Sweet on You (Sweet on a Cowboy)

by Drake, Laura

  “I followed cow tails for a week, outside Dallas. Got my fill.” He eyed Tuck’s last pancake like a stray hound.

  Tuck cut into it and raised it to his mouth, golden syrup dripping. “So? Whatcha gonna do?”

  The past week, his anger had dissipated. A desperate fog of pending defeat replaced it. “Damned if I know, partner.”

  One day closer to Kandahar. Her first day outlasted, Katya closed the menu and gave her order for eggs and toast to the waitress. When Dusty invited her to dinner, she’d accepted. She couldn’t afford a coworker friend nosing around her past, but any tips that would help her navigate her new job, she’d accept gladly. “I appreciate anything you can tell me, Dusty. I feel like I’m in a foreign country. I don’t speak the language.”

  Dusty took off his hat and laid it on the seat beside him. “I’d be glad to help in any way I can.” A receding hairline exposed his large forehead, shining white and vulnerable above the hat line, in sharp contrast to the ruddy complexion below it. He flipped open the menu before him. “I’m just glad to have some help in the training room.” His eyes widened. “I didn’t mean to sound like you’re working for me. I just meant—”

  She smiled. Dusty was younger than his hairline made him look. “No offense taken. I know what you meant.” She set aside her menu. “What’s a buckle bunny?”

  His mouth opened then closed. A flush spread into his sparse hairline. “Um.” His eyes searched the room for an escape route. “I guess you could call it a bull rider groupie.”

  She’d suspected as much. “What is the deal with this Edward guy? He acts professional around Doc Cody, but underneath…”

  “He’s not too bad.” Dusty read the dessert menu in the display clip as if it held the key to his future. “He’s one of the best orthopedic therapists in the country. I’m trying to learn from him.”

  “Well, he may be all that but he must’ve slept through his course in Manners 101.”

  “He always takes arena duty, so when you’re not assigned there, you’ll get a break from him. He tends to come on strong.”

  That was an understatement.

  Aside from that idiot, she’d been on edge all evening, worried how she’d react if a cowboy was hurt badly. Tonight had been lucky, only strains and sprains. If all her days here were like this one, she could do this job.

  If she was going to connect with Dusty, a little polite conversation was in order. “So where is home for you?”

  “Luckenbach, Texas. You know, with Waylon and Willie and the boys.”

  “You live with a bunch of guys?”

  “Not hardly. I’ve got five sisters.” He chuckled. “It’s a song.”

  “Oh. Did you grow up on a farm?”

  “A ranch. Dad used to run cattle, but a few years ago he got tired of the low beef prices and got into exotics—ostrich, emus, and llamas.”

  “There’s a market for that?”

  “Oh yeah, there’s a good one for the birds. The llamas? They’re pretty useless, but my sisters think they’re cute, so Dad indulges them. Mom is considering raising chickens for their saddles.” He took a sip of water.

  “What the heck would ride a chicken?”

  Dusty choked, mid-swallow. He grabbed his napkin and coughed into it, eyes streaming.

  “Are you okay?” Alarm jerked Katya upright, her hands clutching the edge of the table. “Do you need the Heimlich?”

  When he pulled the napkin away from his face, she realized he was laughing.

  When he could, he gasped out, “You are a funny lady. She’d sell the saddle feathers to fly fishermen, to tie flies.” He wiped his eyes. “You are obviously not from around here. Where is home for you?”

  “Back East. Nowhere special.” She glanced around for a subject change. Across the room, a man stood from a table, in conversation with another. Cam Cahill, her unfinished business. He’d been abrupt this afternoon, not accepting her apology. She hadn’t expected much else. He was a top level athlete, after all.

  Before you accuse someone else, take a look at yourself, Puri Chikni.

  The voice in her head was Grand’s. Hot shame flooded her face.

  She’d try once more. That way she’d have a clear conscience. And maybe repair the damage with the high-profile cowboy. She pressed a hand to the dog tags nestled in her bra. She needed this job. “Dusty, could you excuse me for just a moment?”

  “Sure thing.”

