Cowboy Lessons. Pamela Britton

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      “No.” She shook her head in disbelief. “No. Don’t land in the bull pasture,” she murmured. “Not the bulls.”

      But the spring grass in the pasture had already compressed from the pressure of the helicopter blades.

      She turned around—the chilly morning air smacking her hard—then quickly pulled on rubber boots. Her blue-and-white-checkered flannel nightgown barely hung past her knees, but she paid it no attention as she squeaked along the hallway’s hardwood floors…no, ran along the hallway.

      “Not the bulls,” she murmured again.

      The outside morning air was cold enough to make her eyes water, the door swinging wide just in time for her to see the helicopter drop a passenger, then begin to lift off again.

      “Not the bulls,” she said, watching as Scott Beringer, wonder boy of the techno industry, did something incredibly stupid. He’d hopped out of the chopper into the middle of a field of bulls. Granted, they were cowering bulls right now. But not for long. Once that helicopter lifted off—

      “Scott,” she screamed. But she might as well have been yelling at her shadow. The chopper drowned out any sound: Scott calmly walked toward the wide gate as if he had all the time in the world, toting a black piece of luggage in one hand and a cowboy hat in the other. In the corner of the pen, one of her brown-and-white Herefords lowered its head. And as the helicopter began to lift, it became apparent that that particular bull would take it upon himself to be the sole representative of his species in stomping down the lone human intruder.

      “Scott,” she called again, panicked now.

      The bull waited half a heartbeat before wringing its tail, a sure sign he was about to charge. He didn’t have horns, but it wouldn’t matter. When fifteen-hundred pounds of beef hit you broadside, you’d be lucky to walk away alive.

      Oh, damn. She would succeed in killing him where her father had failed.

      She waved her arms. Scott finally looked her way.

      She pointed. Scott turned.

      She yelled, “Run!”

      And Scott Beringer, one of the wealthiest men in the United States, ran. Fast.

      The suitcase got left behind, but not the hat. That he waved behind him as if shooing away a fly. Dumb, dumb, dumb. It only gained a bull’s attention. But then the big Hereford spied the suitcase. It changed its path like Wile E. Coyote. Amanda never, not in a million years, would have thought a bull could turn that fast, but it did, heading toward the suitcase with its head down, tail flicking. The suitcase never stood a chance. It sailed through the air like a carnival ride. Scott, still running, looked back. The bull—its Samsonite enemy now vanquished—turned to Scott and put his head down again.

      “Run,” Amanda repeated. Not that he wasn’t running already. Her blood thrust through her veins so fast it hurt her head. She began to wave her arms again, hoping to distract the bull. Didn’t help. Scott’s eyes looked panicked behind his thick glasses. “Stay.” She thought she heard him yell. “Stay.”

      The bull charged. Scott wouldn’t make it.

      She arrived at the fence; Scott was about three feet away on the other side, three feet that he seemed to jump, launching himself like a Harlem Globetrotter.

      The bull hurled himself at Scott, and maybe it reached him in time to help propel him, or maybe it was pure adrenaline that allowed Scott to cover so much ground, but he landed across the top rail and a second later, the bull hit the rail right below where he dangled. Scott was thrust off the top rail like a bird from a perch. He landed on his back and, as coincidence would have it, right at her feet. The hollow thud he made caused Amanda to wince, but she was so winded, and so relieved that he’d survived, all she could do was lean over and clasp her knees. “You lucky bastard.”

      The bull snorted its frustration from the other side of the fence.

      “It attacked me,” he protested.

      She sucked in breaths of air.

      “What is it with the animals on this ranch, anyway?”

      Amanda ignored him, still huffing. “Go away, Harry.” She waved a hand at the bull, too winded to straighten just yet.

      “Harry?” Scott said. “The thing’s name is Harry?”

      The bull turned, his muscles and veins enlarged, tail still ringing. When it caught sight of the suitcase again, it turned around, put its head down and charged.

      A glance up revealed the helicopter still hovering above.

      “Are you okay?” she finally decided to ask. Fact is, she felt a little angry. What kind of a fool tells his pilot to land in a field full of bulls?

      Scott looked up at her, his arms straight out as if he were about to make a snow angel in the thick green grass he lay on. She noted he’d dressed differently, less like a character from a B movie and more like a real rancher. Denim shirt. Wranglers. His glasses—knocked from his head—lay near his right elbow, and his hair was spiked out around his head as if he’d been electrocuted. The hat had disappeared. She had a feeling it was beneath him. Smooshed.

      “It chased me,” he repeated.

      Amanda waved at the pilot, telling him without words that Scott was fine. If he could complain, he was fine. The pilot waved back—she thought she saw him grinning beneath his insectlike goggles—then he angled the helicopter away and flew off.

      Gradually, silence descended. Well, silence punctuated by her bull’s goring of Scott’s luggage. She had a feeling there wouldn’t be many of his clothes left when all was said and done.

      “I had no idea that thing would come after me with the helicopter hovering so near.”

      Man, her legs ached. And she had a side ache. And her damn feet ached.

      “Lesson one, Mr. Beringer,” she said as she slowly straightened. “A bull doesn’t care if you’re holding an Uzi or a flame thrower. When it’s mad, it’ll do whatever it wants.”

      Scott sat up on his elbows. “Uh-oh,” he said.

      Amanda’s heart resumed it’s double-time beat. “What? Is something broken?”

      “I landed on something.”

      “Your hat,” she theorized.

      He winced. Concern turned into amusement when he leaned forward and she spied the crushed straw hat.

      “Hope that wasn’t new.”

      “It was,” he grumbled, slowly coming to his feet as he smoothed his hair back. The hat lay on the ground like a discarded corn husk. Amanda was about to tell him that he didn’t need it, but as she met his gaze, the words just sort of lodged in her throat.

      Clark Kent looked good without his glasses. Very cute. And entirely too boyish to own a billion-dollar empire.

      Lord, she couldn’t imagine having a billion dollars.

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