Wild Cowboy Ways

by Carolyn Brown

  Besides she hadn’t been a good friend to the woman. No doubt, Nadine would be at the store building because she wanted to open the café in another week. It was absolutely imperative that Allie tell her that all cowboys didn’t like apple pie. They liked their mamas and pretty girls but some of them liked cherry pie or maybe even lemon meringue, but not to depend on apple pies. A friend would be honest with Nadine and tell her that.

  She put the bottles between her legs, backed her thirteen-year-old pickup truck out of the driveway, and widened her eyes, being careful not to blink except when totally necessary. She’d prove to Deke that she could hold her liquor, prove to Lizzy that she wasn’t drunk, and Blake Dawson could go to hell for not letting her explain.

  When she made it to the end of the lane, she put her foot on the brake. Left was town. Right took her to the Lucky Penny. Or was right town? She wasn’t drunk. She knew that Blake didn’t like apple pie. If she was drunk, she wouldn’t remember that. She twisted the cap off the Jack and took a long gulp. Everything was clear as a bell and the whiskey didn’t even burn. She could hold her liquor. All she needed was bad boy Jack to clear her mind.

  She whipped the truck to the right and was singing with the radio when she made another right into the Lucky Penny lane. She held up the bottle of Jack when Travis Tritt sang that the whiskey wasn’t workin’ anymore and nodded when the song’s lyrics said that he needed one more honky-tonk angel to turn his life around.

  She’d be a honky-tonk angel. She could be as wild as Blake. She thought she was stomping the brakes when she realized she was in front of the house at Blake’s ranch. She really did, but when she yelled “whoa,” the truck kept moving.

  She hit the pedal harder, but the damn thing wouldn’t listen to her. It was a hell of a time for the brakes to go out but she had to protect her two bottles because she and Nadine were going to have a drink to their friendship. Only Nadine wasn’t putting in a café at the Lucky Penny. The truck busted through the wooden fence circling the yard and ground to a stop when it hit the porch, the solid foundation putting a huge dent in the front and a hole in the radiator.

  “Well, shit!” she mumbled as her head hit the steering wheel. “Shhh! Shut up!” She slapped the steering wheel. “I went the wrong way. Shut up or Blake will find out.”

  Blake and Shooter were alone in the house. Toby had gone home a couple of hours before and the house was too quiet. Suddenly the whole house trembled, and Blake grabbed the wall and hung on, not knowing what to expect next since he’d never experienced an earthquake before. Shooter darted into the bedroom and tried to dive under the bed, but the mattress was still on the floor. He yipped and huddled in the corner, his paws covering his eyes.

  When nothing else happened, Blake let go of the wall and checked the ceiling. The roof hadn’t fallen and the new ceiling didn’t show signs of cracks. The floor beneath him was solid once again. Was that a horn blaring outside?

  Shooter whimpered but he didn’t move.

  “That wasn’t an earthquake. Someone rammed into our house.” Blake ran down the hall, across the living room, and out onto the porch.

  “What the hell?” He didn’t recognize the older model small truck. He’d never seen the baby blue vehicle with rusted-out spots along the bottom of the fenders, but there was definitely a person in there and she was not moving. He jogged to the truck, through an inch of snow in his socks, to check the body for life.

  Allie raised her head enough to stop the horn when he slung open the door. “It’s okay if you don’t like apple pie.” She fell out into his arms. Two bottles landed on the frozen ground. The square one with a black label landed on its side, a few drops spilling out onto the ground but most of the remainder held secure by the shape of the bottle. The Patrón landed right side up, resting there as pretty as if it was sitting on the top shelf behind a fancy bar.

  He reached inside and turned off the engine and then carried her into the house. She was snoring loudly and smelled like a whiskey barrel when he laid her down on the mattress. Shooter sniffed her, tucked his tail between his legs, and made a beeline for the living room.

  Blake chuckled and she roused slightly.

  “Blake hates apple pie, Nadine. He loves his mama, though.”

