by Katie Lane
A crowd of spectators already surrounded the bull pit, and as she weaved her way through, she ran into Boone Murphy, who was part owner of the hardware store. Boone was a big strapping blond with a contagious personality.
“Hey, Reba, I thought that was you on the dance floor. But then I thought, ‘Nah, it couldn’t be. Reba never leaves the boardinghouse except for special occasions.’”
“Well, as you can see, I left the boardinghouse. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make sure my date doesn’t kill himself.” She continued to push her way through and three more people stopped her to ask what the “special occasion” was to get her in Cotton-Eyed Joe’s. It made her realize just how reclusive she had become. When she got to the front, she found Ty lined up with the other contestants.
“I really think this is a bad idea, Ty,” she said. “Why don’t we try the two-step again? I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Miss Reba, but I don’t think my toes can take it.”
“Okay then, let’s go back to the boardinghouse and I’ll make us some coffee and heat up the leftover cinnamon rolls from this morning.”
He visibly paled. “Uhh . . . I’m pretty full up. But once I win the hundred, I’ll take you back.”
“I’ll take her.”
A familiar voice had her glancing down the line to see Valentine. She would’ve thought he was just a spectator if not for the number being pinned to the back of his black western shirt by Maisy.
“What are you doing?” Reba asked.
He shrugged. “I decided you were right. I need to stop being a spectator.”
“Are you crazy? You’re a writer, not a . . . rider.”
“It’s a mechanical bull. I think I can handle it.”
She shook her head. “You could if you were paying a few bucks to ride it for fun, but I’ve witnessed these contests before. The guy who operates the bull doesn’t mess around when a trophy and prize money are on the line. So both of you need to stop being arrogant fools and get those numbers off.”
Neither man made a move to do what she asked, and Maisy chimed in. “Best to just leave them alone, Reba. I’ve learned men and their egos need to figure things out on their own.”
Reba threw up her hands. “Fine, do what you want. See if I care. But I won’t be delivering meals to your rooms when you break your fool necks.” She turned to leave, but more people had crowded in and there wasn’t an inch to shove through. She was forced to watch the competition.
She turned out to be right about the mechanical bull operator. He usually kept things slow and easy for the novices who wanted to try their hand at bull riding. Now he wasn’t as nice. He worked the joystick that made the bull buck and spin as he caused one contestant after another to fly off into the big padded cushions of the pit. A group of four judges sat behind him, timing the rides and holding up cards with numbers from 1 to 10.
Ty ended up with a score of 22. Which wasn’t too bad since he didn’t stay on the entire eight seconds. When he staggered up from the pit, he looked a little green around the gills. Reba wasn’t surprised when he quickly ducked under the back ropes and headed toward the bathrooms. She might’ve tried to follow him to make sure he was okay if Valentine’s ride wasn’t coming up.
She shouldn’t be worried about the arrogant man, but damned if she wasn’t. Ty was a country boy who had grown up riding and couldn’t stay on. Valentine was a city boy who had only one summer of riding under his belt and that had been fifteen years ago. What if he flew off and hit his head on the edge of the pit like Dean White had done that one year? Dean still had the scar across his forehead. But having a scar was better than being dead.
“He’ll be okay.”
Reba glanced over at Maisy. “He’s not a cowboy. He’s a writer.”
“Well, for a non-cowboy, he sure sits a saddle well.”
Reba followed her gaze back to the pit where Valentine was seated on the mechanical bull. He did look like a cowboy. Or more like a Western villain in his solid black with his Stetson pulled low. He accepted a glove from the guy working the pit and tugged it on, then wrapped the rope around his hand. He hugged the frame of the mechanical bull with his legs, wriggled down into the saddle before he lifted his hand, and nodded at the operator.
Reba held her breath as the bull started to move, but her breath rushed back out in surprise when she realized that Valentine did seem to know what he was doing. His free hand waved back and forth with each buck and spin as his legs sawed in and out.
Maisy released a loud hoot. “Ride ‘em, cowboy!”
Valentine did ride. He rode the entire eight seconds until the horn sounded and the bull slowed enough that he could jump off into the pit. Since he was the first to complete a ride, the crowd applauded and whistled as the judges held up two 10’s and two 9’s.
“I’ll be damned,” Maisy said. “I didn’t think he’d be the one I had to beat.” She adjusted her hat and hopped into the pit, bumping fists with Valentine on her way past.
Valentine climbed out of the pit and came to stand by Reba with a touch of a cocky smirk. It should’ve been annoying, but she was too relieved he was unhurt.
“You could’ve mentioned you knew what you were doing,” she said.
“Would you have believed me?”
“Probably not. You learned to ride like that when you were at the Double Diamond?”
“I learned to ride horses at the Double Diamond, but I was never very good at it. It bugged me. So while I was going to Texas Tech, I took a job at a ranch outside of town every summer and improved.”
“So you like to succeed at things as much as I do.”
He grinned. “I never said I didn’t. But I won’t succeed tonight.” He nodded at the pit where Maisy had just started her ride. It was like watching a talented ballroom dancer dancing with her partner. Maisy’s petite body moved with every buck and spin as if she was part of the mechanical bull instead of riding it. When it was over and the judges held up their cards, she got the perfect score she deserved. Since she was the last rider, there wasn’t a doubt that she’d just won the trophy and the prize money.