  She wrestled her way out of the low booth and walked across the room toward him. Even in clothes, he looked amazing. When he smiled it dazzled her, even though it was aimed at his friend.

  “I’ll be right back, Tuck.”

  He turned, took three steps, and almost walked into her. “Oh, pardon me, ma’—” She knew the nanosecond he recognized her. His face tightened, pulling his mouth into a thin line, and his brows into a frown. “Oh. It’s you.”

  Her stomach hopped like it was full of crickets. She stood at attention, braced to take her medicine. “Mr. Cahill, I just wanted you to know that my apology is sincere. You and I got off on the wrong foot. Can’t we please start over?” Her tone sounded perfect, contrite, but not cringing.

  He sighed and glanced around, as if checking to be sure they wouldn’t be overheard. His gaze, when it returned, struck like a cudgel. “Look, lady. I don’t know why you’d take a job tending a bunch of people you obviously think so little of. I don’t even want to know. But I’m telling you now, those people are my friends. My family.” He stood, chest out, jaw clenched, a pit bull at a junkyard fence. “If you don’t give them respect, and the best care possible, you’ll be out so fast that your first clue will be the door slamming behind you.”

  She squirmed, skewered on the needle of his scorn.

  His eyes watched her, as if gauging how deeply his words had sunk. He nodded, once. “Apology accepted. Excuse me, please.” He stepped around her and walked away.

  She should feel relieved. If he accepted her apology, he probably wouldn’t report her behavior to Dr. Cody. But watching him stride away, she had to admit that she’d been hoping for one of those smiles.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Katya emptied what had to be the seventy-fifth bag of half-melted ice into the training room sink and dropped the plastic bag in the trash can next to it. The last day of her first full weekend working, and the muscles in her hands and forearms felt like overtenderized meat. She rolled her shoulders. Her trapezius was a band of sheet metal.

  Working her muscles back into shape was the best way. Too bad it was also the most painful.

  “Okay, Pete, why don’t you grab a shower, then we’ll let our newest member put those magic hands to work on that thigh.”

  Before she had met Edward, she hadn’t known a sweet Georgia drawl could be condescending. Their last patient gave her a shy smile, slid off the table, and limped to the door, then pushed through it. Looked like they had a break until the end of the final round. She’d learned that almost all the cowboys stayed to watch after they rode, cheering on their friends.

  Doc Cody and Dusty had taken first responder duty, waiting at the out gate of the arena in case they were needed. She didn’t want to think about the ambulance pulled up to the back doors for the same purpose.

  All afternoon Edward had passed her every cowboy needing a massage. At first she hadn’t minded; this was something she could handle. But even if her muscles were in shape, no one could massage for five hours. What was this, petty punishment? For what? Being a woman in a man’s territory? For her daring to be as skilled as a man? She didn’t know this guy’s problem, but she didn’t take this job to be his domestic.

  Between dealing with this asshole, offending an influential rider, not understanding the sport, the vocabulary, or cowboy culture, this job was turning out to be a lot harder than the lucrative hiatus she’d signed up for. The treatment room was a minefield and what she didn’t know could blow up in her face. Cam Cahill appeared in her mind, smiling that sexy smile. Sh
e’d already detonated that mine. So why did she still look for him every time a cowboy walked into the treatment room?

  But the waiting was harder. Waiting for a rider with serious trauma to be carried through the door. Waiting to see how she’d react. Waiting for failure. As time passed, tension built in the nerves in her spine, pulling her muscles tight, as if to protect her vital organs. She turned on the water in the sink, letting it run warm, down her fingers.

  A huff of warm air brushed her ear.

  “You are very pretty. You know it too, don’t you?” the voice whispered, soft, close, creepy.

  Shit! She flinched, ducking away, her hands flying, showering crystal drops over them both. Her heart stumbled, then double-timed, a hammer against her ribs. She whipped her head around to see Edward looming in her personal space.

  His leering eyes flicked over her face. His eyebrows lifted. “Did I frighten you?”

  Irritation oozed into the cracks in her armor. She now officially hated that accent. I need this job. I need this job. She snatched a paper towel from the dispenser over the sink and stepped away. “Yes. You did. Don’t do it again.”