  “Shhh! Shut your eyes,” he said.

  She sat straight up without opening her eyes and began weaving from side to side. “Can’t have sex with all these clothes on.” She slurred her words, but Blake understood most of them. “Poor Lizzy. Board games make boring sex.”

  He swiftly removed her sweater and unzipped her skirt before sliding it down her legs. She opened her bloodshot eyes and cocked her head to one side. “I love you, Blake.”

  He whipped his T-shirt off and pulled it over her head, pushed her back onto the pillows and covered her up. “Sleep, darlin’. Tomorrow you’ll have a headache, but you won’t remember much of what you said. What on earth made you hit the bottle anyway?”

  “Apple pie,” she mumbled. “You don’t like apple pie.”

  He lined a small trash can with a plastic bag and set it beside the bed. Then he removed another T-shirt from a dresser drawer, jerked it over his head, picked up the book he’d planned on reading that evening, and settled himself on the other side of the king-size mattress. She was drunk off her ass, and she wouldn’t remember saying it but that was okay. She was beside him and for right now, she did care.

  The sun had sunk below the window ledge when the notion struck that he should at least let the folks over at Audrey’s Place know where their prodigal daughter had landed. They probably didn’t need to know the particulars, like the fact that one of them had a truck that was most likely totaled sitting in his front yard. Or that she was passed out cold and snoring like a two-ton grizzly bear.

  He laid his book to the side and reached for his phone on the nightstand. It slipped out of his hands and skittered its way across the hardwood floor. Allie roused up and opened one eye. “Ouch. My head hurts. Afterglow isn’t supposed to give me a headache.”

  He slid off the mattress, picked up the phone, made his way around the bed to her side, and kissed her on the forehead, but she was already snoring again. He called her number but it went straight to voice mail. Then he remembered the number on the side of the van and called it.

  “Hello.” Irene’s thin voice filled his ear. “Who is this?”

  “This is Blake Dawson from the Lucky Penny. Could I talk to Katy or to Lizzy?”

  “I don’t know you, and who is Katy? Are you the law? Well, we ain’t run no whorehouse here in a long time, so stay the hell away from Audrey’s Place.” The clink of her hanging up the phone receiver banged in his ear.

  “Guess some folks still have a dial-up phone.” He called the number again.

  Irene screamed into the phone. “If this is the law, you can go to hell. We ain’t runnin’ moonshine, either, and we done closed up the whorehouse.”

  He could hear Lizzy yelling in the background. “Granny, who is that? Is it Nadine? Is Allie with her?”

  “Who is Nadine and what are you talkin’ about? It’s the law. They’re over at the Lucky Penny. I bet that damn Walter has told them that we used to run a whorehouse here,” Irene said.

  Lizzy’s frazzled voice finally asked, “Nadine, is Allie with you?”

  “This is Blake, Lizzy. Allie is over here.”

  “She’s drunk, Blake. Bring her home. Don’t let her drive. That old truck of hers doesn’t even have air bags and the tires are bald.”

  “She’s out cold and moving her will probably make her start upchucking so why don’t we let her sleep it off over here,” Blake said. “I promise I won’t let her drive and I’ve got a damn fine recipe for a hangover that I’ll give her when she wakes up.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone that she’s a drunk. I’m marryin’ a preacher, you know,” Lizzy said.

  “Wouldn’t dream of saying a word,” Blake said. “I’ll drive her home when she’s sobered up tomorrow mor
ning.”

  “She’s trying to ruin me,” Lizzy got out before Irene wrestled the phone from her.

  “Walter, is that you? I told you not to call this number. What in the hell are you thinkin’? Is the law over there?” Irene’s shrill voice blasted through his ears.

  “Give me that phone, Granny,” Lizzy demanded.

  The loud bang in his ears said that Irene hung up a second time.

  He tiptoed to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, carried it to the living room, and turned on the television. The weatherman said that they’d have thunderstorms through the night and most of the day on Monday. He watched two episodes of Family Feud and a couple of reruns of NCIS, but his mind kept running in circles and Allie Logan was right in the middle of all of it.

