Samantha’s Cowboy Page 6

  “Stop pestering Samantha,” Wade scolded when he joined her and Luke. “You’re supposed to keep an eye on Millicent.”

  The boy rolled up on his tiptoes and whispered, “Dad says I have to stay with Millicent because she’s too old to help and she’ll get hurt.” He skipped back to the tree.

  “I thought Luke was eager to help dig the well.” Sam studied Wade. For a geek, he was a handsome man—dusty face and all. Not even the mud marring his chin detracted from his strong jawline.

  “Luke almost banged himself in the forehead when he stepped on the shovel head earlier this morning. Safer for both of us if he keeps out of the way.”

  Wade’s words floated in one ear and out the other as Sam focused on the sweat beading across his forehead. A single droplet slid down his temple, curved inward across his cheek, skirted the corner of his mouth and dripped off his chin.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  His voice—or maybe his hand on her elbow—ended her trance. She shrugged off his touch, ignoring his raised eyebrow.

  Wade cleared his throat. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

  “The wedding guests departed early.” She motioned to the hole in the ground. “How’s the digging coming along?”

  His body tensed. “I was taking a short break.”

  At this pace he’d hit water around Christmas. Sam rolled up her sleeves. “I’ll spell you.”

  “What?”

  Were his ears clogged with dirt? “I’ll dig for a while.”

  “I understand you want to get the ball rolling on this rescue ranch, but I don’t think you should—”

  “Shovel a little dirt?” A dusky hue seeped into his cheeks. Sam couldn’t recall witnessing a man blush before and found the act charming. “Sorry to burst your bubble but I’m not a pampered princess.”

  The first month after she’d been discharged from the rehab hospital she’d had trouble concentrating for long periods of time, so she’d thrown herself into ranch chores because physical activity didn’t tax her brain and leave her with a headache.

  “This was my idea. I’ll do the digging,” he insisted.

  Let him, a voice whispered inside her head. A man accustomed to sitting behind a desk all week wouldn’t last a day toiling beneath the blazing Oklahoma sun. When he realized he was in over his head he’d give up and phone a contractor to dig the well, which had been her intent all along. She had two weeks—give or take a few days—until her father returned from Europe. The sooner Wade accepted defeat, the better. “Okay then. I’ll leave you to the digging.” She hadn’t taken three steps when he called out.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Decide where I want the paddocks.” By the time Sam stopped at her truck she’d forgotten what she’d intended to get. She closed her eyes and forced herself to relax. The more she fretted the longer the duration of her memory lapse. Once her mind went blank she remembered the reason for going to the truck—her notepad. She removed the black notebook from the glove compartment and a pen from the cup holder, then wrote the word Paddocks on the paper.

  Ignoring the sound of Wade’s shovel scraping the ground, Sam studied the area adjacent to the house. Approximately thirty yards separated the soon-to-be paddocks from the well. A water pipe would need to be installed to carry well water to a spigot near the fenced-in area.

  She spent the next half hour jotting down a list of fencing materials—hardware, posts, cement, water troughs, gate latches. Tomorrow she’d stop by Barney’s Ranch Supply and order the items. She’d also ask Barney to spread the word that she needed a few hardworking cowboys—preferably not the nerdy kind—to install the fencing for the paddocks.

  DAMN IT, SAMANTHA WASN’T supposed to show up today and witness him bumble his way through Well-Digging 101. The fact that Wade cared about her opinion of him caused concern. He might find her attractive, sexy and intriguing, but she was his client. If that wasn’t enough of a reminder to keep things businesslike between them, then being held accountable for her lost trust fund should be.

  He jumped on the edge of the shovel head with both feet and the tip sank deeper into the red clay. His arm muscles shook like Jell-O and his shoulders burned as if a hot branding iron had been pressed against his skin. A lot of good his three-a-week forty-minute workouts at the company health club did him.

  You’d make more progress if you’d stop watching Samantha.

