To Love A Cowboy

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To Love A Cowboy Page 5

by Barbara Ankrum


  Stung, Carly hugged her arms. “It’s not you, Rafe. It was never about us,” she offered, bringing up the subject they had both been avoiding.

  “Yeah?” He tossed a fresh log on the dying embers. When he stirred it with the poker, a small flame burst to life. “Who was it about, then?”

  Me.

  He slanted a look at her and gave a short laugh. “Right.” Replacing the poker, he straightened. “There’s no point in rehashing all that now. It’s ancient history. Best to keep it that way.”

  She nodded silently.

  Guilt crept through him as his gaze fell to the dark bruise beneath the fall of silver hair on her cheek. He felt like a heel. A first-class heel. As if she hadn’t been through enough, without him starting up with her about things that couldn’t be changed. “Hell,” he mumbled, “I don’t want to fight with you, Carly.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes hopeful. “Me either.”

  He spread his hands wide. “Truce?”

  A small, grateful smile flickered at her mouth. “Truce.”

  For a long minute, silence stretched uncomfortably between them. Carly forced her gaze out the window, to where the sinking sun was gilding the edges of the mountains. She wondered how long the uneasy peace would last before the things that needed to be said between them found a voice.

  It came as something of a surprise to find the old pain and bitterness so keenly in his eyes after all these years. She’d known she’d wounded him the day she walked out on him. But she’d never really known how much.

  After that last phone call she made to him, a few weeks after she left, she’d never heard from him again. As the years went by and she heard about his exploits on the rodeo circuit, she’d assumed he’d forgotten about her and never looked back. Now, she wondered.

  “It’s beautiful here,” she said simply, gazing out the window at the mountains, searching for a safe topic.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About three years,” he answered, absently rubbing his thigh.

  “I heard you got out of rodeoing,” she said, gazing at the rustic but comfortable room, with its log walls and its abstracts bearing the colors of Rafe’s mountains. “But I never pictured you...settled like this.”

  He angled a look at her, the afternoon sun carving his sculpted cheeks with deep slashes. “Who told you I’d quit the circuit?”

  Color crept up her cheeks. “No one had to. You were pretty big news for a while there. All-around-Cowboy... world champion bull rider and saddle-bronc rider. You had the media eating out of your hand, not to mention most of the female population of the western United States. I kind of half expected to see your face on the big screen someday.”

  He laughed—a sound she’d almost forgotten. It sent warmth careening up her spine.

  “I think my nose has been broken too many times for that,” he said. “Anyway, since when does rodeo news makes it all the way to the legal bastions of Los Angeles? I figured you’d be too busy counting your case settlements by your swimming pool, or—” he shrugged “—rubbing shoulders with celebrities, to be bothered with news about a bunch of cowboys.”

  The smile slipped from her face. “I worked for the P.D.’s office, Rafe. The only people I rubbed shoulders with were the gang members and drug dealers whom I plea-bargained, all in the name of a grossly overcrowded prison system.” She paused, staring hard at her hand. “Believe me, I’ve heard all the lawyer jokes. But I won’t defend myself or the way I make my living to you.”

  Rafe stared at her. Hell, what did he care? What she did with her life was her business. When she left, he didn’t want to know any more about her than he had to.

  “Sorry,” he said at last. “Seems I’m not very good with truces. Listen, are you hungry? I think I can dig something up in the kitchen.”

  Rubbing her temple, she realized her headache had come back. “Not very. I think I will take you up on the offer to lie down, though. I’m kind of tired.”

  He nodded. “I’ll just go get your things out of the truck, then I’ll settle you in. By the way, you’ll be staying in my room.” He started for the door.

  “What?”

  Turning back, he grinned at her stunned expression.

  “I’ll be taking the spare room down the hall. My room’s bigger, easier to navigate with those crutches. Don’t worry. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

  Carly rolled her eyes as he walked out the door, suspecting that that particular sentiment couldn’t be farther from the truth.

  The bottle of whiskey chinked against the rim of Rafe’s glass as he refilled it for the third time. The amber liquor swirled like liquid fire in the sharp halogen light of the desk lamp. Rafe knocked the shot back in one quick gulp, gasping as the burn seared its way down his throat.

