Big Bad Cowboy

by Carly Bloom

  Honey had replaced cabra with vaca, the Spanish word for cow. Probably thought she was clever.

  Having to face Honey Mackey on her own turf with her feisty granddaughter as backup on the very night she’d literally threatened to drain his cattle of blood didn’t sound like fun. What if tonight wasn’t about basketball, but an ambush?

  “Are we at Maggie’s?” Henry asked.

  Travis sighed. “Not yet. We’re home. Let’s get you in your PJ’s.”

  Maggie wouldn’t ambush a five-year-old. He was being paranoid.

  The thought of her in San Antonio Spurs basketball PJ’s—possibly plotting an ambush—made him grin, though. It also gave him an idea, and before he knew it, he was sending a text.

  * * *

  The wind kicked up, stirring Maggie’s wind chimes into hysteria. She pulled her shoes off on the back porch just as the screen door slammed with a wham. She banged them together, shaking off the dried mud, and hightailed it inside to get the wood-burning stove going. The house was still warm, but it would be chilly within the hour.

  A smile tugged at her lips as she lit the kindling. She was glad she’d helped with the gazebo. It felt good, and she’d enjoyed working with Travis.

  She added some logs and sat cross-legged on the floor, watching them catch flame. No matter how handsome Travis was, or how noble or perfect or adorable, she couldn’t be sucked in. It would cloud her judgment, and she needed to protect her business. Despite what her mother might think about her decision to move back to Big Verde—you’ll waste away at Honey’s flower shop until you marry some small-town man with a small-town mind and start having his small-town babies—Maggie was on the road to success. She’d used her degree to turn Honey’s beloved flower shop into a real business. She was building an impressive portfolio. One of her projects had even been featured in Better Homes and Gardens. By Big Verde’s standards, she was a freaking rock star and had thus far not been approached by a single small-town man about making babies. So there.

  And that was fine with her. Mostly. Maybe she was just one of those women who only needed fulfilling work, good friends, and a sexting relationship with a guy in a wolf mask. There were probably lots of women like that, right?

  The fire popped, bringing her back to the issue at hand, which was getting ready for company. What did “in a little while” mean? She was filthy and needed a shower. She stood up with a groan and headed for the bathroom, just as her phone pinged.

  Wear sexy lingerie tonight. I’ll be thinking of you.

  She didn’t own any sexy lingerie, but even if she did, she could hardly wear it tonight with company coming. And anyway, she’d promised Henry she’d wear her Spurs PJ’s.

  She decided to respond honestly.

  No can do. Having company.

  Are you seeing another wolf?

  Ha! Hardly.

  Believe it or not, it’s a man who’s trying to ruin my business.

  She waited a few minutes, but the wolf didn’t text back, so she hopped in the shower. What had she expected? That her anonymous sexting buddy would want to have a deep and meaningful conversation about her job insecurity? He didn’t know she worked in a male-dominated industry. He could never understand the scrutiny she underwent every single time she bid on a large job, just because she was a woman. She could handle the ribbing and jabbing and jokes at her expense. It was the lack of confidence that men—and women!—expressed in her ability to do the job because of her gender that really got her hackles up. She had to work twice as hard, and often for less money, to prove herself.

  It wasn’t Travis’s fault that Anna had hired him to do a job he wasn’t qualified for. But he should have turned it down. Or at least accepted some help.

  After a super quick rinse off, she felt blindly around for her towel, shivering the entire time. It took only about twelve seconds before she was zipped up into her warm San Antonio Spurs footsie pajamas. Then she swiped at the foggy mirror with her hand and towel-dried her hair.

  Ready for company.

  She checked her phone to see if the wolf had texted back—he hadn’t—and padded down the chilly hallway to check on the wood-burning stove. It was going gangbusters.

  Note to self: Wolf just wants to talk dirty. No more personal revelations.

  Travis was bringing tamales; but shouldn’t she at least offer some chips and dip or something? She opened the refrigerator and stared for the obligatory five seconds before moving on to the pantry. It was a bust. All she had to offer were stale crackers and an expired carton of yogurt. She was a horrible hostess.

