“I, Allyson Eileen Cabrerra, take thee Troy Michael O’Malley, to be my lawfully wedded husband …”

It wasn’t until the judge said the words that sealed the deal —“I now pronounce you husband and wife”— that Troy finally released the breath he’d been holding, and turned to take Ally in his arms. The judge hadn’t instructed them to do so, but it suddenly seemed important to kiss her. To publicly demonstrate to everyone that Ally — and the baby she carried — were now his.

He settled his mouth firmly on hers. He didn’t intend to make a big production of it … but she felt so damn good pressed up against him; her lips were so soft, she tasted so sweet, he forgot his noble intentions.

About the Author

SANDRA PAUL married her high school sweetheart and they live in Southern California. They have three children, three cats, and one overgrown “puppy.”

Sandra has a degree in journalism, but prefers to write from the heart. When she isn’t busy working as a Housekeeper, Gardener, Animal Trainer, Short Order Cook, Accountant, Caregiver, Interior Designer, Nutritional Researcher, Chauffeur, Hotline Love Advisor, Handy-woman, Landscape Architect, Business Consultant, or serving as the primary volunteer for the Rocking Horse Rescue, she loves to create stories that end in happily ever after.

Dear Reader,

Have you seen the Google guy? The tiny figure on the Google Maps site you click on and drag to the place on the map you want to view?

I have a lot of sympathy for that little dude. Because when I started plotting Ally and Troy’s story, it was as if someone grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and dropped me right in the middle of Tangleweed — a mythical town in the West Texas Hill Country.

I’ve never had an experience like that before. “I can see it all,” I told my editor. “Not only the characters, but Main Street, the rodeo arena, and especially Bride’s Price, the ranch Ally and Troy are vying for. It’s all so clear, I could draw it on a map.”

“Forget the map,” she told me. “Just write the book!” So I did.

Thank you so much for picking up The Pregnant Proposition. I hope you enoy it.

Best wishes,

Sandra Paul

THE PREGNANT

PROPOSITION

SANDRA PAUL

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedicated with love to

Leonard Novy

Thelma (Novy) Weyher

Norma (Novy) Benish

and Virgil Frank Novy.

We miss you all so much.

Chapter One

“The first step in initiating a successful breeding program is taking the time to observe the available animals. Begin by evaluating temperament as well as physical soundness, or the lack thereof …”

—Successful Breeding: A Guide for the Cattleman

From the top of the hill, Allyson Cabrerra caught sight of the black pickup as it pulled off the shimmering highway onto the graveled patch that served the old cemetery for parking. Brand-spanking-new and disgustingly expensive, the tricked-out diesel was the kind that, in the tiny town of Tangleweed, only an O’Malley would own.

Sure enough, the dust hadn’t settled around the truck’s shiny chrome hubcaps before Troy Michael O’Malley climbed out.

Ally stiffened—the involuntary reaction of all Cabrerras whenever they spotted an O’Malley—and glanced across the gleaming black casket at her four older brothers. None had noticed Troy yet. All stood with their backs to the road and boots firmly planted on the coarse buffalo grass that littered the hillside. Hats clasped in their work-roughened hands, their dark heads were bowed beneath the searing west Texas sun as they listened to Reverend Smith pray for their late maternal great-aunt, Eileen Hennessey.

“Hear us, oh Lord, in our time of sorrow and grief….”

Neither Sue Ellen Pickart nor Emma Mae Downs, contemporaries of Ally’s late great-aunt, noticed Troy, either. Sue Ellen—who enjoyed funerals almost as much as her daily soaps—had her plump face buried in a crumpled pink tissue and was sobbing so noisily even the Reverend’s deep baritone could barely be heard above her wailing. While Emma—there to cover the “event” for the Tangleweed Times—stood with wrinkled cheeks sucked in and eyes tightly closed as she concentrated on punctuating each of the Reverend’s utterances with a hearty “amen.”

Next to Emma, Janie Smith, the Reverend’s daughter, faithfully echoed the older women’s outbursts in a faint, breathless voice. Her pale cheeks reddened from the heat and painful shyness, Janie kept her eyes fixed on the toes of her flat-heeled shoes, obviously trying to avoid drawing the attention of any of those “alarming” Cabrerra brothers.

No one else had bothered to attend the funeral. The Cabrerra siblings weren’t especially social—discounting the brothers’ interactions with the single women in the county—and during the last twenty of her eighty-some years, Aunt Eileen had been a virtual hermit. So only Ally saw Troy stand by his truck looking toward the small funeral party before he retrieved a bunch of yellow flowers from the cab.

Then, slamming the door shut, he headed toward the cemetery gate.

Ally tried to ignore him, to concentrate on her feelings for her late great-aunt, but her emotions were regretfully vague. The sad truth was, Aunt Eileen had always kept an emotional distance from everyone when alive, and death hadn’t brought her any closer. Troy, on the other hand, was moving much closer. From the corner of her eye, Ally watched him as the Reverend droned on.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

“Amen!” declared Emma.

“Amen,” whispered Janie.

“Boo-hoo!” sobbed Sue Ellen, sniffing.

“I will fear no evil….”

Ally “amened” absently with the other women as the Reverend paused, but her attention remained on Troy. She didn’t fear him, of course—but only a fool took their eyes off a moving snake. This snake, she noted, had a hitch in his step, most likely a legacy from the awkward way he’d fallen when bull riding at the rodeo last Saturday, after beating out her second oldest brother Kyle by six points.

“In the presence of my enemies …”

“Amen!”

“Amen.”

“Boo-hoo!”

“I will trust in the Lord….”

You certainly couldn’t trust an O’Malley, Ally reflected, unless maybe you were one. Troy and his grandfather Mick were pretty tight; she’d give them that much. And although Troy’s second cousins had all moved out of state, they flocked back to the O’Malley homestead every Christmas, as faithful as geese migrating to a favorite pond.

Troy must have come to place flowers on his family’s plot, Ally decided, as he strode toward well-tended grave sites surrounded by a wrought-iron railing. Like the Cabrerras, generations of O’Malleys were buried up and down the hillside, including Troy’s parents. But when Troy didn’t even pause to glance at the elaborate headstone on his parents’ grave—located a bare ten feet from the more modest one that marked her own parents'—Ally tensed again.

He can’t be coming here, she thought, as he continued through the maze of older grave sites that bordered the cemetery. Troy might be arrogant, but she’d never thought he was stupid.

Apparently, she’d overestimated his mental abilities, because Troy kept walking.

“Who shall ascend onto the hill of the Lord?” the Reverend demanded, gazing at his Bible as Troy started up the worn path toward the funeral party. “Who shall stand in his holy place?”

Not Troy, Ally decided, eying his steady approach. Or at least he wouldn’t be standing long once her brothers caught sight of him. If Kyle didn’t throw him back down the hillside, then the twins surely would. Lincoln and Luke were still pissed off about a fight they’d gotten into with Troy a couple of weeks ago in Big Bob’s Bar and Grill, resulting in a decree by the local sheriff—heartily upheld by Big Bob—forbidding the twins to return for at least a month.

“Only he that hath clean hands, and a pure heart can enter the Lord’s domain….” the Reverend declared.

A pure heart? That was something an O’Malley could never claim. Just look at how Troy’s grandfather had treated poor Aunt Eileen. And what had happened between Troy and Misty Sanderson.

“Who hath not lifted his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully …”

All the O’Malleys were deceitful, from old Mick on down;

Ally had learned that in her cradle. As for vanity—please! Troy O’Malley was so vain she was surprised he didn’t carry a full-length mirror. Yeah, he knew how attractive he was—to women whose intelligence quotient was equal to their bust size, anyway. At the Houston Rodeo last spring Ally had actually seen a woman trip over her own pink, pedicured toes and fall facedown into the sawdust when Troy threw a wicked, green-eyed glance her way.

“He shall receive blessings from the Lord…. ”

And not only had Troy been blessed with good looks, he’d been blessed with the money to play them up, as well. When bull riding he wore the usual cowboy outfit of Western shirt and Wranglers, but today he was dressed, as Aunt Eileen would have said, fit for a funeral or Sunday dinner. His charcoal-gray suit made his broad build look leaner and taller. His white shirt was crisp, his hand-tooled boots polished. He made Ally conscious suddenly that none of her brothers, in their well-worn jackets, looked half so slick. That beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat her dark hair needed cutting and her navy-blue dress—bought for her high school graduation six years earlier—had never been very becoming to begin with.

Her eyes narrowed on Troy’s tanned face, which was shadowed by his expensive gray Stetson, as he reached the top of the rocky path. A hot flush of resentment swept over her. It wasn’t a person’s clothes that were important, but what kind of person they were, she told herself. Still, she wished she’d taken more time with her appearance. Because apparently not content with the ill will that already existed between their families, for the past year Troy had elevated the conflict to a more personal level—needling Ally every chance he got. And, oh, how she hated supplying him with ammunition.

Irritably, she swatted at a gnat hovering by her cheek, and at her movement, Troy looked up. Their gazes locked. For a second he remained inscrutable as his green eyes flickered over her face. Then he smiled, his expression shifting to the slightly mocking look Ally knew all too well.