  It had been a long day. Things had gone well, he decided... considering. They’d made it through the burned trout dinner Gus—and Evan—had made. Evan had kept up an animated dialogue about the days’ discoveries and filled the room with laughter, while he and Carly had managed to avoid laying open any more veins, living up to their uneasy truce. Being comfortable around Carly, however, was something that made Rafe distinctly uncomfortable.

  Mack yawned loudly from his place on the rug beside Rafe’s desk, then settled his head back between his paws.

  “Yeah, I know just how you feel, Macky,” Rafe murmured as he set the glass down precisely on the damp ring he’d already made on his desk blotter. He toyed with the glass and turned his attention back to the paperwork in front of him.

  The numbers had long ago ceased to make any real sense to him. Not because he was drunk. He was a long way from drunk. No, they had ceased to make sense because no matter how many times he went over the accounts, they added up to only one thing—trouble.

  Burying his face in his hands, Rafe pondered his alternative. Singular. There was only one way out of this mess that he could see. It was a gamble that could potentially cost him more than the ranch. A hell of a lot more.

  He filled his glass again, took another swig of whiskey and stared at the sweater Carly had left draped over the back of the couch. The image called another to his mind—of another sweater, forgotten in her rush to leave him nine years ago. He’d come home after a long, exhausting weekend of rodeoing to find that was all that remained of their relationship. That and the note she’d written and propped against the mantel. A cliché, really. A Dear John letter. It had caught him off guard, like a blind-side punch, though later he’d realized he’d been expecting it for two years.

  It hadn’t been until three years—and a dozen worthless relationships, later—when he was laid up with nothing better to think about than hisl tife—that he allowed the possibility that the blame for their relationship’s demise might be as much his as hers.

  Gus appeared at the doorway to the kitchen, a shadow in the darkness. Only the glowing tip of his cigarette announced him. “You gonna sit there all night?” he asked.

  “Maybe.”

  Gus ambled into the room. “No point to that, son.”

  “No point to lying in bed when I can’t sleep, either,” Rafe answered tiredly, closing the ledger.

  “You gonna meet with Stivers tomorrow?”

  Rafe nodded. “I’ve got nothing to lose by giving it one last shot.”

  “He ain’t gonna change his tune about that lease. Unless you can come up with the cash for that bottom land, it’s going to Sunimoto Corp.”

  “I can’t let that happen. He told me he wants to sell it to me first, if I can meet his price.”

  Gus exhaled a cloud of smoke. “You’re still shy almost fifteen grand. An’ the banks have turned you down, ain’t they?”

  “All but two. They don’t look too promising, either.” He fingered a green-and-brown rodeo pamphlet that lay on his desk.

  A frown of sudden concern creased Gus’s brow as he noticed the action. “Hey, you ain’t actually thinkin’ about—”<
br />
  Rafe slid a wry look at him. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. The first pro rodeo in Durango is coming up soon.”

  “Hellfire,” Gus grumbled, taking an agitated pull on his cigarette.

  “If I take a couple of events, the prize money’ll buy me that land.”

  “And a coffin, too, maybe.”

  Rafe stood and shoved his chair against the wall. “I rode for seven years with hardly a scratch. I can do it again. I know I can.”

  “That ain’t what your doctor said, but, hell, you’re the boss. You know as well as me, bulls like that devil’s spawn Tornado can smell second thoughts a mile away. They eat ’em up for breakfast.”

  “There won’t be any second thoughts. You should know me well enough to know that when I climb into the chute, I’m there one hundred and fifty percent. If you’re thinking I’m afraid, Gus, you’re wrong.”

  Flicking his cigarette into the fire still glowing in the fireplace, Gus snorted. “You don’t have to remind me what kind of rider you were. I was there, remember? Hell, I’d like to see the cowpoke who could accuse you of bein’ yellow. But courage and just plain stubborn bullheadedness are two different things. Maybe a good dose of healthy fear is just what you need. That, or another look at that video of the last time you tangled with a bull.”

