that was also pretty smart.

As they walked to the barn, she lied. She said, “Here, we trade horses around so that we can know them all.”

That caused Cliff to pause and look at the neophyte. So he settled that right away. He told her firmly, “If I take a horse as mine, I’d rather no one else rode him.”

Chancy glanced over at him as she considered him with a tilted-back head. “That’s a little stingy.”

He looked around as men tend to do. He was stem. “It’s the way I work. Then I don’t have to remember which horse I’m on and what quirks it has. I can understand the animal better.”

“You call them... animals?”

He grinned. “I’ve never ridden a human.” As soon as he said that, he sunk his teeth into his lower lip.

Apparently she didn’t understand the unintended innuendo.

She was twenty, by then, and all the crew had treated her as if she was isolated and had never read nor heard anything.

The two went into the barn. Cliff asked, “The other horse. Is that yours?”

And she smiled. “Yes.”

He asked softly, “Anybody else ride it?”

“No.”

He was firm. “Nobody else’ll ride mine.”

“That’s selfish.”

He looked at her unduly, with his slitted eyes considering. Then he told her in that soft voice, “I’m selective.”

She figured he’d decide on his own horse and then keep it to himself. She just hoped he liked the one they’d chosen for him.

Inside the barn, Cliff looked at her horse with interest and even petted it, but he asked, “Which of these is the one for me?” He’d already decided on the stallion but he could be reasonably tactful.

So she showed Cliff Jasper. He was the one.

The horse and man observed one another, and it was Cliff who went to the horse. Jasper was steady and waiting. And the man gave the horse a sugar cube.

The bribe made Chancy smile.

But Cliff’s hands went over Jasper, getting the horse familiar with him. He took up each hoof and looked at each one. And during all that time, Cliff was running his hands over the horse and talking to him.

It was interesting but not unknown for Chancy to watch. The man and the horse were getting acquainted. Cliff was showing the horse that he was his. And the horse appeared to consider that quite easily.

She wondered why the horse accepted a stranger when she hadn’t been able to get his attention at all. He’d been reasonably tolerant of her, but he had discarded being her horse.

It was rather irritating to see a man get that close to a horse so quickly.

In the next month, Cliff worked as if God had sent him to them to spare the rest of the crew of the responsibility for...the Chancy one.

Probably the biggest surprise was that she was a jolt to a single man who was diligent in his activities. Those that concerned the place. Without any warning, she was in the group and determined to be a part of it. She owned the place.

She simply did not have the muscle or the strength to handle what a man could do so easily.

She did not obey rules laid down that were brief, logical and few. She went off when she chose. She joined and intruded on smooth work and jostled them all. She startled placid animals and infuriated busy men...who loved her.

It was Cliff who took the reins of the days and the rest could just watch and be critical.

That critical didn’t last long. Cliff offered for any of them to take the budding female on—to direct and control her. Nobody volunteered.

Clashes between Chancy and Cliff happened. And some arguments. Those were courteous, so far.

Chancy did ride a horse. Not the calm one Cliff allotted to her. No. She sneaked onto Cliff’s horse. There were sharp whistles so that the whole, entire crew all watched what Cliff would do about that.

When he saw what she’d done, he got on her horse and whistled at his, who was under her and riding away like the wind.

The whistle was to stop... and his horse did stop. The horse almost had to rear, clear up, to keep her on his back. With his rider stable, the horse had turned and looked at Cliff with some interest.

Of course, Chancy was flicking the ends of the reins against the horse and urging his sides with her naked boot heels to get him to go again. She was earnest and determined—but even her rein strokes were kind. She was simply indicating seriously that she wanted the horse to do as she chose.

That was logical.

Cliff pulled her horse up alongside her and the prancing Jasper. Cliff took the reins from her hands as he got off her horse.

He told her through his teeth, “They are both brown coated. But if you look closely, you’ll be able to tell which is Jasper and which is your own horse.”