  She sat on the rickety steps of the ranch house, doodling in a notebook. Once in a while she stared at the cloudless sky with a quizzical expression on her pretty face. Beauty aside, the woman confused the heck out of him. One minute she was a snippy miss know-it-all, the next she wore a lost-little-girl expression, which made Wade want to wrap his arms around her and protect her from the big bad bogeyman.

  “Dad, I’m hungry.” Luke’s shadow fell over the hole.

  Wade checked his watch. Noon. He and Luke had loaded a cooler with Gatorade bottles this morning but he hadn’t thought to pack snacks or lunch food.

  “That’s not a very big hole.” Luke glanced between the mound of dirt and the four-foot hole Wade stood at the bottom of.

  Ignoring the criticism, Wade attempted to hoist himself out of the crater but his Jell-O arms wobbled and he slipped to the bottom, swallowing a groan as pain shot through his shoulders.

  “Need a hand?” Samantha peered over the edge at him, fighting a smile.

  What the hell. He’d already made an ass out of himself, he might as well accept her assistance. “Sure.”

  “On the count of three.” She wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “One, two…three.”

  Wade scaled the side of the hole. When his hips cleared the edge, he flung himself forward and Samantha released her grip. “Thanks,” he huffed, scrambling to his feet. For a pampered princess she had a heck of a grip.

  “Next time put a ladder in the hole with ya,” Millicent said, joining the group.

  No kidding. The problem was he didn’t have a ladder. “Luke and I are heading out for lunch.” And a ladder.

  “Where did you plan to eat?” Samantha asked.

  “Nearest restaurant, I guess.” Wade slapped at the dirt on his jeans.

  “Ain’t no nearest restaurant leastways ya mean Beulah’s. She’s closed on Sundays.”

  Great. Now what?

  “Got me a kilt chicken,” the old woman said. “An’ fixins fer biscuits.”

  A kilt chicken? Don’t ask.

  “You two wash up. I’ll help make lunch.” Samantha and Millicent walked off.

  “Where are we supposed to wash up?” Wade turned in a circle.

  “Millicent said there’s a little water left in the backyard well.” Luke pointed to the rundown farmhouse.

  Wade followed his son, his arms flopping against his sides like overcooked noodles. He pumped the well handle twice.

  Luke shoved a bucket under the small stream of water. “You’re not supposed to waste any, Dad.”

  While Wade washed his hands in an inch of water, he contemplated jumping headfirst into the dark hole. His blistered fingers hurt. His sunburned neck itched. And his shoulders throbbed. What he wouldn’t give for a long, cold shower.

  “You’re bleeding, Dad.” Luke poked at an open blister on his father’s palm.

  “I’m fine.” Next time he’d have to remember to bring along a pair of leather work gloves.

  As soon as they entered Millicent’s two-room shanty, Luke blurted, “My dad’s hands are bleeding.”

  The old witch grunted an unintelligible word as she flipped pieces of chicken in a skillet of hot grease. Samantha, bless her sympathetic heart, didn’t ignore him. She turned his hands palm side up. “Ouch.”

  What did she mean, ouch? He couldn’t feel a thing except for the tingling sensation that followed in the wake of her finger as she caressed the raw flesh around each blister.

  “Sit,” she commanded.

  Feeling light-headed, Wade collapsed onto one of the
ladder-back chairs at the crudely made table, which sat in the center of the cabin. Samantha brought a shoebox filled with jars and strips of clean cloth to the table. “Let’s see what Millicent has in her first aid kit.”

  Wade eyed the collection of small jars but didn’t recognize any products commonly found in a drugstore. Samantha must have read his mind, because she smiled reassuringly as she spread a salve that smelled like a dead animal carcass across his wounds.

  “You should stop digging, Wade. These sores will take days to heal.”

  His name slipped from her mouth in a gentle rush of air that soughed across his palm. He wanted to take her advice but calling it quits for the day wasn’t possible—not unless he intended to tell her the truth right here and now. Samantha, you’re broke. That’s why I’m making a fool of myself. “A couple of Band-Aids and my hands will be good as new.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Silly? He yearned to confess the well-digging fiasco had been a stall tactic to prevent her from spending money she didn’t have. Money he had to front her from his personal funds. Instead he had to act silly and insist he didn’t mind digging a frickin’ hole in the ground with blistered hands.