  Rafe turned and stared out the window into the darkness. “A man with nothing to lose has nothing to fear. Without this place, I’m nothing.”

  “That ain’t what I see in the eyes of that gal down the hall.”

  Rafe sent him an incredulous look. Then he laughed. “You’re seein’ things, old man.”

  “Old!” Gus snorted. “I ain’t so old I don’t remember a look when I see one.”

  “If you saw anything, it was surprise. She never thought I’d amount to anything but a rodeo cowboy. That’s why she left, remember?”

  Gus fixed his battered old hat on his head and looked at him oddly. “I remember you was on the road more’n you was home before she moved off. I remember that. I don’t know why she left ya, and I reckon you don’t, neither.” He paused meaningfully. “Why don’t ya ask her?”

  Rafe stared hard at his foreman. “We’re friends, so I’m gonna forget you said that. Good night, Gus.”

  Gus stared back, his face carefully blank. He scuffed his worn boot against the floor. “All right. Night, Rafe. Pedro an’ me’ll be on the north fence line at dawn.”

  Nodding tightly, Rafe watched Gus disappear out the front door toward the bunkhouse. He ground his teeth together and cursed. Why the hell don’t people mind their own business anymore? Not, he reminded himself, that Gus ever had.

  He reached for the empty glass on the table, but before he could refill it, a crash from the other room had him sprinting down the hallway toward his bedroom.

  He threw open the door to find Carly perched on one foot near the bed, reaching precariously for the crutch she’d dropped. It lay amid the ruins of a picture frame, shattered on the floor. Her eyes looked red, as if she’d been crying. More disturbing than that, except for her jeans, all she wore was a bra.

  “Oh, Rafe! I’m so sorry about the picture. It—”

  Ignoring the mess, he stepped over the broken glass and took her by her bare shoulders. She was trembling. “Never mind that. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I got a little dizzy, but I’m fine now. I’m sorry.”

  Relief scuttled through him. “It’s just glass. Jeez, Carly, what are you doing up?” he demanded, forcing her to sit on the edge of the bed. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

  His gaze fell involuntarily to the soft swell of breast cupped in lacy black. Unbidden came the thought that childbearing had only enhanced the curves he remembered. The curves that had once been his to hold. A bead of sweat worked its way past his nape and slid down his back as he watched an embarrassed flush creep up her neck.

  Reaching for the T-shirt she’d left on the bed, she clutched it to her chest. “I couldn’t sleep—” she said, then added “—in my clothes.”

  “So...why didn’t you get undressed? Don’t you have something to sleep in?”

  She swallowed hard and looked away. “I... Yes. That wasn’t the problem.”

  “What was the problem?”

  Her gaze fell to the steel buttons on her button-fly jeans. “The nurse helped me get these on today. I... I tried to undo them, but my hand...”

  The light went on. God, what an idiot he was, making her sit there and explain. “Here, let me do it.”

  She clutched the T-shirt tighter as he reached for the buttons on her pants.

  “I’m not gonna bite you, Carly. C’mon.” He grinned uneasily. “It’s not as if I’ve never done this before.”

  But that was a long time ago, Carly thought, and for an entirely different reason. Reluctantly she allowed him the access he demanded. Gently Rafe worked the first button until it popped free.

  Carly stared at the top of Rafe’s head as he knelt in front of her. His hair gleamed like jet in the lamplight, and she bit back the urge to reach up and run her fingers through it. The heady masculine scent that belonged only to him drifted to her, making her throat tighten.

  He’d been drinking. She could smell that on him, too. Over her? she wondered with a pang of guilt. She’d thrown his life into chaos, and here she was asking for help again.

  The second button popped free, then the third and fourth. The backs of his knuckles brushed the sensitive skin of her belly as he maneuvered for a hold on the last button. She sucked in a breath.

  He hesitated and looked up at her. In that moment, she saw something she hadn’t seen in his eyes since that first day in the hospital. Not anger, not bitterness, but a hot flash of desire.

  The realization made her mouth go suddenly dry.

  The last button popped free. For a moment too long, his eyes clung to hers and said what neither of them dared say. Tightening his jaw, his hands bracketed her waist. “Lie back.”

