The Cowboy's Craving (Book 4, the Mackenzies—Morgan) Read online

  The Cowboy’s Craving

  —The Mackenzies: Book 4—

  Diana Fraser

  Smashwords Edition

  ISBN 978-1-927323-18-2

  The Mackenzies

  The Real Thing (Book 1)

  The PA’s Revenge (Book 2)

  The Marriage Trap (Book 3)

  The Cowboy’s Craving (Book 4)

  The Playboy’s Redemption (Book 5)

  The Lakehouse Café (Book 6)

  Copyright © 2015 Diana Fraser

  For more information about this author, visit:

  http://www.dianafraser.net and her Facebook page:

  https://www.facebook.com/dianafraserwriter

  You can sign up to Diana’s newsletter here (or via her website) for information on book releases.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is co-incidental. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

  PROLOGUE

  Even seen through the driving rain, the colonial mansion of Glencoe was impressive—grander than Morgan West had imagined. Framed by dark trees, it stood large and imposing beyond a lake, its reflection fragmented by the rain.

  “They expecting you, mate?” asked the stranger from whom he’d hitched a lift.

  Morgan tipped up his hat from which rain had already started to drip and whistled his dog, Annie, to heel. She was always curious, keen to check things out before her master, to make sure he was safe. It was almost as if she knew there was no one else to do it.

  “Yeah, they’re expecting me. Thanks for the lift.”

  “Any time.”

  He slammed the door closed and the ute roared off back up the track to the cluster of estate cottages that lay some distance from the homestead. Morgan had been lucky to bump into the man in the pub. It had saved him a long walk in the rain. Not that he’d have minded. He was used to being out in all weather.

  He slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked around the lake, and up the tree-lined drive. By the time he arrived at the sweep of steps that led up to the large double doors, he and Annie were soaked. Luckily, it was still summer—and the January rains were welcome in the usually dry high country of New Zealand’s South Island.

  He lifted the hefty brass knocker and brought it sharply down three times. Then he waited. There was no response. He knocked once more. This time a light turned on inside and he heard a woman’s shrill voice call out, followed by the distant sound of sharp heels on a wooden floor. Then a further call, then nothing.

  He was about to raise the knocker once more, when the door opened suddenly. A woman stood there, past sixty, upright and slender with white hair immaculately secured in a bun, dressed in a tweed skirt and pale blue sweater with a string of pearls around her neck.

  “Yes.” She peered at him. “What do you want?”

  The arrogance, the rudeness, it was all as his mother had described. He could see she’d been very beautiful once. If it hadn’t been for her sour expression she’d be beautiful still.

  “I said”—her eyes narrowed with anger—“what do you want?”

  “I’m here for the job. It’s been arranged with Callum Mackenzie.”

  “Mr Mackenzie to you. The workers’ cottages and dormitories are over there. What were you thinking coming to the front door?” She pointed but he didn’t look in the direction to which she pointed. Instead, he noticed her hands—slender and white, untouched by the ravages of hard work that had marked his dead mother’s hands.

  What was he thinking, indeed? But it had been no mistake. When he’d seen the piece in the paper about the forthcoming settlement of the Mackenzie lands, he knew he’d have to come. It had reminded him of all the stories he’d listened to over the years about this place and this woman. He’d decided it was time to see them both.

  “Sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. She appeared satisfied by the gesture, not hearing the heavy sarcasm in his tone. The door slammed shut before he’d turned away.

  He smiled grimly to himself as he walked back into the pouring rain and along the path that led to the workers’ cottages.

  Now he’d seen the house and Lady Mackenzie, should he turn around and walk back into the rainy night and keep on walking, like he’d been doing for half his life? No, not yet. He’d told the manager he’d work for a season and he’d never reneged on his word.

  Besides, it would give him more time to see what life might have been like if things had been different...

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fifteen months later…

  “Hi!” Rebecca Mayhew greeted Callum Mackenzie as she wove her way through the crowds of people who’d come to the Lakehouse Café to see her friend Gemma’s paintings.

  Callum returned the greeting but Rebecca kept walking, not wanting to engage in conversation. Callum and Gemma’s relationship was going through a difficult patch and she hadn’t a clue what to say to her best friend’s husband. Give Rebecca a computer and a mathematical problem to solve and she’d get a result. But ask her to fathom the ins and outs of a relationship and she drew a blank every time. She smiled encouragingly at Callum and hoped that would be enough.

  Then her gaze shifted to the handsome man beside him who had a look of open admiration on his face. A low whistle escaped lips that quirked into a smile. That must be Callum’s younger brother, James, whom she’d heard so much about. She looked behind her wondering who he was looking at, shrugged and continued on her way toward a very pregnant Gemma who was resting on a stool. She passed Gemma one of the two long glasses of herb tea she was carrying.

  “It looks like it’s going well, Gem.”

  Gemma took a sip of her tea. “Much better than I imagined. I’ve sold out.”