  Pop started yapping. Maggie peeked out the window above the sink to see headlights coming up the lane.

  “Settle down, Pop. It’s just company.”

  Other than Claire or JD, Pop wasn’t much used to company. He tilted his head as if considering what she’d said. Then he began yapping and growling again. He really got going when the headlights hit the house.

  “Hush up, Pop. Do I look scared? It’s not a serial killer. It’s just Travis Blake.”

  Yap!

  “Coming to our house.”

  Yap!

  “Because that’s not weird at all.”

  Yap!

  She stepped onto the screened-in porch with Pop running circles at her feet as the truck pulled to a stop. It took a few minutes for Travis to extricate Henry from his car seat, but then she was covered in five-year-old.

  “Hi, Maggie!”

  Pop stopped barking to actively sniff the hell out of Henry. That turned to enthusiastic licking, which broke Henry out in a rash of giggles.

  “Look, Uncle Travis. She still gots her dog!”

  “She still has her dog.”

  “I know. That’s what I said.”

  Travis sighed and smiled at Maggie. He wore a big wooly green sweater. And glasses. She hadn’t expected those. Combined with his longish black hair and scruffy dark beard, it made him look like Rustic Outdoorsy Guy Who Likes to Read. She approved.

  “You look nice in glasses.”

  Travis paused at the compliment, and then smiled. “My contacts were bothering me.” He lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Cold fronts get me every time.”

  “Does your dog have a name?” Henry asked.

  “It’s Pop.”

  Travis eyed her Spurs basketball pajamas, took a closer look at Pop, and proclaimed, “I see the resemblance.”

  “Did you just insinuate that I look like my dog?”

  “No. I insinuated your dog looks like Greg Popovich.”

  Greg Popovich was the head coach of the Spurs. And Travis had successfully noted the resemblance between him and the little blue-haired bulldog. “Impressive,” Maggie said.

  “It’s the stubby silver hair and the, no offense, face only a mother could love.”

  Maggie laughed and picked Pop up, petting him between the ears. “Don’t call my dog ugly.”

  “So, are you a real fan or just one of those girls who wears NBA lingerie and names her dog after Greg Popovich to attract guys?”

  “Aw…you nailed it. I’m just trying to attract guys. I know nothing about sportsball.”

  “I bet you know more about it than I do.”

  Henry looked nosily through the open door to where Maggie’s television glowed. “Let’s go inside. I want to watch the game.”

  Travis came up the steps and reached over her head to hold the door open. He smelled good, like woods and sunshine.

  How had this even happened? She took the bag of tamales from him and went into the house, where Henry was already rolling around the floor with Pop. Their relationship status had gone from Mortal Enemies to Comfy Pajamas Complicated in one afternoon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Travis looked around the old farmhouse. Although he didn’t see Honey Mackey—hopefully she was infirm and bedridden—evidence of her was everywhere. Gingham curtains, those ugly lace things that went beneath lamps, and about a zillion salt and pepper shakers shaped like roost
ers.

  Maggie caught him. “It’s my grandmother’s house.”

  “Oh, I know. I just didn’t realize you lived here, too.”

  Maggie looked at him quizzically. “I live here alone. I moved in after Honey passed away.”

  He was confused. And then it dawned on him. Miss Mary Margaret aka Little Red Riding Hood aka the Chupavaca Summoner had been leaving him the nasty notes.

  She looked up at him with an angelic smile.

  He folded his arms. “Sorry to hear about Honey.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t know, small towns being what they are.”

  “I haven’t been back very long. And everybody still refers to this property as Honey Mackey’s place.”

  Maggie nodded. “And they will still be referring to it as Honey Mackey’s place a hundred years from now. Just like that drugstore on the corner is still called Harmon’s, even though the Harmon’s sign is long gone, and it’s owned by a chain. You could say we’re a little resistant to change.”