As the crowd dispersed, Reba looked at Valentine. “You got second. That’s pretty impressive.”
“Not really. Coming in second is like kissing your sister.”
She laughed. “Do you have a sister?”
“A big sister who loved to catch me and shower me with kisses while I screamed for Mom and tried to get free.”
“I bet you didn’t hate it that much.”
He grinned. “She’s okay.” He glanced around. “So where is Ty?”
“I think he got a little sick on the mechanical bull. I should probably go check on him in the bathroom.”
“You’re going to walk into the men’s bathroom? I’ll check on him.”
It turned out that Ty wasn’t doing so well. He looked pale and shaken when he came out of the bathroom with Valentine.
“I’m sorry you’re not going to get that box of chocolates, Miss Reba.”
“That’s all right, Ty. I’m not that partial to chocolate, anyway. Now give me your keys so I drive us home.”
He looked like he was about to argue, but Valentine stepped in. “Give her the keys, Ty.” Ty gave her the keys.
On the way to the boardinghouse, a set of headlights stayed close behind her. As soon as she parked Ty’s truck and got out, Valentine pulled the gray Lexus in beside her. It was covered in red dust, as were most of the vehicles in Simple.
“With our dirt roads, you should’ve rented a truck,” she said as soon as he got out. “I’m surprised you haven’t bottomed that thing out.”
“I have.” He winked at her. “Good thing it’s a rental.” He followed her and Ty up to the porch and held the screen door while she unlocked the front door.
Ty cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you’d like to sit out on the porch with me for a while, Miss Reba. It’s a pretty night.”
She would’ve loved to say “yes” if for no other reason than to spite Valentine. But besides having to get something baked for breakfast in the morning, she had absolutely no desire to sit on the porch with Ty. He was nice, but he was just not for her.
“I’d love to, Ty, but I have to do some baking for tomorrow. Thank you for a wonderful time.”
“I hope we can do it again soon.” Ty leaned in like he was going to give her a kiss—something she wasn’t real thrilled about considering the possibility that he’d just tossed his cookies in the bar bathroom. Thankfully before she had to stop him, Valentine stepped between them.
“Here, let me get that door opened for you, Miss Reba.”
Not wanting Ty to try again once they were inside, Reba said a quick “goodbye” before she headed to the kitchen. Orange cranberry scones were on the menu for breakfast the following morning. As she walked to the pantry to get the ingredients, she passed the shelf of cookbooks. She stopped and pulled out Valentine’s mother’s book. She turned it over to look at the picture of the author on the back cover. Sharon Valentine was a pretty woman with topaz eyes like her son’s, but lighter brown hair and a fuller body.
“As far as breakfast goes, I’d choose her coffeecake.”
She glanced up to see Valentine leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. He still wore his black clothes, but he also wore his glasses. And the picture of the nerdy gunslinger took her breath away. “Umm . . . I was going to make scones.”
He straightened and grabbed another apron off the hook. “No. We’re going to make coffeecake.” He tied the apron around his waist before he headed to the sink and started washing his hands.
She had to bite back the smile that sprang to life at him in her flowered apron. “I’m getting pretty sick and tired of you trying to take over my life, Valentine.”
He grabbed a paper towel and dried his hands while he turned to her. “Okay. You’re right. We’ll make scones.”
“We aren’t going to do anything. Go to bed.” She set the cookbook on the counter and waved a hand. “Or go work on your book.”
“I’m too hyped up from the ride to work on my book right now. I need to calm down. And baking calms me.” He picked up the cookbook. “So what’s it going to be, scones or cream cheese coffeecake?”
“Cream cheese?”
He must’ve read the cream cheese lust in her eyes because he grinned. “Cream cheese coffeecake it is. Do you have any wine?”
“Wine goes into the coffeecake?”
He laughed. “No. The wine is going to go into me. Hopefully, it will slow down the adrenaline pumping through my veins.”
“The ride was that exciting?”
“Yeah. It made me realize you were right. I have become a spectator rather than a participant.” He lifted the cookbook. “So let me participate.”
“Fine. And I don’t have wine. I have a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator, but I was saving it for a special occasion.”
“What’s more special than coming in second at a bull riding contest?” He headed to the refrigerator and returned with the bottle of champagne. He peeled back the foil before expertly popping the cork. After doing the dishes, he seemed to know where things were. He pulled two water glasses out of the cupboard and started to pour the champagne.
“I don’t need any,” she said. “I’ve had enough to drink tonight.”
He continued to pour. “You only had one and a half margaritas.”
She was so surprised that he knew how much she’d had to drink she accepted the glass of champagne without an argument. He stood there looking at her for a long moment before he clinked their glasses.
“To trying new things.”
They took a sip together as their gazes remained locked, then he set his glass down and rubbed his hands together. “Now let’s get to baking.”
Except they didn’t get to baking. He did. She soon learned he knew more than where the glasses were. He moved around the kitchen gathering ingredients and pulling out bowls and cooking tools as if he lived there. She tried to help, but seemed to be in the way. So finally she sat at a stool at the counter and sipped her champagne while he worked.