  Rebecca looked around at Gemma’s paintings—abstracts mainly, inspired by the Mackenzie Country—which hung on every available wall space. “I’m not surprised. They’re fantastic.”

  “There’s even talk of an exhibition in Christchurch in July.”

  “Well…” Rebecca hesitated, wondering why her friend looked so unhappy. “Isn’t that good news? You’ll have about three months to get ready, and you have enough material, right?”

  Gemma gave a brief smile. “Yeah, of course.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Gemma glanced through the crowd at Callum. “Nothing I can’t sort out.”

  “Good. It’s about time. Not that I don’t like you staying at my place. It’s lovely. You’re the sister I never had.”

  Gemma slipped her arm around her friend and gave her a hug. “Me too.” Then she burst into giggles on Rebecca’s shoulder.

  “What?”

  “It’s Morgan. He’s here again. He was just looking over at you. He’s turned away now. Strange how he appears wherever you are. The only time I’ve ever seen him at the Café is when you’re here. Funny that.”

  “Lake Tekapo’s a small place.” But Rebecca frowned. She hadn’t thought it strange before but come to think of it, whenever she was away from the Mount John Observatory, she’d often catch sight of his dog first, go to pet her and then Morgan would appear. “I often see him around town. Not so surprising really, is it?”

  “I know for a fact that the only time Morgan isn’t at Glencoe working his butt off is when he comes into tow
n at a certain time every day. And who else’s schedule is as regular as clockwork?”

  “Mine. Well, we have something in common then.”

  Gemma sighed, exasperated. “He only comes in to town because he knows he’s going to see you heading to your stint in the Information Center.”

  “I doubt it. It’s a long way to come just to nod at me, look uncomfortable and then disappear again.”

  “Callum told me that Morgan won’t accept a permanent position but that he doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave either.” Gemma looked slyly at Rebecca. “I wonder why?”

  Rebecca shrugged. “Because he likes it here?”

  They both looked over to where Glencoe’s mysterious farm hand stood propped against the bar with a beer in his hand. He caught their eye, took a hasty swig and suddenly became absorbed in looking at one particular painting.

  “He’s just looking at your paintings.”

  Gemma sighed. “Oh, Becks, face it, you have an admirer, whether you want one or not.”

  “I don’t mind having an admirer, so long as he’s the right sort of admirer.”

  “The right sort. Okay, by that I take it you mean the kind of guy you’ve described on your list.”

  “You’ve seen my list?”

  “I’m sorry, but your notebook was lying there one day and I thought it was mine.”

  “So you opened it and discovered my checklist for a husband.”

  Gemma grinned and nodded. “I didn’t think people really did that.”

  “Well I do. And I don’t see what’s so strange about it. If you’re buying a house you’d make a list of the things you want.”

  “That’s a house. Not a man.”

  “I don’t see the difference.”

  “It is a long time since you’ve been out with someone,” laughed Gemma.

  “Maybe. Anyway, my point is that Morgan West is hardly the sort of man who’d be on my list.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing no one knows anything about him. Appeared out of nowhere and will probably disappear with equal swiftness. You can’t trust people like that.”

  “Why not? That’s the way some people like it.”

  “Maybe. But it’s not how I like it.”

  Gemma shrugged. “You have to admit he’s built, though. Just like Callum is.”

  Rebecca looked over at him. The mysterious Morgan West had his back to them. Even in the chill of the winter, Morgan was wearing only a faded shirt that hung from broad shoulders. He held the hat he usually wore in his hands, having raked back his golden curly hair off his face. It was too long—just like everything about Morgan West was “too” something.

  “He’s certainly tall… And broad…”—she frowned—“and his shoulders are very wide.” She swallowed. “And I’ve never seen such large biceps before. They’re, well, they’re very… I don’t know what they are. They kind of make you want to touch them.”

  Gemma followed her gaze. “I guess your astronomer colleagues don’t have the muscles country men have.” She looked at Callum who was making his way over to Morgan. “Like Callum. I think he had me from the first moment I saw his shirtsleeves rolled up. There’s something about a man who you know could physically manhandle you if you wanted him to.” She shook her head as she tried to re-focus.

  Rebecca, too, sucked in a long calming breath. The thought of being manhandled—in the right way—by someone so much bigger and taller than her did strange things to her. “But… but,” she repeated more firmly, “muscles aren’t everything.”

  “Aren’t they?” asked Gemma dreamily, her gaze still firmly on her husband.

  “No, they’re not. Morgan hardly spoke to me at your hen night.”

  “I don’t think a party is his natural habitat. And you have to take some of the responsibility for that. You hardly said a word to him either.”

  “True. Parties aren’t my natural habitat either.”

  “Why don’t you go and speak to him now?”

  “No, he’s probably quite happy looking at the paintings.”

  “Rebecca! He’s here to see you.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I know so. You don’t notice these things. But I do. Now, for the love of God, put him out of his misery and go and say ‘hello’ to him.”

