Home on the Ranch: The Montana Cowboy's Triplets Read online

Once again she’d let her temper overrule her mouth.

  She’d grown up with a father who taught her that she could do anything and everything. She’d never wanted to take ballet lessons. Her favorite had been gymnastics classes, which had served her well in her career.

  And she’d wanted to be outside, working on their farm, with the horses, and learning from her dad. When he was gone, her brothers goaded her into making sure she could do it all, be the best she could be.

  Chapter 9

  Hunter stood in the open doorway of the barn and finished his coffee as he looked out over the once again snowy field, thanks to the snowfall during the night. Deer prints trailed from one side of the barn and out into a copse of bare trees. Several red cardinals swooped through the air, then perched in a tree. They reminded him of Christmas decorations on an evergreen, waiting for the lights to be turned on.

  Some of the ranch hands had set up the skeet-shooting stations for the contest between him and Mackenzie in an open field, safe from buildings, stock and guests. His family—and some of the ranch employees who were off for the day—had already lined the back of the area. He looked closer and saw people he didn’t recognize. Were they from the film crew?

  He rolled his eyes. Great. He couldn’t believe he’d let himself be talked into this, and that a lot more than his family would be watching.

  This was a matter of pride now. And the proverbial yanking on the pigtails of a girl he liked. For the fifteenth—okay, maybe the fiftieth time—he wondered why he was attracted to Mackenzie. Prickly, stubborn tomboy.

  But then there’d be something in her eyes, something that beckoned to him, made him want to crawl inside her head and see how she viewed the world, find out what secrets she held so close.

  She’d been asleep the night before by the time he and the boys had gotten home, so they hadn’t been able to talk. He wondered if maybe she’d planned it that way.

  Or maybe she was just exhausted. She did work hard. He’d caught a glimpse—okay, spied on her—doing some of her stunt work the other day. She definitely had talent, he had to give her that. Her job was all about being physical.

  She was one tough lady—at least on the outside. Doing stunts had to hurt some of the time.

  Sure, he’d been kicked by cows and horses, thrown several times, even fallen out of the hayloft a time or two. But those weren’t intentional injuries. Granted there were safety precautions for stunt doubles, but it still blew his mind anyone—much less a pretty woman—would want to do that for a living.

  The sound of footsteps crunching on the snow broke the morning silence. Mackenzie strode toward the barn where he stood. Her hair gleamed like copper threads in the early-morning sun.

  She raised her head, and he knew the second she spotted him. The slightest hitch to her gait told him he’d gotten under her skin. Good. Maybe then she’d know how he felt.

  But maybe she wasn’t attracted to him at all. And wouldn’t that be a shame.

  “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, lassie,” he said, and tipped his cowboy hat at her.

  “That’s Irish,” she scoffed back.

  “Then how do you say good morning in Scottish?”

  She smiled at him, teeth bared. “Madainn mhath.”

  “Okay, then, what you said.” He sipped the last of his coffee, swallowed. “Sleep okay?”

  “Fine,” she said. “Like a kitten with a belly full of milk.”

  “Not worried about today?”

  “Why would I be?” She began to wrestle her thick curls into a single braid down her back. “Are you?”

  His tongue felt thick as he watched her hands work. Fingers twitching, he almost had to fight to keep his hands away from that hair. He wanted to dive into it, the whole unruly, gloriously bright mass of it. “Am I what?”

  “Are you worried about the challenge?”

  He slowly shook his head. Wondered why they were having this stupid conversation when they could be using their mouths—lips and tongues—in a much better way. Like kissing.

  Her skin was a pale cream, with freckles dotted across her nose. His eyes drifted just a bit lower, to lips the color of a ripe, juicy berry.

  He had to snap out of this, or next thing he knew he’d be spouting poetry or something.

  His dad walked up to them and clapped him on the back. “Morning, you two. Ready to start?”

  Hunter looked at her. “Not too late to back out now, you know.”