Then he put his arm around the lower part of her torso and lifted her effortlessly from his horse. He had the audacity of lifting her then onto her own horse, as if she’d made a mistake.

She glanced around, but no one else was anywhere around that she could see. So she looked again at Cliff. She tilted her sober-faced head, waiting for an apology from Cliff.

He gave none.

Cliff swung up on his own horse and just trotted it away, leaving her there with her own horse. She was owner of the land. He didn’t give a damn.

He had told Chancy that his horse was not trained as an exercise horse. He was a working horse. He obeyed enough. He didn’t need any stranger getting up on him and demanding other rules. He was not a pet.

The horse, Jasper, was a partner. He was willing to carry a saddle and a man...if there was a reason. But he did not take to just roaming without some goal.

Cliff had learned to call the horse’s name of Jasper. If Jasper hadn’t anything to control or find, he’d get bored and just stop. Or he’d go looking for something interesting.

The horse’s curiosity sometimes led to a real wrangle of wills. He’d take the bit in his teeth and just...go!

Actually, Jasper was a whole lot like the male version of the budding female. Like Chancy. But Chancy was more kind.

There were increasing times that Cliff wondered how had her daddy known to name her thataway, right away, when she was born?

From what Cliff had heard, her parents hadn’t been ordinary. And maybe not even—normal. They’d been a little weird. Their attachment had been too intense. But from what Cliff had heard, they’d understood limits.

How come their daughter had turned out as curious as she was? As determined and independent? And yet. And yet, with all that, she kept her courtesy and interest in others.

But she was a handful.

Chancy was never flippant or snotty. She was earnest and curious, and she continued to consider herself equal to any adult male. Any man knows no female is equal to a male at any time. Not only females’ physical strengths, but their minds don’t work the same as a man’s.

Men are generally just tolerant and ready to salvage whatever the female louses up. That is done silently by the male with great endurance that is allowed to show—somewhat.

Cliff considered what he’d heard of the parents and knew they had been indulgent. The crew even yet just shook their heads over Chancy how many times?

But it was obvious to Cliff that her parents had never lifted a finger or a voice to Chancy. They’d just observed her with interest...and rescued her if necessary.

In exasperation, the crew told Cliff that the rescue part was just about always. Practically from birth, she had defied the limits.

Interestingly, none of her curiosity was mean or flippant She just thought she could do anything a male could do. She kept on trying. She was an irritating woman.

Probably the main thing about the changes was that now Cliff was in charge. It was to him that questions came. It was his directions they sought. Before his arrival, they had discussed their problems when they were in Chancy’s presence. They hadn’t really inquired if she agreed, but she had known what was being done.

With Cliff in charge, things had changed. It was odd for Chancy not to know what all was happening.

Two

Around the main house, the trees had been selectively removed. The trees had been cut down and the wood used in the fireplaces when the temperature plummeted clear down to fifty degrees. Once it had gone down further and there had been ice!

There was air-conditioning. It was unTEXAN to use it. When the temperature got up to eighty degrees, it was turned on and left there as the outside temperature went on up over a hundred. They were all spoiled rotten. Especially the cats and dogs.

The high temperatures were seldom miserable because the heat was dry and, if you didn’t run around and do a whole lot of things, you didn’t even sweat. Men tend to run around after things and to see things and heaven only knows what all distracts them. Well, what all else.

At the main house, there was Tolly, who was the cook. He did the shopping and organizing and made up the menus. He’d been doing that as long as Chancy remembered.

The meals were always superb. He would listen if something else was wanted.

In that first week, Cliff said, “This pie is great. How about an apricot pie?”

And it was on the table the next day. There was exactly enough of the fruit. The crust was crisp. It was perfect. But then all of Tolly’s foods were done just right.

The people who cared for the crew ate at the house, together, as a family. All were at the round table on the enclosed side porch including Tolly, the cook, and Jim, who did the yard and kept the fruit trees and the flowers just right. And there was Tom, who did the barn and took care of the horses and of course the chickens.