She scowled in return, and Troy’s smile broadened. Ally must have made a disgusted sound, because Janie glanced at her questioningly, then followed her gaze as the Reverend concluded.

“Amen!” intoned Emma Mae.

“A-man! I mean, amen!” gasped Janie, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

“Boo—Oooooh!” wheezed Sue Ellen, her plump face brightening as she, too, caught sight of Troy.

Kyle’s head had jerked up at Janie’s gasp. He turned—stiffening at the sight of an O’Malley approaching. Without removing his gaze from Troy, Kyle elbowed Linc hard in the ribs. Linc stumbled against Luke, who slipped on the rocky hillside, his arms flailing briefly before he regained his balance.

Ally winced, amazed as always that her leggy brother could be so graceful in the saddle, and so awkward standing on his own two feet. But Luke’s clumsiness was forgotten as she caught sight of her oldest brother’s face as he, too, glanced back at Troy. Although all the Cabrerras had their Latino father’s black hair and golden skin, they’d inherited their Irish mother’s eyes—a dark true blue. But in the harsh sunlight, Cole’s narrowed gaze looked like slits of frozen blue ice.

For once, the Reverend appeared speechless. Silence fell on the small group, broken only by the sound of cicadas buzzing in the bushes and Sue Ellen’s wheezy breathing.

“What are you doing here, O’Malley?” Cole finally demanded.

“Paying my final respects to Miss Hennessey,” Troy replied, moving forward toward Ally, so close his broad shadow enveloped her smaller one on the dusty ground. When he removed his hat, his arm brushed hers and she edged away. He glanced down at her, adding with an exaggerated drawl in his voice, “I considered her a friend of mine.”

His challenging gaze lifted again to sweep the small party. Cole’s face hardened even more and Kyle and the twins shifted restlessly. Ally could almost feel the tension rising in the hot still air as the men eyed one another without blinking. The Reverend must have felt it, too, because he suddenly cleared his throat. His deep voice was extra-hearty as he declared, “Welcome, Troy, welcome. Now, let us all join together in reciting the Lord’s Prayer.”

Emma led the way, followed dutifully by Janie and absently by Sue Ellen, who’d forgotten to sob and was quivering with excitement as her avid gaze darted between Cole and Troy, reminding Ally irresistibly of Emma’s plump poodle eying a gourmet treat. Ally prayed along, too, and one by one the men added their voices to the mix.

They made it through the rest of the short service without incident. No one said a word, not even when Troy laid yellow roses—Aunt Eileen’s favorites—on the casket, their heavy, sweet perfume thickening the hot air and drawing the gnats their way. It wasn’t until the group had made its way down the hill that tempers flared once again.

Troy started it, of course. The O’Malleys were always starting trouble. Troy stood silent as Cole, pointedly ignoring Troy, invited the rest of the funeral party to the ranch house. But when Ally turned to follow the small group heading toward their cars, Troy caught her by the elbow to stop her.

His grasp was light, but his long fingers radiated heat, making her skin prickle beneath her sleeve. Pulling away from his grip, she shot him a suspicious look.

He stared down at her, his expression solemn for once. “My sympathy for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she responded warily.

Her cautious tone made the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly with amusement, but his tone remained serious as he said, “This isn’t the time or place to do business, but I’d like to meet with you this week. To discuss Bride’s Price.”

Before Ally could respond, Cole—who’d turned back to see what was going on—reached her side. “There’s nothing to discuss, O’Malley,” Cole stated as the rest of the party rejoined them. Taking her other arm, Cole tugged Ally farther from Troy, adding, “I told you Bride’s Price isn’t for sale.”

Troy met Cole’s stare with narrowed eyes. “Yeah, you told me that. What you didn’t tell me was that your sister’s the one Miss Hennessey left the land to.” His gaze caught Ally’s. “Didn’t she?”

She nodded and Cole spoke up again. “Ally owns the land,” he conceded, “but my aunt put it in a trust to be controlled by me until Al turns thirty or marries.” His voice dropped to a harsh, taunting tone. “She’s only twenty-four, O’Malley. Why don’t you come back in six years?”

Cole didn’t add “or when she gets married,” Ally noticed. Clearly her brother didn’t even consider that a possibility. Her glance swept the rest of the faces intently watching the exchange. Nor, she realized wryly, did anyone else.

Including Troy O’Malley. Eyes narrowing, he frowned at her brother, then bit out, “All right, if you won’t sell, then I’ll lease Bride’s Price from you.” He named a sum that made Cole’s dark eyebrows lift involuntarily in surprise and Ally’s heart leap with excitement. With that kind of money, she could—

“Sorry,” Cole said, interrupting Ally’s thoughts. He didn’t look sorry, however, but grimly satisfied as he added, “But the answer’s still no.”

A muscle flexed in Troy’s square jaw. “That parcel is O’Malley land. You know it and I know it. Now that Eileen’s gone, it’s time to return it to its rightful owners.”

“All I know is that your grandfather deeded that land to my great-aunt and it now belongs to our family,” Cole said.

“He only gave it to her because they were betrothed.”

“He gave it to her as a gift,” Ally corrected Troy before Cole could reply. “There were no strings attached.”

Troy spared her an impatient glance. “He was expecting to marry her.”

“I see,” Ally said thoughtfully. “So Mick was actually giving himself a gift. How like an O’Malley,” she drawled, and watched Troy’s scowl darken. Pleased by the sight, she added, “Rather stupid of him to cheat on her, then, wasn’t it?”

This time the look Troy returned was longer. “Men often do stupid things when it comes to women.”

“I certainly won’t argue with an expert on that,” Ally answered.

One of the twins snickered, while Sue Ellen gasped excitedly. Emma clucked her tongue.

But Troy merely stared at her a moment longer, silently promising future retribution, before his gaze shifted to Cole. He gave a shrug. “What’s past is past. It doesn’t have any bearing on my offer to either buy or lease that land—offers you’d be wise to rethink, Cabrerra.”

“Oh, yeah?” Cole drawled, widening his stance and placing his hands on his hips. “Why’s that?”

“Because from what I hear you’ve spread yourself thin lately, financially speaking, and can use the money.”

Cole didn’t like that; Ally could tell by the way his voice grew soft. “Where’d you hear that?”

“From a mutual friend,” Troy drawled, his tone just as soft and even more taunting than Cole’s had been.

The mutual friend, Ally knew, had to be Misty. Apparently her oldest brother knew it, too, because for a second, sheer hatred burned in Cole’s icy eyes. He took a step in Troy’s direction. Troy stepped forward to meet him, and funeral or no funeral, there would have been a fight—Ally was sure of it—but the Reverend grasped Cole’s arm, holding him off.

Cole didn’t resist the Reverend, but he didn’t look away from Troy’s steady gaze, either. “Later, O’Malley.”

Troy nodded. “Yeah, later.” With a final, mocking look at Ally, and a polite tilt of his hat to the other women, he headed toward the parking area.

The other men slowly followed, while the women stood in silence, watching until Troy climbed into his pickup.

“Well, thank goodness that’s over, and without violence, too,” Sue Ellen said, disappointment heavy in her quavery voice as Troy’s truck spewed gravel pulling out of the tiny lot, and sped to the highway with small tornadoes of dust churning behind its oversize tires. She heaved a sigh, then patted Ally’s arm as they started walking toward the cars again. “You are so lucky, dear, to have four brothers to watch out for you!”

“You certainly are!” Emma stated.

Ally wasn’t sure she agreed. She planned to talk to Cole as soon as possible concerning the decisions he’d made—without consulting her, thank you very much!—about Bride’s Price. But for the next two hours she was too busy playing hostess, serving up the tuna-and-pea casserole Emma Mae had brought and making sure everyone had plenty of coffee and second helpings of Sue Ellen’s famous peach cobbler, to even try to catch Cole alone.

After eating, everyone remained in the big kitchen talking around the scarred mahogany table that had once been Ally’s mother’s pride and joy. Glad the meal was over, Ally pushed her chair from the table and stretched out her legs, slouching as a wave of weariness swept over her.

Like many of the homes in the area, the Cabrerra ranch house was built of thick limestone blocks, excavated by the earliest settlers well over a hundred years ago. A bathroom complete with claw tub had been added in the thirties; a gas stove had replaced the wood-burning one in the fifties. Since then, not much else had been done to the place. Ally had worked hard the past week, cleaning the ranch house and trying—with limited success—to brighten the old kitchen by bringing in flowers and replacing the dingy curtains with crisp white ones she’d bought with money skimmed from the grocery allowance. Nothing, however, could hide the chips in the yellow tile counters, or the battered condition of the cupboard doors.

When she caught Emma Mae looking critically at the cracked linoleum on the floor, Ally said a shade defensively, “We’re redoing the whole kitchen, you know. Right after the next stock sale.”

Cole frowned at her across the table, shaking his head, and Ally tilted her head inquiringly in return. Did he want their plans to remain a secret for some reason? If so, tough luck, because Emma declared bluntly, “I’m glad to hear it. This house can use some updating,” and if Emma knew something—not to mention Sue Ellen—the whole town would soon know about it, too.

Perplexed by Cole’s strange behavior, Ally remained silent as the conversation rambled from the sorry state of beef prices, to the never-ending heat, to the merits of the new computer that Cole had recently purchased to replace their old model. Only half listening, Ally was jerked from her thoughts when Emma announced she’d set up a Web site for the town.