  Shooter went to the door and whined so he let him out for his evening run and checked the truck one more time. The front end was smashed up, but it didn’t look like it would leak if it rained. Just in case there was something important in the cab, he took a look. The only thing in there was a candy wrapper on the floor, the lid to the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, which was still lying on the ground with golden liquid in it, and Allie’s purse.

  He slung her purse over his shoulder and picked up the lid, recapped the liquor bottle, and carried both into the house. “No need to waste good Jack.”

  Shooter finished his business and dashed into the house, almost tripping Blake on his way to the kitchen.

  “You don’t have to break my leg. I wouldn’t forget your midnight snack.”

  Shooter sat up on his hind legs and begged.

  “Okay, you rascal.” Blake laughed. “You get two pieces of bologna for that trick. But when you’re too fat to run this spring, it won’t be my fault.”

  Allie’s eyes popped open and then snapped shut again as she grabbed her head and rolled up into a ball. Her mouth was dry and tasted like a dirty bathroom smelled. She tried to swallow but gagged instead. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she tried to get up and rush to the bathroom, but knew she wouldn’t make it. She grabbed the trash can beside her bed and dry-heaved until her sides ached, but nothing came up.

  She’d never had the flu like this before and she damn sure did not have time for it now. She had to paint Blake’s bedroom and then texture the ceiling in the hall and living room. She set the trash can back on the floor and fell back on her bed.

  Shooter bounded across the floor and onto the mattress, started at her chin and slurped all the way to her forehead, his dog food breath causing her to gag again. How in the devil did Blake’s dog get in her house and to her bedroom?

  She pushed him away and opened her eyes slowly, shielding them with her hand against the light pouring in the window. Then a streak of lightning lit up the sky, followed quickly by a boom of thunder that made Shooter drop and shove his head under the covers.

  “God, that’s loud.” She moved her hands to her ears. “Oh. My. God. I’m in Blake’s bed. How did I get here and what have I done?”

  “Truth or a pretty princess story?” Blake asked.

  Her chest tightened at how sexy he was, standing there like a mythical god with pajama pants riding low on his hips, a wife beater shirt stretched out across his muscular chest, and barefoot. She told herself that men did not have sexy feet but when she looked back at his, they really were. His hair was tousled like he’d gotten out of bed after a night of wild sex. Oh, God, did they have sex?

  “Truth?” She pulled herself up and propped her back against the pillows.

  “Don’t even want a little bit of the pretty story?” he asked. “I worked one up for you about a princess who was poisoned by her wicked sister who was going to marry a preacher.” He grinned.

  The laugh made it past her chest and partially out of her mouth before it stopped and she grabbed her head again. “Just the truth.”

  “You got drunker than a rabid skunk, drove your truck over here, and evidently you didn’t want to walk across the yard so you parked right up next to the porch, and passed out cold in my arms. So I put you to bed, and now it’s time to get rid of the hangover.” He poured honey from a cute little bear-shaped bottle into a spoon and said, “Open your mouth.”

  She clamped her mouth shut and mumbled. “Will it make my headache stop?”

  “It’s the first step. Open up.” He started toward her mouth and she obeyed. She didn’t care if it was arsenic, as long as it made the throbbing between her eyes stop without killing her.

  “Don’t move. Next step is coming up.”

  Shooter peeked out from under the covers.

  She tucked her chin down and glared at him. “If it’s gravy, you can have it all. I’ll gag on gravy this morning. Just thinking about it makes my stomach churn.”

  “It’s not gravy. It’s really strong black coffee and two aspirin. This is a four-step program, but it works.” Blake carried in two cups of steaming hot coffee.

  He handed her two aspirin, his fingertips tickling the palm of her hand. She tossed them into her mouth and swallowed them with the first sip of coffee. He was right about it being strong. It could melt enamel off her teeth if she held it in her mouth too long.

  “Where did you get the liquor?” Blake asked.

