To Love A Cowboy

by Barbara Ankrum

  She eased her plaster-encased lower leg over the edge of the huge king-size bed. So far so good. Reaching for the crutches propped next to the bed, she stood and took a few wobbly circuits of the room. Rafe’s bedroom seemed larger in the daylight. Furnished sparsely in oak, with beige carpeting to match the walls, the room was full of light. Two windows flanked the French doors that led onto a small outdoor patio with a wrought-iron table and chairs that stood gathering leaves around their legs. Unused.

  Strangely, the bedroom felt the same. Utilitarian. He slept here, and nothing else. Did that mean he rarely entertained women here? No pictures adorned the walls, and she’d managed to break the only one he kept on his dresser. She bent down and picked it up. Predictably, it wasn’t of Rafe in his rodeo days, but one of Gus, a pretty younger woman and two boys, standing near a smoking barbecue, making faces at the camera.

  Carly wondered who she was. Gus’s wife? Too young.

  Another possibility reared its ugly head—that she belonged to Rafe.

  Now that, she thought, would be awkward.

  No, not awkward. Awful. And it was too early to contemplate natural disasters.

  As she returned the picture to the dresser, the scent of coffee seeped into her consciousness. Not the thick, dark, foreign kind that her too-hip-for-L.A. research assistant, Mara, used to bring her from the trendy coffee place down on Olympic. No, this coffee smelled like plain old garden-variety kick-you-in-the-pants coffee. The kind her great-aunt Katherine used to brew for her literary friends when their discussions meandered into the wee hours of the morning.

  A smile lifted Carly’s mouth at the memory. Katherine’s approach to caffeine had been as pragmatic as her outlook on life. She used to say, “A good cup of coffee flushes out the mind of yesterday’s trash and makes way for today’s virtues.”

  Virtues.

  Ha. She could use a few of those, Carly thought guiltily, recalling the wild, erotic fantasies that had possessed her last night, before sleep overtook her. Fantasies about Rafe and her, and what might have happened if he kissed her.

  The way she’d wanted him to.

  “Ohhh...Carly,” she warned herself aloud. “Get a grip.” Thoughts like that could only get her into deep, deep trouble here. What was once between her and Rafe had been over for years. If yesterday was any indication, the only thing they were likely to resurrect between them was animosity. He’d brought her here out of sheer...well...frankly, obligation. He’d come for Evan. As she suspected he might have done for any child in her son’s situation.

  Except Evan wasn’t just any child. He was Rafe’s child. Did he see any trace of himself in Evan? Did he suspect, even a little, that Evan could be his? Had that been his real reason for coming to Reno? If it was, why hadn’t he asked her directly? If he had, she couldn’t have lied. She would have been forced to tell him the truth—something she’d have to do very soon. A shiver went through her. She dreaded it.

  With those dark thoughts still swirling in her brain, Carly managed to get herself ready for the day. What she craved was a long, hot, steamy shower. What she settled for was an awkward sponge bath. Her hair was hopeless, but she wet it and scrunched it into submission with her fingers.

  Sometime today, she’d appropriate the kitchen sink for a serious shampoo.

  Getting dressed was simpler now that her hand was on the mend. She pulled on a pair of stit-up-the-seam jeans and a pale yellow polo shirt, then stood in front of Rafe’s full-length mirror, inspecting the damage. She raised a disgusted eyebrow over the bruise turning an interesting shade of green on her cheek and the ugly cut healing near her hairline.

  Any notions she harbored that Rafe might still find her attractive crashed back to reality. She looked more like something her makeup-artist friend, Chandra, might have designed for a horror-film project—and then rejected.

  The sound of her son’s laughter drifted to Carly from outside, and she hobbled over to the window to look out through the morning glare.

  What she saw made her heart lurch and her knuckles go white against the grips of her crutches.

  Evan—her eight-year-old urban son, who until yesterday had only rarely laid eyes on real live livestock of any kind—and then it had been rabbits or 4-H pigs at the county fair—was gleefully bouncing around the paddock area on a trotting rawboned gelding, as if he owned the place. Of course, Rafe trotted along beside the horse, holding the reins.