“A Web site?” Ally repeated. She glanced at the older woman in surprise. “I didn’t know you were hooked into the Internet.”

“I’m not. My computer is too old. I set the Web site up on the one the O’Malleys donated to the town library. Janie helped me,” Emma said, nodding at the younger woman—an action that caused Janie’s cheeks to turn bright pink as everyone looked her way. Ignoring Janie’s embarrassment, Emma added, “As a librarian, she knows plenty about computers. We posted all the information from the school as well as the latest issue of the Tangleweed Times.”

Ally was impressed with the women’s initiative; much less so with the O’Malleys’ generosity. Unlike Sue Ellen, who chirped repeatedly, “How kind of the O’Malleys to do something so generous, so good for the town!” she didn’t think a couple of thousand was that big a deal to a family worth millions. But, oh, what a difference a few thousand could make in her own life!

Possibly the Reverend had the same thought in regards to the new roof the church needed, or maybe—like Ally—he noticed the way the Cabrerra males all fell silent at the name O’Malley. In either case, he announced he and Janie needed to get home, and the small party quickly dispersed.

Guests gone, the Cabrerra brothers disappeared, too. Lincoln and Luke went to the barn to tinker with a broken ATV water pump, while Kyle rode out to check on the stock in the south pasture. Cole, as he did every evening, retreated to the study.

Ally was left with the cleaning up. She glanced around the kitchen, shaking her head, her mouth tightening. When needed, she helped brand, sort, feed and work cattle. She knew how to shoe the horses and mend a fence. But while it would never occur to any of her brothers to stand idly by while she worked outside on the ranch, it also never occurred to any of them to volunteer to pitch in with the often less physical but more tedious chores in the house. And lately when she asked for help, their attitude was so much of someone doing her a favor, that she preferred to just do it all herself.

So she set to work putting away the leftover food, wiping the chipped tile countertops and table and doing the dishes. Once finished, she hesitated, absently straightening the damp towel hanging beneath the farmhouse sink as she glanced out the window. The searing sun was setting, easing the harsh daytime heat. She longed to saddle up old Boomer and go for an evening ride, explore the dry riverbed or maybe catch up with Kyle to check the progress the boys had made mending the fence in the southwest pasture. Instead, she put a slice of cobbler on a plate and resolutely headed in search of Cole.

When she reached the study, she paused, leaning her shoulder against the doorjamb. Seated behind their father’s big carved desk, her oldest brother was staring unseeingly out the window at the same view she’d admired a few minutes earlier. Although evening had edged in, the light filtering through the wavy glass was still bright enough to highlight the faint lines etched beside his eyes, the creases in his lean, tanned cheeks and the stern set of his mouth.

He wasn’t smiling; he rarely smiled anymore, Ally realized. He’d always been rather serious, but at least he used to be more approachable. It had been big brother Cole whom Ally had run to after their mother had suddenly died in a horseback riding accident when Ally was only four. And twenty-year-old Cole who’d comforted her when their father, after a long heartrending battle, finally succumbed to lung cancer when she was fourteen.

Remembering those dark times, Ally sighed, and Cole glanced at her. His blue eyes softened as he saw the plate in her hands.

“Come to fatten me up, Al?” he asked as she walked toward him.

“I noticed you didn’t have dessert earlier.” She set the plate on a pile of papers littering the big desk. “And you might as well enjoy some while you can, because when we start the kitchen remodeling—”

“Actually,” Cole interrupted her, “I wanted to talk to you about that. We’re going to have to wait with the kitchen.”

Ally sank in the chair in front of the desk to stare at him in dismay. “Why?”

“Because we just don’t have the money right now to start a major project on the house.” Reading the disappointment in her expression, he added apologetically, “I was going to discuss it with you, but I just couldn’t seem to find the right time.”

Her lips tightened. “You mean you couldn’t find the right way to tell me that the new kitchen that was so all-fired important when you were planning on bringing a wife home became considerably less so when it came to your sister.”

“That’s not the way it was at all,” he said, deep voice sharpening defensively. “I knew we had to have a new computer—” he nodded at the machine that sat center stage, glowing softly on the broad oak desk “—but I didn’t expect to have to replace the engine on the pickup this year as well as get another baler. You know we can’t do without either of those, and the new computer will make charting the breeding records, as well as doing the books, a hundred times faster and easier.”

“And buying a new stove and dishwasher would make my work a hundred times faster and easier, too.” Ally shook her head in frustration. “For goodness’ sake, Cole, the oven door falls off every time I open it too far. Do you know how hard it is to pull out a pan of hot biscuits with one hand, while trying to keep the oven door on with the other?”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” He sighed, running a hand through his thick dark hair. “I’ll get Luke or Linc to weld a new hinge on it. And as soon as we can afford it, I’ll buy you a new stove. I promise.”

Ally wasn’t impressed with his assurance. “If you let Vorquez go, we could afford the stove right now.”

Ally knew that George Vorquez, the land claims man Cole had hired to prospect for oil, was one of the most respected geologists in the county. But if their father, who had the Circle C tested years ago, hadn’t met with success, she doubted they’d have any now.

But Cole’s jaw tightened. He picked up his fork and moodily stabbed at the crust of the cobbler. “Oil’s there, Al. I know it is.

It just takes time and a bit of money to find it. And then we’ll be richer than we ever dreamed of being.”

“So instead of putting in a new kitchen, you’re taking a gamble that we’ll find oil.”

“It isn’t a gamble, Ally,” Cole said firmly. “It’s an investment.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Ally refused to argue with him on a subject she knew he wouldn’t budge on. “The point is, Cole, you’re not being fair to me.”

“I said we’ll fix the stove—”

“Yeah, when someone gets around to it.” Her lips compressed. “Besides, it’s not just that. It’s other things, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like.” She tried to think of a recent example. “Like when you got the cell phones. You gave one to Kyle, one to each of the twins and kept the other one for yourself. Without discussing it with me at all.”

“I wasn’t trying to slight you, Al. The plan just came with four, so I handed them out to the boys, and figured you could share with me.”

“I don’t want to share with you. I want my own.”

“But why? Who are you planning on calling?”

“No one,” she admitted, giving up on the battle. “And there’s no one planning to call me.”

His face softened. “Sure there is. Tell you what—you can have the cell. I’ll share with Kyle.”

She looked at him helplessly. He just didn’t get it. The problem was, she didn’t want to always feel like Cole—or the others—were doing her a favor. She wanted them to recognize that she worked just as hard as they did. That she’d earned her share.

“It’s not the phone, Cole. It’s that you don’t treat me like an equal. You don’t discuss anything with me. Not anything concerning the ranch or the house. Not even Bride’s Price.”

Cole’s frowning eyes lifted to meet hers. “What about it?”

“Don’t you think you should have consulted me before refusing Troy’s offer?”

Cole shifted his gaze back to the cobbler. He gave it another poke. “No.”

“That’s my land, Cole.”

Setting his fork aside, he lifted his dark eyebrows as he met her eyes once again. “No one says it isn’t. But I’m the one Eileen put in charge to look out for your best interests.”

Ally folded her arms across her chest. “And that’s what you were doing today? Protecting my interests?”

“Of course. What else would I be doing? We need that grass for the herd.”

“Don’t give me that. We have more than enough range for the herd we’re running now. You know and I know that if anyone else had wanted to lease that land, you would have agreed in a red-hot minute. The only reason you refused is because it was Troy O’Malley.”

Cole’s stern mouth curled in a grim smile. “Seems like a good enough reason to me.”

“Well, not to me.”

His smile faded and his blue gaze narrowed on her face. “Since when have you become so concerned about Troy O’Malley?”

She gave a short laugh, waving a dismissing hand at the thought of mocking green eyes. “I’m not concerned with him at all. What I want—what I need—is that money he offered. To put my own plans into action.”

“What plans?”

“To move into Eileen’s house.”

Cole snorted. “You’re kidding me. Why would you want to move out there?”

“To be able to do what I want.”

Genuinely perplexed, Cole frowned at her. “That’s ridiculous. What can you do at Eileen’s house that you can’t do here?”

I could paint the place pink, hang lace curtains at all the windows if I decide to, without anyone groaning about it. I wouldn’t have to clean up constantly after four messy men. I could put on lipstick and eye shadow—experiment with makeup—without being teased that I look like a rodeo clown. I could take hour-long baths without an irritable male pounding on the door asking “Have you died in there?” And I could go out on dates, stay out all night if I choose to, without one or all of my four brothers intimidating the hell out of the poor guy I’d gone out with.

She was fed up with being the fifth, inferior Cabrerra brother, Ally realized tiredly. She just wanted to be by herself—run her own life, make her own decisions—without any bossy men telling her what she should and shouldn’t do.

But Cole wouldn’t understand any of that; he’d simply dismiss it as female nonsense. So Ally gave him a reason he could understand. “I want to start my own business. Breeding and training horses.”

Cole’s expression tightened. “That’s a dream, Ally. There’s no money in that.” Impatiently, he shook his head. “Cattle is our concern.”

