THE EIGHT SECOND WEDDING

by Anne McAllister

  "Well?" He waited, blue eyes bright and challenging. She looked at him, felt something warm and willing inside her begin to emerge. God, it was tempting. She fought the temptation. She might be a graduate student in philosophy, but she had a classical education. She knew all about Pandora and her box.

  "I don't know, Richardson. I'll have to think about it."

  * * *

  I don't know wasn't no.

  It wasn't yes, either. Yet.

  But it would happen. Chan was ever an optimist. Things were looking up.

  And thank God for that, too, he thought now as he drove into Gladewater, because she was right on about that propinquity bit.

  He'd always had an eye for the ladies – smiling with them, talking with them, flirting with them, even occasionally going to bed with them. But when they weren't around, he had no trouble thinking about other things to do. Trouble was, Madeleine was always around. He was getting to be a wreck.

  But she was still thinking, when he got thrown off his bull in Gladewater and again the following day in Wichita Falls.

  Dev won there.

  Madeleine kissed him. He came away from the pay window and swept her into his arms, and damned if she didn't kiss him! Chan was outraged.

  "You kissed Dev!" he accused her when they got back to the camper. He kicked the door shut and slung his rigging bag under the table and slapped his hat down on the bunk.

  "So? What's the matter with that?" She looked wholly unconcerned.

  "You won't kiss me!"

  "I did kiss you. Once. Now I'm thinking about doing it again."

  "And in the meantime you'll just kiss Dev for practice," he grumbled.

  She shrugged. "Why not? He threw his arms around me." She turned, opened the refrigerator and got out the bottle of iced tea and poured herself a glass. "Want one?"

  "No, damn it, I do not want one!"

  "I just asked," she said mildly. She tipped her head back and took a long swallow. He watched her – watched her Adam's apple move, watched her lips on the glass. She finished drinking and looked at him. "Are you going to take a shower or not?"

  "Why? Want to join me?"

  She gave a long-suffering sigh. "No, thank you, Richardson. But I am getting hungry. Dev and Gil said they'd meet us for dinner."

  "We've got to go to Oregon."

  "For dinner?"

  "Hell, no. But we've got to be there by Saturday."

  "Does that mean no dinner?"

  "No, Decker." He expelled a deep breath, conceding defeat. "We can have dinner."

  She kissed Dev again after dinner.

  They were standing by Gil's truck, getting ready to leave. He and Gil were talking about a new stock contractor, and out of the corner of his eye he was watching Madeleine and Dev talking in low tones a few feet away.

  He saw Dev nod, then nod again, then grimace wryly. He saw Madeleine put her hand on his arm. He saw Dev smile at her and her smile at him.

  And then, once more, she kissed him.

  "It isn't propinquity that's getting you to kiss Dev," he said tightly the next morning.

  He'd fumed about it for hours, all night, in fact, while Madeleine slept. But now she was driving and he was supposed to be sleeping. He hadn't drifted off yet.

  He kept seeing Madeleine kissing Dev.

  She glanced back, giving him a startled look. Then she laughed. "No, it isn't that."

  "You got the hots for him, have you?" He lay back on the bunk, folded his arms under his head and, with determined indifference, stared out the window at the telephone wires as they passed.

  Madeleine glanced back at him, and he arched his back and tipped his head back so he could look at her upside down. She was smiling.

  "No, Richardson," she said, still smiling, "I do not have the hots for him."

  "Yeah, right." He sagged back onto the mattress.

  Another hundred or so telephone poles passed. Then she asked, "Would you care if I did?"

  "Hell, no."

  "Well, then…"

  "You're supposed to be testing your compatibility with me," he reminded her. He sounded like he was whining. He'd better shut up.

  "Are you … jealous, Richardson?" Her voice floated back to him, amused.

  He rolled over, his head snapping around so he could glare at the back of hers. "No, Decker, I'm damned well not."

  "You're just horny."

  "I'm what?"

  "Horny, Richardson," she said cheerfully. "If you understand a word like 'propinquity,' I should think you'd understand that."