The chickens were allowed their freedom, and they lay eggs just about anywhere. Egg hunting was a challenge and entertained Tom in just finding the nests.

When Cliff questioned the freedom of the chickens, they all replied in a babble that with the chickens ruling their own lives, the eggs were better.

That was probably so. Cliff had never eaten such well-presented foods.

And Cliff found Chancy was a serious distraction. He thought of her at odd times. She apparently didn’t see him as a potent male. That was very different. He wondered if she was flawed.

She never wore a dress. Why not? She’d cut her hair into such a short bunch that she could pass for a teenage boy. Naw. Her chest was female. Even trying her darnedest, she couldn’t ever get past that. But she looked like she was trying to be male.

How would she look in a soft gown that went along her body?

She distracted him from his work.

He began to have trouble sleeping at night.

He found reasons to take her along in his plane. That nubile woman was thrilled scary, like being in a roller coaster, when she was in the plane. And he didn’t even swoop or show off. They just went up so that she could see the overall picture of the place.

She was fascinated. She found things from a dif ferent angle, and she never oohed or aahed over his ability to fly. She accepted that he could and she just went along and was awed—by the sights. Not by him.

Once he told her in order to save himself from concentrating on her presence, “If you didn’t hang around at lunch, the guys could talk.”

And she replied patiently, “My being around keeps them aware of ladies. It’s good for them to watch their language. Then they aren’t tongue-tied when they see a woman they want to talk with.”

He nodded slowly a number of times as he considered. “How’d you know that?”

“My daddy told me.”

“Oh.”

But knowing why she was around didn’t help Cliff any in his intense awareness of her. If she wasn’t there, he could think better. More aligned. With her around, his thinking scattered away and just left his mind on—her.

Actually, it was very strange for Chancy to share the house with Cliff. And she was very conscious of his presence. She accepted the crew, the household and yard and barn people Without a tremor. Why should her radar be so aware of Cliff?

She was such an innocent.

Chancy found the occasion and seriously warmed Cliff about the cleanup crew. She told him, “Once a month, a team comes from the closest town, Uvalde, to turn the house upside down and clean everything. And I do mean everything. They never miss a thing.”

She went on, “One gets all the dogs and cats out of the house, and one learns quickly to be sure anything one cares about is tidy and put away...first. Otherwise, single socks or perfect, uh, underwear could be washed in—boiling lye? Whatever they use, it’s something horrific.”

Then Cliff found out that even everything in the kitchen was scrubbed by the cleanup crew. Tolly told Cliff, “I’ve tried to form limits with that cleanup crew, but that hasn’t entirely worked. It’s as if the crew was a swarm of grasshoppers. The entire place is blighted when pounced upon by the crew.” He moved his face as he frowned. “It’s really pretty scary.”

Chancy said thoughtfully, “That’s probably because the crew never talks. They’re sober-faced, efficient... and relentless! But they’re the best and most reliable around these parts.”

When the day came, the cleaning crew descended upon them, and it was exactly as Cliff had been warned. It was Cliffs first experience and, with the-day past and the crew gone, he was carrying around a drastically shrunken web belt. He appeared in shock.

Chancy told him gently, “You’ll quickly realize that you have to keep everything in the places you want them to be. Anything left on a chair or forgotten on the floor is in jeopardy.”

“Look at my belt.” Just his manner of speech proved that it had been precious.

So she did look. It was a belt. Getting emotional over a belt was a challenge. She put it around her own waist and commented, “It was stretched.”

Cliff frowned at her and snarled, “It’s shrunk.”

She grinned. “I’ll find you a new one and keep this one. It’s almost my size.” And she went on off as if she’d solved the whole problem.

Tolly’s food was so rich and involved that Cliff’s stomach complained. Tolly was startled when Cliff mentioned that he’d like just plain food. That was a challenge to Tolly. And he considered how one could serve—just—plain—food?