“Our major concern. I want to start a side business, breeding and training Peruvian Pasos for working herds and pleasure riding.”

“Peruvian Pasos,” he repeated flatly. “What’s wrong with good old American quarter horses?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. But I want to develop Peruvians.”

He took a deep breath, clearly summoning patience. “Fine. But we can’t afford to support two households right now, or invest in more horses. Maybe in a few years—”

“I don’t want to wait a few years, any more than you want to wait years to find out if there’s oil on our land. Not if I don’t have to. And leasing to Troy means that I don’t have to.”

“I’m not leasing Bride’s Price to Troy O’Malley.”

Ally’s spine stiffened, and her gaze narrowed on her brother’s stubborn face. “No?” she asked softly. “Is that because he’s an O’Malley? Or because he stole Misty from you?”

She shouldn’t have said it; Ally regretted the comment as soon as it left her lips. Cole jerked as if she’d slapped him and his expression turned to stone.

When he finally replied, he didn’t answer her questions but stated in a flat, hard voice he’d never used to her before, “O’Malley is not getting that lease. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Not waiting for her reply, he stood and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Ally sat for a moment, frozen in place by the force of his anger, hurt constricting her throat and causing a prickly burning behind her eyes.

Then an answering anger rose up inside her. Blinking the pain away, she glared at the closed door.

“Oh, yes, there is something I can do, brother dear,” she said softly. “I can get married.”

Chapter Two

“During the breeding season, it is wise to observe the cattle from a distance, using field glasses if necessary, to remain unseen and thus avoid influencing their natural behavior.

“Don’t hesitate to enlist the aid of other experts in this endeavor. They may have knowledge that you lack…. ”

—Successful Breeding: A Guide for the Cattleman

Resolving to marry was one thing; finding a husband quite another. Especially if all the single men in town were intimidated by your four older brothers.

Well, she simply had to overcome that obstacle, Ally decided, lying in bed that night, pondering the problem. What she needed to do was get close enough to her prospect—once she had a prospect—to explain her proposition of a temporary marriage before her brothers could chase him off. Getting dressed up would help her get close. Every woman over the age of five knew that men—like bulls—were easily distracted and attracted by clothing. Flutter a red cape—or a sexy red dress—in front of them, and they almost couldn’t help chasing it.

The trouble was, she didn’t have a red dress—or any sexy clothes—nor the money to buy some. The only decent dress she owned was her bridesmaid dress from Cole’s canceled wedding … a dress she’d never worn.

Yes, that was the answer, she decided, settling down to get some sleep. She’d return the dress and get something new.

Her brothers headed out at dawn the next morning. After they left, Ally hurried to clean up the breakfast dishes, feed the chickens and start a load of laundry—sparing a few extra moments to flush the cigarettes she found in Kyle’s pocket. Bad enough that he risked his life riding bulls; he didn’t need to risk cancer, too.

Anxious to reach Tangleweed when the stores opened, she was on the road at nine. By ten, she was arguing with Tammy Pitts, owner of Tamara’s Treasures.

“I’m sorry, I can’t refund your money,” Tammy said.

“But I’ve never worn it,” Ally told her. “It’s like new.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tammy insisted. “Not only has it been six months since you purchased the garment, it was altered. It can’t be returned.” She pushed the dress across the store counter, adding with patently false regret, “Store policy, you know. One my regular customers completely understand.”

The condescending glance she swept over Ally’s worn jeans and John Deere T-shirt—clean and green and bought on sale at the feed store—made Ally lift her chin. Ally had known Tammy Pitts (née Peale) all her life. After trapping William Pitts, a man twice her age, into marriage, Tammy had convinced her henpecked husband to let her open a boutique which—since most of the town refused to pay the prices Tammy charged—primarily served as a front for Tammy’s shopping addiction.

But when planning her wedding to Cole, Misty’d been determined to give her hometown as much business as possible. So she’d herded her bridesmaids to Tamara’s Treasures. Although the others had been dismayed by Tammy’s “hick-town slim pickin’s,” as one anorexic redhead had put it, Ally’s only dismay had been the cost of the final selection. Emptying her small savings account for a dress she’d probably wear once had scandalized her thrifty soul. But she’d bitten back her protests, not wanting to embarrass either herself or Cole in front of the other women, for whom price was obviously not a consideration at all.

Serves me right for not speaking up then, Ally thought bitterly. Because sure as stink on a cross-eyed skunk I’m going to be embarrassed, anyway, once Tammy tells everyone in town that I tried to return the dress.

Before she could grab the dress and escape, the bell above the door to the shop chimed.

Tammy directed a broad smile at the person entering. “Hello, Misty,” Tammy said, then glanced at Ally with speculative interest.

Ally turned to see Misty Sanderson hovering in the doorway, looking as startled to see Ally, as Ally was to see her. Although they were the same age, Ally had never known the petite blonde very well, since rather than the public school in Tangleweed Ally had attended, Raymond Sanderson had sent his only daughter to a private boarding school in the east.

During Misty’s engagement to Cole, the two women had become friends but Ally loved her brother—warts and all—and she couldn’t forgive the blonde for the pain she’d caused him. So neither woman had seen the other since the breakup.

For a fleeting second, Ally thought Misty would ignore her now. But after the barest hesitation, Misty smiled briefly at Ally, then returned Tammy’s greeting with a casual hello.

“I’ve come to pick up that jacket I ordered. Has it come in yet?” Misty asked Tammy as she walked toward the counter.

“Oh, yes. It’s in the rear.” Tammy’s inquisitive gaze flicked from Misty’s face to Ally’s, before she added with obvious reluctance, “I’ll go get it.”

As soon as the sharp tippety-tip-tap of Tammy’s high heels faded in the back room, Misty turned to Ally, asking politely, “How are you, Ally?”

“I’m fine,” Ally responded in the same tone. “And you?”

“Doing great,” Misty said emphatically, widening her lips in a smile that didn’t quite reach her dark brown eyes. “I’ve been busy, what with—” Her smile faltered as she recognized the dress on the counter. “Oh! It’s your bridesmaid dress.” She looked at Ally, tilting her head questioningly. “Why did you bring it here?”

“I’m returning it,” Ally said bluntly, as she started to bundle the blue froth of material into her arms. Not bothering to soften her tone she added, “I don’t need it, after all, since there’s never going to be a wedding. Not between you and Cole, anyway.”

Misty stared at her while the tippety-tip-tap signaling Tammy’s return grew louder. Then suddenly her face crumpled. She whirled toward the door.

Shaken by the raw anguish in Misty’s eyes, Ally dropped her dress to chase after her. Misty sped outside and Ally reached the door just as Tammy called out, “Wait! Where y’all going?”

“To get coffee.”

She caught up with Misty in front of Virgil’s Hardware two stores away, and grasped the other girl’s arm to stop her, aghast at the sight of the tears on Misty’s cheeks. Misty had always appeared so sophisticated and in control to Ally. And smiling— Ally couldn’t remember a time when perky Misty had been sad or upset. But Misty was definitely upset now. Sobs shook her slender shoulders as she leaned against the hardware’s brick siding, tears seeping from beneath the trembling hand she’d lifted to cover her eyes.

Ally felt terrible. “I’m sorry, Misty,” she said softly. Not knowing what else to do and afraid Tammy would appear at any moment, she added, “Look, can we go someplace and talk? Have coffee?”

Misty hesitated, then nodded.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Ally steered the smaller girl toward the truck she’d parked a few yards away. Ally unlocked the passenger door for Misty to climb in, then went around to the driver’s side. Once inside, Ally rolled down her window to relieve some of the relentless heat, and Misty listlessly followed suit as Ally started the motor and put the truck in gear. They traveled the four blocks up Main Street to Daisy’s Diner, passing the Deer Processing Plant and the bank without exchanging a word.

When they reached the diner, Ally parked beneath a withered pecan growing by the curb. The shade of the tree was welcome, easing the heat, and for a minute or two after Ally cut the motor, the two sat while a hot breeze drifted through the cab, Misty cried, and Ally tried to decide what to do.

She glanced over as Misty sat up a little straighter to open the handbag in her lap. The blonde fumbled around inside, then pulled out a tissue to stem the tears still trickling from her eyes. It didn’t help; the tears kept coming, and the sight of her obvious distress finally shattered the reserve Ally’d been determined to maintain.

“If you still care so much, Misty,” she blurted out, “then why did you break up with him?”

“Is that what he said?” Misty whipped around to face her so fiercely that Ally shrank involuntarily against the door. “That I broke up with him? Because if he did, your brother is nothing but a liar!“

The door handle was gouging Ally’s back but she stayed put, alarmed by the hot flare of anger in Misty’s eyes. “Yes—well, no. Cole never talked about it. I just assumed—”

“You just assumed I was the kind of woman who would dump a man on a whim weeks before the wedding.” Misty’s lips quivered and she pressed them firmly together. “Well, I didn’t. I love—loved Cole with all my heart. There was nothing I wanted in this world more than to be his wife.”

The sorrow in Misty’s voice, the hopeless yearning in her face, was unmistakable.

Ally said helplessly, “But I know Cole loves you….”

“Apparently not.” Bitterness tainted Misty’s sweet Texas twang as she added, “Or at least, not enough to marry me.”