  She took a deep, calming breath and forced herself not to overreact. Rafe was with him. He was safe.

  And he was riding.

  Carly blinked at the sight of father and son together. A lump formed in her throat. The image was something she’d only conjured up in her mind over the years. And now here they were, doing something that came so naturally to a real father and son that it made her heart ache. She heard Evan ask something, and Rafe’s voice reassure him.

  She watched Evan’s chest puff up with pride, his legs gripping the sides of the gelding with more authority. He did look fine. More than fine. He looked positively giddy. How long had it been since she’d seen him look like that? Months. Since before she’d told him they were moving.

  And Rafe. He was good with Evan. Spectacular, in fact. Despite the fact that he’d always been certain he’d be a terrible father. That should hearten her, shouldn’t it? Make it easier to tell him the truth? But a voice inside warned that paying attention to a child—and knowing that child was yours—were two different things.

  Years ago, when they talked of the future, Rafe had told her emphatically that he didn’t want children. Carly had no reason to believe that had changed.

  But he was good with Evan. Maybe if Rafe had the chance to get to know him first, to fall in love with him as she knew he would....

  It wasn’t yet the right time to tell Rafe he was a father, she told herself. But soon. She’d know when.

  She watched for another minute or two, then dragged herself from the window and followed the scent of coffee toward the kitchen. Mingling with that aroma was the smell of freshly baked muffins. Like a beacon of morning light at the end of the hallway, the kitchen boasted tall, naked windows that banked the far wall. They looked out over the San Juans and, more immediately, over the barnyard, where Rafe and Evan were. The kitchen was spare but well equipped, with counters of polished granite and hardwood floors and cabinets. It was a kitchen any woman in her right mind could fall in love with, but Carly wondered how much a man like Rafe really used it.

  She was surprised to see Gus pulling a muffin tin from the oven as she hobbled into the room.

  “Mornin’,” he said cheerily.

  “Morning. I mean, afternoon,” she replied, feeling her cheeks go pink. “I’m afraid I overslept.”

  “You’re entitled.” He poured a steaming mug of wonderful-smelling coffee and handed it to her as she moved to the window. “Coffee? It’s good and hot. Rafe said you’d be up soon, so I made a fresh pot.”

  “Mmmm... Thanks. I’m not very good in the morning until I’ve pumped some caffeine into my system.” She took a deep swig of the rich brew, which tasted as good as it smelled.

  “How’re you feelin’ this momin’?” he asked.

  “Better, thanks.” She tipped her head toward the paddock area. “How long have they been at that?”

  “Oh, about a half hour or so. Evan’s really takin’ to that horse. And to Rafe,” he added, staring out at them.

  She nodded wordlessly, chewing on her lip.

  “He ever ridden before?” Gus asked.

  “Only the ponies at Griffith Park. And they were attached to metal spokes.”

  Gus shot her a look. “You ain’t worried, are ya?”

  She laughed breezily. “Worried? No. Not really. Well, maybe a little.”

  Gus grinned, his droopy mustache lifting on one side. “Evan couldn’t have a better teacher. Rafe’s the best. But then, you know that.”

  Rafe was the best at a lot of things...including riding, she mused, complet
ely inappropriately, staring out at him in the paddock. Hauling her wayward thoughts back, she forced herself away from the window and lowered herself onto a ladder-back kitchen chair at the table. It felt ridiculously good to sit.

  Gus flipped a hot muffin from the tray onto a plate, then fanned his overheated fingertips. “Muffin?”

  Carly realized she was hungry as he set it in front of her. “Thanks, Gus.”

  He simply smiled and leaned his backside against the granite counter, watching her over the rim of his mug. He wasn’t as tall as Rafe, but what he lacked in inches he made up for in pure character. A wreath of wrinkles lined his sun-bronzed face, and his nose looked a bit askew, as if it had seen its share of brawls. And, laconic as he seemed, the glint of mischief in his tobacco-colored eyes hinted that he was wiser than a treeful of owls. In his day, she supposed Gus had been a force to be reckoned with, and perhaps he still was.