  She straightened up tall. “Not on your life. Lead on, cowboy.”

  He gestured for her to precede him, and then followed her to the skeet setup.

  Voices faded to an indistinct murmur in the background. The morning sun was warming the day up—at least as warm as late March could be in Montana.

  They’d haggled on the details the day before, deciding to break it up into a couple of days so as not to take too much time away from filming or regular ranch work.

  While he and Mackenzie were being outfitted with safety equipment, vests and shotguns, his dad flipped the coin that decided Hunter would be first. He stepped up and got in position, then shouted, “Pull!”

  With a snap, the first clay pigeon sped out of the station. He aimed and pulled the trigger, blew it out of the air. A second crossed his line of sight, and he barely clipped it. It kept sailing through the air.

  Mackenzie stepped up for her turn and lifted the shotgun into place. One quick shot, and the clay broke. Another shot, and the lower clay exploded into a million pieces.

  They continued taking turns, advancing to each station.

  By the time they reached the eighth station, he and Mackenzie were tied. He stepped up and shouted, “Pull.”

  He aimed and squeezed the trigger, and the clay pigeon exploded. Shot again, and his last one exploded, too.

  Cheering erupted from the onlookers, drowning out the echo of gunshots, and he turned around. His boys were jumping up and down, waving their hats. They looked like it was Christmas morning and Santa had brought them everything on their lists.

  He waved at them, bowed to the onlookers, then glanced up at Mackenzie. From his angle, she seemed to be watching his boys, but the wistful expression on her face had him worried.

  Closing the distance between them, he leaned toward her ear. “You okay?”

  She nodded once. “Aye.”

  “You sure?”

  She half smiled. “Missing my brothers, wishing the little heathens were here to watch me smoke you.”

  He laughed. “You mean to see me take home the trophy?”

  Rolling her eyes, she turned on her heel and got in position. But she swiveled her head once more toward their audience, then back again, and shouted the command to release the clay pigeons.

  Her shot rang true and clear through the cold air, and the pigeon exploded. She swung the gun in an arc for the next clay, pulled the trigger and just clipped the clay as it sailed by.

  Passing the shotgun off to the handler, she took off her safety glasses and earbuds. She walked toward Hunter, ungloved hand outstretched. “Well done, boyo.”

  He pulled off his own glove, clasped her hand in his. Held it when she went to pull away. “I’d call that a draw. You’ll get it tomorrow.”

  “You bet your bahookie I will.” She walked away, stopped to talk to one of the crew members who hailed her.

  Hunter watched as the other man flung an arm out toward the skeet-shooting station, then looked at him. Mackenzie shook her head. She glanced at him, and waved when she saw him watching her. What was that about?

  He stared back at the skeet stations now, wondering if she’d intentionally missed the last shot so he’d win.

  No way. One thing he surmised about Mackenzie—she was not a fake. She’d never intentionally lose to anyone—especially him.

  Mackenzie opened the door to Hunter’s cabin
and heard a loud booming noise. She pulled off her winter boots and hurried inside, relaxed when she realized music had been turned to blasting level. The song finished, and the lead-in for the next began with a steady drum beat. As she walked toward the kitchen, she noticed the Triples were sitting on bar stools at the island, and Hunter was stirring something on the stove.

  The beat of the music started picking up, and Hunter was moving in time to the beat. His hips moved side to side, then his head started moving back and forth, keeping the beat as it accelerated.

  The lyrics started, and he added his shoulders to the mix, then he whirled to face the boys, swinging the wooden spoon up to use as a microphone. A glob of whatever he’d been stirring splatted in front of Cody on the counter.

  The boys all looked at each other as if their dad had suddenly gone stark bonkers. Hunter kept singing and dancing in the kitchen, and the boys started laughing.

  She recognized the song was “Footloose.” Not a favorite film, but she’d loved it when the young actress jumped from one car to the other as they raced down the highway. For the first time, she wondered if she’d had an itch for stunt work all those years ago.