“But he does, I know he does,” Ally insisted. “I just don’t understand why he broke up with you.”

“Oh, don’t you? Well, his excuse was Troy O’Malley.” Misty blew her little nose defiantly. “He refused to believe me when I assured him there’s nothing at all romantic between Troy and me.”

She must have seen the doubt on Ally’s face because she added impatiently, “Yes, there’s a bond between us. After all, Troy’s father was killed in the same car accident as my mother, and that’s always been a tragedy we shared. And he had to go away to boarding school, too. In some respects Troy’s been—been like a brother to me. But there is nothing, never has been and never will be, anything romantic between us,” she said fiercely, meeting Ally’s glance with a burning brown gaze that refused to waver. “Believe me, because I’ve never meant anything more.”

“I believe you.” Ally did—concerning Misty’s feelings, anyway. But as to how Troy might feel about Misty.

“Thank you, Ally.” Misty smiled at her and, reaching over, gave Ally’s hand an impulsive squeeze. “I just wish that stubborn brother of yours had believed in me, too.”

“Maybe if you try again—”

“I refuse to take the blame for something I didn’t do. He refused to even listen to me. He’d made up his mind and that was that.” Determined pride lifted Misty’s chin, but hurt was clear in her eyes as she added, “Besides, like I said, Troy was just an excuse. What Cole really can’t tolerate is the fact that my daddy is rich.”

Ally drew a troubled breath, unable to deny that Misty was probably right. “Cole can be stubborn,” she admitted.

“No kidding.” Misty gave an unamused laugh and swiped rather savagely at the dampness lingering on her cheeks. “I don’t know why I’m even crying over the mule-headed male. What’s past is past, and heaven knows, I have more important things to worry about like—-” Impulsively she turned to face Ally, her eyes glimmering with tears once more. “Oh, Ally, my daddy is sick. Really sick.”

Ally’s throat tightened in sympathy. “Is it his heart again?”

Misty nodded. “The doctors aren’t saying much, but—” She choked back a sob and gave Ally an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean to blurt all this out. No one knows. It would hurt his business badly—our stock would plummet even more than it has. You know how it is …”

Ally nodded. She did know. Raymond Sanderson was his company. Without him, Sanderson Technology would most likely cease to exist. “I’m sorry.”

Misty forced a smile. “No, I’m sorry—about crying and all. It’s just, since I can’t talk to anyone about it, I guess I get scared sometimes and feel kind of alone—but Daddy will be fine,” she said stoutly. “I know he will.”

“I’m sure he will, too,” Ally agreed, with more certainty than she felt. “And you can talk to me anytime. Really. I promise I won’t say a word, not to anyone. But, Misty, if Cole knew you’re having trouble—”

“No!” Misty turned fierce again, her petite figure immediately stiffening. “If he didn’t want me before, I certainly don’t want his pity now.”

Ally understood how Misty felt. If Cole loved Misty—and Ally was sure he did—then it was up to him to reach out to her.

But she felt sorry for Misty. Losing a parent was hard at any time, but Misty was all alone. At least Ally had had her brothers. Especially Cole.

“I just don’t know what’s gotten into Cole lately,” she said, worrying aloud.

“What do you mean?” Misty asked, her dark eyes still bright from her tears.

Ally hadn’t intended to tell anyone about her plans to gain control of Bride’s Price. But her remorse at hurting Misty, her sympathy about Misty’s father and the knowledge that the other woman cared about Cole and had confided in her, had Ally explaining her own dilemma in return.

By the time she finished, Misty was wide-eyed with amazement. “You really intend to do it? Ask some guy to marry you?”

“What other choice do I have?”

“None, if Cole won’t budge—and I doubt that he will. But still … how long do you need to stay married?”

“I’m not sure,” Ally admitted. “Not long at all if Cole gives in, I suppose. If he doesn’t, then at least long enough for him to legally be removed as trustee for Bride’s Price. Whether that happens immediately upon the marriage, I don’t know. Do you?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Misty admitted.

Ally sighed. “I guess I’ll have to find out from a lawyer.

Before I do that, I want to line up some guy to help me out. Maybe, if he sees I’m serious, Cole will back down and I can save the lawyer’s fee.”

“Or Cole’ll convince the guy to back down,” Misty prophesied dryly. “Or one of your other brothers will. You have to admit, they can be formidable.”

“Yeah, but I’m hoping money might make the difference. I thought I’d offer some of the lease money Troy’s willing to pay as incentive to my prospective groom.”

Misty looked impressed. “That’s a good idea. Who are you thinking of asking?”

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe Dave Sarten.”

Misty shook her head. “He just got engaged to Pam Watkins. What about Jack Ryder?”

“He got a job managing a ranch up in South Dakota. Left last week. I was thinking maybe Travis Wesley …”

“Nope. He’s got a steady girlfriend in Abilene. Buck Boulter might do it, except—”

“He’s good friends with Cole,” Ally finished for her.

They lapsed into gloomy silence, staring out the bug-splattered windshield. The cab was hot and smelled like cigarettes, gasoline and rotting vegetables—not too overwhelming when driving, but not especially pleasant when sitting in the blazing sun.

Misty picked up a crumpled fast-food bag by her feet. She looked inside, and wrinkled her nose. “So that’s what stinks. These fries are just about petrified. Ally, your brothers—”

“I know,” Ally said glumly, batting at a fat fly that wandered in. “They’re all slobs.”

Misty tossed the bag over the seat. “You let them get away with too much. You need to—” She tensed, her eyes widening as she stared past Ally’s shoulder at someone across the street. “Hey, Ally! What about him?”

Ally turned and lifted her hand, shading her eyes against the sun as she studied the figure walking away. “Dwayne Cronk?” she asked doubtfully. “I guess, since he just bags groceries at the Piggly Wiggly he could probably use the money, but he always smells like cooked cabbage—”

“Not him—him! The guy who bought the Laundromat and turned it into that antique store! What’s his name? Tim? Tom?”

“Theodore—Theodore Bayor,” Ally told her, a vague memory surfacing. She squinted to read the fancy gold-and-black script scrawled on the store window across the street. “Of Bayor’s Antiques and Collectibles. What about him?”

Misty’s face shone with enthusiasm. “He’d be perfect! After all, he’s new in town, and Tammy told me that though the store’s been open two months now it isn’t making much—so he probably needs the money.”

Ally studied the man arranging a pair of silver candlesticks in the store’s front window. His face was hidden by a dark brown mustache and full beard, but judging by the thick, curly brown hair on his head and his athletic build—wide shoulders, lean hips—he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. “Are you sure he isn’t married?”

“Tammy says he bought the store with an elderly woman named Mrs. Bayor—that must be his mother, over there.” Misty pointed out a plump, gray-haired woman about seventy or so in a dark dress, standing behind a counter. “Tammy told me they’re both from California. It’s just the two of them, so he’s obviously used to working with a woman and—Oh, hide! Quick! He’s looking this way!”

The girls ducked. Misty made the move with smooth grace, but Ally’s longer legs got in the way and she whacked her knee on the dashboard. “Ouch!”

“Shush!” Misty commanded.

They stayed slouched a few seconds in frozen silence. Then Ally said dryly, “Did we really need to hide?”

Misty gave a small chuckle. “I panicked,” she admitted. “But we don’t want him to see us sit back up—that might look suspicious.”

She glanced at Ally. “Anyway, like I was saying, if he’s used to working with his mother, he shouldn’t have any problem working with you. Here—” She groped around the floor and came up with the binoculars the boys kept in the truck. “Uck! They’re sticky,” she complained. She wiped the lenses gingerly with her crumpled tissue, then held them up to her eyes to take another look. “He’s not bad-looking. At least he doesn’t resemble his mother. Why, the poor woman’s three plucked hairs short of a unibrow. Take a look.”

She passed the glasses over, and Ally peered at Theodore’s mother. Misty was right; the woman’s thick, dark brows almost met over the bridge of her long nose.

“And,” Misty added, as Ally slunk back beneath the window’s edge, “he can’t be intimidated by your brothers, ‘cause he doesn’t know them.”

“He’s met Linc and Luke,” Ally pointed out. “Luke’s the one who mentioned him awhile back. He said the new guy is pretty good at pool, so I guess he plays Friday nights at Big Bob’s. They’ve never mentioned getting in a fight with him, though.”

“There you go!” Misty exclaimed, as if that clinched the matter. “What else do you need?”

Lifting the glasses, Ally chanced another peek. He was looking the other way, so she studied his face. He had thick dark hair and nice-enough eyes, she decided. Like Misty said, not bad looking at all, unlike his mother. Ally pointed the glasses Mrs. Bayor’s way—and found her glaring back.

“Damn!” Ally quickly ducked, guiltily dropping the binoculars. “I think his mother saw me.”

Misty checked. “No. She’s still cleaning.” She glanced at Ally. “So? What do you think?”

“He’s okay,” Ally admitted. “And, anyway, beggars can’t be choosers. Do you think I should just go in there and ask him now? Forget about getting dressed up?”

“No,” Misty said decisively. “Dressing up is always good. Besides, you don’t want to corner him, especially on his own territory—and with his mother watching, too. Better to approach him on neutral ground—like Big Bob’s bar on Friday!” she declared, beaming with sudden inspiration. Then she frowned. “No, wait, you said the twins hang out there.”