So while Tolly made the clever, indulgent bits of beauty for the others’ meals, he gave Cliff the basic foods. But, however basic, it was artistically arranged, and there were always celery tops, sliced olives or sprigs of parsley to decorate the plate.

Cliff didn’t notice, and he ate the decorations like a horse at a bush.

The next week, Cliff eased back from the table and scolded Tolly, “In another month, I’ll weigh a ton.”

Tolly dismissed that. “I don’t feed you enough to gain even two pounds.”

“I can hardly get up on Jasper. And he complains about carrying my weight around.”

Tolly pulled in the comers of his mouth and retorted, “You can’t possibly weigh any more than you did when you came here.”

“My pants have trouble zipping up.”

Tolly gasped. “Those house cleaners found your pants and washed them in lye?”

Cliff replied earnestly, “I hopc that’s what happened. I’d hate to starve myself and then find I wasn’t fattening but becoming a skeleton.”

And Tolly promised, “I’ll find out

Chancy volunteered, “Come upstairs and weigh on my scale. It’s accurate.”

Cliff looked at her naked-eyed and asked, “Your... scale?” He would get to go upstairs and see the rest of the house? Enter Valhalla? Actually see where she lay—dreaming of him? Sure.

She was saying earnestly, “I really don’t think you’ve gained any weight. You just haven’t been careful to keep your things neat and tidy.”

“In the laundry basket?”

“Oh. Well, they think they’re helping you in washing the clothes. You need to use the lock we gave you on the basket.”

“What kind of crew are they?”

“Very earnest.” She was serious. Then she was also earnest. “You didn’t see them.”

“No. I was off trying to unstick that da—recalcitrant bull. He was dragging his—belly in the mud His valuable...beily. All’s he did was bellow.”

Tom said, “We heard him,”

The rest at the table had to agree. One of the crew snorted in his laughter, but the rest were passably serious.

So Cliff went upstairs to Valhalla and was weighed. She said kindly, “It won’t be accurate just after a meal this way, but it will give you an idea of what you do weigh.”

And his weight was okay. His pants weren’t.

Cliff slid his eyes around Valhalla and memorized the layout of rooms. Then he went off down the stairs and out of the house on some ranch problem.

So Chancy took his discarded trousers to be replaced. It wasn’t a town, it was just a tent sale at a wide space in the road. They had automobile parts, tractor parts, rope and a gas tank. Just about nobody ever wanted gas. They had their own on their places. Of course, there was the occasional traveler who tried the endless two-lane highway. They were the ones who needed the gas.

In that place, the things they had on hand were jeans and shirts and wide-brimmed hats. They had boots. It was where Chancy shopped. They didn’t carry dresses. There weren’t that many women around that particular area. If they wanted dresses they went to Uvalde.

The strip shops did have other things. There were saddles and blankets and guns. The guns were not readily available. They were hidden. And they were only shown to known people from right around there. Otherwise, they were not openly a part of the stock.

Once, they’d been held up. And one of the men had been shot—for guns.

There was a big sign out on the road showing what they had and at the bottom was: No Guns.

It was a lie, but nobody that was a stranger ever saw one for sale.

Chancy showed the trousers at the place she could buy jeans. It showed the waist was a size 38.

Pete laughed. “Did you wash these.” And it wasn’t a question. Nobody, who knew her, thought Chancy was domesticated. She could well louse up anybody in any household skill.

She replied in a stilted manner, “The cleaning crew. Cliff apparently forgot to put them away.”

Pete grinned. “That crew ought to have a slice of my sales. They get me more business from them than any other way. Most people would just wear their jeans to rags. That crew gets them into new jeans regular.”

She ignored his comment and just said patiently, “Give me three pair that are actually 38 at the waist. That’ll hold him ’til he can come in for himself.”

So Pete inquired, “What d’you want me to do with these? They’re still in good shape.”

She said quickly, “I’ll take them.”

“The waist’s too big. There’s nobody out at your place that can fix these to fit.”