  Samantha returned the shoebox to the shelf next to the ancient cast-iron sink. “Tomorrow I’ll contact a drilling company and offer a financial incentive to dig sooner rather than later. While we wait on the permits, I’ll hire a crew to fence in the paddocks.”

  “Give me a week, Samantha, and I’ll have the hole dug.” Grasping at straws, he added, “Your father will be impressed by how frugal you were with your inheritance.”

  A wrinkle formed across her brow and Wade curled his stinging hand into a fist to keep from caressing her forehead and discovering if her skin felt as velvety as it appeared.

  “Maybe you’re right.” She sat across the table from him. “In any regard your hands have seen enough work for one day.”

  “I can help,” Luke offered, carrying a stack of plates to the table.

  Samantha smiled at his son and Wade swore Luke stood a few inches taller. “We’ll both take turns,” she said.

  Damned if he’d allow a woman to show him up. “No need to ruin your hands, too,” he argued.

  “You really don’t believe I’m capable of shoveling a little dirt?” Her eyes gleamed with challenge.

  “I doubt you’ve done much work—” Damn. He should have kept his mouth shut.

  Face red with anger, Samantha nodded at his bandaged hands. “You’re one to talk.”

  True.

  “How about a wager?” she said, winking at his son. “Luke and I will dig three more feet by suppertime.”

  Great. First Samantha had shown him up with her tree-climbing talents and now she was about to defeat him in a well-digging competition. Couldn’t a hardworking investor get a break?

  Blast, it was hot.

  Samantha was ringing wet, her shirt soaked with sweat and plastered to her skin. Wade’s son was just as exhausted, but the sweet boy hadn’t uttered one word of complaint. Sam rested against the old ladder she’d found in the barn and handed the bucket of dirt to Luke, which he dumped a few feet away.

  They’d made decent progress, but her arms were sore and her shoulders itched from the dirt that had slipped inside her collar when Luke had accidentally tipped a full bucket onto Sam’s back.

  “Looking good, Samantha,” Wade complimented for the hundredth time. She wished he’d stop hovering and go chew tobacco with Millicent.

  Sam feared her plan might backfire. She’d insisted on taking a turn at digging because she’d hoped to guilt Wade into agreeing to call in the professionals to finish the well. Most men would have felt compassion for a struggling woman. As a matter of fact the cowboys she knew would have insisted she quit shoveling hours ago. Obviously financial advisers had no problem with women showing them up.

  Needing a break she set aside the short-handled shovel and climbed from the hole. Without warning Wade removed her gloves and checked her hands.

  “No blisters?” He sounded disappointed.

  Sam shook off his touch. “Unlike you, my fingers rarely spend time on a keyboard.”

  Wade’s shoulders stiffened and a businesslike mask fell over his face. “Luke, fetch Ms. Cartwright a drink from the cooler.” As soon as his son ran off, Wade glanced into the hole. “You made good progress. I’d say it’s about six feet.”

  From disappointment to admiration—Wade confused the heck out of her. Luke arrived with Gatorade bottles and they took a break from conversation to quench their thirst. Sam’s eyes strayed to Wade’s Adam’s apple, which bobbed up and down as he swallowed. A vision of her tongue tracing the sexy bump popped into her mind and she choked.

  Wade slapped her back. “Down the wrong pipe?”

  Nodding, she coughed again and wiped her watering eyes. For the hundredth time that day Wade pushed his glasses up his nose. “Why don’t you wear contacts?” She blurted the question that had been on her mind since meeting him.

  “Contacts irritate my eyes.”

  “Maybe you should consider laser eye surgery.” Didn’t he hate having to adjust his glasses all the time?

  “Dad says our glasses are a sign of intelligence and we should be proud to wear them.” Luke gazed up at his father. “Right, Dad?”

  Oh, dear. She hadn’t meant to wound their egos.