  “No kidding.” Travis bet Honey’s underwear was still in a drawer somewhere in the house. A mug on the counter said, WORLD’S GREATEST GRANDMA. Travis picked it up. It had about an inch of cold, stale coffee in it. “Unless Honey died last week, I’d say you’re resistant to change.”

  Maggie stared down at her hands quietly.

  Dammit! He was no good at making jokes. Especially ones about somebody’s dead grandmother.

  Maggie sniffled. “Actually…”

  Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Her grandmother had not died a week ago.

  Maggie sniffed again.

  Jesus Christ. Maybe she had.

  Maggie’s pink cheeks slowly deepened to scarlet red. Her lips trembled, her eyes brimmed with tears, and it took everything Travis had not to turn around and fling himself out the window. This was worse than when he’d asked a nonpregnant lady when her baby was due. When would he learn to engage his brain before his mouth? No wonder Maggie had been so ornery. She was grieving a fresh loss.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Maybe Henry would barf now—he sometimes did that for no reason whatsoever—and they could make a hasty retreat.

  Maggie covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders began to shake.

  Instead of fleeing, Travis gathered her in his arms. And even though everything about the scenario was mortifying, a party had started in his pants. He kept the necessary three inches between it and Maggie, so she wouldn’t get the invitation. “There, there,” he said stiffly. “It’ll be okay. I have a horrible sense of humor.”

  For some reason, the sound of his voice seemed to unleash the beast. Maggie’s shoulders shook so hard she rocked them both. He held on tightly as the first sob came. It cut through his bones and went straight into his heart. “Shhh…”

  “Why are you lovin’ on Maggie?” Henry asked.

  When had Henry come into the kitchen? “Her grannie just died, Henry.”

  “Then why is she laughing?”

  “She’s not laughing—”

  Travis loosened his hold as Maggie’s sobs turned into howls. Travis held her at arm’s length and stared into her face, which was distorted from laughing. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Henry started to laugh, too, even though he had no idea what was going on. Laughter was contagious. In fact, Travis felt a little something stirring up, but he did his best to squash it.

  “What’s so funny?” Henry asked between giggles.

  “Your uncle,” Maggie wheezed to Henry. “God. He’s gullible.”

  “Okay, so I fell for it,” Travis said. “Big deal.”

  “Uncle Travis, do you have your feelings hurt?”

  Now he felt even sillier. “Nah, it was a good joke.” He’d love to make a joke about how the Big Bad Wolf was currently in Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s house. What would Maggie’s reaction be? He tried to imagine it. She’d be shocked. Embarrassed. Mortified, most likely. And he’d have to explain why he hadn’t said anything sooner. It was just one more thing he’d put off, and now it seemed too late. It was like when someone called you by the wrong name and you didn’t correct them, and before you knew it, it was past the point of awkward, so you just pretended to have a new name.

  It would be fine. Once the ranch sold and Henry was settled, he and Big Verde—and Maggie—would part ways. In the meantime, he should probably stop sexting her.

  “Good,” Henry said decidedly. Then he looked at Maggie. “Because it’s not nice to hurt people’s feelings.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “His feelings aren’t hurt. Want some hot cocoa, pookie?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Henry said.

  “I was talking to Uncle Pookie, but you can have some, too.”

  Maggie kicked a small stool over to the kitchen counter, while Travis glanced awkwardly around. Was Honey Mackey really deceased? Maggie had said she was, but she’d also indicated the woman was freshly in her grave, which obviously wasn’t the case. Was the joke that Honey hadn’t died recently? Or that she hadn’t died at all? And who joked about dead grannies? Travis cleared his throat. “We’re not disturbing your grandmother, are we?”

  “God, I hope not,” Maggie said. “She’s been dead for nearly a year.”

  Okay. So that answered his question. Maggie Mackey joked about dead grannies. While wearing Spurs pajamas in a house full of rooster knickknacks. A grin took over Travis’s face, and he realized he kind of liked twisted girls. Or at least he liked this one.

  Maggie winked, but pain creased her forehead and her smile trembled. Honey Mackey was definitely dead, and her granddaughter, whacked sense of humor notwithstanding, was heartbroken.