“They used to. They’re banned for fighting.”

“What about Kyle? Or … Cole?”

Hearing the diffident note in Misty’s tone, Ally assured her, “Cole never goes out.” Happy to see Misty’s tense expression ease, Ally added, “And Kyle’s been going to Abilene every weekend. He must be seeing someone there.”

Misty smiled, saying again, “There you go, then. We’ll get you dressed up in something so sexy, you won’t have to approach Theodore, he’ll come to you. And even if he doesn’t, we’ll shake someone out of the woodwork,” she added on a practical note.

Ally smiled wryly. That might be true for Misty, who even with mascara smudged beneath her eyes, tearstains smeared on her cheeks, and her designer blouse wrinkled, still looked feminine and sweet. Unlike Ally, who felt sweaty and worn-out from her sleepless night. And all her T-shirt was likely to attract was a tractor fanatic. “I don’t have anything sexy. And since Tammy won’t take the dress back—”

“Oh, pooh on Tammy” Misty said darkly. “She’s never getting my business again.” Apparently forgetting they were hiding, she straightened indignantly in her seat.

Ally slowly sat up, too. She glanced toward the antique store. Mrs. Bayor was staring directly at them. Misty saw her and waggled her fingers cheerfully. Ally waved tentatively, too. Mrs. Bayor scowled harder.

Ally hastily turned toward Misty, who’d opened her door to jump out of the truck. “Let’s get some coffee, collect your dress from Tammy, and then you can follow me to my house,” Misty suggested. “I’ll lend you an outfit that’ll be so smokin', the men at Big Bob’s will gather round you like Scouts at a campfire, eager for a weenie roast.”

Ally tried to protest. “Honestly, Misty, men never think I’m hot.”

“They will when I get through with you,” Misty promised. She wrinkled her nose ruefully, adding, “You’re taller than me, but we’re about the same size other than that, I think. I have a cute skirt you can borrow, and a darling blouse. And I have a wig you can borrow, too.”

“A wig?” Ally repeated doubtfully. “Won’t that make me look like I’m in a costume?”

“Not this wig,” Misty said confidently. “It cost almost as much as a small car. I wear it all the time when my hair won’t behave and no one knows it’s a wig at all.”

“Yeah, but you’re a blonde,” Ally said, feeling compelled to point out the obvious. “I’m a brunette.”

Misty airily waved that aside. “So you’ll be blonde for a night. Believe me, nothing alters a woman’s appearance more dramatically—or gathers more male attention—than changing your hair color.” She pondered for a moment, then amended, “Except, maybe, showing off your cleavage. Or your legs. Or your bottom in a tight skirt.” She nodded decisively. “And we’ll do all that, too. Or at least—” her engaging grin dawned ”—you will.”

Panic fluttered in Ally’s stomach. “Wait a minute. I’m not sure—”

“Don’t worry,” Misty said. “When it comes to getting fixed up, I am sure. So be prepared to sizzle.”

Chapter Three
“When evaluating a bull for stud, after testicle size, the next item to consider is the behavioral health of the animal. Is he unwontedly distracted by males in the vicinity?

“A bull whose territorial instincts are overly developed will need to be kept separate from other males. Otherwise, his energy will be expended in fighting, rather than in mating….”

—Successful Breeding: A Guide for the Cattleman

Troy Michael O’Malley had a definite fondness for Big Bob’s Bar and Grill.

Not because the place was at all attractive. Like its owner Big Bob Gallarza—who couldn’t beat a bull dog in a beauty contest—the outside of the barnlike building was worn and weathered. Inside, a scarred mesquite bar dominated one end of the long, smoky room, while three billiard tables on which “Do or Die” tournaments were featured every Friday night jammed up the middle. To hide his lack of cleaning skills, Big Bob scattered straw over the peanut shells on the wooden plank floor, and diners—if eating at Big Bob’s could be termed dining—were squeezed in at small tables at the back, disconcertingly close to the doors marked “Gents” and “Gals” in chipped gilt lettering.

Yet, despite its lack of ambience, Big Bob’s Bar and Grill did plenty of business, simply by featuring the four essential “b’s” of the typical Texas male: booze, beef, babes and barbecue sauce. The booze Big Bob plunked down on his scarred mesquite bar came at reasonable prices, and the steaks were thick and reasonable, too. The majority of the rodeo bunnies perched on the bar stools were also reasonable; just out for a good time with a big-buckled cowboy.

But far and away what made Big Bob’s place really special—at least in Troy’s opinion—was the barbecue sauce. After all, booze, babes and a decent steak could be found anywhere in Texas—anywhere in the world, for that matter, from run-down cantinas in Tijuana, to exclusive resorts in the Swiss Alps. But nowhere else could a man find sauces like Hot Pecos, Lil Red’s, Risky Rita’s, Babalou and dozens more, all crowded—neck to shiny bottleneck—on Big Bob’s pint-size tables.

Seated in a shadowy corner, Troy studied the impressive array of colorful bottles before him. He pushed aside a yellow No Butts, and a blue Eagle Eye, searching for—ah, there it was!— Smokin’ Jo’s, his longtime favorite.

Picking up the tall brown bottle, Troy hefted it in his hand, gazing fondly at the smoking six-gun pictured on the yellow label. This was the sauce he’d tipped back his chair to recommend to a redhead and her two friends at a nearby table a couple of Friday nights ago. He’d been bored, and the flirty, knowing expression on the redhead’s face as she considered his sauce had boded well as a distraction for the evening.

Until Luke Cabrerra horned in with a recommendation of his own.

“Smokin’ Jo’s?” Luke had declared with an exaggerated, good ole boy drawl and an equally exaggerated lift of his eyebrows. Turning from the pool table where he’d been shooting against his twin, Luke rested his stick on the floor while he’d eyed the bottle in the redhead’s hand. With a reproving shake of his dark head, he’d said to her, “I don’t think so. Not for a sweet little thing like you. Quick Draw is more your style,” he added, reaching over her shoulder to pick up a slim green bottle. Looking at the label, Luke read as if quoting Scripture, “'Best barbecue sauce west of the Atlantic and east of the Pacific.’ Now this is a sauce with kick.”

“Kick?” Hell, if Luke Cabrerra wanted kick, Troy would be glad to oblige—by kicking the other man’s ass. Relishing the task, Troy rose to step closer to the woman, also. And when Cabrerra bent over the table to offer his selection to her, Troy leaned over the table, too, and gently but firmly pushed the green bottle aside.

“C’mon, Cabrerra,” he said. “Don’t insult the lady. She’s looking for something that’ll make her toes curl. Something hot, yet smooth and satisfying. Something that will leave her with a warm glow inside. Like Smokin’ Jo’s.”

Troy earned a flutter of the redhead’s false eyelashes and giggles from her friends in reward, but before he could press his advantage, there went Cabrerra, butting in again.

“Smooth and satisfying?” Luke snorted, leaning in closer. “Everyone knows Smokin’ Jo’s is all bitch and no bite. Why, that sauce is so thick it takes forever to get out of the bottle.”

Troy leaned in closer, too. “So?” he said softly. “Who wants a sauce that’s so weak, it pours out after one small shake?” He added deliberately, “Like yours does.”

Luke stiffened. Flinging down his pool cue, he clenched his fists, demanding through gritted teeth, “Are you saying my sauce has no staying power?”

“Ya got it.”

Cabrerra had lunged then—or maybe Troy had. He wasn’t really sure. All he knew was that by the time the sheriff arrived, beer, blood and barbecue sauce were scattered everywhere.

The redhead and her friends had scattered, too. Troy hadn’t seen her since and he had a sneaky suspicion she wouldn’t be back. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was that although Luke was a bit younger and a bit taller than Troy—and neither had ever quit swinging—Troy figured he’d won the fight. After all, as he’d pointed out to Luke as they were led away by the sheriff, Troy’s barbecue bottle had made it through the melee unbroken, while Luke’s—weak as it was—had been reduced to a thin, red puddle on the floor.

Shaking his head in remembered pity for the other man’s humiliation, Troy upended Smokin’ Jo’s over his steak and gave the bottle a couple of firm taps. Half a minute later, he administered a couple more. Okay, so maybe the sauce was thick. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—not for a man with patience. And Troy had plenty of patience. All the O’Malleys had when it came to getting something they wanted.

He hit the bottle again. Take his grandfather, for example. For more than sixty years Old Mick had waited to get back Bride’s Price from the Cabrerras. Troy was determined the old man wouldn’t wait one more year—one more month, if possible—for his lifelong goal to come true. Not only for Mick’s sake, but for Troy’s, as well.

Because ranching, like bull riding, was in Troy’s blood—what he’d been born to do. And Mick had finally—finally—agreed to honor the promise he’d made when Troy was a kid, to turn the management of the huge family spread over to Troy.

Just as soon as Troy handed over the deed to Bride’s Price.

Yep, Mick was holding up his side of the bargain. “I’ve put my lawyer on to it,” he’d told Troy just a week ago. “You’ll have controlling interest in the Running M in a couple of weeks, and as soon as you close the deal on that other damn property, I’ll tell that new foreman I hired he’ll have to move on.”