  "I understand the term, Decker."

  There was a smile in her voice as she said, "I thought you might."

  * * *

  Of course, she was right. But he didn't have time to do more than think about it over the next three days. He had no time to advance his campaign for kisses or anything else. They had to get to Sisters, Oregon, by Saturday afternoon, so they spent virtually all of the time driving.

  They drove in shifts, four hours on, four hours off. When they weren't driving, Madeleine was typing or sleeping, Chan was stretching or exercising or sleeping. They only stopped briefly, now and again. They pulled in at one overlook in the Rockies to stand and stare at the majestic mountains all around them, to appreciate, to savor, to breathe in pure mountain air.

  They stopped another time to get gas, and there was a stream right behind the gas station. When Chan finished filling the tank and went looking for Madeleine, he found her wading.

  She waved and grinned. "Come on in," she said. "The water's fine."

  He shook his head, but in the end he allowed himself a few minutes of icy water running over his feet and ankles. And he had to admit it felt good.

  "Like being massaged with ice," Madeleine said.

  Chan tried not to think about massages at all. He was punchy and sleepy and – she was right – horny and trying to get his head on straight as he headed into Oregon.

  He needed to think about the bull he was coming up against. It wasn't working.

  They were almost there when Madeleine loomed behind him to ask, "What do you do when you prepare to ride a bull?"

  He glanced back at her. She was putting her computer away, shuffling some notes into her briefcase. Her long hair obscured her face from his glance – all but her lips.

  He turned back to the road, focusing determinedly. "What do you mean?"

  She shrugged, coming up to sit beside him in the front. "You said I distracted you, so I was wondering what you were thinking, what I distracted you from."

  He shrugged. "Thinking my way through the ride, I guess. Seeing myself doing it. Concentrating." She was distracting him again right now.

  "On each individual bull? I mean, do you see it different each time?"

  "If I know the bull."

  "Do you know this one?"

  He nodded. "Tough little sucker called Be-Bop."

  "What's different about him?"

  "Temperament, I suppose. I've ridden him a couple of times. He's not big. Lots of guys think the little ones are easy. Well, some of 'em are. Not him. It's like he's the smallest kid in the class, you know? Got to be aggressive to make up for it. Probably got picked on in the catch pen when he was a boy." He grinned.

  "So how do you deal with him?"

  "You can't give him any room to maneuver. He's small enough you can get a good grip with your legs. That's the trick. But he doesn't like it much. He's got this wiggle. There aren't many bulls that wiggle."

  He went on and verbally rode the bull for her, explaining, answering her questions. And she listened. And asked more questions. And he answered those, too.

  And before he knew it, they were there. And he was focused. He was prepared.

  He got a 92.

  "Is that an A?" Madeleine asked him when it was over and he was grinning his head off.

  "That's an A!" He grinned and slung his arm around her as they walked together back to the camper, their hips brushing, their strides matching. "B
ut was it poetry, Decker?"

  Madeleine smiled up at him. "It was poetry, Richardson," she said.

  And then, at last, she kissed him.

  * * *

  She couldn't help herself. But with him yammering about it all the time, misinterpreting it, misinterpreting her, she hadn't dared. Probably she shouldn't have dared this time, but she didn't think; she just did.

  Like an athletic shoe commercial, she mocked herself. But she couldn't mock herself too long because Chan dropped his rigging bag, slipped his arms around her and kissed her back.

  Madeleine had been kissed before. By Malcolm, by Douglas. By Scott.

  But never like this.

  Malcolm had given her dry little pecks that reminded her of a chicken rearranging straw. Douglas's kisses had been wet, sloppy events from which Madeleine always escaped wishing it didn't look so rude to wipe her mouth. And Scott?

  Well, Scott kissed the way he did everything else – with a goal in mind.

  Channing Richardson kissed for the moment.

  He kissed hungrily and thoroughly, his lips moving over hers eagerly, taking what she gave and asking for more. And Madeleine gave it to him. And what she got back was sweet, tender, warm, and just a little wild.