“I’ll wear a belt.”

That was when the word went around that Chancy was interested in Cliff, her new head. That got a lot of good smirking laughs.

Sometimes people just don’t have enough to think about.

Her face kind of pink, Chancy took Cliff’s shrunken jeans, a new web belt for him and his new pairs of jeans back to her car. She drove back to the ranch. There, she put the three trousers and the new belt in his room before he came into the house that evening.

In the meantime, she measured, cut off the bottoms of the legs on his old jeans and put them on. They were close. A belt did it. He’d never remember that once they had been his jeans.

But he did. He looked at her wearing his shrunken pants and he opened his lips to breathe more quietly. His bottom had been there. His sex had been there. She was in his pants. Boy, was she ever in his pants.

Chancy mentioned, “So you recognize your jeans?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m surprised. They don’t fit you anymore. So I cut these off. See? I can wear them.” She lifted her arms and turned around. She had a sassy backside.

She could “wear” him!

His hands were back in his pockets. They were there so much lately that the hands both thought they belonged in his pockets. Women are a nuisance.

So Cliff called his sister in San Antonio.

His sister said with an impatient sigh, “Now what.” That wasn’t a question. His sister then was silent, just waiting for—whatever. Her name was Isabel. She was a year older than Chancy. It was tough being sister to a man like Cliff. It meant a lot of phone calls from anxious females.

So Cliff told Isabel, “You need to come on out here and visit for a while. It’ll enhance your attitude and let you see how other folks live.”

“I don’t care how ‘other folks’ live!”

“This will be an expanding experience.”

And Isabel groaned, “Some woman’s after you and you want me to help you escape.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“You want me to help you with a wo—”

“This female doesn’t realize she’s actually a woman. She thinks she’s as good as any man and she tries to prove that all the time. She isn’t pushy. She just pitches in very earnestly and thinks she’s helping.”

Isabel protested, “Oh, for crying out loud!”

He gasped in admiration. “You’re cleaning up your cussin’. Somebody around I ought to know about?”

“Our parents live here also. They are underfoot. I don’t need another custodian!”

His voice level, he told Isabel, “You’re kin to me and you owe me for getting you out of that mess with Buford. Come on out here and quit moaning and groaning that way. You carry on thataway and you’d be a bad influence with an innocent girl.”

“Buford was not a mess. You just happened to come at a good time. I could have handled him with one hand tied behind my back.” And she didn’t stop but went right on, “So she’s innocent? If you think I’m going to convince her you’re a safe date, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

He sighed with great patience and told his sister, “She doesn’t know to wear dresses.”

“Uhhhhh. What does she wear?”

“Right now, it’s my old jeans.”

“What’d she—wear—before your jeans?” she asked with some intent curiosity.

“Hers.”

“She slid out of her jeans and wore yours?” Isabel gasped in riveted shock. “What all have you all been doing out there?”

“Not nearly enough.” Then he just went on, “You need to teach her how to be a girl.”

“What is she—now?”

“She was raised by a crew and her daddy. He died a couple of years ago. She doesn’t know how to be—feminine.”

“In a male crowd like that, who would? But don’t worry. She’ll come around. Kiss her.”

“Well, now, I think that’s a very good idea. But I’m not at all sure she would understand if I tried that. There aren’t any women out this way.”

“Big brother, if there is a TV out there, she’s seen a kiss. She knows what it would be. Mother says TV isn’t the innocent it once was. Try it.”

“Isabel, be a good sister and come out here and help me to help her.”

“I don’t want to come out to some hick ranch and guide an innocent into your bed. I have morals.”

“While I’m pristine and pure, I know all about your morals. I went to Fred’s that time and saved your hide. Remember that?”

“Yeah.” There was a silence. Isabel said, “I remember.” And the silence came again. She said, “I owe you. I guess. Okay. What do you want me to do?”

With great patience, he reiterated, “Come out and teach her to be a female woman.”

“Turn back the bed covers and tell her to strip?”