  “Break’s over,” Wade announced. “Back to digging.”

  She’d heard once that high-IQ people lacked common sense and wondered if Wade fell into that category. One thing was clear—even if her arms transformed into rotary blades, they wouldn’t hit water today. She might as well put an end to this nonsense. “I’m quitting,” she announced.

  Both males gaped at her. “What about the bet?” Luke asked.

  “Your dad wins.” That ought to make up for any bruised feelings from her four-eyes comment.

  The corner of Wade’s mouth lifted in a sexy half smile. “What’s my prize?”

  “Your prize is that you don’t have to shovel anymore. I’m calling a drilling company tomorrow and that’s final.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Wade. This is my project. My money. And we’re doing this my way.” She stomped off, forcing her legs to keep moving when Wade called her name.

  “Wait, Samantha!” Footsteps pounded the earth behind her.

  She’d made it to her truck when Wade stumbled to a halt. “Luke wants to keep digging the well. He’s having a great time. Please give us a week. If we don’t hit water, I’ll step aside and we’ll do this your way.”

  Luke caught up to them and both males gazed at her through their eyeglasses. How was she supposed to resist such a cute pair of geeks?

  “Okay. You’ve got until next Sunday. Then all bets are off.”

  Chapter Six

  “Find anything yet?” Wade asked George, the systems analyst called in to search the company’s software program for Samantha’s missing trust fund.

  Fingers clicking the keyboard at hyperspeed, the balding man in his late fifties grunted an unintelligible answer.

  Wade moved to the office doorway and stared at the empty conference rooms across the hall. Due to his uncle’s extended absence, the firm’s senior executives were conducting business meetings on the golf course while employees on the lower rungs of the company ladder managed to squeeze in online shopping, long-distance calls to family and friends and two-hour lunches.

  Wasting company time was the least of Wade’s worries. He flexed his stiff fingers. His stint as a weekend cowboy had taken a toll on his body. Monday night he’d caved in and paid for a massage at the gym. Tuesday he’d sat for a half hour in the whirlpool and made another appointment with Helga and her meat-grinding fingers. Wednesday he weaned himself off the Icy Hot patches and this morning he was able to roll out of bed without wincing—just in time for another round of abuse this weekend.

  Ignoring the queasy feeling that had plagued his stomach all week, he s
hoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets and rocked back on his wing tips. Even if he succeeded in digging the sixty-foot well by Sunday evening, he doubted Samantha would approve of him shoveling the trenches to lay water pipe from the well to the paddocks.

  “Sir.”

  “What is it?” Wade bolted to his desk and peered over George’s shoulder at the jumbled symbols, letters and numbers on the computer screen.

  “These codes—” George pointed to the top of the screen “—verify that the account in question was accessed by an unknown user.”

  “A computer hacker?”

  George shrugged. “The user ID isn’t registered to anyone in the company.” He tapped a series of numbers. “And this code tells me that the transaction wasn’t made on your computer.”

  “If not mine, then whose?”

  “Computer 12785.” George ran a finger between his neck and the collar of his tight shirt. “That computer is registered to your uncle, sir.”

  Absurd! His uncle wouldn’t steal from his own company. Someone must have had access to his uncle’s computer. “Is there an exact time and date the funds were withdrawn?”

  “July fourth at two-fifteen in the afternoon.”

  Wade had attended the Tulsa parade with Luke in the morning that day and later in the afternoon they’d stopped by his uncle’s for the annual Dawson Investments barbecue. Wade couldn’t recall if all the VPs had shown up for the event. Not that it mattered. Anyone could have slipped away for an hour or two unnoticed. Wade would need to view the building’s security tapes for that day.

  George checked his watch. “I’m meeting my wife for lunch. Is there anything else, sir?”

  “No. Thanks for coming in today.”

  “I hope you find the culprit who tampered with the account.”

  “Keep this between you and me for a while, all right, George?”

  “Sure.”

  Left alone, Wade returned to his desk and buzzed the receptionist.

  “Yes, Mr. Dawson?”