Troy slapped his bottle. Mick should have had Bride’s Price back already—would have had it if Eileen Hennessey hadn’t died before Troy had gotten her agreement to sell in black and white. Although he hadn’t expected to, the better he’d gotten to know the old gal, the more he’d liked her. They’d become friends. She’d wanted to sell to him. Trust the Cabrerra siblings, stubborn idiots that they were, to refuse to believe it.

Troy slapped the bottle harder. Smokin’ Jo’s grudgingly oozed a millimeter farther down the neck, so Troy added shaking to his tapping, keeping time to the Willie Nelson song bawling over the speakers. The bar was packed with cowboys in town for the next day’s rodeo, with even more streaming in. Still tapping, Troy glanced idly toward the entrance—just as Misty Sanderson sashayed through Big Bob’s prized swinging doors.

Troy paused in his sauce decanting, sure for a moment he must be mistaken. That it had to be some other woman with similar shoulder-length, kinda tousled-looking blond hair. He’d never seen Misty in here on a Friday night after ten before—or any other night of the week, for that matter. Misty Sanderson was downtown Dallas, not down-home Big Bob’s Bar and Grill. But the woman was dressed Misty-style in a yellow silk blouse that managed to look sexy and elegant at the same time, butt-hugging blue jeans and—to clinch the matter—cowboy boots. Misty’s alltime weakness was designer cowboy boots, the gawd-awful gaudier the better, and this little pair was made of bright blue leather, splattered with gold Texas stars. As the blonde pranced toward the bar in them, a dim overhead light slid across smooth high cheekbones, big brown eyes and an unmistakable sweet smile. Yeah, it was Misty, all right.

Unthinkingly, Troy set down Smokin’ Jo’s—thus losing the little bit of momentum the sauce had started to attain—to watch as she gestured to a woman trailing a few steps behind. Another blonde. Half a head taller than Misty but just as slim, this one’s hair was shorter, curving smoothly to just below her slender jawline. Her sleeveless red blouse was modest enough, but the denim skirt she had on was pretty damn daring—short and tight enough to raise women’s eyebrows and men’s hopes. Misty’s friend must have felt it was a little risky, too, because she tugged at the hem every few steps or so, futilely trying to pull it lower on her thighs.

Troy narrowed his eyes, studying those shapely thighs. He wasn’t much good with faces, but he was great with legs. And he couldn’t imagine forgetting those long, tanned, sexy limbs displayed to such advantage in that short denim skirt. Slender, firm thighs. Nice calves. Delicate ankles. Pretty feet in flat leather sandals that weren’t much more than soles and a couple of straps.

Yeah, he’d definitely seen Short Skirt before.

Even the way she moved seemed familiar. While Misty strode confidently ahead with that shoulders-back, chin-held-high glide she’d learned in the East Coast boarding school she’d attended, Short Skirt moved much slower. Clutching a red purse strap against her high, shapely breasts, she took each step gracefully, yet almost warily, too, as she followed her friend. Like a deer approaching a water hole at dusk during the hunting season.

And this little darlin’ had plenty of reason to tread warily. More males had noticed the women. Danny Wilson, bending to shoot at the tables, straightened and gave the newcomers a thorough once-over. Ralph Henderson, standing nearby, pulled his ball cap lower on his bald head, and hitched the waist of his Wranglers a shade higher over his paunchy beer belly. At the next table, Theodore Bayor completely missed his shot.

Misty, occupied with claiming a couple of empty bar stools next to a chubby stranger in a green plaid shirt, seemed oblivious to the rising testosterone flooding the room. But her friend remained uneasy, still looking around as she joined the smaller blonde. And when she reached her bar stool, Short Skirt hesitated a second before climbing up.

Troy grinned when she couldn’t make it on the first try. That skirt was just too damn tight. His amusement deepened as she gave a more determined hop and landed on the leather seat. While she composed herself, setting her purse on the bar and wiggling her pert butt to get more comfortable on the stool, Misty started waving a slender hand in the air as if she was bidding on a vase at a Sotheby’s auction, trying to get Big Bob’s attention. When that didn’t work, Misty stood on the rungs of her bar stool to get additional height waving even more vigorously.

His grin widening, Troy stood up to go say hi to Misty and get an introduction to her friend. But then he paused, grimaced and sat again.

His right knee hurt—had been hurting like a son of a bitch on and off for a couple of weeks. He knew he should see a doctor, but he didn’t want to know if something was seriously damaged. Not until he’d placed first in the bull riding tomorrow, anyway. Until then, he’d keep managing—quite nicely, thank you—with a few shots of whiskey or beer every night, aspirin or the occasional painkiller to numb the grinding ache.

But his knee wasn’t the only thing that stopped him from joining Misty; her expression kept him away, too. Because she looked so happy as she leaned over the bar. More carefree—more alive—than Troy’d seen her these past few months. And if Troy went over there, Misty would look at him and her smile would fade. Oh, she’d quickly replace it. But her new smile would be strained and the dancing light in her eyes would be gone, replaced by uncertainty and guilt.

That would make him angry and she’d know it—'cause he and Misty were tight and they understood each other real well. His anger would make her feel even worse, and that would make him even angrier, and so it would go, on and on.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Troy pulled out a small plastic bottle and twisted off the cap. He shook the last two pain pills into his palm, downed them, then tossed the plastic bottle aside to reach for his whiskey. Yeah, that’s exactly what would happen if he went over to Misty; he’d bet the Running M on it. Because that’s exactly what happened every time he saw her lately.

Ever since her breakup with Cole Cabrerra.

At the thought of the oldest Cabrerra, Troy downed a shot of whiskey, then another. Eyes watering, he glanced Misty’s way. The place was filling up fast, and since Big Bob had his hands full handling the orders of the people crowding up to the bar, Misty and her friend still hadn’t gotten served. Nor had anyone gotten up the nerve to approach them yet, Troy noted, although the guy in green plaid kept shooting them sidelong glances. Ralph looked ready to make his move, too. He hitched up his jeans, hitched them again and took a step in Misty’s direction—then froze with his gaze fixed beyond her at the entrance and immediately returned to the pool game.

Short Skirt chose that moment to glance at the entrance, too. And, to Troy’s mild surprise, she froze just like Ralph, then hopped off her stool. Grabbing her purse, she hurried toward the restrooms.

Troy watched her come closer, enjoying her leggy stride. Teased again by that sense of familiarity, he waited for her to glance his way. Had he seen her before? She drew nearer—he craned his neck to see her better through the smoky gloom—but with a fleeting glance toward his shadowy corner, she turned her face away and headed straight for the “Gals” room. Shoving the door open, she disappeared inside.

Disappointed, Troy glanced toward the entrance, curious to see what had spooked everyone. For a second, flannel shirts and blue denim rears blocked his view, but then the way cleared and—speak of the devil—damned if it wasn’t Cole Cabrerra standing there.

Like a heat-seeking laser, Cabrerra’s gaze locked on Misty’s slender figure and he started toward her. No one got in his way. One quick glance at his angry scowl had even Big Bob, who was built like a Brahman bull, moving quietly to the other end of the counter.

Cole reached Misty in less than five seconds flat. He tapped her shoulder, she turned—and for an unguarded second her face lit up. Troy’s chest tightened. Then Cole said something, and her expression changed. She looked—well, desolate was the word that came closest in Troy’s mind. Once again he started to rise, to go over to her. But before he could push his chair back, Misty’s expression altered again and she straightened abruptly. Indignation radiated from her small figure. Since she was still standing on the rungs of the bar stool she just about met Cabrerra eye to eye. Her slim brows lowered, her hands fisted on her hips, and she started talking. Troy couldn’t tell what she was saying—the distance was too great and the crowd and country music were much too loud—but judging by the outrage on her face and the way her lips kept moving, Misty Sanderson was on a roll.

In less than fifteen seconds she’d wiped off Cabrerra’s menacing expression; in fifteen more she had him backing up a step. When he tried to interrupt, Misty talked faster and lifted a slender finger to poke him in the chest.

Grinning, Troy picked up Smokin’ Jo’s and started tapping the Short Skirt had disappeared again. Misty and Cabrerra were still going at it—at least, Misty was still talking and Cabrerra, scowl darkening, was still taking it. Misty’s lips kept moving and her finger kept poking—until Cole abruptly caught her hand in one of his and put his other over her mouth.

Troy shook his head, wincing involuntarily. If Cole were to ask him—not that a Cabrerra ever would—he’d tell him that he was practically begging to get bit. As Troy had learned at a very young age, it wasn’t wise to put your hand anywhere near an angry female’s mouth.

Troy watched Misty’s eyes narrow, then he speared a bite of sauce-drenched steak with his fork. He chewed, the spicy barbecue burning his tongue, and waited hopefully.

But before Misty could sink her small white teeth into him, Cole leaned close and whispered something in her ear. Above Cole’s palm, Misty’s eyes widened, then narrowed with anger. She shoved Cole’s hand away and answered him right back—and whatever she said certainly shut Cole up. In fact, he was still staring at her in dumbfounded surprise when Misty jumped off the bar stool, grabbed his wrist and her purse, and started towing him toward the door.