  “Were you close?”

  “She was my best friend.”

  “That’s pretty close,” Travis said. “I’m sorry you’ve lost her.”

  “Thanks.” Maggie looked down at her hands, took a breath as if she had something else to say. “She was the only person who truly believed in me.”

  Who wouldn’t believe in this sexy dynamo of a woman? While Travis searched for something to say, Maggie turned away and opened the cabinet above her head. “Honey would have loved the little joke I just pulled on you.” She stood on her tiptoes and still couldn’t quite reach whatever it was she was looking for. “We had identical senses of humor.”

  “That’s horrifying,” Travis said. He walked up behind Maggie. “What are you looking for? I can get it.”

  Maggie came down to her heels just as he reached over, gently bumping into her. He backed up quickly, but the response of his dick had been swift. He now stood behind a grown woman in footsie pajamas in a dead lady’s kitchen—with a raging hard-on.

  “Oops,” Maggie said. “Watch what you do with that thing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re gripping a cast iron skillet. I’m pretty sure my grandmother used it to kill my grandfather.”

  “Really?” Henry asked.

  “No,” Maggie said. “Another joke.” She looked at Travis and whispered, “Somebody’s as gullible as his uncle.”

  Travis let go of the skillet. He hadn’t even known he’d grabbed the damn thing.

  “The saucepan behind it,” Maggie said. “That’s what I need to heat the milk in.”

  “Got it.” He handed Maggie the pan.

  “Do you have whipped cream that squirts out of a can?” Henry asked.

  Maggie set the pan on the stove and went to the refrigerator. “I might. Let’s see.”

  Travis let out a low whistle at the sight of two bottles of beer, some ketchup, and a half gallon of milk. “That’s some stock you’ve got there. Sure you’re not a guy?”

  Maggie frowned. Had he said something wrong? Again?

  “Not a guy,” she said with a sigh. “But thanks for asking.”

  He kept his mouth shut for fear of what might fly out next, and because the sight of her bending over looking in the fridge stunned him speechless. His penis kept hopping to a
ttention like Maggie was a five-star general. He knew what they’d done together…

  And she didn’t.

  “Ah ha! Look what I found, boys.” She held up a white can with a spout in triumph. “Whipped cream.”

  Travis tried—and failed—not to think about all the places he’d like to put that whipped cream.

  Maggie slammed the door shut with her hip, squinting at the can. “And it only expired two months ago. This is practically straight from the cow.”

  “I don’t think that’s ever seen a cow,” Travis said.

  Henry licked his lips. “Squirt some in my mouth, Maggie!”

  “No, Henry. That’s not a good—”

  “Party pooper,” Maggie said, breezing past him with the nozzle aimed at Henry’s mouth. The unmistakable sound of the depressed tip of a whipped cream can came next, followed by hysterical giggles. Travis tried not to grin. Somebody had to be the grown-up.

  “Go see what the score is, Henry,” Maggie said, nodding at the television. “I’ll bring the plates in.”

  “We can eat on the couch?”

  “Where else would we eat on game night? Travis, grab those TV trays, would you?”

  TV trays. The woman ate on TV trays while watching basketball and doing weird shit with whipped cream. She was a dream come true.

  * * *

  Maggie couldn’t believe that she was sitting on the sofa sipping hot cocoa with Travis while the Spurs creamed the Mavericks. Henry sat between them, his little head already nodding. She pulled him in for a snuggle, and he curled right up.

  A commercial came on. “I think Henry’s asleep,” she said, muting the television.

  It was already the fourth quarter. The game would be over in a few minutes. Travis probably wanted to get home and put Henry to bed.

  “Did Honey raise you?”

  “Not initially. But when I started high school, my mom took off for Los Angeles. She’s an artist, or at least that’s how she sees herself. Big Verde stifled her creativity. She wanted me to come along, but even at fourteen I knew I didn’t want that life. I’m a small-town girl at heart, which my mother finds terribly disappointing. Small towns, small minds, she used to say.”