  “So,” she began, searching for conversation, “you’re the cook and the foreman?”

  “Nah. Laurie come by early this morning and whipped up a batch of muffins so we men don’t starve to death out here.”

  She set her cup down, her antennae automatically rising. “Laurie?”

  “My daughter.”

  “You have a daughter?” The photo in Rafe’s room flashed through her mind.

  “Sure. Grown, with kids of her own now, of course. She and Rafe go way back. That’s how I met him, as a matter of fact.”

  A twinge of illogical jealousy flashed through her. What kind of a woman just drops in on a single man to bake him muffins?

  “So...your daughter’s...married?” She tried to keep the optimism out of her voice.

  “Was. She’s a widow.”

  “Oh.” Something more than disappointment flitted through her, but she felt ashamed that it was for all the wrong reasons.

  “Goin’ on five years now. Her husband Jack and Rafe were on the circuit together. Best friends.” Gus took a long sip of coffee, his gaze faraway. “He was a bull rider, like Rafe. A real fine man.”

  “I’m so sorry, Gus.” She was afraid to ask, but she had to know. “How did it happen?”

  Gus shook his head. “Plane crash. Reckon it woulda been easier somehow for Laurie if it had been the rodeo that took him. Doin’ what he loved and all.”

  Carly thought of how close Rafe had come to dying for the way of life he’d loved so much. And she thought about Tom, whose death she could never see as anything but a tragic accident. So it was from personal experience that she knew there was no easy way to lose someone you loved. “It must have been very hard for her. And for her boys. But a comfort for her to have Rafe’s friendship.”

  “They don’t come no better,” he replied simply. Indeed. How many men, she wondered, would have dropped everything in the middle of the night to rescue a woman who had left him years ago, simply for the sake of a child he didn’t even know? Damn few, came the reply.

  Still, one question begged an answer. Why? With so much behind them. He’d never answered that question for her, and she was reminded once more that she needed to know.

  Gus refilied her cup. “You’ll get a chance to meet Laurie soon. Said she’d come by with supper some night soon. She’s anxious to meet you, too.”

  “Oh,” Carly said, forcing a smile, feeling particularly small and petty. “How nice of her.”

  Just then, Evan charged through the kitchen door like a minitornado.

  “Mom! Did you see? Did you see me? I was riding! A horse! A real bronco. Rafe said so!”

  She caught him in her arms and sent Gus a suspicious look. A bronco? she mouthed.

  “Retired,” he mumbled into his coffee cup.

  “Of course I saw you,” she told Evan, giving him a hug. “I was watching you through the window. I was very impressed, buckaroo. You were great!”

  Evan planted a wet, unsolicited kiss on her cheek, and her heart gave a sudden squeeze with love for him.

  “Rafe says he’s gonna teach me to throw a rope, too. Rafe says if I learn fast, sometime maybe I can go with him when he rides out to look at fence lines. Rafe says—”

  “Rafe says you should always wash the horse off you before you kiss a lady.”

  Rafe’s deep voice came from the doorway, where he stood leaning one hip against the door jamb, arms crossed negligently across his chest. Carly’s pulse gave a little lurch. She still hadn’t gotten used to seeing him. He looked, God help her, better than he had nine years ago.

  Stronger, leaner, if possible, even more...male.

  “She’s not a lady,” Evan informed him, easing out of her embrace. “She’s my mom.”

  Rafe just smiled that lethal-looking smile of his that had, during his time on the circuit, had females young and old in a collective rodeo dither. Heading for the sink, he gave the faucet a twist, plunged his hands deliberately under the running water, and proceeded to “wash the horse” off them.

  Over his shoulder he sent her an undecipherable look.

  Carly’s gulp was practically audible. Of course, the threat was entirely inferred. He didn’t intend to kiss her. He was baiting her. Perhaps this was his way of exacting revenge for past mistakes.

  She took a bite of Laurie’s muffin, slightly disheartened to find it was delicious.

  “So... how are you feeling?” Rafe wiped his hands on a towel.