  Their next patient pushed through the door from the arena, cradling his elbow.

  God, it felt good to get two rode to the whistle.

  The audience was still cheering when Cam closed the latch to the arena gate, noting that his shoulder allowed the long reach without protest. The new therapist might have personality issues, but she was flat-out good at massage. Made a man wonder what else those hands would be good at. She was exotically beautiful. So what? Candi had taught him that was just window-dressing without a sweet disposition.

  But she did apologize, and it seemed sincere.

  The girl behind the chutes, Lisa Bentley, stuck a microphone in his face, the cameraman recording over her shoulder. “So, do you think your eighty-nine is going to hold up the rest of the short-go, Cam?”

  He took a deep breath, trying not to sound winded, knowing he did. “I can only make the best of the bull under me. I’ll worry about the next when they run him under me.” He tossed his bull rope over the top of the pipe fence and tied it off.

  “You’ve been inconsistent of late, Cam. What do you attribute that to?”

  He got a start on the tape holding his riding glove and unwound it. He wanted to bat the mic away. Instead, he forced a smile. “These are the best bulls in the world, Lisa. Sometimes they have a good round, sometimes we do.” He pulled off his glove and tucked it into a coil in his rope. “If you’ll excuse me, Tucker’s up next.” He turned his back and took the stairs to the catwalk, while Lisa recited his recent stats for the camera.

  Cam knew obsessing about his riding percentage was a self-fulfilling prophecy. You started second-guessing yourself, and went to fixing things that weren’t even broke. Before you knew it, you’d ridden yourself into a slump. Well, screw that. He’d learned over the years to keep his mind as loose as his body. It had been a good weekend, and he’d settle for that. With only two riders to go, he couldn’t do worse than third.

  He wound through the riders, bull contractors, and TV crew on the catwalk, to the rear of the chute. Tuck lowered himself on the back of the polled brindle bull, Gnarly.

  Troy Barber put a forearm around Tucker’s chest, spotting him in case Gnarly lived up to his name. If the bull acted up, Tuck could end up with his face smashed into the only slightly padded front of the chute, where a judge perched, watching. Cam said, “Don’t forget, Tuck. He’s gonna take a long jump first. Stay up on your rope.”

  When Tucker handed Cam the tail of the rope, he stepped up on the slat and pulled the rope taut. When the rope was as tight as Cam’s back could get it, he handed the rope back to Tuck, who took a wrap, laying it just so in his palm, then threaded it between his baby and ring finger. He folded his fingers over the rope and pounded them closed.

  Cam raised his voice over the chatter of the announcer and the voice of the crowd. “He could turn either way, Tuck. Mind that second gear.”

  Tucker scooted up to his rope, taking care to keep his spurs away from the bull. Gnarly was touchy, and the chute was small. Best way to get hurt was with a fractious bull in the chute.

  Cam leaned over and caught his friend’s eye. “And he’s mean, so when you’re off, haul ass.”

  His face hard and focused, Tucker leaned forward and nodded. “Let’s go.”

  The chute man unlatched the gate. The other tugged on the rope, pulling it wide. Gnarly, spotting his escape, lunged into the arena.

  The ride was textbook. When Gnarly settled into the spin, Tucker was with him. When he sped up, Tucker did the same, making it look easy.

  Cam bent at the waist, as if to help Tuck keep balance. “Keep moving!”

  The cowboys leaned over the back of the chutes, bellowing encouragement. The crowd cheered.

  The buzzer sounded. Gnarly, veteran that he was, slowed his spin. The bullfighters moved in to distract him. Tucker jerked the tail of his rope to free his hand then stepped off.

  But Gnarly was having none of the bullfighters. He knew which of the humans had been on his back. He thundered after Tuck, who sprinted for the fence.

  A bull will beat a man in a foot race any day. Tucker was ten feet from the fence when the bull lowered his head to hook him. Gnarly didn’t know he didn’t have horns. His head hit Tucker under his butt, scooping him off his feet, launching him at the fence. When he hit, he scrambled for purchase, then climbed to safety. The bull stopped at the fence and, fun over, trotted for the exit gate.