“Sister, sister, you’re a-way off the track. All’s I want is for you to teach her to wear dresses, maybe even use a little makeup. Help her to let her hair grow and act like a woman. And get her out of our hair! We can’t even talk natural but what she’s around and we have to watch our language.”

With her eyes then slits of suspicion, Isabel asked in a deadly voice, “Does she chew tobacco?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“On my honor.”

“You haven’t brought that honor part up in a while. Tell me what your roll is in this reforming of a neophyte?”

“So you realize she is one.”

“I want to know the ramifications. If this is a passing fancy so that she is going to sink me in a flood of tears and the weight of bystander guilt, I want to know now.”

Being underhanded and sly, he then used her nickname. He said in an honorable voice, “Is. All I ask is that you teach her to be a girl and wear dresses—”

“Good gravy.”

“When you meet her, you’ll understand. Teach her how to wear a little makeup and comb her hair.”

Suspiciously, his sister asked, “Does she have head lice?”

“The only reason I haven’t hung up the phone on you is that I have no one else to ask to help her be a lady. Or just act more female and leave us alone to talk like we want. You can be a lady when you want to. Momma did a good job on you. You are a lady.”

“Why are you asking me to do this?”

“I want her to know what a precious woman she is. Just like all the other women we men are so lucky to see and know. I want you to influence Chancy.”

“Why is she named...Chancy?”

“Her parents were—different. Her daddy named her that at birth.”

“Why.”

“I wasn’t there. I have no idea. I like her. I would like you to help her at this age. She is—”

“At...what age.”

“She’s twenty.”

“And she doesn’t wear dresses? She must be rather feebleminded.”

“No. She was raised in a different atmosphere than you. She has had no instruction in being a woman.”

“Where’s her mother?”

“As I understand it, her mother died when she was a child. I believe it was at three or four years old.”

“Awww. That would be tough.”

And that was what lured Isabel into agreeing to help out. She was a pushover for an orphan.

So Cliff asked Chancy, “Would it be okay if my sister came to visit for a while? She’s from San An-tone and never been on a real ranch. It would be interesting for her.”

Chancy’s eyes widened. “She’d come here?” She’d never had any female guests.

“If that’s okay with you.”

And with a totally stark face of panic, Chancy asked her foreman, “How do I do this? Where would she stay? I’m not sure what to do.”

And instead of taking over and deciding everything for her, Cliff was quick enough to suggest, “Ask Tolly.”

“Yes! That’s a good idea! I’ll go find him now.”

And Cliff’s eyes followed her as she went quickly from the room. It came to him that Chancy had never had female company! Think of that! For a woman.

Chancy had had no trouble finding a place for him. She’d even bought him pants. It hadn’t been any big deal. But now his sister was coming, and Chancy was absolutely thrown off kilter. She was excited. Pleased. She didn’t know what to do. Think of that. She’d never had a female guest?

That was a thoughtful several minutes, sinking into Cliff’s understanding, then he smiled a little. Isabel would handle it all. And he went off outside, whistling. Chancy would be solved by his sister. Now she’d be busy doing something female and leave the place to the men. They could talk their own way and it would all be easier.

Cliff had read Chancy’s conduct very well indeed. She was thrown for a loop. She told the cook, Tolly, “What’ll I do?”

And he asked in a superior manner with somewhat lifted eyebrows, “About—what?”

“Cliff’s sister is coming to visit. Where’ll we put her?”

Tolly was included, that way, in responsibility. So he suggested, “Upstairs in one of the vacant rooms? They are pristine, as usual. That team scrubs them down to the wood and then waxes them. Any of the rooms is ready.”

“Yes.” It was as if she hadn’t realized one of those rooms would be just right. Since she’d never had female guests, those rooms had been empty.

She would have someone else upstairs! And she smiled. She hummed. She cut flowers. That made Jim hostile and competitive. Those were his flowers.

He asked the humming woman, “What the hell are you doing? Just answer me that.”