Cole followed her willingly. More shouted advice followed their progress, but Misty didn’t pause and neither did the big man behind her. They left to the accompaniment of hoots and hollers without once looking back.

Disappointed at the outcome of the argument, Troy was staring broodingly at the swinging doors when a movement near the restroom distracted him. He glanced over as Short Skirt peered out again, then warily emerged, keeping her face averted. She headed toward her seat, her graceful walk holding Troy’s undivided interest. He smiled a little as this time she gave enough of a jump to make it up on her bar stool on her very first try. Big Bob paused in front of her to point to the door, obviously telling her where Misty had gone. Troy expected Short Skirt to leave, also, but instead, she laid her purse on the bar and reached for the beer Big Bob slid in front of her.

Troy looked around and realized he wasn’t the only one watching her. Seeing her sitting alone caused a fresh ripple of interest in the room. Danny Wilson—with a casual attitude that didn’t fool Troy for a second—abandoned his pool game to swagger in her direction, and ended up in Misty’s abandoned seat, acting as if he’d just landed there by accident and wasn’t aware of the slender blonde next to him at all. His white, chipped-tooth smile widening, Danny settled in, signaling Big Bob for a beer. It wasn’t the first time Troy had seen Wilson in action. Danny worked the circuit as a rodeo clown, and in Troy’s opinion, no one was better at drawing the attention of a maddened bull in the ring. Or, it seemed, a pretty woman in a bar, he mentally added, as Danny smiled at Short Skirt and she smiled back.

Time to get moving, Troy decided. Setting down his whiskey glass, he rose, then stood swaying for a few seconds, waiting for the sharp pain in his knee and the dizziness in his brain to ease. When they did, he carefully made his way to the bar—just as Dan leaned over to say something to the woman.

“Hey, Dan,” Troy drawled, interrupting the other man in midsentence.

Dan glanced his way. “Troy,” the cowboy replied with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

Troy didn’t take it personally. The two men were friends, but no man feels friendly to another when he’s trying hard to pick up a good-looking woman, and this blonde was mouthwatering.

Troy studied her as Big Bob slid two long necks on the counter. From across the room, she’d looked attractive. Up close, she was stunning. The lashes resting against her cheeks were thick and dark, shielding her gaze as she stared at the bottles in front of her. Her cheekbones were well defined, her nose small and straight, her lips sweetly curved. But what really set her apart from most of the women Troy had met was her skin. Her glowing, sun-kissed skin was so finely textured it literally looked silky smooth. Touchable. He had to resist the urge to reach out, to run a finger along her smooth, honey-golden cheek.

As if she sensed his thought, she shifted a little, continuing to ignore him, her stiff posture as unwelcoming as Wilson’s greeting had been.

Troy wasn’t daunted; O’Malleys enjoyed a challenge. So he turned to Wilson. “Ready for the rodeo tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“You planning on attending?” Troy asked, peering around the cowboy to try to catch Short Skirt’s gaze.

She shrugged and turned farther away from him—a reaction that encouraged Dan to lean in closer. “You know, I didn’t catch your name,” Wilson said, smiling crookedly at her, “but I think I’ve seen you around town before. Are you a friend of Misty’s from Dallas?” he asked, lowering his voice in an effort to exclude Troy.

Troy refused to be excluded. He moved, stepping blatantly between them to clap Dan on the back. “Misty’s friend?” he repeated in a disbelieving tone. “Are you kidding me, Dan? Why, she was almost Misty’s sister-in-law. Weren’t you, Short Skirt?”

That got her. Her spine stiffened at the nickname, and she turned to meet his eyes. “Are you saying my skirt’s too short?” she asked in a dangerously level tone.

“Hell, no!” Troy stared innocently into her glowering blue gaze, then at her long, long legs. He eyed them leisurely, then let his gaze travel up to her slim waist and sweet breasts—lingered there a moment—then continued higher to meet her eyes once again.

He shook his head solemnly. “No, ma’am, not at all,” he replied. “In my opinion, your skirt’s way too long.”

Her eyes flashed; Troy repressed a grin. Damn, he loved to make her angry. He was getting ready to provoke her some more, when Dan interrupted, “What did ya mean about her being Misty’s sister-in-law?” the cowboy asked uneasily, his puzzled gaze traveling from one to the other. “Do ya’ll know each other?”

Reluctantly, Troy abandoned blonde-baiting to glance over at Dan. “Of course I know her, Dan. So do you. Surely you recognize Ally Cabrerra.”

Chapter Four

“Uninitiated heifers can present special challenges. Often they’ll spurn the male’s advances and ignore all mating cues. Usually all it takes to overcome reluctance is a simple change of environment. Minimize distractions by selecting a pen large enough for the customary chase, but small enough to ensure interaction between the breeding pair….”

—Successful Breeding: A Guide for the Cattleman

Dan reared back like a startled stallion, the whites of his eyes showing, the stunned alarm on his face identical to the expression he’d worn at the Abilene rodeo when a bull had hooked him in the butt. “Good Lord, I’ll be damned if it ain’t. How’re ya doin', Al—er, Ally? I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you for a minute.”

“That’s okay,” Ally murmured, while Troy clapped him on the shoulder, saying heartily, “Now, isn’t that downright amusing.

Why, when Cole returns—are your other brothers coming with him, Ally?—I’m sure they’ll get a kick out of the way you were trying to hook up with their little sister, Dan, without even realizing who she was.”

As a rodeo clown, Dan was accustomed to moving quickly, and Troy had to admire the speed he used to extricate himself from possible danger now. “Heck, sounds like fun,” Dan said, “talking to your brothers and all,” he added in clarification, the color darkening in his ruddy cheeks. “But I need to get home. Have to check my rigging before the rodeo tomorrow. See ya around, Ally. Troy.” He touched the brim of his hat in farewell, then disappeared quicker than fried chicken at a church picnic, his untouched beer the sole remaining testament to his presence.

Troy took off his hat, then confiscated Dan’s bar stool and stretched his bad leg out beneath the counter. He appropriated Dan’s abandoned beer, as well, tilting the long neck to his lips and taking a deep, full swallow before setting the bottle down with a sigh of satisfaction.

He glanced over at Ally. She was pretending to ignore him, focusing intently on the TV perched high behind the bar as if she’d never seen a monster truck rally before. Troy drank his beer as he studied her, unable to get over how different she looked. Her drastically lightened hair framed her slim jaw in a style Misty often wore, and she’d dyed it Misty’s color, too—a golden-wheat shade with stripes of platinum streaking through it. Her simple, sleeveless blouse dipped into a V displaying a modest amount of cleavage, and the rosy-red color of the garment highlighted the pink on her cheeks.

Troy finished his beer and signaled Big Bob for another. On the TV, the trucks on steroids had been replaced by a skinny kid at a flea market earnestly demonstrating the wonders of an orange chamois cloth. Big Bob muted the television volume and cranked up Jim Croce on the stereo speakers, but Ally remained focused on the now silent TV, watching as intently as if she could read the kid’s lips and expected to be quizzed on the ShamWow! later.

Well, Troy had a quiz of his own to put to her, and he wanted his answers before Misty got back. So he corralled the next beer Big Bob slid toward him, then leaned in close to Ally. “So, Al. How’re things going with you?” he asked, bumping her shoulder companionably with his, as if they were long-lost war buddies recently reunited.

She almost slipped off her stool. She caught herself, then answered through clenched, small white teeth without looking his way. “Things are going fine, O’Malley.” Keeping her gaze fixed on the car salesman who’d replaced the ShamWow! kid, she added, “Or they would be if you’d slink on back to your hidey-hole in the corner.”

“Ah, so you noticed me, did you?” Stifling a grin at the way the comment made her soft lips press together, he drawled affably, “I’ll just do you that lil ole favor, as soon as you tell me what’s going on, what with the change in your hair and clothes—” his gaze traveled to that nearly illegal skirt “—and all.”

She turned to pin him with a cold blue glare. “And I’ll just do that lil ole favor for you,” she promised, exaggerating her drawl just as he’d done, “as soon as you tell me what concern it is of yours.”

“Oh, it’s not any of my concern,” he responded promptly, “but curiosity is my besetting sin.”

“Womanizing, drinking and lying are your besetting sins. Laziness is up there, too. Curiosity doesn’t even make the list.”

“And yet I’m definitely curious about all these changes.” His gaze wandered over her again. “Nice ones for the most part—except for the hair.”

Taken by surprise, she exclaimed, “I thought men preferred blondes!”

He shrugged. “Maybe some do. But I prefer your hair like it used to be. Long and dark. Silky-looking. Real pretty.”

The sincerity in his husky tones was unmistakable. Alarmed by the bloom of pleasure she felt, Ally said caustically, “Gee, that’s nice to know, O’Malley. Why don’t I go outside and write that in the dirt, just in case—in some far distant future—your opinion matters to me.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, wait! I have a better idea. Why don’t you go do it?”

If she’d hoped to deflate him, she failed miserably. Amusement danced in his green eyes. “Are you asking me to leave?”

She didn’t bother mincing the matter. “Yes.”

He assumed a hurt expression. “You wound me, Ally. You really do,” he said sadly, then lifted his hand to regard the base of his thumb as he played the trump card he’d had on her for more than twenty years. “Again.”

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