  The longer she watched, the more she admired this grown man, with triplets no less, as he danced and sang around the kitchen. He had good moves, too, keeping in time to the energetic music. He stopped at the stove, hips continuing to move, and stirred whatever he was cooking. Executing a twirl, he swung the spoon back up and around, flinging more food.

  She leaned against the wall and folded her arms, trying to keep quiet. But his good mood was contagious, and she started laughing.

  By now the boys were hooting with laughter, looking like they were having the best time, and she didn’t want to intrude. She was tempted to go to her room and leave them to have fun, but Hunter executed some fancy dance moves, and she couldn’t look away. His flannel shirt hung loose and unbuttoned over his T-shirt, denim jeans worn white in some areas and butter soft cowboy boots.

  He twirled around, arms swinging with abandon, and that was when saw her. He froze for a split second, and she was afraid he’d stop. Then he shimmied over to her and held his hand out. She protested, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her all the way into the kitchen, to the space between the island and table.

  He twirled her outward, then pulled her in again. As he guided her in a loose swing dance, she picked up the beat and matched his timing.

  They twirled and swung and bopped around the kitchen, and she was near breathless from laughing and dancing. At long last, the song started winding down, but Hunter swung around and picked up a remote off the counter, aimed it toward a stereo and started it again.

  This time he lifted each of his sons off their stools and they began to dance, too. At least, she thought it was dancing. She reached for one hand flinging through the air and twirled one of the triplets—Eli—into a swing dance. He beamed up at her, looking so happy she could just eat him up.

  Tripp bopped past her, and she grabbed his hand, twirled him around and the three of them danced in a crazy circle. Their circle grew as Cody cut in, then Hunter.

  She had to admit this was the most fun she’d had in...well, ages.

  The song wound down again, and this time Hunter let it stop. She plopped down in one of the kitchen chairs, trying to gulp in air and stop laughing.

  “I thought you told me before you can’t dance?” Hunter asked in a bland tone as he walked to the stove and stirred again, sending her off into another round of laughter.

  She wiped her eyes. “I didn’t say I can’t dance, just that I don’t. I haven’t danced in forever. I must admit that was a cracking good time. You—all of you—are grand dancers. I’m fair puggled.”

  “You’re what?” asked Cody. “A pug dog?”

  “It’s a Scot’s way of sayin’ they’re plum worn out.”

  “Then I’m fair puggled, too,” Hunter said from the stove. “And you’re just in time for dinner.”

  “You don’t need to feed me again,” she said. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  He swung his head around. “Boys, is she intruding?”

  “No!” their voices chorused and rose, each trying to be the loudest.

  “See?”

  She got out of the chair. “Then let me help, at least.”

  “It’s all done.” He carried the pot to the table and set it on a trivet, then brought a platter heaped with hot dogs in buns. A bag of chips followed, and he pulled her chair out for her with a flourish. He affected a terrible British accent and said, “Dinner is served.”

  She sat down, and he pulled out the chair next to her. The boys shoved their way onto the bench seat in the alcove.

  Hunter picked up a bowl and held a big ladle over the pot. “Chili in a bowl or on hot dogs?”

  “I’ve eaten chili before, and hot dogs. But I’ve never had chili on a hot dog.” She wasn’t quite sure it sounded very appealing.

  “No way!” Cody said. “It’s our favorite food!”

  Hunter nodded. “It’s true. When I let them choose what they want for dinner, that’s the one thing they pick every time.”

  “Well, if you all love it so much, I guess I’ll have to take your word that it’s good and give it a try.”

  Hunter put two hot dogs on a plate, then ladled chili across each one and passed the meal to her. “Ladies first.”

  She stared down at the food, wondering if she was supposed to pick one of the buns up like a normal hot dog or cut it with a fork so she didn’t drip chili all over.

  He finished serving up food for the boys, then dished up his own plate.