  It made her shiver. It made her hum. It made her tighten her arms around his neck and touch his lips with her tongue.

  He groaned, hauling her hard against him and meeting her tentative touch with a more practiced thrust of his own. And Madeleine opened her mouth for him, let him taste her, tease her, shuddering wildly at the possessiveness of his touch.

  She'd never been kissed like this.

  It was heavenly.

  It was dangerous.

  She wanted more. She knew she'd already had too much.

  Reluctantly, yet determinedly, she pulled back, gathered her wits as best she could and finally opened her eyes to meet his stunned blue gaze.

  "Goodness, Richardson," she said as lightly as she could when at last she dared to trust her voice. "What do you suppose our mothers would say about that?"

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  He didn't intend to ask.

  He never would have brought it up himself. God knew he didn't go around talking about kissing girls with his mother.

  But he ran into Kevin Skates again at Livermore. Kevin had passed through the ranch on his way from his sister's wedding in Rapid City. He said Chan's father wanted to talk to him about Frank Parker's bull that he'd had shipped from California.

  His mother wanted to talk to him about Madeleine.

  Kevin didn't tell him that.

  "Ma, I don't have time to talk now."

  "Nonsense, you just spent twenty minutes talking about the bull with your father."

  "It was important."

  "And Madeleine's not? You like her, don't you?"

  "Sure. She's fine," Chan said dismissively. "Really, Ma, I gotta go. I'm riding soon."

  "Channing, I am not a green girl. I have been to a few rodeos in my time. Bull riding is always last."

  "But it's—" he glanced at his watch "—damn near three and—"

  "It's two where you are. They can't be close to the bull riding yet. Does she like you?"

  He sighed. "Of course she likes me, Ma. What's not to like?"

  "Not a thing, darling. I'm so pleased."

  "Don't be. And don't go getting any ideas," he warned her, "just because we haven't killed each other yet."

  "You know me, Chan, I always get ideas. I'm glad you haven't killed her. Have you kissed her?"

  "Ma!"

  "Well, have you?"

  "Ma, I'm not gonna tell you about my love life."

  "Ah. Then it is a love life." Her tone was cheerfully smug.

  "It's not a love life," Chan said through clenched teeth.

  "Then you haven't kissed her?" When did his mother get so good at expressing maternal disappointment with just the tone of her voice? "I always knew you weren't as fast a worker as Mark or Gard, Chan, but—"

  "I've kissed her, damn it."

  Julia sighed her relief. "I thought so."

  "You're a very sneaky woman."

  "Not at all. I've always been very up-front with you," Julia insisted. "And so I will be now. I think you should kiss her a lot."

  "I don't," Chan said flatly.

  "Why? Didn't you like it?"

  "Ma!"

  "I was only asking," Julia said in her most wounded tone. "I mean, I could certainly understand if you didn't. Was she cold and unresponsive?"

  "I don't believe this." Chan's fingers strangled the receiver.

  "It's a simple question, Channing."

  "Ma, I gotta go."

  "It might have been a fluke the first time," she went right on. "You could try it again. Maybe she was nervous. Maybe next time she'll respond. I can't believe she's really indifferent to you, Channing. Try kissing her every day. I'm sure things will improve. Would you like to talk to your father again? He's a wonderful kisser. Maybe he could give you some advice."

  "Bye, Ma." And Chan hung up.

  * * *

  "So how's it going?" Lily asked. She was taking off her greasepaint in front of the mirror in Chan's camper. The Livermore rodeo had been over for half an hour. Chan and Gil and Dev and Dan had gone out for a beer. Lily and Madeleine had declined.

  "It's going fine," Madeleine said now. "A little tiring. He did two rodeos yesterday. Sisters and then Roseburg. We just barely got there for that one. They had to hold his bull for him. Then overnight we drove down here."

  Lily nodded, swiping with a tissue at her cheek. "It starts getting like that this time of year. Wait till around the Fourth of July. It's crazy."

  "Yes."

  Lily looked at her curiously. "But you don't hate it?"

  "No. Not at all."

  "Lots of people hate it. All the traveling, the running, the being on the road all the time."