  “Uh, better. Much better, thanks. Listen, I’m sorry I slept so late. I didn’t mean for you to have to watch Evan this morning. You must have a million things to do.”

  “I’ve been up since five,” he said. “Besides, Tampico needed the exercise, didn’t he, pard?”

  “Uh-huh!” Evan crowed, taking his turn with the bar of soap at the sink.

  “Tampico? And that would be...your bronco?”

  “Retired bronco,” Gus reiterated.

  “Gentle as a lamb now,” Rafe added.

  “Really.” Carly crossed her arms.

  Gus sent a wary look scuttling between the two of them, then set his coffee down on the counter. “Say, I see Pedro on his way in. Think I’ll go see what he found on that north fence line this morning. C’mon, Evan, I’ll introduce you two.”

  Always game, Evan headed for the door.

  “Coward,” Rafe said under his breath as Gus breezed by him.

  The older man slid his hat on and tipped it to Carly. “Ma’am?”

  “Gus.”

  When they’d gone, Rafe leaned against the counter, made a big show of pouring himself a cup of coffee and took a long, slow drink of it.

  She cleared her throat. “Rafe—a bronco?”

  He grinned. “That’s what Evan thinks. Truth is, Tampico was bred for the rodeo, but wussed on every cowboy who ever got on his back. I felt sorry for him, so I saved him from the glue factory. He’s my most reliable and gentle gelding.”

  She relaxed a fraction. “You sure?”

  He frowned. “Yeah, I’m sure. You don’t actually think I’d put him in danger, do you, Carly?”

  “Riding horses isn’t without risk.” She hardly had to remind him of that.

  “Neither is living, but that doesn’t mean you should avoid it,” he told her. And she knew he meant more than that. “You risk your life walking across the street,” he went on, “or getting in your car. You telling me you don’t want him to ride?”

  She shook her head, hesitantly at first, then with more conviction. “No. Evan loved it. He was positively beaming. It’s me. I’m just—”

  “Just what?”

  “Scared. That’s all. In L.A., the closest most kids get to a horse is a four-on-the-floor Ford Bronco—with seat belts and air bags.”

  Rafe leaned back against the counter, studying her over the rim of his cup. “Our lives are pretty different, aren’t they?”

  There was no denying that. The chasm that had broadened between them seemed to have grown wider with each passing year. But she had to find some way to bridge it, for Evan’s sake. “It’s only geography,” she
said, toying with her cup. “And a few critters. Maybe we’re not as different as you think. Not about the basic things, at least. If I seem overprotective...I’m just being a mom, Rafe. He’s my child. He’s all I’ve got.”

  For a long moment, Rafe just stared at her. His expression softened. “I know. You’ve done a hell of a job, Carly. He’s a great kid.”

  The pleasure his praise brought her was muted, inevitably, by the knowledge that he had missed so much of Evan’s childhood already—and by her responsibility for that.

  In a perfect world, she would have discovered she was pregnant before she left him. Or, when she called to tell him, that breezy woman with a voice like fine whiskey wouldn’t have answered. In a perfect world, she wouldn’t have heard the sheets rustle as Rafe took the phone, and he would have wanted to hear what she had to say instead of cutting her off.

  In a perfect world, their love for each other nine years ago would have been enough.

  But it hadn’t been.

  “Carly?”

  His deep voice dragged her from her thoughts. Guiltily she looked up at him. The words were on the tip of her tongue. He’s yours, Rafe, your son.

  He grinned at her. “How about a helmet?”

  She blinked uncomprehendingly. “What?”

  “A helmet. I’ll get him a helmet to wear when he rides. Will that make you feel better?”

  Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her mind had gone utterly blank.

  He frowned. “You sure you’re okay? Your headache back?”

  Crossing the short distance between them, he surprised her by tipping her chin toward the light, whistling at the ever-changing bruise on her cheek. “Hey, that’s some shade of green today.”

  His touch sent a smoldering spark skittering through her like an electric current. He was too close again, and her heart was beating too fast. “I’m a fast healer. We’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”