And she blinked and said, “I’m having a guest come stay!” And she grinned widely with delight.

“Who’s he?” Jim’s eyes squinched in suspicion.

And Chancy laughed as she explained with delight, “He’s a woman!”

Jim narrowed his eyes and asked suspiciously. “One of them I’ve read about?”

“No. A real one! She’s coming to stay a while. She’s Cliffs sister!”

“Well, what do you know about that!” And he was taken aback. “Are you using the gladiolas?”

“No. I thought the bluebonnets and the firewheels with a little of the fern would be so pretty.”

He gasped in true shock, “You’d cut them bluebonnets? They don’t last! They’re fragile.”

“She’s special. Her name’s Isabel and she’s my first woman visitor. I’m so excited.”

“Don’t cut the bluebonnets ’til just before she comes. They wilt. They’re the real McCoy and they don’t take to being cut. It’s like men and bulls. Cutting takes a lot out of them.”

She sighed with great forbearance. “See if you can watch your language when my guest is here?” That was a questioning statement. It appeared to share the knowledge instead of stridently directing. She was not at all subtle.

Jim squinted his eyes and said, “You could take some of the daisies. They’ll last longer.”

And she had the gall to reply, “Tomorrow.”

The gardens were for bouquets. They had always been there. But since Chancy didn’t particularly care about bouquets, Jim had become used to his flowers being pretty bouquets—outside. To have the flowers—cut—off—thataway wrenched his heart and joggled his feeling of ownership. Chancy was intruding into his territory.

Jim followed her around gasping and protesting, and she heartlessly put bouquets into his arms and appalled him completely. The garden looked like it had mange. Like a miserable dog that had splotches of hair missing.

Inside the house, there were bouquets everywhere! Even on the backs of the toilet tanks. That was different.

At the supper table, Tolly inquired with great tact, “Perhaps there are too many bouquets?”

“No.” She was sure.

And Jim smothered a pitiful groan.

One of the hands said, “I can’t see Will.”

And she retorted, “You don’t need to see Will. Look at the bouquet.”

“I see flowers all the time, everywhere this time of the year, outside.”

And Will had to mention, “I feel like I’m laying on the ground, half dead, and on my way out of the universe. It’s like a funeral.”

Chancy was snippy. “It’s a welcoming to a visitor.”

“This woman. What’s she like?” And their eyes squinted with suspicion.

Cliff replied, “She’s my sister.” He’d already called her and warned her about the flowers. He’d told Isabel, “Be kind. She’s very pleased you’re coming. The flowers are overwhelming. Be tactful.”

His sister had sighed and replied, “Somewhere along the years, you’re going to repay me this time I’ll be with her.”

And Cliff said something stupid. He said, “You’ll love her.”

Any man saying that to any woman sets her back up—just like that! Men are unpredictable and almost always stupid. No tact. None at all!

Three

Chancy was up half the night being sure everything was clean and neat and tidy. With their cleaning crew, her effort was useless. But she needed to know if the flowers were still alive. She about drove the bouquets beyond retrieval. She fiddled and arranged and poked at them so much. Too much.

But she won Cliff’s heart. That realization depressed him. He wasn’t ready to be won. He was just barely thirty.

He had some years yet to play and look and decide for himself. It wasn’t in his cards to be won this soon without a little more sampling and fooling around. He sighed and was bitter.

He moved in his bed and was glad his bed wasn’t above hers because, this way, she couldn’t hear his restlessness. If she did, she’d smile a sly smile knowing he lusted for her.

He listened but there was no sound at all from upstairs. She was probably out cold. What other ‘she’ was there? He sighed with remorse to be caught so young.

Of course, he was only just thirty. That was a little long in the tooth to be caught by a woman who was only twenty years old. Barely. Yeah. He wanted her bare. Rubbing against him, hungry with a greedy mouth and excited hands.

She didn’t even know how to flirt. She thought all men did was work. It apparently never occurred to her to smile or slide her eyes over or brush against him.