  "I don't." Oh, she'd have preferred more time, more sleep, fewer hours on the road. Who wouldn't? But she liked the change, the variety, and yet at the same time, the sense of community that existed wherever they went.

  Not all the same people went to every rodeo. But their paths crossed often enough that she was beginning to recognize faces, to collect names, to know who to expect. She looked for Gil and Dev to show up at many of the same places they did. Sometimes she saw Tom Holden. There were others, rough stock riders mostly, since they didn't have to bring their own animals, who hit a lot of the same places. She hadn't seen Lily since Santa Maria. Chan had told her that Lily worked mostly in the far western states. But they were seeing her now. They'd see her again in Reno. Wherever they went, Madeleine had a sense not of being a stranger, but of belonging.

  It was very different from being an anthropologist, always on the outside, spectating, objectifying, taking notes.

  "I like it," she said to Lily now.

  Lily grinned. "What about Chan? Do you like him?"

  Madeleine shrugged. "Sure."

  "Sure?" Lily's eyes caught hers in the mirror. "Have you kissed him?"

  "Lily!"

  "Well, have you? You have, haven't you? While you were 'compiling evidence'?" Lily was laughing, her own grin almost as wide as the painted one she was wiping off from ear to ear. "Come on, Mad, tell the truth. Did you?"

  Madeleine made a face. "So, all right. I kissed him."

  "Was it good?"

  "What do you think?" she answered crossly.

  "I think you liked it. A lot."

  "So? He's a very good kisser." Madeleine lifted her chin, defying Lily to find her reaction strange. "I'm sure I'm not alone in saying so."

  "I'm sure you're not," Lily agreed readily, and Madeleine was surprised to find that that nettled.

  "He probably has girls all over," she said gruffly.

  "They like him, all right," Lily said. "Heck, what's not to like? He's gorgeous. Sweet. Fun. Just a little bit wicked."

  "What do you know
about him being wicked?" Madeleine wanted to know.

  "Nothing," Lily said quickly. "But, heavens, you've only got to look at him. I bet he kisses pretty wicked, doesn't he?"

  "Mmm," said Madeleine.

  "I thought so." Lily finished removing all the greasepaint, then ran water in the sink and rubbed up a lather on her hands. She began rubbing it onto her face. "So have you changed your mind?"

  "Changed my mind? About what?"

  "Marrying him. Or rather, not marrying him."

  "No."

  "Haven't even thought about it?" Lily pressed.

  Madeleine shook her head adamantly. "No."

  "You just like kissing him?"

  "Hardly the same thing."

  "It could lead there," Lily pointed out.

  "There are many more important things in marriage than kissing."

  Lily nodded slowly. "I know that." She had that faraway look in her eyes again, and Madeleine knew she was remembering John.

  "Lily?"

  "What?"

  "Do you ever think you might … marry again someday?"

  "Hey," Lily said lightly after a moment, "don't try to palm him off on me now."

  "No. Not Chan. Just … married."

  "No."

  "Never?"

  "Why? You have someone in mind?" Lily looked at her sharply.

  Madeleine traced a pattern on the countertop. She ran her tongue over her lips and wondered at the wisdom of this. She hardly knew Lily. And yet somehow right from the start they'd connected. She glanced at Lily out of the corner of her eye. "I don't know."

  Lily's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

  Madeleine hesitated. She hated to say it, knew she was taking a chance.

  "Who?" Lily demanded again.

  "Dev." She looked up to see Lily's reaction when she said his name.

  Lily's jaws came together with a snap. "Dev? Devlin Gray?" She flung the washcloth into the sink. She stepped out of the room, started toward the door, stopped, came back. "Don't even think it. You know – you know he was the one who – who—" She broke off, unable to finish.

  "I know he was the one who was riding when John got killed, yes," Madeleine said quietly.

  "Then how can you suggest—" Lily's voice was anguished.

  "Was it his fault?"

  "Of course it wasn't his fault! These things happen. It's part of rodeo. It's part of life. God, don't you think I, of all people, know that?"