With a mother who wrote cookbooks, Reba wasn’t surprised he knew how to bake. She was surprised by how much he seemed to enjoy it. He whistled while he sifted flour, cracked eggs, whipped, and mixed. When he finally glanced up and saw her watching, he seemed to have forgotten she was there.
She should go to bed. She had little doubt Valentine could handle this without her. But she didn’t move. She was quite content to just sit there and watch him as he worked. She had to wonder if this would be what it was like to watch him write. Suddenly an image of her lying on the big bed in the garden room and watching as he created his bestselling stories popped into her head. Watching as his long, graceful fingers danced over the keyboard like a talented musician of words.
She waited for him to turn off the mixer before she spoke. “I lied about your book. It’s not sucky. Now would you please give it back to me so I can finish it?”
He studied her for a moment before he poured the batter into the prepared pan. “Sorry, but no. I’ve decided I don’t want you to read my work.”
She sat up straighter. “Why not?”
Instead of answering, he added the cream cheese mixture and cinnamon topping to the batter, then put the pan into the oven and set a timer on his cellphone. “That will take about fifty minutes. I’m going to go write. I’ll come back down and take it out of the oven when it’s ready. You need to go to bed.”
“I can stay and take it out of—”
He came over and took her hands in his. “Do you always have to be so difficult, Ms. Dixon?” He pulled her to her feet and led her out the door to the garden.
The champagne must’ve gone to her head because her legs felt a little unsteady. Or maybe it had more to do with the man holding her hand as they walked down the path through the darkness. He held it tightly, his long fingers locked with hers as if he would never let go, all the way to the door of the cottage. She had left a light on in the living room. As he turned to her, it fell across one side of his face, leaving the other side in darkness.
Somehow, it seemed fitting.
“I never know what to expect from you,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m going to get the dark, unapproachable writer who holds himself separate from everyone or the light, more-relatable man who mows my lawn, does my dishes, and bakes cream cheese coffeecake.” There was a smudge of flour on the side of his face, and she couldn’t help reaching out to brush it off. But when her fingers came in contact with his warm skin, she kept her hand there, cradling his face. “Who are you, Valentine Sterling?”
He closed his eyes for one brief second before he opened them. “I think champagne was a bad idea.”
“And I think you’re very good at avoiding questions. You still haven’t told me why you don’t want me to read your books.”
“Goodnight, Ms. Dixon.” He started to walk off, but she grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and refused to let go. He sighed and turned back to her. “I don’t want you to read my books because I’ve discovered I care a little too much. Why that is, I don’t know. All I know is that your opinion matters.”
With her breath stuck in her chest and her heart pounding in overtime, she released his sleeve and watched as he disappeared into the garden.
Chapter Sixteen
Val couldn’t sleep. It would’ve been fine if his mind had been on his new story. But it wasn’t. It was on Reba Dixon. It was on her bluebonnet eyes and her rich flaming curls and her soft kissable lips.
Mostly on her soft kissable lips.
He wanted to kiss those lips. Wanted to kiss them in a bad way.
At Cotton-Eyed Joe’s, after stepping out of the bull pit, he’d wanted to swing her up in his arms and relieve some of his riding high on her sweet lips. In the kitchen, while she intently watched him bake, he’d wanted to lean over
and sip any residual champagne from her mouth. And in the garden, when she had cradled his face, he’d wanted to lower his head and take everything she was willing to give.
Starting a physical relationship with her was getting harder and harder to resist. Especially when he knew she wanted him too. He had seen his own hunger reflected back at him from her eyes. The only thing that had kept him from taking what she offered had been her question.
Who are you, Valentine Sterling?
He didn’t have a clue. Especially now.
In New York City, it had been so easy to play the role of famous writer. Here in Simple, it was impossible. And if he wasn’t a famous writer, he was nothing. Which was why it was best if he left. Between investigating Sam Sweeney’s whereabouts and his infatuation with Reba, he wasn’t getting anything done on his book anyway. Chester and Lucas had plenty of people to watch out for them. Holden and Linc could handle any problems Sheriff Willaby might cause.
And Reba. Reba was a fighter like her Aunt Gertie. He didn’t doubt for a second that she would be just fine.
Although he couldn’t leave without giving her a little help in saving her beloved boardinghouse.
He stayed up until the wee hours of the morning writing a short story he entitled “The Ghost of Dixon’s Boardinghouse.” Once he was finished, he sent it to his assistant, along with instructions to put the story up on his website and publicize it on his social media. He also sent along the pictures he’d taken of the boardinghouse—except for the picture of Reba in the moonlight. That he refused to share with anyone.
He finally got to sleep at close to four o’clock in the morning. He woke much later feeling groggy and disoriented. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand, surprised to discover it was almost noon. He rolled onto his back, confused by how dark the room was. The curtains were closed tight. Since he knew they had been open the night before, he realized someone had come in and closed them.
Reba.
The thought of telling her goodbye made him depressed as hell. But it was something he needed to do. He couldn’t leave without talking to her. She deserved a goodbye.