His body got more excited at just the idea.

Whoever would ever believe a man, his age, would be locked in the big house in an apartment of his very own. How was he supposed to bond with the crew? To find out what was going on with them and where all they went when they left the place?

He didn’t yet know where the women were around there. He only knew that one woman was where he was, and she was an innocent who was excited almost witless because another woman was coming to visit!

What if she just liked—women? There were people that way. She’d never once turned her head and looked back over her shoulder at him. She’d never even brushed against him. And he gradually realized that she didn’t know how to tempt a man. It was hard to believe, but it was true. She actually did not know!

Other than just being around a man, she didn’t even know what to do...next. Now that was an interesting thing to realize.

And he wondered if any man in the entire universe had ever had to be the first to make a move on a woman. How did a man indicate that he was open to an approach? Cliff had never had to do that.

She wore his shrunken trousers. How did she dare to put her bottom into those red-hot pants? Her hands touched those pants. Her bottom was inside them. Her soft breasts pushed against his old shirt.

By George! She had one of his shirts! Now how had that happened? He’d inquire: Just what’re you doing in my shirt?

And she’d tilt her chin up and look at him over her cheekbones as she sassed: “You didn’t put it all the way into the basket and latch it. The crew had washed it, so now you can’t wear it, but it fits me.”

That’s what she’d say. She was stealing his shrunken clothes because he couldn’t wear them, but she could. It was like she didn’t have anything to wear. But she could wear his old, faded, used clothes.

Ambrose waggled and grew bigger. Ambrose. He’d named his sex when he was fourteen. At best, Ambrose was great bonding, at worse it just waggled and ached. Like now. And the monster was getting selective. It only got hot for her.

What if she wasn’t interested in him? What if she could be interested but not serious about him? What if she looked on beyond him...to another man?

Cliff became moody and pensive. There he was, and it was the perfect time for a woman to ask, “What’s the matter?” and he had to be lying there all alone. But he and Ambrose were only moody and pensive about one woman...not just a woman. That one.

He sighed and flopped over in bed and snarled at Ambrose for being so damned pushy. He heaved up out of bed and pulled on jeans and boots. Then he crowded Ambrose into where he was supposed to be and had trouble buttoning his pants.

He went outside and looked around, bare chested and restless. He stomped over to the barn, and the horses became upset and annoyed.

Tom came inside the barn with a rifle and asked; “What the hell’re you doing in here?”

And Cliff replied stonily, “I thought I heard something.” His tongue surprised him. He hadn’t realized it could be that smart, that quick.

Tom advised in a mature way, “Go back to bed. I listen. If anything happens, you’ll hear me and my outside gun making all kinds of noise.”

See? Even Tom thought of his sex as a gun. He probably called it shotgun or rifle or automatic.

Cliff turned away saying, “Sorry.”

And Tom replied kindly, “If I slept in her house, I’d have trouble sleeping, too. It’s bad enough being just this close..”

Cliff turned back in a trifle overdone surprise and asked, “What?”

But Tom just laughed. “Run around the fence area for twenty minutes and you’ll get it out of your system.”

“You think...I’m...restless?”

Tom’s eyes spilled humor. But it wasn’t derision. It was understanding. “She keeps me awake, too. Think what it’ll be like with two of them in the house. Oops, one’ll be your sister. Sorry. I’ll behave.”

“See to it.”

“Yes, sir, master, I’ll be careful.”

But Tom stood and watched Cliff. And Cliff didn’t want to go out and run around the needed area and go to bed. He went over and petted his sleepy horse.

Tom said, “You know better than to get him all steamed up and eager for a run.”

“I was just checking.”

Tom assured Cliff, “Everything’s under control... but you. Go to bed.”

And Cliff said, “I just have trouble minding a snot-nosed kid.” He gestured as he explained seriously, “Your advice is excellent, but I’m older than you, and I have trouble minding you.”

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