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “Lie back, Carly. I have to take off your jeans.”

  “Oh. Of course...I—” Feeling foolish, and as rigid as a fencepost, she did as he asked.

  Rafe lifted her hips slightly off the bed, and tugged her jeans down until they puddled around her knees. Out of necessity, his palm touched the back of her thigh, her calf, her ankle, as he pulled the trouser leg free. It took all his control not to linger against the softness behind her knee, or let his eyes roam over the slip of silk panties covering her hips.

  Gently he tugged the other pant leg free over the plaster cast. Her long, coltish legs, though bruised, were well muscled and strong. He remembered how much she’d loved to run. She was not now, nor had she ever been, as delicate as she seemed. Carly would heal well.

  Then, he thought, she would go.

  When he looked back at her, she was sitting up. The shirt lay forgotten in her lap. Her breath was coming fast, her gaze fastened to his. He swallowed heavily, then reached for the clasp at the front of her black lacy bra.

  Covering his hand with hers, she stopped him. “Don’t. I mean, I can do that. Thanks.”

  It wasn’t disappointment, he told himself, but relief, that filtered through him like a hot wind. Or maybe it was the whiskey he’d drunk.

  “You sure?” he asked. She nodded. He knew before he did it that it was a foolish impulse, but all the same, he didn’t stop himself. It wasn’t much. Only a brief brush of his thumb along the inside of her breast, but they both knew it was intentional.

  He could kiss her if he chose. Tempted, he sensed that she wouldn’t try to stop him. Only inches separated them, Rafe thought as his gaze roamed irreverently over her hair.

  Inches...miles. A lifetime of mistakes.

  Straightening, he stood, knowing it would be foolish not to. He’d been too damn long without a woman. It wasn’t Carly he wanted, he told himself. Right now, any female would do. But even as the thought formed, he knew it was a lie.

&nb
sp; “You need anything else?” he asked, more sharply than he’d intended.

  Carly could hardly hear him for the thudding in her ears. She shook her head, not trusting her voice.

  He reached for the newspaper that lay near her bed and spread it over the broken glass on the floor. “Stay away from that tonight. I’ll clean it up in the morning. Get some sleep, Carly.”

  When the door shut behind him, Carly flopped back on the bed and touched the place Rafe’s hand had caressed. She closed her eyes, wondering what she would have done if he kissed her. For a moment, she’d thought he was about to.

  God help her, she’d wanted him to. Not sanely, not even wisely. But with the same deep longing she’d harbored for these past nine years.

  Next door, she heard his door open and quietly shut, the creak of his bed as he sat on it, the thud of his boots as he pulled them off one at a time.

  She stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t for her to question why fate had brought them back together. Or why, despite everything, the spark between them had never died. She owed him so much. Besides what he’d done for her since her accident, he’d given her the most precious gift she’d ever received. And he didn’t even know he’d given it.

  Guilt churned inside her. She owed him at least the truth. But if she told him, would he hate her? It didn’t matter. She had no choice. She’d put it off too long already.

  Carly squeezed her eyes shut, a tear tracing a damp path down her cheek. But, heaven help her, how would she ever tell Rafe that the little boy sleeping in the room down the hall was his son?

  Chapter 4

  Late-morning sun poured through the gauzy-curtained six-paned windows of Rafe’s bedroom, drilling Carly’s closed eyelids with warmth and light. Rousing herself with guilty reluctance from a rest that had felt more like hibernation than sleep, Carly eased herself cautiously up in bed. In spite of a lingering stiffness almost everywhere, she actually felt human again. The dizziness had vanished, and the dull throb in her ankle had mutated into little more than an annoying ache.

  She flexed her bruised right hand gingerly. Better. Much better, in fact. Able, she suspected, to take the weight of the crutches, if she was careful. That small bit of good news carried more weight than the rest of her problems combined. It meant independence. It meant that Rafe could get on with his work, without hovering over her as if she were some fallen baby bird. No more full-body contact with his hard chest, and no more of his scent filling her up with memories best forgotten.

 

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