  Despite herself, she was tempted. There was something in the way his too-long hair fell over that collar…and those muscles… She sighed. “Then what?”

  “Follow your instincts.”

  “Instincts? Hm…” Following her instincts wasn’t something Rebecca could ever remember doing.

  “Besides, why not have some fun with Morgan?”

  “No,” said Rebecca indignantly. “I’m not having fun. I’m just going over to be friendly, to be polite.”

  “Why? You’re not going out with your astronomer colleague, Martin, are you? He’s not here, is he?”

  Rebecca went to push her glasses further on her nose from force of habit before she remembered that Gemma had persuaded her to replace them with contact lenses. “No. He’s at the observatory, but… it doesn’t seem right.”

  “Don’t tell me. He scores highly on your husband list.”

  “As a matter of fact, he does.”

  Gemma sighed. “So, tell me what it is this Martin, whom I’ve never yet met, has that the ruggedly handsome Morgan doesn’t.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “I can’t say exactly.” She glanced back at Morgan who was now talking to Callum. “I just know who I am when I’m with someone like Martin. But with Morgan…” She trailed off unable to explain how out of her depth she felt whenever he was near.

  Gemma frowns. “Who you are? Don’t you know?” She narrowed her eyes. “Is this something to do with you being adopted?”

  Rebecca waved her hand in confusion. Even if she could figure it all out herself, now wasn’t the time for deep soul-searching. “Probably,” she replied. “Anyway, Martin is reliable, he has a good sense of humor, and is good looking in a neat sort of way—”

  Gemma held up her hand. “Stop right there! ‘A neat sort of way’? That’s it.” She gave Rebecca a little shove. “You need to get over there and have a close encounter with someone who’s good looking in a muscly sort of way. And if that’s not enough for you, check Morgan against your list. If he doesn’t measure up, then tell him you’re not interested.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s the only kind thing to do. He fancies you rotten and for some reason he can’t bring himself to make a move. So it’s up to you to sort it out. Once and for all.”

  Rebecca jumped off the stool and tugged her cardigan back into place. “Okay. I don’t believe he fancies me rotten, but if he does, it’s best that I don’t lead him on. Best I nip it in the bud before it becomes something more than it is.”

  “Go,” grinned Gemma.

  “Right.” She smiled wanly back and stepped forward into the crowd before she could give herself time to think.

  She walked up behind him and looked up. She felt tiny. Close to, she could plainly see the bulge and swell of his muscles under his much-washed shirt—the checked material was thin in places. Then he lifted his beer bottle and his rolled-up shirtsleeve revealed a heavily tanned arm, sprinkled with blond hair and those muscles again. Gemma was right. At close quarters they had an even greater effect on her. She squeezed her hands tight, as her desire to reach out and touch them, to run her fingers over their shape and strength, became almost overwhelming. She swallowed. This was ridiculous. She had nothing to say to him. She’d leave. Just at that moment Callum caught sight of her.

  “Rebecca! Come and keep Morgan company while I go see Gemma.”

  Morgan swung around as if startled and there they were, pushed close to each other by the jostling crowd. And all Rebecca could think of was that she wanted to bury her nose in his chest and smell him, like some animal. She shook her head, trying to quieten her beating heart.

  “Hello again,” she said, wond
ering whether shaking hands would satisfy her need to touch him. She half extended her hand but he made no move to take it, so she let it drop.

  Morgan nodded in greeting and made some kind of grunt.

  She’d have looked around for inspiration for something to say if her eyes weren’t level with his open shirt where she could see an equally tanned chest sprinkled with blond hairs. She felt the heat of a blush rise from somewhere deep within, warming her stomach, her neck and her cheeks. She never blushed. She took a deep breath and looked up and… wished she hadn’t. If she’d hoped that making eye contact would loosen her tongue, she’d been wrong. From a distance his eyes were usually narrowed. But here, so close, she could see they were a vivid blue. A beautiful baby blue that was accentuated by his tanned skin and was at odds with his rugged cowboy appearance.

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  He frowned. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “Sure.”

  “Like a drink?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Tea?”

  She needed something stronger than that. “A glass of white wine.”

  He leaned through the crowds and plucked a glass off the tray from a passing waitress and handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” She took a sip and another deep breath. This was going to be harder than she thought. “So… you’re here to see the paintings?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve seen most of them in Gemma’s studio at Glencoe,” he said.

  “Oh yes. Of course.”

  “I suppose you’ve seen the paintings already, too.”

  She nodded. “Yes, but I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. A big day for Gemma.”

  “I guess,” he muttered.

  “But you’re not here for Gemma.”

  “Not really.”

  “Then… why?”

  “I thought you’d be here.”

  She should have guessed that, as a man of so few words, when he did finally speak he’d be totally direct. “Oh. Well, you were right. I’m here. So, did you want to tell me something?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you want to see me?” She took a hasty sip of wine.