  Allie shut her eyes tightly. “Granny hides things. I found it in her closet when I was straightening her shoes. Where is it?”

  “About half of the Jack is gone and maybe a third of the tequila.”

  She groaned. “I’ve never been drunk and believe me I won’t be again. What did I say or do.”

  “We had a great talk and cleared up that shit about you saying you didn’t care and then you did some real good snoring.”

  She knew exactly how her grandmother felt because she couldn’t remember a damn thing about a talk of any kind. She remembered finding all sorts of things in the closet and drinking from the two bottles. Then there was an argument with Lizzy in the foyer. And then she was going to talk to Nadine but nothing about a talk with Blake came to mind.

  “We did?” She opened one eye.

  Blake grinned. “Of course we did. You drink the rest of that and don’t move. I’ll bring the third dose back in a few minutes.”

  As he left the room, a clear memory flashed and both eyes opened wide. “Oh, no! I wrecked my truck!” She set the coffee on the floor and threw her head back against the pillows with a groan as her stomach did a flip-flop and the memory of her truck rammed into the house came clear. “Plowed right into the house and the horn was so loud.”

  Shooter moved over and laid his head in her lap. She propped up enough to continue to sip her coffee with one hand and scratch his ears with the other.

  “Scrambled eggs and toast.” Blake returned carrying a plate of food.

  She couldn’t eat eggs. Lord have mercy! Was he trying to kill her? “I can’t eat eggs. My stomach can’t handle them. I’ll try a few bites of the toast.”

  Blake picked up the fork. “No, ma’am. You will eat every bite of the eggs. There’s only two. Big men like Toby or me, well, we have to eat four.”

  “I can feed myself,” she protested.

  “You handle the coffee. I’ll do the feeding.” He grinned.

  Sensual. Sexy. Hot.

  Those words came to Allie and they had nothing to do with the eggs that Blake kept putting into her mouth. There was something sensual and sexy about a man feeding her breakfast in bed, even if it was a hangover cure. Not once in the two years she’d been married to Riley had he ever brought her breakfast in bed or fed her. But she didn’t want to think about Riley; she wanted to focus on the man feeding her the hangover cure.

  “No!” she said.

  He put another bite into her mouth. “No, what?”

  She swallowed quickly. “We are fighting. You shouldn’t be nice to me.”

  “We got all that settled last night,” he said.

  “I don’t remember it and until I remember it’s not settled. Four steps? What’s the last one?” she asked.

 
“A banana and then a warm shower,” he said. “Don’t snarl your pretty nose. Trust me! It works.”

  She blinked several times. “How did you figure all this out?”

  “Internet,” he said. “After a few hangovers I did some research and found a combination of cures that works. You plannin’ on usin’ it real often?”

  She shook her head very slowly. “I like a beer. I even like a shot of Jack. I’m not so much into tequila, but it was there and I didn’t want it to feel left out. But until right now I’ve never been drunk and it isn’t ever happening again.”

  He put the last bite into her mouth and kissed her on the forehead. “Good girl. Now for the final step, and then you can take a shower. There’s an extra toothbrush in the cabinet. Still in the bubble pack. You’ll be ready for it after you shower. I’ll get another pot of coffee going while you do that.”

  Her eyes fixed on his fine-looking butt under those loose pajama pants as he left the room again. Surely she wasn’t imagining or hadn’t merely dreamed that they’d had sex on this very mattress. She drew her eyebrows down and flinched when that brought another pang between her eyes. What was today? Had she been there a day? A week?

  Shooter hopped off the mattress and made his way up the hallway, probably to stretch out in front of the fireplace since the lightning and thunder had stopped. Was that an omen? The storm was over and it was time for her to go home and face the music from her family, and why was it thundering at this time of year? There was snow on the ground for heaven’s sake.

  She would eat the damn banana and she’d have a shower and gladly brush her teeth, but then she and Blake were going to have a talk. And this time she would remember every word, every nuance, and every expression on his face.