  She watched the boys pick up their hot dogs and eat them with so much gusto she couldn’t wait to try hers. Picking it up, a chili bean fell off, followed by a dribble of liquid. She licked the bun to catch the next drip, then noticed Hunter watching her.

  “Wha’?” she mumbled.

  He grinned and took a bite of his own.

  She bit into the hot dog and chili combo, and it surprised her how good it was. The more she ate, the more she liked it.

  “You got some chili on your mouth,” Hunter said.

  She licked one side, then the other. “Did I get it?”

  He pointed just below his own lip.

  She licked again, then grabbed her napkin. “Now?”

  He raised his hand and used his thumb to wipe it off.

  It was innocent, she knew it, but it felt so intimate. Sitting in his kitchen in her stockinged feet, the snow outside cocooning them in the warm alcove. She inhaled, then choked on air, and grabbed her glass of water and took a sip.

  Even looking down, she felt his eyes on her, and she refused to meet his gaze. Instead she looked at the Triples. “Well, boys, that’s my new favorite meal, too.”

  “Yay!” they shouted.

  “What’s for dessert, Daddy?” Tripp asked.

  “You just gorged on chili dogs and potato chips. How can you still be hungry?” Hunter asked.

  “If they’re anything like my brothers, they saved a spot for dessert way down in their toes. Am I right, boys?” she said.

  “I even got room left in my knees,” Cody said.

  “Mrs. Green did send some brownies,” Hunter said. “Clear your plates and we’ll have some.”

  She pushed her chair back, but he rested a hand on her shoulder, then squeezed lightly. “Stay. We’ll get it.”

  Sitting back, she scolded herself for reading anything into his gesture.

  Eli and Tripp each brought a short stack of bowls to the table and set them down. Cody followed, bringing forks and spoons. They took their seats again, this time with a minimum of pushing and shoving.

  Hunter set a cake pan and a bowl in the middle of the table.

  Brownies. Specifically iced brownies. She peeked in the blue ceramic bowl. “You
put ice cream on brownies?”

  He looked at her. “You don’t?”

  “I’ve not thought of it.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. Mrs. Green’s homemade vanilla bean ice cream.”

  She patted her stomach. “I better not. If I keep eating like this, I’ll not be able to do my stunts tomorrow.”

  “You’ll regret saying that in a minute.” He grabbed her spoon and dipped it in the bowl of ice cream, scooped up a taste. “Open up.” He held out the spoon, and she opened her mouth.

  Cold coated her tongue, and then the flavor hit her taste buds. “I wouldn’t want Mrs. Green to think I’m rude. But just a wee bit, please.”

  Hunter sliced a brownie for her, topped it with ice cream and set the bowl in front of her. Then repeated the steps for each one of them.

  “Daaaaddy, you forgot the best part,” Cody said.

  “You’re right, pal. Go get it.”

  Cody jumped up from the end of the bench and raced to the refrigerator, then came back with a can of whipped cream. He set it down in front of her, then scooted back onto the bench seat.

  “You add that, too?” she asked.

  Hunter just slid his eyes to her, the duh implied.

  She held her hands up in surrender. “Okay, just asking.” She picked up the can, gave it a good shake and took the top off. “Who wants some?”

  All three boys shot their hands up in the air.

  “Okay, hold your bowls up for me.” She leaned forward and squirted some in Cody’s bowl first.

  He looked from her to the bowl, then back again at her.

  “What, not enough?”

  “Nope.”

  She leaned forward and squirted more in the bowl, then tilted it up and coated his fingers. “Oops, I missed the bowl!” she said, faking embarrassment. She moved the can to Eli’s bowl, topped it and squirted some on the back of his hand.

  “Me next!” Tripp said.

  “Are you suuure you want some?” she asked.

  He nodded so vigorously she was afraid he’d fall off the bench.

  “Yes, sir.” She topped his brownie and ice cream, then kept squirting whipped topping up to his wrist.