  The crowd cheered. The announcer yelled to be heard over the noise, “The scores are coming in… well, Billings, how about ninety and a half points!”

  Tuck let out a rebel yell, snatched his hat from his head and threw it away, up into the stands. Strobe lights flashed, and confetti shot from tubes on either end of the chutes, a multicolored snowfall fluttering into the arena.

  Tucker hopped from the fence and met the bullfighters halfway to the gate. They handed him his rope, pounding congratulations on his back. Cheers followed Tucker to the gate. Grinning, he unlatched it, turned and waved to the crowd, who roared their approval.

  Cam tried to push through the crowd of riders on the catwalk, but gave it up. Things would clear out soon. The last ride was coming up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I can direct your attention to chute number three, for the last ride of the night.” The tension in the announcer’s voice hushed the audience. “This is Buster Deacon’s first weekend in the big leagues and he’s already proved he belongs here. He’s your current leader.” The crowd settled into their seats, all eyes on the chute where the carrot-haired cowboy prepped his rope. “He’s also shown he’s not intimidated by the bright lights. He may look like a kid, but that cowboy stepped up and picked the rankest bull in the pen, and the baddest bucker currently on the PBR, Big Sleep.”

  The JumboTron over the arena displayed a close-up of Buster, Adam’s apple bobbing, face covered in so many freckles that he looked like he had a tan. But a muscle jumped in his jaw as he wrapped his hand, jammed his hat on his head, leaned forward, and nodded.

  The black Brahma shot from the chute. Buster was ready, up off his pockets, on his rope. The bull leapt into the air and came down almost vertical on his front feet, a move that had pulled more than one rider down into a collision with his head. Buster laid back, knees braced on the bull’s shoulders. When the back hooves touched down, he was forward again, toes out, gripping with his spurs, ready for the next jump.

  Big Sleep lunged once more before turning away from Buster’s hand, bucking into a spin. The crowd was on their feet, roaring. Buster was so far forward on the jump, the bull almost hit him in the chin as he reared. Buster corrected and as the bull spun, spurred with his outside leg. The cowboys slapped the chute slats and screamed advice, which was drowned by the roar of the crowd.

  Cam watched, the smile spreading on his face seeping down into his bones. He knew how that felt—
balanced in the eye of the cyclone—everything was slow and easy, so focused that the crowd noise was just a blur. It was only you and the bull, so perfectly connected it felt like you were dancing.

  When the buzzer sounded, Buster popped his rope from his hand and without a bobble, stepped off. The bullfighters ran in, but they weren’t needed. Big Sleep knew the gig. He stopped bucking at the buzzer, lifted his head, snorted, and sauntered from the arena.

  Buster took off his hat, got on one knee in the dirt, and put his head down for a moment of prayer. Then he was on his feet, pumping his fists in the air. The arena shook with the roar of the crowd. Wiley, the arena clown, ran over to bump chests and give him a high five.

  The announcer’s voice yelled over the noise. “People, you’re looking at the only cowboy this year that’s made eight seconds on that bull.”

  Buster watched the replay on the JumboTron, looking happily stunned.

  “Okay, are you ready to welcome the newest member of the ninety-point club? The judges scored that ride NINETY-TWO POINTS!”

  The confetti flew again, spirals floating down onto Buster’s upraised arms. The crowd roared. Buster literally skipped from the arena.

  Five minutes later, Cam followed Tuck through the doorway from the treatment room to watch the celebration in the locker room.

  “Dang, kid, you can ride more than a sheep, after all! Nobody can say that bull had an off day.” Mario shook the kid’s hand.

  Buster looked like his grin was a permanent fixture.

  “Great ride, Deacon.” Cam recognized the gleam in Tuck’s eye. He was up to something.

  “Thanks, y’all.” Buster unbuckled his chaps then pulled open his locker. Wads of opened disposable diapers spilled out onto the floor.

  “Uh, something you want to tell us, kid?” Tuck said in a deadpan tone.

  Buster only stood there, a look of horrified incredulity on his red face.

  The cowboys fell out laughing.

  “I knew you were young, but damn!” Tucker slapped his thigh, cracking up.